more their presence might adversely affect crew morale.
In accord with the tradition that dictated all men be present when the captain conducted the funeral rites, Martin’s curfew was briefly withdrawn to allow him on deck.
‘… Harrison, Jones, Kennedy, Cooper, Smith, O’Rourke, McGill …’
Captain Henry’s voice as he read out the list of the dead was steady, strong and authoritative. As if, thought Martin, the presence of the Bible in his hand granted him the right to speak on behalf of God. The God whose will it was that the men be lost so tragically in the night to the storm. The same God who was to be thanked that he had spared the Anne.
‘… Praise be to God. Amen.’
The weather was kind that morning; calm, a gentle breeze working its warm air through the ship’s sodden timbers, effortlessly blowing the wet sails dry. A blue sky arched above the gathering of men on the dot on the sea like a cathedral roof. Somewhere, at some point between the madness of night and the tranquillity of the dawn, the boat had been slipped into Paradise.
So it was that the captain read out the names to a sun-filled morning, those names being uttered together in the ceremony and thus united for eternity; as crew, comrades, and victims of the tempest. Martin listened and knew that this was the history as Captain Henry would record it in his log for posterity. He would write how, under his stewardship, the steady progress of the Anne had come to an abrupt and unfortunate end when confronted by a rage of unimaginable power. How, under his command, the men had held their resolve despite daunting odds, had remained steadfast, protecting cargo and vessel, a testament to the discipline captain and crew displayed when faced with the most severe of tests. And with his own hand, pondered Martin, Captain Henry would exonerate himself from any blame attached to the deaths of the men under his command. O’Rourke, McGill. Drowned aboard ship. A strange history. Left to die in order that the cargo be protected, so that their bodies could become buffers for the more precious goods being transported, the ones Captain Henry had ordered be stacked in such haste at the outset of the voyage. They had died so that the captain’s authority could be maintained in the face of impertinence from the lower ranks. Harrison, Jones, Kennedy, Cooper, Smith. Ordered to remain on deck so as to defy the waves that might claim them whereas lesser captains would have had them serve no immediate purpose and stay in quarters. O’Rourke, McGill. Drowned aboard ship. Bodies as cargo. Never again, thought Martin. Everything had changed.
Now let me introduce a great influence on my life, someone who has floated in and floated out, probably without ever realizing the effect he was having. Someone of whom I thought warmly, until recently, very recently; although when I reflect in any kind of detail on the past, I realize he is consistently linked to the very worst decisions I have ever made. Someone of whom now, when I’m trying to remember from whatever memories I have of him, I realize I know nothing at all. I mean, I can tell you what he looked like, how he looks now, the few things he said when I first met him, and the way he finds it impossible to say anything without employing a drop of his languid shoulders to add whatever nuance of irony or malice is required for his pronouncements. All this I can tell you, but what strikes me in doing so is that every attitude, belief or opinion I thought he had is exactly that – those that I thought he had. Because Jérome never gave anything away, at least willingly, and maybe that’s what drew me to him in the first place. This would be back in the heady days of my donut-selling spree at Camp Les Acacias. I had never met anyone like him before, anyone so aloof, so distant, and yet so in tune and central to the mood of the moment. His was a presence that rock stars spend years perfecting; of the people but removed from them. At least, that’s the way he struck me. The doubts came later, too late, that my adulation could be misplaced. You see, I had been raised in a world of certainties, knowing my place in a cheerless family living a cheerless life in a damp and cheerless corner of a cold and cheerless country. Still, the future was there for us to grasp, if we were ready with the grim application required for success, so there was no reason not to be happy, no excuse at all. Then here, in the south of France in the summer of ’85, I meet someone who really doesn’t give a shit about anything. I really mean anything. Nothing touched him, nothing stuck. So when I try to describe his character perhaps the most relevant thing to say about Jérome is that he had no character, only characteristics. He could have stepped right off the page of an airport novel, one with a cover of a girl in a bikini holding a gun, or maybe an open suitcase full of cash. As shallow as that in that regard, paper-thin I guess, albeit in an endearing sort of way. Nothing ever exciting or angering him, the only thing that ever mattered being whatever it was he wanted to do at that precise instant. Tomorrow? The shoulders droop comically, like a withered flower in a cartoon; irrelevant
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