“My friends don’t make me the object, of their stupidity!”
“They were the cause of mine just now.”
The netman grabbed the handle of the brush, got to his feet, and held it out like a bayonet. “You want to play, Leech?”
“Come on, give it to me.”
“With pleasure, Leech. Here!” The netman shoved the brush forward, downward, the bristles scraping the patient’s chest and stomach, penetrating the cloth of his shirt.
Whether it was the contact with the scars that covered his previous wounds, or the frustration and anger resulting from three days of harassment, the man would never know. He only knew he had to respond. And his response was as alarming to him as anything he could imagine.
He gripped the handle with his right hand, jamming it back into the netman’s stomach pulling it forward at the instant of impact; simultaneously, he shot his left foot high off the deck, ramming it into the man’s throat.
“Tao!” The guttural whisper came from his lips involuntarily; he did not know what it meant.
Before he could understand, he had pivoted, his right foot now surging forward like a battering ram, crashing into the netman’s left kidney.
“Che-sah!” he whispered.
The netman recoiled, then lunged toward him in pain and fury, his hands outstretched like claws.
“Pig!”
The patient crouched, shooting his right hand up to grip the netman’s left forearm, yanking it downward, then rising, pushing his victim’s arm up, twisting it at its highest arc clockwise, yanking again, finally releasing it while jamming his heel into the small of the netman’s back. The Frenchman
sprawled forward over the nets, his head smashing into the wall of the gunnel.
“Mee-sah!” Again he did not know the meaning of his silent cry.
A crewman grabbed his neck from the rear. The patient crashed his left fist into the pelvic area behind him, then bent forward, gripping the elbow to the right of his throat. He lurched to his left; his assailant was lifted off the ground, his legs spiraling in the air as he was thrown across the deck, his face and neck impaled between the wheels of a winch.
The two remaining men were on him, fists and knees pummeling him, as the captain of the fishing boat repeatedly screamed his warnings.
“Le docteur! Rappelons le docteur! Va doucement!”
The words were as misplaced as the captain’s appraisal of what he saw. The patient gripped the wrist of one man, bending it downward, twisting it counterclockwise in one violent movement; the man roared in agony. The wrist was broken.
Washburn’s patient viced the fingers of his hands together, swinging his arms upward like a sledgehammer, catching the crewman with the broken wrist at the midpoint of his throat. The man somersaulted off his feet and collapsed on the deck.
“Kwa-sah!” The whisper echoed in the patient’s ears.
The fourth man backed away, staring at the maniac who simply looked at him.
It was over. Three of Lamouche’s crew were unconscious, severely punished for what they had done. It was doubtful that any would be capable of coming down to the docks at four o’clock in the morning.
Lamouche’s words were uttered in equal parts, astonishment and contempt “Where you come from I don’t know, but you will get off this boat.”
The man with no memory understood the unintentional irony of the captain’s words. I don’t know where I came from, either.
“You can’t stay here now,” said Geoffrey Washburn, coming into the darkened bedroom. “I honestly believed I could prevent any serious assault on you. But I can’t protect you when you’ve done the damage.”
“It was provoked.”
“To the extent it was inflicted? A broken wrist and lacerations requiring sutures on a man’s throat and face, and another’s skull. A severe concussion, and an undetermined injury to a kidney? To say nothing of a blow to the groin that’s caused a swelling of the testicles? I believe the word is overkill.”
“It would have been just plain ‘kill,’ and I would have been the dead man, if it’d happened any other way.” The patient paused, but spoke again before the doctor could interrupt. “I think we should talk. Several things happened; other words came to me. We should talk.”
“We should, but we can’t. There isn’t time. You’ve got to leave now. I’ve made arrangements.”
“Now?”
“Yes. I told them you went into the village, probably to get drunk. The families will go looking for you. Every able-bodied brother, cousin, and in-law. They’ll have knives, hooks, perhaps a gun or two. When they can’t find you, they’ll come back here. They won’t stop until they do find you.”
“Because of a fight I didn’t start?”
“Because you’ve injured three men who will lose at least a month’s wages between them. And something else that’s infinitely more important.”
“What’s that?”
“The insult. An off-islander proved himself more than a match for not one, but three respected fishermen of Port Noir.”
“Respected?”
“In the physical sense. Lamouche’s crew is considered the roughest on the waterfront.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Not to them. It’s their honor. ... Now hurry--get your things together. There’s a boat in from Marseilles; the captain’s agreed to stow you, and drop you a half-mile offshore north of La Ciotat.” The man with no memory held his breath. “Then it’s time,” he said quietly.
“It’s time,” replied Washburn. “I think I know what’s going through your mind. A sense of helplessness, of drifting without a rudder to put you on a course. I’ve been your rudder, and I won’t be with you; there’s nothing I can do about that. But believe me when I tell you, you are not helpless. You will find your way.”
“To Zurich,” added the patient.
“To Zurich,” agreed the doctor. “Here. I’ve wrapped some things together for you in this oilcloth. Strap it around your waist.”
“What is it?”
“All the money I have, some two thousand francs. It’s not much, but it will help you get started.
And my passport, for whatever good it will do. We’re about the same age and it’s eight years old; people change. Don’t let anyone study it. It’s merely an official paper.”
“What will you do?”
“I won’t ever need it if I don’t hear from you.”
“You’re a decent man.”