Concerto to the Memory of an Angel by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt Read Free Book Online Page A

another.
    â€œHave I done something wrong?” asked the burly fellow, creasing his brown eyebrows that were as thick as a finger.
    â€œNo. He’s waiting for you.”
    Greg nodded, feeling guilty already. Convinced he was right he said again, “He’s going to tell me I’ve done something wrong.”
    A shiver of pity chilled Dexter the messenger, for he knew why Greg was being called to the captain, and he didn’t want to tell him.
    â€œDon’t be stupid, Greg. How could he find fault with you? You do more work than four men put together.”
    But Greg was no longer listening. Resigned, wiping the black grease off his hands with a rag, he accepted the fact he was going to be told off, because discipline on board was far more important to him than his own pride: if his superior had something to fault him with, he must have a good reason.
    Greg didn’t delve any further into the matter because he knew the captain would tell him soon enough. As a rule, Greg avoided thinking. He wasn’t good at it and, above all, he figured he wasn’t being paid to think. As far as the contract he had with his employer went, if he were to spend his time thinking it would seem like a betrayal to him, all that time wasted and energy lost. He was working as hard at the age of forty as he had worked in the beginning when he was fourteen: up at dawn, all over the ship until nightfall, cleaning, repairing, fiddling with the spare parts, he seemed to be obsessed by a need to do things well, as if he were tormented by an insatiable devotion that nothing could diminish. The only reason he went to relax on his narrow bunk with its thin mattress was so he could get back to work.
    He put on a plaid shirt, threw on a foul-weather jacket, and followed Dexter up on deck.
    The sea was in a bad temper today, neither raging nor calm, just in a bad temper. Foam splattered from short, ominous waves. As is often the case in the Pacific, the world seemed monochromatic, because the gray sky had imposed its concrete hue upon all the elements—the waves, clouds, floors, pipes, tarpaulins, and men; even Dexter, whose skin ordinarily shone copper, now wore the anthracite complexion of boiled cardboard.
    Struggling against the howling wind, the two men reached the wheelhouse. Once they’d closed the door behind them, Greg felt intimidated: far from the roaring of the machines or of the ocean, torn from the pungent smells of fuel and algae, he no longer felt like he was on board ship, it was more like some drawing room on land. A few men, including the first mate and the radio operator, were standing stiffly around their captain.
    â€œSir,” he said looking down, in a form of surrender.
    Captain Monroe replied, mumbled a few words, then hesitantly cleared his throat.
    Greg remained silent, waiting to be sentenced.
    Greg’s humility did not encourage Monroe to speak. He looked over at his subordinates as if to consult them; they had no desire to be in his shoes. When he felt he was going to lose his crew’s respect if he delayed much longer, Captain Monroe, neglecting the emotional charge which accompanied the information he had to convey, kept his tone curt, his delivery staccato, as he said:
    â€œWe received a telegram message for you, Greg. A family problem.”
    Grey looked up, astonished.
    â€œIn fact, it’s bad news,” continued the captain. “Very bad news. Your daughter has died.”
    Greg’s eyes opened wide. For the time being only surprise filled his face, and no other emotion was visible.
    The captain insisted: “That’s it. Your family doctor in Vancouver, Dr. Simbadour, contacted us. We don’t know anything more. We are very sorry, Greg. My sincere condolences.”
    Greg’s expression still had not changed: his features frozen with surprise, pure surprise, no emotion.
    No one around him said a word.
    Greg looked at each of them in turn as if they might