In partnership with Rocambole, the app for reading differently, we are offering a new episode of Tina Bartoli's literary soap L'Ancre Noire every day at 5 p.m.
Summary of season II (the summary of the first season is here):
In the Czech Republic, a diver delivers his memories of a treasure hunter. He tells how on the occasion of an expedition to the Dominican Republic, he attended the sinking of L'Espérance on August 8, 2008, with Abel and his class on board. For years afterwards, he searched in vain for the trace of the wreckage of this ship, until, targeted by an investigation for wreckage, he had to take refuge far from the sea
In Corsica, Clémence is spotted by Octave, accompanied by a man with a disturbing appearance. She manages to escape them and take a flight to the mainland.
SEASON II, EPISODE 3 - Jeronim DVOŘÁK
I returned to Europe and I plunged into its heart; the man of the sea that I had been died there, somewhere in the meadows, sometimes green, sometimes frozen by a thick white coat. I rented my arms to the highest bidder for agricultural crops, from Poland to Romania via Ukraine, from Serbia to Belarus via Slovenia. Without attachments, without borders, a mobility forced by the instinct of survival: I appeared, disappeared, muddled the tracks while waiting for to disappear until the memory of my existence. After a few years of this wandering life, I put my bag in the White Carpathians, between Silesia and Moravia, and I melted into nature, like a root that grows silently in the heart of a secret forest .
I rendered services on the surrounding farms, according to the needs of each other. The peasants, unaccustomed to seeing foreigners settle in their countryside at the end of the world, had first looked at me with suspicion. They ended up getting used to my discreet presence and, little by little, integrated me into their simple, rustic and gruff universe. Because I had built a cabin between the spruces and the beeches in the heart of the forest, they called me "Lesní muž" ("The man from the woods").
Often, after a hard day's work, they invited me to share the Slivovice, this brandy made from quetsches with a stone taste. Their women were beautiful and easy to love: one of them, Eliška, used to come and join me in my cabin in the woods. When she arrived on the small table of trdelník, she deposited these delicious round pastries with cinnamon tips, then came to lie down without a word near me. She gave herself shamelessly and left silently, kissing me with her hand as she walked through the door.
On a freezing winter evening, as I plunged into the woods to return home, I heard moans. Listening, I approached silently, from the snow to my knees. Under a frozen spruce, I found a wolf, my paw stuck in a poacher's trap. At my approach, she showed me the fangs. So, I sat not far from her, and spoke to her softly. I told her my old stories of seas and oceans, sunken treasures, holds filled with gold, the silence of the depths, the taste of salt on my lips, the glowing horizons on the wave, the sea breeze in my hair. All my buried memories came to the surface. God ! I missed the lapping of the water!
The wolf had calmed down, she had put her head on her paw and seemed to listen to me attentively. So slowly I crawled over to her and brought my hand to her paw trapped in the trap. She looked up, gave me a dubious look, then let me free her. Released, she started running in the snow, then turned to me and gave a long howl before disappearing in the darkness of the forest. To my surprise, the next evening, I found her lurking around my cabin, then the next day and the next.
After a week of observation from a distance, she finally allowed me to approach her to take care of her paw. Eliška, terrorized by wolves, gave up her visits; I had lost a lover, gained a friend. I decided to call it Sněhurka (Snow).
So I went into oblivion, so I disappeared from the face of the planet. For everyone who knew me, I was dead. For all but one: my brother. He wrote to me regularly in his big, clumsy and laborious handwriting, scrupulously following the safety instruction that I had imposed on him: never include my real surname in his correspondence. He therefore applied to address his letters to Jeronim DVOŘÁK. I answered him faithfully, narrating the little events of my quiet life, detailing the work in the countryside, the composition of my meals. I knew he was fond of my stories from around the world: already, when I was on the water, he wanted to know every detail. He too was a sailor at heart, but he had never sailed.
One day, when I had accompanied one of the peasants from the village to Třebíč for a fair, I allowed myself a recreation in the streets of the city. In the Jewish quarter, I lost myself with delight in the winding alleys of the old city.
At the bend of a small paved path, I was attracted by the front of a tiny shop wedged between a carriage door and a covered passage. The shop window seemed crushed by the weight of the quirky building it was supporting; three floors of stones with hazardous and tired joints: the building seemed on the point of collapsing. At first I thought that the business was abandoned because the window was so dirty, but, approaching, I noticed with amazement that objects were on display. My heart jumped in my chest when I recognized in turn an old compass, a sextant, an astrolabe, a spyglass. Concentrated on trying to pierce the darkness in which the shop was plunged, I guessed, exposed a little further, replicas of frigates, galleons and caravels.
Turning my head towards the filthy glass front door, I read on a small worn sign: "Otevřeno" ("Open"). I pushed her and entered a dark and collected room invaded by various objects. Under a thick layer of dust, the place seemed unoccupied. A neglected Ali Baba cave, a collection of old marine objects forgotten by everyone. An improbable place that resembled paradise for me: captivated, I began to browse, rapturing on an old nautical chart here, a whistle, a Jacob's stick there, a magnetic compass a little further. As I reached out to grab an old hourglass, an authoritarian voice rose from the bottom of the cave:
- Stop there, you touch with your eyes! "
So I was not alone; narrowing my eyes, I guessed a dark form from which a stream of smoke escaped.
- Who is here ? I asked, suddenly on the defensive.
The same hostile accent rose:
- I'm the one asking you what you're doing there, stranger.
- The sign on the door indicated that the shop was open, so I entered, I justified myself.
The curls of smoke dispersed and I saw a long-haired bearded old man approach slowly. He wore a colorful tunic and on his head sat a strange little round and tall hat with the outlines. Clenched between his teeth, an old pipe spit swirls with acrid hints. A character straight out of a tale, I tell myself, amused. But the man did not seem convenient. Without embarrassment and in silence, he began to detail me from head to toe: his piercing eyes seemed to dive deep inside me, until I searched my memory and my heart. Uneasy, I was about to turn back, when with a quick gesture he grabbed my wrist. I couldn't suppress a shiver. He planted his eyes in mine and squeezed my arm so tightly that I felt his dirty nails sink into my skin. Finally, he loosened his grip and sank to the bottom of his lair. I was tempted to escape, but already I guessed it would come back to me, carrying an old book bound in leather. He handed it to me and again trapped me with his penetrating gaze:
“Please, kniha, a ti, kteří necestují, si z ní přečtou pouze jednu stránku. True se k moři a čti dál. "
("The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page. Go back to the sea to read more")
He then pushed me towards the exit. Bewildered, I found myself in the quiet little lane in front of this strange shop and I saw the sign turn over to indicate “Zavřeno” (“Closed”). Then nothing. As if this mysterious boutique had never been asleep, as if this strange encounter had never existed, the dirty display case again became a dead and abandoned place.
- Am I in the middle of a dream? I wondered, confused.
But looking down, I looked at the old book with yellowed pages: it was a bible in Latin.
(…)
Check out the next episode right here on April 7 at 5 p.m. or on the Rocambole app for iOS or Android.
- Czech republic
- Literature
- Books