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answer.”
    Abdul stood up. He always seemed taller when he stood up. Thinner too, Diamantis realized.
    â€œYou know, I . . .” He looked Diamantis in the eyes. “I’m just a guy who’s foundering. That’s all. Consumed by guilt.”
    Diamantis laughed. “I’ve never known a sailor who didn’t feel guilty.”
    â€œThis is different, Diamantis. This is different . . . I’m sure I’ll tell you about it eventually. Right now, I’m going to bed. Don’t be angry at me for asking all these questions. I’m curious, of course. But it’s not just that. Your answers save me the trouble of answering my own questions.”
    Diamantis whistled through his teeth. “Well, well! I’m not the only philosopher on this shitty tub.”

4.
THE GIRLS IN THE PERROQUET BLEU
    A part from the two Burmese, who vanished into Marseilles as soon as they got their bonuses, the other crew members decided to have a slap-up meal. They hadn’t had fifteen hundred francs in their pockets for a long time. They hadn’t had a real meal, either.
    They ate in the harbor area. Near Rive Neuve. A real tourist meal. Fish soup with spicy sauce and croutons, sea bream with boiled potatoes, cheese, and a choice of custard tart or two scoops of ice cream for dessert. It wouldn’t have gotten any stars in a restaurant guide, but it only cost them seventy-five francs each. Wine not included.
    Ousbene and Nedim found themselves alone after the coffee. The three others had left to catch the night train for Paris. From Paris, the Hungarian was going home. The Comorian was off to Antwerp, where he’d heard—through an uncle of his who lived there—that they were taking on people for Chile, and the Moroccan had decided to go with him. If one person had a chance, another might, too.
    Ousbene’s train for Italy wasn’t leaving until around midnight. As for Nedim, he was in no hurry. The truck driver had arranged to meet him at five in the morning, in the J4 parking lot, behind the Fort Saint-Jean, on the waterfront. J4 was a disused warehouse in the Grande Joliette dock. A symbol of the decline of Marseilles as a port. It was due to be razed to the ground, but in the meantime it was occasionally used for concerts.
    Nedim knew the place well. In the early days, when he still had a little money, he had gone there, on the advice of a longshoreman, to buy some grass. Whole families of North Africans slept in their cars, waiting to take a ferry. It was a place where all kinds of illegal dealing went on. You could buy and sell anything there. A few girls turned tricks for peanuts. Usually with truckers who loaded their vehicles in the harbor. The cops sometimes came down and raided the place. More for the principle of the thing, or to piss everyone off, than in the hope of making a big seizure.
    To kill time, Ousbene suggested to Nedim they go to the Perroquet Bleu on Rue des Dames for a drink. It was an African club he’d discovered one night.
    â€œIs it full of hookers?” Nedim had asked.
    â€œNo, it’s a real club. With good music. Salsa, beguine, merengue. A really hot place, we haven’t seen anything like it for a while! Plus, it’s halfway between the harbor and the railroad station . . .”
    â€œSalsa! Fuck, I love salsa! I can dance it better than anyone. I learned in Panama. From a Cuban girl. You should have seen the ass on her! One whole night rubbing up against her, with a hard-on like you wouldn’t believe. She was crazy about me!”
    In any case, Nedim would have followed Ousbene anywhere. What else could he do until five in the morning? Fuck a hooker? But he would have needed more than fifteen hundred for that. To get something good, a nice blond Yugoslav or Russian, the kind he’d eyed up on Place de l’Opera, you needed a lot more. Just for a quick fuck. He knew that, he’d already made inquiries.
    The Perroquet