La Pute

3

"He's neck-deep in debt. You don't want to get involved with him", Florence placed a hand on the man's unsuspecting shoulder whilst speaking past him to the Italian woman. The man shuddered but remained quiet. He knew better, the money he owed may not have been more than pocket money to Vauquelin, but for the man it must have been more than his pension.

"Is that so?" The Italian woman asked, but not because she was actually thinking about it. She looked like the kind of person who enjoyed picking fights with people she really ought to avoid. Some foreigners were like that, either because they were clueless or because they were bored from the sea. But the woman didn't seem like either, her language was less than fluent but exceptionally good, implying that she traveled between ports frequently, spending less time at open sea and more on land.

"Well he's a passenger on this ship now", She responded and moved to remove Florence's hand from the man's shoulder. It wasn't just a gentle whisk, but more of a threat.

Bored from the sea and left with no fear. Eager to feel what it means to be alive.

"I can't let you depart before he's paid off his debt", Florence repeated with less patience but not interested in disciplining the woman in broad daylight. She looked strong, well-fed and surprisingly healthy for a crew member. Her black hair was shining under the afternoon sun, and Florence caught herself staring at it, wondering if she wasn't bothered by the heat.

"Bitch", The woman then muttered under her breath in perfect French. Florence was taken aback, but she didn't feel like amusing the woman any longer. She craved the cake that they served on one of the riverboats only at lunchtime. So she took one last look at the name of the ship, bold letters at the side of the vessel. It would come to Marseille again, and when it did, someone on board would have to pay.

The man and the woman disappeared into the glimmering Mediterranean, later swallowed by the horizon where the open sky met the breathing sea.

...

"Cartel members in the South are dying under mysterious circumstances."

Vauquelin muttered from behind the newspaper and shifted his weight on the chair.

"You don't say."

He wasn't one to speak to himself or talk when it wasn't necessary, and because of that Florence could be certain that his words were directed at her. Yet she said nothing, only closed her eyes as a nod of agreement. It was hard enough for her to read him, and what even further complicated matters was the fact that knowing his true intentions wouldn't change anything. If he wanted to kill her, she would simply die. She lived not in a state of worry nor in a lack of it, she simply lived, aimless like the wind.

"The heat will end soon", the man rose and placed the paper on a dusty side table. He then walked over to the window and lit a cigar. Although he hadn't spared a glance at her, Florence could feel his gaze. At least that's what she decided to call it. There was something about him that acted as a constant reminder of his innate power, but she couldn't name it. It was there in the air, she inhaled in with every breath but could not smell it.

Maybe there was nothing there after all.