Besson took a sheet of paper and began to write. Slowly and hesitantly at first he traced each letter, one after the other, watching his pothooks marching forward all by themselves (well, almost by themselves) across the paper, navy blue on white. He took great care over capitals; he dotted every i and crossed every t. After a moment or so he began to go faster. He forgot the jerky motions of his hurrying hand, he no longer noticed each loop and flourish in the words he set down. He plunged into the act of writing like a landscape, without any conscious goal, never slackening speed. He saw whole phrases pour out of his pen, filing swiftly to the right like tiny animals. He heard the soft abrasive squeak of the hurrying nib, and the regular rub of his hand against the paper, What a strange phenomenon it was, this meticulous scribbling which — little by little, line by line — filled the entire sheet, besmirching it with a whole private system of strokes and and loops, this strange object marching on of its own volition, how, no one could tell, forward, always forward, describing, erasing, pointing the flow of time. There was something alarming about it, it was quite capable of pulling a fast one on you, saying things off its own bat, things you had no idea of. It was language in isolation, a kind of Braille alphabet in which each sign or group of points had stolen something from the substance of life and was preserving it in minuscule form. Like an obscene wall-inscription, a thumbing of the nose against the ineffable weight of eternity. Or perhaps more like some magical formula, some highly complex and specific spell which, if pronounced correctly, can bring about ignoble metamorphoses, trigger off strange chemical reactions, turn children into toads, moonbeams into emeralds, sunlight into rubies.
On the sheet of paper Besson wrote:
‘Cavalcade.
Venenom.
Leaf
Selor — Bergue — Wiggins Teape Papers.
I am writing. I am writing that I am writing. I am writing that I am writing that I am writing. I am writing that I am writing that I am writing that I am writing.
I am looking at my watch. I am very fond of my watch. I would not like to lose it. I would not like anyone to steal it. I have already damaged it once: I forgot to take it off in the bath. I had to take it round to the watch-mender for cleaning and oiling. It has a beautiful white metal dial, with tiny strokes instead of figures. Right at the top, where the hands indicate noon or midnight, there are two strokes instead of one. Near the centre of the dial is written, in English: JUNGHANS. Shockproof. Anti-magnetic. Waterproof. Made in Germany. There are two hands, the shorter one pointing towards the stroke which represents 4, the larger one vertically aligned downwards, covering the stroke at 6. So this is the time my watch tells me it is: half past four. Oh, and there’s another indicator, a very long fine needle, which sweeps round the dial with a vibrating motion. It’s really a very fine watch. I would hate to break it. I am glad it belongs to me. It has a nice pigskin strap, and a bright metal buckle. The glass has been a bit scratched on the outside, ever since I banged my wrist against the school wall. It was a present from my mother, two years ago. For my birthday. When I put it close to my ear I can hear its tiny heart beating away, tick-tick-tick, never stopping. It’s nice to have a watch of your own. Wherever I go people can ask me the time, and I can look at my watch and say “A quarter to two”, or “Half past seven”, or “Three minutes to twelve”, or whatever it may happen to be.’
A little lower Besson wrote: ‘This ball-point dribbles.’ Then he pushed the sheet of paper aside, and taking up the ball-point again began to scribble words wherever he could, feverishly covering scraps of paper and cardboard, the bottoms of paper cups, match-boxes, all picked up at random, with such words as ‘Messenger’, ‘Vander Beke’, ‘Cruelty’, ‘Lang’, ‘Urhell’, ‘Matton’, ‘Zailer’, ‘Physics’, ‘Dallas’, ‘Nail’, ‘Jerrycan’. Finally pressing, as hard as he could, he inscribed a very long word on the wooden surface of the table: ‘Angersonysbonagugehlbouduyrouehavleffavyi’.
After this he ceased all practical activity. There were several photographs lying on the table, and he picked them up. The glossy, grey-tinted slips of pasteboard showed various carefully posed girls, and some dull, depressing landscape shots. One or two were of Besson himself, wearing dark glasses in summer, or posed against a wintry snowbound garden.
Then, at the very bottom of an open drawer, beside a tattered pornographic magazine, Besson came upon a little exercise book, its pages yellowed with age and covered with childish handwriting. On the cover there was a pencil drawing of an engine with five funnels being driven by a man wearing a tarboosh. Above this picture, in capital letters, was the legend: BLACK ORADI.
Besson opened the notebook and began to read. It was not an easy business, since the words had been written in pencil, and after twenty years were badly blurred. The speillng, too, left much to be desired, and many of the sentences needed to be read two or three times before their meaning became clear. But it was an interesting task, and Besson, poring over the faded manuscript, set about it with unhurried deliberation.
Chapter One.
Black Oradi lef the monf 1940 the day of his birfday. He wated seven days, the bote was called the Condé. He stade at sea 31 days then he saw he had gon too far on the sea. He told the captin he wanted to go back but he woudnt, finaly he arived in America. The captin thort he was in Africa or azia 1947. He spent three days in azia, the next day he lef for Corsica, the captin still thort he was in Africa, but Oradi said it wasn’t true, first because in Africa there were black peple like him and also because there was the Bush which went on and on for ever. Then the captin began to stamer when he tarked, he said er ah um, Oradi said you shood tark mor clearly or else wate and think what to say before you say it and not swollo yore words. So just you stop it mister captin, and stop splutering like that. — How dare you tark to me like that when Im the captin. — You just had to say what you wanted to say, without that I cant understand anything — Pooey on you said the captin be off with you to yore cabin if youve got one. — But look I know joly well this is Corsica. — You dont know anything, youll never be realy brany. — What do you mean Im a police officer myself. — Ah well policemen arnt brany.
Chapter Two The Sinking
Three days later Oradi was on the hi seas. For four days he saw an enormus moving mass. He didnt know what it was, he never said anything to anyone because he was afraid they woud be cross with him. But all the same he was dying to tark about it. One day he said he had seen an enormus moving mass. I believe it is a wale sir. But plese dont tell anyone or theyll kill it. Sudenly the enormus mass hurld itself at the ship. The ship put on full speed. But the wale gave the ship a big wack with its tale at the stern. The ship began to dance about up front then it went down at thr stern and all the water came in. The captin and Oradi were furius. They got out the harpoon. But as the harpoon was heavy it almost got dragd away, luckily the captin manneged to hold onto it otherwise he would have been pulld down in the sea and eten by the wale. The wale thort it was a fly or a bird, it thrashd the water with its tale and upset the bote altogether. Then the captain became quite mad with rage, since the bote was loded with stores and catl, and the casks were bobing about all over the sea. Each animal climed on a cask (a barrel for putting oil in) and made a little jump and got rite inside the barel. As for the captin, the captin had got into the enormus barel usd to fil the others. But no mater the mane thing was that it was emty with nothing inside, and Oradi swam holding on to the captin’s barel from behind. The captin kept shouting in a stern (curt) voise Come on now find somthing hollo to get in.