And they are right to be afraid.
Oh, until the end of the afternoon, nothing alarming.
And then.
When they’d finished filling the water bottles and placing the fish filets in plastic containers, separated by sheets of paper, when everything had been readied in the house for the next day, except for the hens, which they’ll have to catch at the last minute, belongings on one side, food on the other, and they were sitting on the sofa staring at the black television screen, counting the hours until departure, at seven in the morning, since before then it’s still dark out: that’s when the argument started.
Initially they didn’t hear it, or paid no attention, Adele and Lucette were in the bedroom, talking, on the other side of the thick walls.
But their voices were raised: that’s why the children started listening.
“Do you understand?” murmured Louie faintly to the other two.
Perrine and Noah shook their heads.
“What can they be saying?” said Noah, worried.
No time to share their questions any further: a door slams, Adele comes into the room, three pairs of eyes instantly riveted on her, Lucette follows right behind, waving her arms with such intensity that if her rheumatism weren’t restraining her those arms would enfold the entire living room.
“No, you won’t stay!”
“Yes, I will.”
“I won’t leave you here.”
“Of course not. Go ahead and try.”
“We won’t leave without you!”
“What?” exclaims Louie.
The old ladies freeze. As if seeing the children for the first time, as if they are about to frown and wonder who they are, that’s how far away they seem, but then something lights up in their gaze, they acknowledge them, and fall silent, embarrassed. So Lucette turns to the children:
“Adele doesn’t want to leave anymore.”
“Huh?” says Noah.
“Who?” says Perrine.
Adele purses her lips:
“I helped get everything ready for the trip, I’ve done my bit. But I’m staying here.”
“But why?” asks Louie, stunned. “The sea is rising, and you’ll die.”
“Never mind. I no longer have the strength.”
“We’re the ones who’ll be rowing!”
“… to live somewhere new. I’m afraid of leaving. I’m afraid of being all alone in a foreign place.”
“I’m here,” protests Lucette.
Adele spreads her arms in a gesture of resignation. A faint smile.
“It’s not enough.”
Louie looks at her. He doesn’t understand. Or only just an inkling, because there are three of them, Louie, Perrine, and Noah, until they find their entire world—which will mean all eleven of them, Pata and Madie and their six brothers and sisters who left before them on the sea. If they were alone, would they feel the same? Who is waiting for Adele? Maybe no one. If he had no one, thinks Louie, would he confront the sea?
Yes he would, dammit. Because of drowning. Feeling the sea rising until there’s nothing left under your feet on which to climb any higher. Having to resist, and keep on resisting until you have no more strength. And then giving in. To Louie there can be nothing more frightening—not even setting out for a second time on the gray, menacing water in a leaky old boat.
The thought of being drowned in her house: she must have realized, Adele, she can’t not care. The vain struggle against the water, against fear and asphyxiation. Has she ever experienced anything as awful as the waves submerging you, and the water filling your throat all the way to your guts, and the fear taking your breath away, paralyzing your arms and legs, when you’re just a dead weight hanging on your heart—that’s what happened to him when the man on the island toppled him into the water and tried to cling onto him, then went after him, and he only got away at the last moment, hanging onto the boat like a fish on a hook, he was, and he is sure that if Adele had ever experienced anything like that, she wouldn’t want to stay here, in this house that is about to be engulfed.
But he doesn’t say anything.
He just looks at her.
In fact, there is no solution.
No one has one.
And that is what is suddenly driving Lucette half-crazy, this helplessness, because none of them can convince Adele, none of them can oblige her—to be sure, if Lucette were strong enough, she’d grab hold of her and drag her onto the boat, they’d all leave the island together and speak of it no more, that is what Lucette is thinking, but she is only too well-acquainted with her flabby arms and aching back, how every morning she has to roll over to the edge of the bed to get up without it hurting too much.
And stilclass="underline" she shouts, Lucette, and weeps, too, she doesn’t want Adele to die, and she flings her hands about as if she were about to move, to let the sorrow out, to hit her, of course she won’t hit her, but she will vent all her anger and sadness and despair. Adele gets annoyed, Hush, stop it! Then Lucette takes her by the shoulders and shakes her.
“Do you realize what you are doing? Do you realize? The scene we are making in front of these children? How selfish you are being? What a coward? And me, have you thought about me? I’m all alone, too!”
Furious, Adele shoves her aside with her outstretched arm. But Lucette hangs on, this time: she grabs her by the sleeve, and yanks hard—too hard, and both of them suddenly lose their balance. For a moment they look weightless, tilted in an impossible position like two old trees twisted by the wind, and Louie springs up, because he can see what is about to happen, he opens his mouth to shout and nothing comes out, and nothing would help, anyway, Adele and Lucette are reeling, tilting and unsteady before the eyes of the three petrified children, they are no longer arguing, there is just this look of astonishment in their eyes, and some fear, too, and then time moves forward again and the trajectory of their bodies speeds up, they take a step, stumble, that’s it, they’re entwined, entangled, and they fall to the floor.
There is the sound of something hitting the wood, a dull crack.
A moan that is silenced.
At last, Louie hurries over to them.
-
No one speaks, on the boat. Gripped with fear, perhaps, or tense with the effort and attention required to travel by night: Louie has a candle next to him, lighting the compass on the seat. Sometimes he meets Noah’s gaze. They remain silent.
Put distance behind them.
Don’t think about—
At the stern of the boat, Lucette is bundled in a blanket.
Perrine is sleeping next to the hens, defeated by weariness and emotion. She rowed the first hour with Louie.
Louie tries not to think about anything.
“It will be fine,” murmurs Lucette.
He prays it is true. Focuses on the compass, on the east they never found, before, and toward which he is now heading with the steady determination of a bloodhound, the compass placed on the map, which is open wide, to be sure. This curdling feeling in his throat, in his guts: he pays no attention to it, frowning, he channels all the fierceness into his arms as he rows with Noah.
Again the brothers exchange glances. The little boy whispers as quietly as he can:
“Do you think she’s dead?”
Louie replies in a similar tone: No. No, no.
They wish there was more noise coming from the stern, where Lucette is lying huddled.
Adele is lying on a blanket; Lucette regularly wipes a damp cloth over her face.
“Do you think this was a good idea?” says Noah.
“I dunno,” murmurs Louie.
To leave just as night was falling, hastily cramming their supplies onto the boat, chasing down the hens to the end of the terrace; slowly lifting Adele’s inert body, as Lucette cried out, Watch out for her head, to the left, a bit more to the right, careful, now, careful! Getting her settled as comfortably as they could. Looking at each other, all of them: and casting off with one deep, long breath.