The End of the Ocean

Chapter 36 DAVID

I pulled the sheet over Lou, even though it was so hot that she didn’t need it.

Then I walked to the door.

“Good night, Lou.”

“’Night.”

She lay in silence, staring out into the darkness, into herself. And then, without looking at me, she asked:

“Daddy, are you going to do that… that thing… again tonight?”

“No,” I said. “No. We’re not.”

And I meant it. This evening we were just going to sit together, Marguerite and I. Because finally we had time.

Lou drew a breath, was about to ask about something, but seemed unable to find the words. I should talk to her about this, I thought. Should say something to help her to understand that it isn’t ugly. That it didn’t tear us apart, but instead united us.

But I couldn’t do this now. Because my mind was full of other thoughts. As was hers.

We’d carried the containers to the house. Twelve containers in all, of clean, clear water, vacuum-packed in plastic, sometime long ago. It took us twelve sweaty trips. Five for Marguerite, seven for me. While Lou ran back and forth between us, chattering excitedly.

The containers were in the middle of the living room.

We had locked the door this evening, for the first time since we moved in. We owned a treasure, twelve treasure chests. Enough water to enable us to survive for a long time. We would have to find food, but that we would manage. As long as we had water, everything was possible.

“Imagine if I wake up in the morning and they’re gone,” Lou said.

“They won’t be,” I said.

“But imagine?”

“We locked the door.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Did you check?”

“Yes.”

“Can you double-check, afterwards?”

“…Yes… fine.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good.”

“Good night, Lou.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“I love water.”

“Me too.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Can we play it one more time?”

“The rain game?”

“Yes, yes! The rain game.”

“Lou, it’s late.”

“Please?”

And it wasn’t hard to convince me. Because I loved this game too.

I went back into her room and sat on the edge of the bed. She lay quietly waiting, but I could see how tense her body was. Her eyes were wide open; she didn’t look the least bit tired.

“Start, then,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Close your eyes.”

She closed them.

“It’s morning and you’re in bed and asleep,” I said.

“I’m sleeping,” she said and snored loudly.

“It’s completely silent,” I said. “But then you hear sounds on the roof. It’s the sounds that wake you up.”

“No,” she said and opened her eyes. “There aren’t any sounds yet. Because it doesn’t start with real rain.”

“No, you’re right,” I said. “That’s how it was. It starts with drizzle.”

“And drizzle isn’t proper rain.”

“Drizzle just hangs in the air. Almost like fog.”

“And I wake up,” she said.

“You wake up all on your own,” I said. “Then you go downstairs to see me.”

“Because now you’re awake, too.”

She sat up in the bed.

“We go outside together. And Marguerite comes too,” Lou said.

“Outside we can feel how there is a drizzle in the air,” I said.

“Almost like fog.”

“We see how droplets of moisture form on the leaves.”

Lou turned her head towards the ceiling. “I think it’s raining, I say.”

“Yes, I say.”

“Then we sit down and wait.”

We sat side by side on the bed, both of us staring at the ceiling.

“Gradually it rains harder,” I said. “It gets stronger. The drops get bigger. And we can hear them.”

“We hear them,” Lou said.

“Do you remember the sound of rain?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. She thought about it some more. “…No.”

I drummed my fingertips against the night table, a gentle tapping. “Like this.”

She nodded. “That’s how it was.” She lay her little hand down beside my own and drummed as well.

“A heavy downpour,” I said and made my fingertips hit the wooden tabletop harder. “The rain pours down harder and harder. The drops become larger and heavier.”

“They’re huge,” Lou said.

“It’s never quiet. It splashes. Gushes. Drips. Pours. The days pass. We fall asleep and wake up to the sound of rain on the rooftop. We have to raise our voices when we talk to drown out the noise of millions of drops constantly hitting the house, the ground, the trees.”

She curls up beside me.

“It’s pouring down,” I continue. “The rain connects everything. The air is full of water. And the canal changes. The drops hit the bottom, penetrating dry leaves, breaking up the hard soil.”

“And what are we going to do every morning?” she asked. “Say what we’re going to do every morning.”

“Every morning,” I say, “we run down to the canal. We stand on the bank and look at how much the water has risen in the course of the night. And we see what happens to the boat.”

“Yes?”

“Soon the water level reaches the hull. The keel is submerged. The water keeps rising. Until the boat is no longer aground. Till we have to moor it to the canal bank.”

“And I, like, catch hold of the line.”

“You catch the mooring line when I throw it and you tie it tightly to a big tree.”

“With a lot of knots.”

“Yes.”

“So the boat doesn’t sail away.”

“And then, one morning we find the cradle floating on the surface of the water. Gravity no longer holds the boat in place.”

“Gravity?”

“The force that keeps us on the ground. That makes things fall down. Not up. And when that happens, when the boat is floating, then it’s ready for us.”

“Then we get on board.”

“We pack our things and get on board.”

“All three of us.”

“And I start the engine.”

“No, I start the engine.”

“You start the engine.”

“Then we sail away.”

“The boat glides slowly through the canals. We pass through the sluices. Towards Bordeaux. Towards the coast.”

“And I get to steer.”

“You get to steer.”

“We’re not in a hurry. We watch the landscape around us. How it changes. How everything has turned green. The water has infused all the grayness with color. The ground is no longer dusty, but safe, solid. The trees are no longer black, they are sprouting leaves. And then we notice something new in the air. You’re sitting on deck when I first become sure. I walk over to you and Marguerite takes the tiller. I sit down with you. Pull you towards me.”

I put my arm around her, felt her body against mine, fragile, but still alive, heard her breathing, a child’s eager and slightly irregular breathing.

“Keep going,” she whispered.

“Then you notice it too,” I said. “That something is about to happen. At first we think we’re just imagining it. But the longer we sit there, the more certain we become. And you look up at me, sort of to ask me if I am feeling the same thing as you are. And I nod.”

“Yes?”

“There’s something different in the air. The dry, dusty air that always makes your throat scratchy clears up. It’s easy to breathe. We move into something else. We’re on our way. We will get there. Everything is fresh. Everything is clear. Everything is new. But all the same, familiar. Because we recognize this smell. This air, this dampness, the openness. It’s what we came from. That’s how the air was at home.”

“Home.”

“Do you feel it? I will ask you. Can you smell the air? Do you smell the scent of salt?”