A Ship Cursed Part 5

‘My name is Pierre,’ he said with the slur of a man who’d been down on his luck and at the bottom of bottles for weeks. He was in his mid-twenties, but it was difficult to tell—the stubble, and dark bags under his eyes, and the skin of a seaman made him look old. This man had aged fast in the last few months, faster than a eggs left in the sun.

‘I have a… story, but you’ll not hear it.’ He struggled with the words, and his breath reeking of stale red wine, his teeth dark with it. Slowly, he grinned. His grin was that of one troubled by his past deeds and conflicts.

‘Good,’ I said, ‘I’d really rather not hear a frog speak.’ I motioned to the barkeep for another beer.

He mumbled something, then, ‘I am not a grenouille; because, if I was, I would not have stayed on that maudite ship for four months of hell. I would have swum home, jusqu’à la France.’

I leaned forward, so as to hear him speak. My French is very limited, but I have learned to understand a bit, if I catch it right. I took a long pull on my beer before I said, ‘go on,’ trying to sound encouraging.

‘There was no wind: it stopped, for a whole four months,’

‘Four months?’ I could hardly believe it, it took a conscious effort to stop gawking, ‘but how did you survive?’

‘Non, I will not tell you,’ he said. His hands ran over the rough grain of the bar, until they found his bottle. It was half empty as it went to his lips. When he put it down, there was none left.