30
Slavonic Dances (Dvorak)
Elan (thoughts)
September 20, early morning
I told Thomas, the young pilot, to go to his room and get some sleep. He gladly obeyed. I took over and since the ocean is calm, I set the yacht on auto-pilot but I stay on the bridge, gazing at the horizon. I’m cold. I still have my self-inflatable lifejacket on. In the next room, Hubert Barnaud-Kessler is seated at his desk, eating. He’s devoured several slices of bread topped with a mixture of mayonnaise and curry and now he’s flushing them south of his tall body with strong coffee. Between two mouthfuls he tells me what happened in the living room while I was outside, negotiating with Javier, and then held prisoner at the bottom of the boat. We both know that after this trip we won’t see each other again. Death
