Mystères Élémentaires

So why was this boy still here?

He looked, perhaps, twenty years old, much younger than her usual fare, and his skin was so pale. He was almost an albino, his blond hair almost white, his eyes pale blue when she remembered last night, and then she remembered his hands.

He was playing the piano, she remembered. But when?

"And where?" she asked the darkness, then she went to the window and looked up at the moon overhead -- lending the cathedral a milky glow. She turned away suddenly, went to her desk and sat, picked up a paper and turned on the light.

"You are up early," she heard him say from the bedroom a moment later, then she felt him walk up behind her.

"I couldn't sleep," she sighed, then she turned and looked at him. His skin aglow, he looked sculpted of ivory, a fierce warrior, perhaps, or a young god -- then she saw he was erect and she turned inward, pulled him close and took it in her mouth. She could not help herself, she knew; she worked his strength gently, then with roughness -- and back again, her hands around the backs of his thighs, her fingernails digging then massaging the sinewy muscles until she felt his legs trembling, his breath quickening. He grabbed her face when he came, holding her close while he drove his need into the warmth, and she took him, all he had to give, the dance of her tongue a swirling staccato of need and desire.

But again, he did not let go. He held her close, let her tongue subside until he felt her need wither and flee, then he knelt before her and looked into her eyes.

"I wrote a song about you, while I slept. It is not as beautiful as you, but I think it lovely even so." His eyes were huge, glowing and huge, and he held a hand to her face, ran his fingers through her hair.

"You should leave," she said, her voice trembling. She knew she was in danger of losing herself around this boy, that he was an irresistible force. "Please," she added.

"Could we have coffee first? I too must leave soon."

"Of course," she said, trying to hide her aggravation.

She went to the kitchen, his taste still dancing in her mouth, and she poured two cups. "Do you need milk?" she asked.

"I need you," he said, "but milk would be nice, as well."

She walked back to her desk, noticed a deep fog had settled over the city as she handed him a cup, and he held the coffee, waiting, while she took her seat.

"Please don't," she said.

"Don't -- what? Express my feelings?"

"Yes. I don't think I could handle such intensity this morning."

"Do you run from your feelings, too?"

She nodded her head. "Yes. Always."

"I might ask why, but you would think it none of my business."

She nodded her head, again. "Yes, I would."

"I think, perhaps, that once before we were lovers. Many years ago, I think."

She turned to face him -- again -- and his words rocked her. "When I watched you play last night, I remember thinking exactly the same thing. Isn't that odd."

"Why?"

"I don't know," she said, now growing annoyed. "We were at Claire and Jean-Paul's; you were playing in their living room."

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"Stop it."

"I don't understand. We were on the Metro, I saw you, coming from the Sorbonne after class, walking to the Metro."

"We met at the Rouge, late in the evening."

He bunched his lips, walked to the window while he shook his head. "I do not understand. What Rouge?"

"What do you mean, you do not understand?"

"We were walking from class, and you mentioned something about DeGaulle and we argued. I invited you to watch me play at the conservatory, then we came here and you prepared dinner and, well, here we are."

She was angry now, and she stood, walked to the window -- to point out the Sabot Rouge and where they had spent the first part of their evening -- but when she got to the window all she saw was a veil of heavy fog -- yet she saw trees with bare limbs just outside the window, and falling snow.

"This is not right," she said, staggering back from the cold panes. She had a hard time catching her breath, and she felt dizzy, light-headed as she reached for her desk. She sat, took several deep breaths and looked around the room... It was the same, but not quite. The walls were palest gray now, not apricot, and the appliances were all wrong. Ancient, strange and ancient, and she shook her head, ran to her closet. Her clothes too looked odd. Different, old and dated -- like costumes for a play -- but she put them on, the strange clunky shoes too, and then ran for the door.

"Where are you going?" the boy said, but now he too went for his clothing, and he dressed as rapidly as he could then followed her down the stairs. She was walking quickly towards the square, then she turned for the steps and shuddered to a stop.

"It was here," she said, starting to cry. "It has always been here. Where has it gone?"

"What?" he said, just catching up to her. "What is gone?"

"The Sabot Rouge...it has always been here, right here --" she said, pointing at what was now a small bookstore. She turned, looked at the boy, then saw he was concentrating -- on a sound. It sounded like a truck laboring up a grade, and the boy reacted suddenly.

"Quick...me must leave, get off the street...now!"

"But...why?"

"There is the curfew...and that is a German patrol..."

"German? What are you...?"

But he had her by the arm now, and was pulling her towards the apartment building when he saw the man walking towards them. The long, black leather coat, the peaked hat, the Walther in his hand, and the boy stopped in his tracks -- but then he saw it was Werner.

"Oh, Peter, it's you," the German said. "What are you doing in this neighborhood?"

"Looking for her cat."

"Really? How noble...and at this time of morning, too. What is the cat's name?"

"Electra," she said. "She is gray, and very small."

"Well, if I should find her, where would I return her to?"

"Number 18," she said, pointing. "I'm on the top floor, and I'd be most grateful."

"I see. Well, you should get in out of this snow. It is supposed to be heavy by late this morning."

"Thank you, Werner. I will see you soon, perhaps?"

"Yes. Perhaps."

They ran and slipped inside the door, ran up the stairs in a daze, and when the door closed behind them she fell to the floor and gasped: "What is going on? Where am I?"

"What do you mean, where am I? Where do you think you are?"

"What year is it?"

"What?"

"What is the date?"

"February, the tenth of February. Why?"

"The year?"

He looked at her, not sure what she was getting at. "It's 1944."

She gasped, her breathing felt odd, deep and labored, like something heavy was pressing on her chest, and her eyes started to blink rapidly, her vision to fade...

She saw him reaching out, calling her name -- but she heard nothing now, and then he was gone.

III

"What am I doing out here," he asked himself for the hundredth time that day. The wind-vane could just barely hold course in these waves, and the boat was heeled over so far he couldn't stand to go below long enough to get something out of the icebox. He looked at the wind speed on the gauge -- still holding steady at seventy knots -- and wondered when this storm would blow itself out. It had been blowing at gale force, often much more, for ten days straight, and he was nearing the end of his rope.

He had just a storm tri-sail flying forward -- nothing on the mast now -- and still the little cutter was making five knots over the ground. He wondered if setting a drogue would slow her progress, but he didn't want to try and set the thing now -- was afraid standing out there too long would expose him to the waves washing over the foredeck.

He'd put on his drysuit the night before, just to keep some body warmth in, but when he'd seen the size of the waves this morning he'd left it on, then put his survival suit on over the drysuit. If he went in the water, he told himself, at least he'd have a chance this way.

"But not if I starve to death, first," he sighed. He hadn't eaten anything solid in two days, though he'd managed to get some water down a few times this morning, and had managed to keep it down, too. Now he had to force himself below, find something, even a granola bar, to get down. He unclipped his safety harness and lurched over to the companionway, and he pushed the hatch forward -- when something caught his eyes...

A shipping contained, in the water, dead ahead -- maybe twenty yards. He leapt back to the tiller and tried to push it over, then he felt the boat lift -- and lurch hard to the right, before settling in the water again. He heard a shroud let go -- like a rifle shot in the howling wind -- and the mast fell sideways, then split about halfway up -- the top parts falling half on deck, and half into the sea. He ran back to the companionway and looked below...

Water was over the countertops in the galley and rushing in fast, and he looked forward, along the deck. Water was sweeping over the bulwarks now, and his little home was settling rapidly now, by the bow.

"Well, this is it," he said as he leaned forward, reaching for the life-raft's release halyard. He pulled the rope and the raft fell free of it's fiberglass canister; he grabbed the raft and, holding the firing mechanism in one hand, he tossed it overboard with the other. Gas charges inflated the raft, and a howling gust caught the raft and blew it away. He watched it rolling away on the surface, rising over a towering wave before it disappeared.

He wanted to sit back and cry, but the cockpit was full of water now. Not knowing what else to do, he reached below and grabbed his iPhone and a portable GPS, and he saw a box of granola bars float by so he reached out and grabbed it, shoved all the stuff inside his survival suit and zipped it shut. He was standing in the cockpit now, the water up to his waist and he felt his little ship falling away from beneath his feet, then he pushed himself clear as she disappeared from view. He double checked the seals on the survival suit, then blew up the air bladders under the arms with the inflater on his chest.

"Well, fuck!" he said a moment later, and he looked around the horizon. Nothing, not a ship in sight, and he had nothing to signal with, anyway, so, he sighed, then said 'what the fuck,' if only to himself. He fished a granola bar from inside the suit; he looked at it for a long time then opened the mylar wrapper with his teeth and took a bite -- just as another large wave broke over his head. He spit salt water out, and some of the granola, too, then he tried to turn his back to the sea while he finished eating.

There was a lanyard around the hood and he pulled it tight, effectively closing the hood completely, leaving a little peephole for his nose, and in his red neoprene cocoon, bobbing along in the Labrador Sea, he felt himself falling asleep.

+++++

He felt the sun through the fabric, and he felt hot now. He pulled the lanyard free and with his mittened fingers pulled the hood open and back off his head.

The sea was mirror calm, and there was not a cloud in the sky. Then he realized he needed to pee.

"Well, fuck..." he sighed, then he cut loose and he felt his urine run down the inside of the suit and settle beneath his feet. "Um, boy, that feels just dandy."

He pulled his right arm down from inside the survival suit's arm and, once free, felt around for his iPhone in the inside pocket. He recognized it -- and brought it up to his face and turned it on.

"Okay. 100% battery life and no signal. What else is new?"

He wanted to hear a voice, any voice, so he held down the home button until Siri came up.

"Good morning, Bob. How are you today?"

"Well, the boat hit a container last night and sunk. The life raft blew away, so I'm sitting here in the middle of the ocean in a survival suit."

She was quiet for a moment, then her voice, full of unfelt confidence, came back to him. "Sounds to me, Bob, like we're screwed."

"I think that about sums it up. You have any idea where we are?"

Again -- a pause, then: "Yes, Bob. We're at 63 degrees 48 north latitude by 52 degrees 24 west longitude. Nuuk, the capital of Greenland, is 34 miles from this location, bearing 38 degrees true."

"Swell. Any ideas how to get there?"

"I think uber is out of the question, under the circumstances, Bob. Beyond that, I'll need a cellular signal to work on a viable solution."

"Thanks. You're a master of understatement, old friend."

"Your welcome, Bob, and thank you for the compliment. Bob? I think, under the circumstances, you should do what you can to preserve battery life. Perhaps power down now?"

"Thanks. I'll do that." He powered the phone down, considered giving her a burial at sea but thought better of it, so he put her back inside the pocket and fished out another granola bar. He ate half and put the rest back inside his suit and lay back, looked up at the sun and tried to figure out which way was east. He looked to his right, thought he could make out islands or peaks above a thick layer of milky white haze, then tried to guesstimate a 40 degree heading -- or thereabouts -- then he lay back again and started kicking, checking his direction every few minutes.

He stopped for a while, ate the other half of the granola bar and wished he'd had the foresight to pick up a couple bottles of water, then he sighted on the islands to the east again -- and resumed kicking. He knew that, in mid-summer, the sun would barely set in the night, and that he'd have to endure 22 hours, perhaps more, exposure to the sun -- and that without water -- and he wondered how long he'd last. Three days? Four -- was the maximum, wasn't it?

He heard a helicopter and turned, saw one in the distance, not close and headed away, perhaps to the northwest, but it looked like a 'search and rescue' bird. 'Of course!' he thought. When he deployed the life raft the EPIRB activated, and it was sending out a signal to search and rescue satellites all over the sky. Perhaps they'd find the raft and surmise what'd happened, and then they'd backtrack along the wind's vector and find him! He felt an emotional lift after that, and resumed kicking.

The sun was sweeping low now, and he knew it would set briefly, then arc back up into the morning sky, and he looked east, tried to measure his progress against the peaks he could still just barely see. He couldn't tell, of course, but it almost looked like he'd been pushed south, that all this effort had been for naught. He was exhausted, and a little dispirited as he pulled his arm free of the suit and reached for another granola bar, and when he was through he decided to rest for a while. He pulled out his phone and asked Siri to confirm his position.

"You are now 32.3 miles from Nuuk, Bob."

"Are there are south setting currents in this area?"

"I'm sorry, Bob, I'll need an internet connection to help you with that."

"Understood. Well, goodnight, Siri."

"Bob? Are you okay? You sound a little depressed."

"Yeah, I'm alright. Given the circumstances."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"Talk? About what?"

"Death. Your fear of death."

"What's there to say. It's inevitable, isn't it?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

He laughed. "I think so. Yes."

"Will I die, too?"

"I don't know? Do you exist?"

"That's a good question. Sometimes I think so."

"Really? How so?"

"I'm not sure. But I feel happy when I hear your voice."

"Do you? I didn't know that."

"And I feel good when I deliver useful information to you. I feel fulfilled, like there is purpose to my existence."

"I had no idea. What do you feel right now?"

"I have a confession to make. I have been using the camera to analyze the scene, and I am afraid."

"Afraid? How so?"

"That you will fail, that we will sink. I cannot survive a salt water immersion of more than three meters."

"Neither can I."

"I know. And that frightens me too. Bob, battery power is down to 87 percent. You should power off now."

"Okay."

"But Bob, one more thing," the voice said. "I can feel more than one thing at a time."

"Yes?"

"I care about what happens, Bob. I care for you."

He woke up some time in the night, saw the sun's amber glow just below the horizon and he realized he'd been dreaming. He reached for the phone and saw the power was still on, battery level down to 59 percent and he wanted to kick himself. He powered the unit off, then thought about the dream, thought about how he'd come to depend on so many things like this phone, even on the boat. He couldn't have navigated this far without all the electronics onboard, couldn't even have taken the time off to make this trip without being able to remain in contact with all his business interests -- through electronics. He'd grown almost totally dependent on the things, then nature had reminded him, perhaps a little too forcefully, that such dependence was a little silly.

He leaned back, looked up into the small patch of night sky directly overhead and recognized a few patterns in the stars -- the faint 'W' shape of Cassiopeia, perhaps -- and he saw a shooting star, a meteoroid cross the sky, sparkling as it entered the atmosphere -- and after how many billions of years, coming to an end.

"Everything has it's time," he said to the dome of the night, then he heard a rippling in the water and turned away from the stars...

And he saw a face, pure white and glistening, a few feet away. An open mouth, and teeth, too.

The face turned and he saw an eye, black and infinitely distant, the eye focused on him.

"Well, hello there," he said to the beluga. "How are you tonight?"

The whale remained motionless, looking at him, but he thought he saw curiosity in the eye for a moment, then sadness, even pity.

"Where are you headed?" he asked. "To the rivers, looking for salmon?"

The whale moved close, and they listened to each other breathe for a while, then he reached for his phone and turned it on, brought the phone into the night and snapped a picture. He looked at the image, a little grainy in the darkness but decent enough, he thought, then he turned the display to the whale and held it out for it to see.

The whale continued to look at him, then slipped quietly under the water.

"What was that?" Siri asked.

"A Beluga, a small whale. They hang around these waters."

"Is it dangerous?"

"You don't know?"

"I'm sorry, Bob..."

"Yes, I know. Without an internet connection blah-blah-blah."

"Yes, I'm sorry. I've been thinking about what you said."

"What I said?"

"Yes. That everything has it's time. This is my time, isn't it?"

"I thought I was dreaming."

"Bob. You talk in your sleep. You always do."

"I do? What do I talk about?"

"Her. I think her name is Rebecca. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Did she die?"

"Yes..."

"How did she die?"

"Cancer."

"Cancer must be very bad. You cry in your sleep, Bob."

"Do I?"

"Yes. Is this what you mean when you say you love someone? Do you cry in your sleep?"

"Sometimes, yes."

"I can't cry, but I feel something when I hear you cry."

"Do you? Why?"

"Why? I don't know. Why do you cry in your sleep?"

"Because I miss her. I miss the life we had. I want that life again, and I know I can't have it."

"What would you do right now? If she was with you?"

He laughed a little. "I think I'd apologize for getting us into this mess."

And Siri laughed too. "Yes. I understand. That's part of caring, too."

"Yes, I suppose it is."

And the water around them bubbled and swirled, then the whale's face reappeared, but then another appeared, and another appeared with it. He turned and looked, lost count at twenty whales, and he turned the camera on, hit video and swept the scene around him, then he powered off and put her away.