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

have an answer to his question; as he did not find it, he eventually said, “My daughter? Which daughter?”
    â€œI beg your pardon?” said the captain, startled.
    â€œWhich of my daughters? I have four.”
    Monroe blushed. Afraid he might have written the message down wrong, he took it out of his pocket and with trembling hands read it once again.
    â€œHmm . . . no. There is nothing else. This is all it says: we regret to inform you that your daughter has died.”
    â€œWhich one?” insisted Greg, more annoyed by the lack of precise details than fully cognizant of what they were telling him. Kate? Grace? Joan? Betty?
    The Captain read the message over and over, hoping for a miracle, that between the lines he might suddenly find a name. Flat and succinct, the text was limited to those words alone.
    At a loss, Monroe handed the paper to Greg, who deciphered it in turn.
    The engineer nodded, sighed, turned the paper this way and that and then handed it back to the captain.
    â€œThank you.”
    The captain almost murmured, “You’re welcome,” then understood it was absurd, mumbled in his beard, fell silent, and stared out to port at the horizon.
    â€œIs that all?” asked Greg, looking up, his eyes as clear as if nothing had happened.
    The other sailors in the room were dumbfounded. They thought they had misheard. The captain, who had to reply, did not know how to react. Greg insisted, “Can I go back to work now?”
    In the presence of such placid behavior the captain, who felt a sting of revulsion, endeavored to add some humanity to the absurd scene:
    â€œGreg, we will not get to Vancouver for another three days. Would you like us to try in the meantime to contact the doctor for more information?”
    â€œCould you?”
    â€œYes. We don’t have his contact information since he called from company headquarters, but with a bit of good luck, we can get back to the source and—”
    â€œYes, that would be better.”
    â€œI’ll take care of it in person.”
    â€œRight,” said Greg, speaking like a robot, “it would be better, after all, if I knew which of my daughters . . . ”
    And there he had to pause. Just as he was about to say the word, he realized what had happened: one of his children had lost her life. He stopped with his mouth open, his face went crimson, his legs gave way. He clung with one hand to the chart table to keep from falling.
    Around him the men were almost relieved to see him react at last. The captain came up and patted him on the shoulder.
    â€œI’ll take care of it, Greg. We’ll get to the bottom of the mystery.”
    Greg glanced at the hand that was causing his damp slicker to squeak. The captain removed his hand. They stood there, embarrassed, neither one daring to look the other in the eye, Greg from a fear of expressing his pain, the captain from a fear of receiving his distress right in the face.
    â€œTake the day off, if you want.”
    Greg stiffened. The prospect of not working filled him with anxiety. What would he do if he didn’t work? The shock restored his speech.
    â€œNo, I’d rather not.”
    Every man in the room envisioned the torture Greg would endure in the hours ahead. A prisoner of the ship—mute and alone, he must be crushed by a sorrow as heavy as their cargo, tormented by a horrible question: which one of his daughters had died?
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    Back in the engine room, Greg went to work the way you rush into the shower when you’re covered with mud; never before had the pipes been cleaned, scrubbed, polished, readjusted, or tightened with so much energy and care as that afternoon.
    However, despite his labor, a thought occurred to him and wormed its way into his brain. Grace . . . His second daughter’s face took over his imagination. Was it Grace who had died? Grace was fifteen, with an explosive love of life, her face radiant with smiles, energetic