The Mediterranean Wall by Louis-Philippe Dalembert

Author:Louis-Philippe Dalembert
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Schaffner Press, Inc.
Published: 2021-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

ON BOARD THE TRAWLER

Et la mer à la ronde roule son bruit de crânes sur les grèves,

Et que toutes choses au monde lui soient vaines, c’est ce

qu’un soir, au bord du monde, nous contèrent

Les milices du vent dans les sables d’exil…

SAINT-JOHN PERSE

And the rounding sea in her noise of skulls on the shores,

And all things in the world to her are in vain,

so we heard one night at the world’s edge

From the wind’s militias in the sands of exile …

(TR. DENIS DEVLIN)

NAUSEA

IN THE GRIP OF their own worries, the passengers in the hold knew nothing, or almost nothing, about the clashes taking place on deck, overexcited as some of them were. How could they imagine, even for an instant, that the ‘privileged’ overhead could be having as hard a time, if not harder? Depending on the direction of the gusting wind or the angle of the boat, huge torrents rushing in through the open trapdoor, left them very little time to think about the situation of those more affluent. And then the roaring of the winds, colliding at the hatch, like a herd of camels forced through the eye of a needle, wedged in place unable to either move forward or pull back; those that followed pushing with all their might, intensified by the powerful crush of the ones all the way at the end. After a few minutes of desperate struggle, the winds up front were flung forward, opening the way for the rest that, once set free, penetrated the hatch triumphantly. It generated such astounding noises, alternately fluid, continuous, and choppy, sounds whose magnitude was exaggerated by not knowing what was happening above. And so everyone’s imagination was working a form of sabotage.

Along with the fury of the winds came the never-ending assault of waves targeting the hull. In the corner where she’d found refuge, Semhar felt every blow reverberate in her back, visualizing them as battering rams pounding against the gates of one of those cities long ago, driven by a ferocious and determined foe. Waves struck the trawler at mid-flank where, under the duress of their onslaught, the hull was threatening to give way. For Semhar there was no doubt: at some point or other it would cave in. The only question was when. To delay that possibility, to prevent it from happening, she was praying with all her soul, one hand almost crushing the crucifix around her neck, the other clinging to something: Shoshana’s leg, an unfamiliar arm, a joist…

From time to time the waves would retreat, providing a breather, but it never lasted for long, unfortunately. Not even long enough to feel relief. Or to forget about them. In fact, they’d retreat only to recharge their batteries far away, then come back even more aggressively, beating against the hull, over and over again. Beating and beating as if possessed. Beating without taking a breath, roaring to rend eardrums, congeal bodies, and send hearts into their throats. Stomachs were emptying their bile, intestines were letting go.

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