Raphael was happy on Grand Baie. He lived in a hut on the Perybere road, cooked fish and vegetables over an open fire, enjoyed the company of children from shacks in the field behind him and worked hard for Maurice. He became a fisherman again, and for a few months of summer felt an old self returning. He began to walk upright again, and wore a shirt he bought and new trousers someone gave him.
He thought about Maude and the children. He pictured them outside their hut on Diego, sitting on the veranda with bananas in their hands. Rose petals blew in a breeze as a pig rooted through the jungle. Georges appeared, told a joke, sat down and opened a bottle. Other Ilois walked along the beaches and lanes, half a dozen boats dotted the lagoon.
The sea rustled piles of coral. The sound of men splitting coconuts and knotting fresh nets. Heat swallowed the scene, spat it out and did the same again. Raphael spooled some line and went to bed.
In the morning, Maurice took him beyond the reef that enclosed Grand Baie and steered north east, towards the tiny islands of Coin de Mire, Ile Plate and Ilot Gabriel. The boat was powered by outboard motor, but Raphael ignored the noise and watched birds follow them, rising, drifting and tumbling out of thermals, waiting for tossed guts or heads. Maurice whistled, smoked a cigarette and held the tiller between his knees. He knew his way, what the weather was going to do, where the best fishing grounds would be, and how to open a bottle of beer with his teeth. He had stowed a box of bottles in the bows, and eyed it as he steered past Coin de Mire.
‘Pass us one of those,’ he said. ‘And have one yourself.’
‘Not me,’ said Raphael. ‘Not out here.’ He pointed at the sea.
‘You’ll be alright. Here.’ Maurice held his hand out.
‘I’ll be nothing if I do.’
Maurice nodded. He appreciated a sober crew. ‘Okay,’ he said, and he pointed towards Ile Plate and Ilot Gabriel.
These islands are connected by reefs. When he was close enough to hear the ocean breaking over them he turned the outboard off, cast lines and drifted for a while. He knew the waters but kept his eyes on all the signs – swell, tide, current, sky, wind, light. A lighthouse on lie Plate warns Port-Louis-bound ships to KEEP CLEAR. Dangerous seas.
The men sat back and watched their lines. The sun was hot but a cool breeze whipped the sea into little waves. They smoked cigarettes.
‘You’ve lived here all your life?’ said Raphael. He coughed. ‘Grand Baie?’
‘Every day. I was born in the Post Office.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. My mother was buying a stamp. She had a letter about medicines for the pain, but I solved that!’
‘I was born on a beach,’ said Raphael.
They caught enough fish for a meal. Maurice started the outboard and headed for Ilot Gabriel. ‘We’ll eat ashore,’ he said, ‘and drink.’ He pointed to the bottles. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’ Raphael nodded. ‘Just one.’
The run to the beach was rough but Maurice had a steady hand and waited for the right waves. The two men jumped ashore, secured the boat and walked across a short stretch of sand to where grass and low scrub met the shore.
‘Peaceful?’ said Maurice, and Raphael nodded again.
They lit a fire, cooked the fish, drank beer and talked about boats. Ones with sails, ones with inboard motors, tourist yachts, pirogues. Later, Maurice lay back, closed his eyes and said he wanted a nap. Raphael stood up and went for a walk.
Ilot Gabriel is round, uninhabited, about a third of a mile across in any direction, and when Raphael stood at its highest point he felt it was his. All he’d ever wanted. Clean air blown from the Chagos, a boat on the beach, a friend to work for. All it needed was a hut and Maude and the children. A pig, a duck, a donkey and sixteen chickens. He could smell them. He closed his eyes. He could see them. There were no palms on the island, no trees at all, but he could plant some. They would be his, and for a few moments he became himself again – all he’d ever wanted to be.
Maurice’s brother lost his job on the glass-bottom. Maurice was sorry, but he had to give him Raphael’s job. He liked the Ilois, and sympathised, but loyalty to family had to come before friendship. Raphael understood. He would have done the same.
Maurice gave him twenty rupees for the trouble but there were no more jobs in Grand Baie, so he walked back to Port Louis. He had been planning to any way. He wanted to visit Alain and see if there was any news from Diego Garcia.
There was some – nothing about Maude or the children. Plenty about Americans moving in. Nothing about his boat. This depressed him. Time on Grand Baie had given him ideas, but money ran out and then he couldn’t find any more work. Too many Ilois were chasing no jobs; it took less than a month for his walk to collapse. He stooped again, didn’t tidy his hair and didn’t mend the holes that appeared in his shirt.
‘Go back to Grand Baie,’ Alain urged him.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘There’s no more work there. Besides, I’m waiting for Maude. She’ll be here soon.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I feel it.’
‘You don’t.’
‘She taught me how she knew,’ he said.
‘Raphael!’ Alain put his hands on the man’s shoulders and made him look him in the eye. ‘Go back to Grand Baie. There’s no room here, and if you haven’t got any money you can’t stay.’
‘Then I’ll sleep in the street!’
Alain shook his head. ‘No. I don’t want that. People’ll think I’m throwing you out. Then there’ll be trouble.’
‘Don’t worry!’ Raphael smiled. ‘I’ll go to the docks. You won’t see me.’
Raphael met every boat that called at Port Louis, bothered loaders with questions and begged cigarettes. He shouted ‘Maude!’ over the heads of every group of disembarking passengers, but she never came. He let his hair grow and had days when he forgot where he was. Things he’d done blurred into each other so he wasn’t sure if he was still on Grand Baie or if Alain was Maurice or Georges. The smell of roasting cummin drifted across the wharf; his stomach rumbled, he sat down, spat, and curled strings of dirt from under his fingernails with a piece of glass.