This Barrada, who had "wangled" things so that he sailed for a third
time on the same ship with us, was the great friend of Yves.
An illegitimate child, born and reared in the open on the quays of
Bordeaux. Very vicious, but with a good heart; full of contrasts,
certain elementary notions of human dignity were entirely wanting in
him; it was his pride to be better-looking than the others, more agile,
stronger, and a more artful "wangler." ("Wangler" and "wangling" are two
words which resume in themselves almost the whole life of the navy; they
have no academic equivalent.)
In return for payment, Barrada taught on board every kind of exercise in
vogue among sailors: boxing, single-stick, fencing, with gymnastics into
the bargain, and singing and dancing. Supple as a clown; the friend of
all the travelling strongmen who posed in the studios of sculptors;
fighting for money in mountebank shows.
An outstanding personality at the sailors' feastings, but always as a
guest, drinking freely, but never paying; drinking freely, but never
beyond his capacity, and passing through all sorts of revelry, without
losing his upright carriage, his smile, or his freshness.
He was always ready with a mocking repartee which would never have
occurred to anyone else; his Gascon accent rendered his sallies more
comical; and then he used to punctuate his phrases with a kind of noise
that was peculiarly his own; a half laugh which sounded in his deep
chest like the hoarse yawning of a lion.
Withal, honest, grateful, obliging to everyone, and faithful to his
friends; unequivocal in speech and answering always with the
disconcerting frankness of a child.
And yet making money by any and every means, even by his beauty when the
occasion offered. And that, naïvely, with his unspoilt good nature, in
such a way that the others, who knew it, pardoned him as they would one
more like a child than themselves. Yves contented himself with saying:
"That's not good, Barrada, I assure you . . ." and loved him none the
less.
And all this was amassed, was condensed as it were in the form of large
pieces of gold sewn about his waist in a leathern belt. And its object
was to enable him, after his five years' re-engagement, to marry a
little Spanish dressmaker at Bordeaux, who worked in a large shop in the
Passage Sainte Catherine; a refined little workwoman whose photograph he
always carried with him, a photograph showing her in profile with a
fringe and an elegant fur toque trimmed with a bird's wing.
"What can one do! She was my little sweetheart when I was a boy," he
used to say, as if it was necessary to make an excuse.
And, while he was waiting for this little sweetheart, he abandoned
himself to many others, deliberately often, but sometimes in sheer
goodness of heart in the manner of Yves, because he shrank from giving
pain.