Chapter 6

Before we left our accommodation in Tripoli for the smuggler’s hideout, we had been following the weather forecasts religiously. The temperature did not interest us, of course. Our sole concerns were the speed and direction of the wind, the height of the waves and the degree of visibility in the Mediterranean Basin. We flicked constantly through the Maltese, Libyan, Tunisian and Italian satellite channels. If one reported calm waters we would immediately switch to another, anxiously discussing any differences in their verdicts.

The Italian RAI channels always began their broadcasts with reports of shipwrecks and images of men and women plucked from the waves. Rows of drowned corpses were routinely displayed, carelessly covered over as though victims of a street brawl. As the camera travelled over their faces, the terror and misery they had suffered were instantly apparent.

Every night before bed, we would go over the day’s reports, rehashing the forecasts for the coming week. On hearing of a calm sea, we would break into rowdy celebrations.

‘As smooth as glass, folks, for another week or more! As smooth as a sheet of glass!’ we chanted one evening after a particularly promising set of reports.

‘The sea’s a big fat liar’ scoffed Attiah, our Egyptian companion, ‘Sheet of glass? More like a great pool of poison.’

‘I’m with you on that,’ nodded a Moroccan, freshly descended from the Atlas Mountains, ‘she’s a killer – that’s all there is to it.’

‘God bless you! She’s a killer and all her crimes are premeditated.’ Attiah was triumphant at this confirmation.

‘But the weather reports – aren’t they worth anything?’ I broke in, not because I genuinely believed in their reliability, but because I hoped to spur the loquacious Attiah on to further ranting.

‘Ha! They told me you were educated and here you are, getting fooled by what you hear on the telly! They said it’d be calm, did they? Nonsense. A calm sea’s just an illusion, meant to trick anyone gullible enough to set off across it.’

‘Why so much rage, Attiah?’ an Algerian youth smiled, catching my eye.

‘I was a fisherman. I know the sea and it knows me. How many great captains have been fooled by the sea’s wily ways! How many truly great captains!’

‘Say something cheery for a change, Captain Attiah!’ I laughed.

‘You mean lie to you?’ he retorted, ‘No, my friend. You’ll have to find someone else to feed you comforting lies, I’m afraid.’

He fell silent and contemplated the group of Eritreans huddled around the TV. Then, ‘Isn’t it you lot that called the boats “Titanikaat”?’ he continued, mimicking our Arabic, ‘As in al-Titanik?’

‘Yes, that’s us.’

‘Damn you all! Who gave you the right to pluralise it as Titanikaat anyway? Are you experts in Arabic grammar these days – or is the great grammarian Sibawayh travelling with you and personally advising you on new words?’

‘What else should we call them?’

‘Something optimistic. Noah’s Ark perhaps. Or any other ship that never sank. Well? What d’you have to say for yourselves?’

‘What can we say? The matter’s closed. You are the all-knowing one.’

‘Whatever! Just so long as you know that seventy per cent of your Titanikaat sink – only around thirty out of a hundred survive! So I guess Titanic is an appropriate name for them after all. Tita… niiiiik,’he said with force, heavily emphasising the second syllable, transforming it into the Arabic word for ‘fuck’. Angry protests and insults rained down on him and continued throughout the night, ending only when the last of us fell asleep.

Many of my fellow travellers could not bear to hear of shipwrecks and drowning and would grow restless whenever we began discussing our dubious chances of survival. When confronted by the unhappy vessels themselves, their faces would be contorted by abject terror. No one can easily stomach the prospect of boarding a boat he knows is likely destined to founder. Even those who had not heard the term Titanics applied to the boats routinely referred to them as The Doomed.

It is hard to describe the fear that grips you at the hour of departure. You approach the boats in the darkness as they rock violently on the water. At that moment, you truly understand the meaning of terror. People lose control of their bowels. Damp patches spread across trousers. Many jump overboard before the boat has even left the harbour. Others are swept to sea without ever having resolved whether to stay or go. When the boat finally departs, a deathly silence settles over it. People lose all ability to articulate. The vessel appears to be a hollow shell, travelling empty and alone.

Later, tongues gradually loosen, but fear always strives to rein them in again. After some time at sea, doubts begin to stir as it becomes apparent the boat has drifted from its course. Mutual loathing sets in and panic attacks come in quick succession. Conflicts erupt for no reason. At one moment the air is filled with sobbing and the next with hysterical laughter. Occasionally, a voice breaks out in song. Someone reveals a clear, soulful voice and you wonder in astonishment why they are not a famous star. As the sweetness of their melody washes over you, you become fixated upon an idea: ‘If we get out of this alive, I must tell them to keep singing and take that talent seriously,’ you tell yourself over and over. Through all this, death rears its head from time to time, snatching away whomever it wishes, whenever it wishes. Amidst the hunger, thirst and death, as people begin to lose consciousness, others steel themselves for conflict. You shudder at the sight of them, sensing they are altered, no longer the people with whom you once shared food and laughter. Their jaws seem to stretch, primed to swallow you whole as they despoil corpses of random, valueless objects. You grow paranoid, convincing yourself they are feeding off the bodies themselves. You watch them fighting to the death, bent on destruction with every fibre of their beings. They have become animals, and you fear that you have become one too.