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lay in a drunken stupor for three days and three nights. Or perhaps it was longer. I would occasionally try to take up my post on the balcony in the gathering darkness. All I managed to do was doze off. My fingers were tinged an ugly dark purple by morning. Touching the metal trigger was enough to practically amputate my index finger. I was alive because the Sitauca were planning their last assault with the utmost care. I owed my survival to a respect that had been pounded into the monsters with bullets. It was a poor consolation. I found constant intoxication to hold far more advantages than inconveniences. Above all, I could sense that my desire for Aneris was weakening. I, too, clothed her in order to spare myself the spectacle of dazzling flesh. It was a black sweater, patched with ungainly scraps of sackcloth. The sleeves were too long for her arms, and the garment fell to her knees. I would now and again boot her smartly when she was within range, not bothering to move from my seat. Nevertheless, all these self-important airs were useless. My taunts only served to underscore how little power I truly had. I was weaker than an empire defended by a bulwark of smoke, or an army of tin soldiers. Whenever I became too drunk or too sober, the artifice crumbled. She never put up any resistance. Why should she? The more I feigned an absolute control over Aneris, the more obvious my wretchedness grew. Our sex simply confirmed that I was living in a prison, with deserts of water and ice for bars. If only it had been pure lust that guided me. Often my own pleasure was cut short by a flood of pathetic tears. On what would be the last morning of my binge, Aneris had the temerity to wake me. She tugged on one of my toes with all her strength and yet I hardly blinked. A familiar pain had settled in the back of my sinuses, the result of my excesses with gin. I breathed through sugar. Although barely conscious, I calculated that it was simpler to ignore her rather than fight back. But she persisted by pulling on my hair. Pain became muddled with rage. Still blinded by sleep, I attempted to strike her. She eluded me, making clicking noises like an agitated little telegraph. I threw one empty bottle, and then another, at her wavering form. Then Aneris skittered down through the trapdoor, leaving me to descend once again into a bitter and unpleasant stupor. I was caught between sleeping and waking. How long did I remain in that pitiful state? Slowly, the confused haze cleared and I realised that Aneris must have had a very good reason to disturb such an irascible drunk. Dawn touched the balcony with a timid intelligence, as if the sun had only just discovered the island. Suddenly I heard them. There were voices inside the lighthouse, on the floor below. A cacophony of sound rose up through the stairwell. My vocal cords had ceased to function. I strung words together like a moribund: rifle, rope, flare. I felt transfixed by an uncanny hypnosis, and could do nothing but stare at the trapdoor. Those wooden planks began to rise. Then a captain’s cap appeared, emblazoned with the insignia of the French Republic. I saw an arm, two gold bands on a cuff. This was followed by a pair of friendless, intolerant eyes, a long fleshy nose flanked by two drooping pink nostrils. A cigar was lodged in his mouth. The fellow did not pay any particular attention to my presence. He was almost entirely in the room when a bottle sticking out of his peacoat got caught in the door. He dissimulated by bellowing, “Maritime Signaller, why didn’t you answer me? What has happened on this devilish island?” The captain’s face was sullied by a sandpapery beard. A legion of rodents had gnawed away at his bluish jacket, as though the man had not touched port in years. The crew stank of barracks disinfectant. They were sailors from the colonies, mainly Asians or mulattos, each one a different shade. The men wore no uniform and looked like a band of mercenaries. Those fellows would never be able to conceive of how much their presence disturbed me. My senses were dulled by isolation. All at once I was being inundated by dozens of new faces, strident voices and forgotten smells. The crew began to ransack the dwelling without further ado. One young man stood out among the rest. He was not a sailor and was far better dressed than the others. His office clothes were ill suited for maritime life. A chain disappearing into his waistcoat pocket spoke of a watch hidden in its folds. The other men bore a mutinous look about them. This boy, on the other hand, had the sweet face of someone who has read one light novel too many. He had a persistent cough. “With whom am I speaking? What is your rank?” the captain demanded. “Are you deaf, dumb, or ill? Do you not understand me? What languages do you speak? What is your name? Answer! Or have you gone mad? Of course; he is insane.” He paused, sniffing the air. “Where does this stench come from? If fish could sweat, this is what it would smell like! The whole building reeks.” Some of the sailors snickered. They were laughing at me. Having discovered that there was very little to steal, the men turned their attention to me. The boy rifled through a sheaf of dog-eared official documents, saying: “Before leaving Europe, I requested a copy of the international register of maritime postings from the ministry. A man by the name of Gruner is listed, Gruner.” He looked up, doubtfully. “Or so it seems.” “Gruner? Maritime Signaller Gruner?” asked the captain. “It seems so, but I cannot be sure,” the boy admitted, adjusting his glasses. “It is the only name on the public record.” “Maritime Signaller Gruner,” the captain said, “this man is here to replace the former weather official. However, we do not know of his whereabouts. If you are unable to offer us a satisfactory answer, we shall have no choice but to hold you responsible for his disappearance. Do you understand what you are being accused of? Answer, you brute, answer! The weather official’s house is right next door. This is an island. You must have some idea of what happened to him! Do you think this voyage has been a pleasure cruise? The ship embarked from Indochina in the direction of Bordeaux, but the company obliged me to sail a thousand nautical miles off course to collect this man, just one man. And now he is nowhere to be found. Precisely on this island, the size of a postage stamp.” He glowered at me furiously, hoping that either his intimidating eyes or the prolonged silence would goad me into speech. Neither achieved the desired effect. His hand swatted the air, as if to admit defeat. A great deal of the captain’s authority was based on how he handled his cigar. He exhaled a cloud of smoke thick enough to be chewed. He turned to the boy. “Silence is its own sort of confession. I believe that the fellow is guilty and shall take him back to be hanged.” “Silence may also be a form of legitimate defence,” the young man said as he sifted though the pages of a book. “Do not forget, Captain, you were assigned this mission only after the ship that was to have brought me here in the first place got quarantined with typhus. We have arrived two months behind schedule. Who knows what toll the solitude took on the former weather official? Even if some misfortune has befallen him, this man here has the look of a witness, not a culprit.” The captain abruptly turned his attention to an Asian mariner who continued to rummage through the crates. Before the sailor knew it, the captain delivered three sharp blows to the scruff of his neck. The captain confiscated a silver cigarette case the man had stolen. He examined it severely, never taking the cigar from his lips, and then swiftly slipped the case into the depths of his peacoat. The youth was unfazed. He was surely accustomed to such scenes. He held up The Golden Bough and said pompously, “Have you read nothing else in all this time? I must tell you that the world of letters has moved forward. Intellectuals today must appeal to higher principles.” No. He was mistaken. Nothing had changed. He would have done well to consider those filthy men who had invaded the lighthouse like clients piling into a brothel. While he spoke of summits of learning, they debased all they touched. He should have looked at me, who feared the noose much less than living among those men. I had chosen exile over chaos and would no longer be able to retrace my steps. He was hopelessly smug. If only there had been a scale in front of us, I would have challenged him to pile all his books on one side and Aneris on the other.