The Mahé Circle Read online

  Georges Simenon

  THE MAHÉ CIRCLE

  Translated by Siân Reynolds

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, Block D, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North, Gauteng 2193, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published in French as Le Cercle des Mahé by Gallimard 1946

  This translation first published 2014

  Copyright 1946 by Georges Simenon Limited

  Translation © Siân Reynolds, 2014

  GEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm

  MAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited

  Cover photograph © Henri Cartier-Bresson/Magnum Photos.

  All rights reserved

  The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted

  ISBN: 978-0-698-15753-8

  Version_1

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About the Author

  1. The Doctor Versus the Péquois

  2. The Legionnaire’s Return

  3. The Garden Gate

  4. Elisabeth’s Fall

  5. Péchade’s Letter

  6. The Burial at Saint-Hilaire

  7. The Visit to the Ramparts

  8. Victory to the Péquois

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Georges Simenon was born on 12 February 1903 in Liège, Belgium, and died in Lausanne, Switzerland, where he had lived for the latter part of his life.

  The Mahé Circle, completed in Spring 1944 and previously unpublished in English, is set on the island of Porquerolles, where Simenon had spent considerable time in the preceding years.

  For Tigy, in remembrance of Saint-Mesmin

  PENGUIN CLASSICS

  THE MAHÉ CIRCLE

  ‘I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov’

  — William Faulkner

  ‘A truly wonderful writer … marvellously readable – lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates’

  — Muriel Spark

  ‘Few writers have ever conveyed with such a sure touch the bleakness of human life’

  — A. N. Wilson

  ‘One of the greatest writers of the twentieth century … Simenon was unequalled at making us look inside, though the ability was masked by his brilliance at absorbing us obsessively in his stories’

  — Guardian

  ‘A novelist who entered his fictional world as if he were part of it’

  — Peter Ackroyd

  ‘The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we have had in literature’

  — André Gide

  ‘Superb … The most addictive of writers … A unique teller of tales’

  — Observer

  ‘The mysteries of the human personality are revealed in all their disconcerting complexity’

  — Anita Brookner

  ‘A writer who, more than any other crime novelist, combined a high literary reputation with popular appeal’

  — P. D. James

  ‘A supreme writer … Unforgettable vividness’

  — Independent

  ‘Compelling, remorseless, brilliant’

  — John Gray

  ‘Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century’

  — John Banville

  1. The Doctor Versus the Péquois

  He was frowning. Perhaps, like a schoolboy, he was poking out the tip of his tongue? Lips set, a sulky expression on his face, he was snatching glimpses at Gène, trying to imitate his movements as closely as possible.

  But it was no good: something was wrong, because the result wasn’t the same. He was honest enough to recognize this, and obstinate enough to contain his impatience. His hand was trailing outside the boat, like Gène’s, no more or less, quite relaxed; he had immediately understood that it was essential to relax. Only his index finger was slightly raised, supporting the hempen fishing line that the locals called a boulantin.

  The quality of the line wasn’t in question. His and Gène’s were identical. Just now, Gène, who always guessed what he was thinking without ever looking at him, had suggested:

  ‘Come over here. Take my place, hold my line. Could be you’ll have more luck then.’

  The sea, calm as a millpond, without a ripple, was breathing slowly but deeply. And this imperceptible movement troubled the doctor more than the turbulent pounding of waves might have. At every shift of the liquid surface, he could feel the lead weight on his line lifting from the bottom. So he leaned over the side. He could see about ten metres down, perhaps more, a scene to which he found it hard to accustom himself, rocks separating deep purple clefts, a plateau covered with seaweed, and most of all the fish, quite big fish, silver or rusty-red, coming and going peaceably, in silence, hesitating sometimes for an instant in front of his bait. In spite of his efforts, his hand trembled, a slight moisture broke out on his upper lip, he was ready to give a tug on his line. Why had that fish turned away?

  He raised his head and sighed. He found it impossible to stay long peering deep into the water. His heart was palpitating. He had a pain at the back of his eyes and a headache. It was becoming a nightmare. Every time he looked at the Mèdes rock, he had the sensation that the little boat, with its two pointed ends, was getting nearer to it. They didn’t even have an anchor. Gène had simply dropped a large stone into the water on the end of a rope. Was he watching out for the rock? You could see quite clearly how the sea rose and fell, uncovering a large strip of viscous moss and shellfish. Without any breakers, the water was nevertheless covered with white foam, and some of the enormous bubbles washed up against the hull of the boat.

  Gène sat on one of the thwarts, an old cap on his head, as motionless as a statue of Buddha, his gaze apparently ranging with indifference far into the dazzling horizon.

  Of this, the doctor could only see a blaze that irritated his retina, whereas Gène, who could see everything, announced expressionlessly:

  ‘Here comes the Cormoran, she’s back from La Tour-Fondue … There’s Joseph setting his nets by the lighthouse.’

  As he spoke, he was pulling in his line, unhurriedly, as if checking that the hooks were still baited, but there was always a fish on the end.

  ‘A péquois.’

  And he slipped it into a container full of fresh algae, picked up a hermit crab (they called them piades here), smashed its shell and threaded it on to the hook.

  Rattled, the doctor hauled in his own line. It was jerking, alive. Every time it did this, he sensed he had a big catch, that a miracle was happening and that he was going to a
maze the fisherman. And every time, it was one of those nasty fish covered with spines, not even a scorpion-fish, but what Gène called a diable, which had to be taken off the hook – first wrapping one’s hand in a cloth – and thrown back into the water.

  Why could he only catch these diables, or at best tiny sérans? They were fishing in the same place, no more than a metre apart. You could see quite clearly down in the water the pink tips of the hermit-crab shells moving across the sea floor; twice their lines had become entangled. You could see the fish too. The doctor was certain he was making the same movements as Gène. He wasn’t a novice. Back in Saint-Hilaire, he was the only angler capable of light fly-fishing on the Sèvre, a more delicate skill than sea-fishing.

  He had taken a sudden dislike to that great rock rising up out of the sea so close to them, which continued, heaven knew why, to frighten him. He was getting equally irritated with the sea itself, the perfectly calm blue sea, on which he had been so happy to sail out on this little white boat with its blue gunnels.

  His wife had not dared to tease him when he had come back from the cooperative store wearing a straw hat in the shape of a pith helmet, such as he had seen worn by the locals: she had simply said, with her provincial accent:

  ‘You bought a hat, then?’

  He had only to look up to see her, perhaps three hundred metres away; it was difficult, with the water in between, to gauge distances. In the curve of the bay lay one of the island’s sandy beaches, Notre-Dame Beach, shaded by umbrella pines. That white patch on the sand was his wife, sitting quite still, occupied in sewing or knitting. The black patch alongside her was Mariette, their young housemaid, whom they had brought on holiday with them from Saint-Hilaire. The tiny figure doing somersaults on the sand or climbing on to the women’s laps was their son Michel, and the little girl, who was called back every time the water reached her knees, their daughter.

  He could see them, and from where they were, they could see him, sitting at one end of Gène’s small boat. It was very hot. Skin exposed to the sun would bake, and by next morning would have turned brick-red. He had experienced this the day before. He had gone out for a walk with his shirtsleeves rolled up. Now, as far as the elbows, his arms looked like raw meat, while higher up the skin seemed pale and unhealthy.

  He felt light-headed. He was regretting having hired Gène for an afternoon’s fishing. He would have liked to turn for home, but dared not suggest it.

  It was looking down into the depths especially that did it. That clear landscape, so strange and inhuman that he felt he was discovering another planet. The smells too, the salt water, his fingers, which had been handling fish and shellfish, the fragrance from the sun-baked Mediterranean shrubs, carried out to them on the breeze.

  He still clung to the childish hope of hooking a good catch and surprising Gène; he frowned even harder, and leaned out over the water until he was dizzy.

  They had been in Porquerolles only four days, and already he was tired of it. Utterly worn out. The sun was exhausting. Everything required an effort, an effort to adapt, an effort to understand. The island was indeed beautiful, as his friend Gardanne, the painter of the river Sèvre near Nantes, had assured him. Probably he was just a fish out of water here himself.

  ‘Pull in!’ Gène said.

  He hauled sharply on his line. There was something on the other end, but he had drawn up no more than two metres of it before the fish had escaped.

  Now all he could think of was his headache. He was smoking, which was the wrong thing to do because it made him thirsty, and the local wine, which they had brought with them, had warmed up lying in the boat and made him feel sick.

  Now and then the sound of an engine could be heard. It would be a boat like theirs, a little larger or smaller. Almost always, there would be one or more summer visitors aboard, while a local man stood motionless at the tiller. As it came level with them, he would lift his arm in greeting and Gène would do the same.

  ‘It’s Ferdinand,’ he would say simply, as if that was enough, as if Ferdinand was world famous.

  One of these bustling boats now headed straight for them. It had come from the harbour, not from the open sea. When it was a few metres away, the engine was cut and the boat drifted up until it gently bumped them.

  ‘You’re the doctor? Do you mind coming? It’s this woman, she’s dying.’

  And for Gène’s benefit, the man added offhandedly:

  ‘Frans’s wife.’

  Then he explained:

  ‘Yeah, we do have a doctor on the island, but he’s away to Fréjus for a wedding, won’t be back till next week.’

  ‘You better get in his boat,’ Gène advised him. ‘Faster than mine, it is.’

  The doctor was a big man. His ninety kilos made the boat lurch dangerously, and he almost fell into the other vessel, before finding himself sitting on a thwart.

  ‘Will you be going back now, Gène?’

  ‘Soon as I’ve pulled in the lines.’

  ‘Get any péquois?’

  ‘A few.’

  The engine hiccuped, then started to turn over, the boat swung round in a half-circle and now the doctor could see Notre-Dame Beach, with his wife and children, on his left. He waved to them as they went past. He had tried to persuade them to come out in Gène’s boat, saying they could be taken back later, but Hélène hadn’t wanted anything to do with it. When they had arrived in their car at Giens Point, and she had seen the ferry, the Cormoran, waiting to take them over to the island, she had blenched; she had had to overcome her fear in order even to set foot on board, and now the thought of the end of their holiday, which would mean another sea-crossing, had become a nightmare to her.

  They sailed on round some rocks, under an old fort baking in the sun and abandoned to the lizards. The family had been there for a walk the previous day. The ground was covered with a strange squashy vegetation, with red berries that crunched underfoot. The abandoned fort had no doors or windows left. Its walls seemed to be made of white dust, petrified over the centuries by the sun.

  There, too, the doctor had felt ill at ease. It had made him think of the Middle Ages, the Crusades. He jumped every time a basking lizard or grass snake made a move, although he had been assured there were no vipers on the island.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘It’s her chest getting her. Nothing new, she’s been ailing for years, but this time, looks like the end.’

  Here and there, on a beach or one of the island’s paths, he could see groups of people, standing still or walking, holidaymakers like his own family, setting out to explore the place, in white clothes and straw hats. Over there, the jetty. And the harbour, where a dozen yachts were moored, and a man under a derrick was painting a boat bright blue.

  ‘It’s not far, up behind the church. I’ll take you. You’ll tie up the boat for us, Polyte?’

  They left it bobbing in the harbour. The air was thick and heavy. The ground, the trees, the walls, all gave off fumes, waves of heat. Instead of crossing the main square, a bare yellow expanse where groups of men were playing boules, they turned left, climbed a steep path and passed a rubbish heap: the doctor allowed himself to be guided and could still feel the movement of the sea inside his head: his whole body was continuing to live at a rhythm too calm and powerful to be its usual one, so much so that he felt for a moment the urge to feel his pulse, to check that it was normal.

  ‘Over this way …’

  They crossed a road, in a place where he wasn’t expecting to find one. They were very near the village, but a little above it, at roof level, and there under the trees, beyond a waste patch, was a row of low buildings, an old barracks perhaps, or, as it turned out, former storage huts for the French Army Engineers. Two women, standing out in the glare of the sun, watched them approach. On the ground ne
ar them, were two half-naked and grubby children.

  And a door standing open on to a dark blue shadow, almost the same blue as the bottom of the sea.

  The two women followed him with their eyes, without speaking. He almost caught his foot in the long prickly leaves of Barbary figs and cactuses growing there for no particular reason.

  ‘Go inside, doctor.’

  At first he couldn’t see anything. Then a figure gradually emerged, a woman coming towards them from the dark interior. She said:

  ‘I think she’s just gone.’

  The doctor glimpsed a red patch: a young girl, in a dress as scarlet as a flag, her thin legs bare, crouching in a corner, against the wall, and staring at them.

  And finally, on a mattress on the floor, he saw or rather guessed at, the woman he had been called to attend, a motionless form under a blanket, the face terrifyingly thin, the eyes open and unseeing.

  She had only just died. The body was still warm. He smelled broth and found a bowl which one of the women had no doubt brought her, but which was untouched.

  ‘She is dead, isn’t she?’

  The eyes of the girl in the red dress were still staring at him through the darkness and he hesitated to answer the woman, who went on:

  ‘The last hour, she was trembling all over, I had to hold her … Sweating too … Bad smell … I can still smell it on my hands.’

  The young girl hadn’t budged. Crouched down as she was, it was impossible to guess how old she might be.

  ‘She did want to say something … She kept trying, but no, she couldn’t manage it. In the end, I saw these two big tears in her eyes, and I thought then, this must be it. With her arms and legs going, like a rabbit when you knock it out. Just as you were getting in the harbour in Bastou’s boat … But even if you’d been here, doctor, you couldn’t have done anything for her, could you?’