Free The Lost Sailors by Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis

it. He’d fucked girls of all colors. All as beautiful as each other. Probably more beautiful than Aysel. But none of them had that light that Aysel had in her eyes. They fucked, and he fucked them. Without any emotion. On empty.
    Emine had given him three years. The first two years, he had thought about Aysel constantly, being married to Aysel, Aysel’s body, Aysel belonging to him and only him. It kept him busy on all his crossings. The sea took on a new meaning. Aysel’s love. Every time they put in at a port, he’d send money to his family. Almost everything he’d earned. He kept just enough to get drunk and have a girl for the night. Alcohol and women weren’t expensive, once you were outside Europe. In Saigon, he had found a girl for a week. For only ten dollars. It had been the most beautiful experience of his life. Her name was Huong. She did everything he asked of her. For ten dollars. She’d even have an orgasm when they fucked. And wash his clothes, too.
    One day he’d returned to the village in an old French Army truck he’d bought in Istanbul. “That’s what I’ll do,” he’d said, “I’ll be a haulage contractor.” He still remembered his arrival in the village. The poplars along the road, the bridge, the hill, the village street. He was a hero. On the way, he’d picked up the people coming home from the fields. Then he’d gone to Emine’s house, to show Aysel the truck. “I’ll take you in this to see the sea. The Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara. Our two seas, Aysel. With the Bosphorus in the middle.” She’d had tears in her eyes. A child’s tears. And Nedim had told himself he’d soon be happy.
    Before he left, he’d entrusted the truck to his elder brother, Aymur, and asked him to maintain it until he got back. He still had six months to go. He’d be crossing the Atlantic. Putting in at Panama. He didn’t want to miss Panama. He’d heard it was a paradise for sailors. That was something he had to treat himself to before he said goodbye to life as a single man. A night with the women of Panama.
    But Aymur had wanted to show off. On Sunday morning, he had set off in the truck for the gorges of Bilecik, with his wife and three children, his parents, and Aysel and her parents. He was drunk, as usual. He had gone off the road at a bend. The truck had crashed into a rock on the right-hand side of the road. His father had been killed instantaneously, crushed to death. Nedim had received a letter informing him when he was in Panama. The others had been only slightly injured. Broken arms or legs. Broken ribs. Aysel, fortunately, had gotten away with a few bumps. As for the truck, it was beyond repair, and had been left on the road.
Emine is giving you one more year
, his mother had written in her letter,
but he wants you to give up the idea of driving a truck.
    To hell with Emine, he’d thought. And he’d cursed his brother and all his fucking descendants. He had spent the night drinking and dancing. Blowing his money, in hundred-dollar bills. The money he’d set aside for returning home, for starting his life with Aysel. Since then, he had been back to the village three times. The first time, he had fought with Aymur. The second time, he had quarreled with Emine. The last time, before he’d set off for La Spezia to catch the ship for Marseilles, he had taken Aysel to the river bank and fucked her.
    She had begged him not to. She had struggled. And when he had entered her, she had wept. He had fucked her roughly, angry at the wasted years, the years he’d controlled his desire for her. All the time he had been on top of her, taking his pleasure, she had kept reciting prayers. “
Elhamdüllillâh rabbilâlemîn irrahmân irrahîm, mâliki yevmiddîn
. . .” He had never known such excitement. Aysel’s body, so beautiful, so pure. Her tears. Her prayers.