Etienne tossed and turned on a bunk as cold and hard as stone. The fact that it was actually made out of granite was, maybe, one of the reasons.* But knowing why it was hopeless to try and find a comfortable position didn't make him feel any better.
Even if the air was dry—already an improvement compared to other prisons he had spent time in—it was also quite fresh. Surely the ideal temperature to let wine age the best way possible, but Etienne was not the kind of vintage to support such conservation conditions. Especially when only wearing a long cotton shirt.
And of course, the man in the next cell was talking relentlessly, only giving respite to Etienne's ears once in a while to spit on the ground or breathe in deeply before going on another tirade. The man was now whining about Spanish naval tariffs that were, in his humble opinion, an unacceptable anchor—if he could be permitted to use such opportune imagery—to fair trade in a competitive and ruthless business.
Falling back to sleep was clearly out of the question. Etienne rolled over one last time, growling out of principle—to show the Universe he had received the message but didn't agree anyway—got up and started pacing barefoot in the sandy dust, hoping to recover some heat and feeling in his limbs.
And because he didn't have anything better to do, he engaged with his neighbor. "So, you're a sailor too?"
A shocked silence followed, but didn't last long. "A sailor? You bet! A captain even! But, not anymore, of course... The bastards! They took my Black Witch!"
Etienne gave a grunt of understanding. For a captain to be deprived of his ship by the authorities was rare, and could mean only one thing: the old man would soon be hanging for piracy—a fate Etienne might very well share. The prospect of dancing the hempen jig only raised mild concerns, but he hated not to know the reason of his demise.
"You know why I'm here?"
"Meaning you don't? Ah! Typical!" The old man gave a rasping laugh from the dark. "Lucky for you, I asked around."
Etienne maintained an impatient silence.
"They said you killed a man. And that someone ratted you out. And that you've been cocky! Word of advice, my friend, if you want to end another man's life, don't make threats in public!"
Things were starting to make more sense. Etienne gripped the bars of his cell and squeezed until it hurt. He should have killed the drunkard when he had the chance and locked the chatty innkeeper—and his fat-ass waitress—in their cellar. O'Ma and his stupid kindness be damned. The short-round-bearded-idiotic-wise-man had better come rescue him quickly, or he would be sure to return from the grave and haunt him for the rest of his miserable life. And not as merrily as Tiago!
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* Another reason was that inmate comfort was way down at the bottom of the priority list for interior designers of prisons, after imprisonment efficiency, austerity and gloominess.
Last update on June 18th, 2019