A Matter of Time

by David Manuel

  “May I speak to Mrs. Bennett, please?”

  “Who?”

  “Amy.”

  “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Eustace, it’s Colin,” he said, fighting not to lose patience. “I need to talk to my wife.”

  “One moment, please.”

  He wondered how long her father had worked with poor Eustace, to get him to answer the phone that way. He was nothing if not persistent, and eventually he got his own way.

  But not this time, Colin thought, gripping the phone. Not this time.

  As he waited for Amy to come to the phone, he noted that the signal was getting weaker again, so he walked further north, in the direction of the signal tower. When it was as strong as it was going to get, he found himself on York Street, standing in the shadows.

  From where he stood, he could see the steps leading up to St. Peter’s, the oldest church on the island. And then he noticed something really odd: Someone in a white parka and white pants was going up them with a duffel bag, even though the church was locked. In the old days, churches could be left open at night. But with the insertion of drugs into the island’s fragile social fabric, anything of value had to be kept under lock and key.

  Watching from the deep shadow where he waited, Colin could see the man stop at the church’s main door, look carefully in all directions, and start working on the door’s lock. In a moment, the old mechanism yielded, and he slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

  Colin was mystified. What could he possibly think he was going to put in that duffel? After a few acts of vandalism, the church had been careful to keep its chalices, patens, and anything else of value, in the old safe in the back.

  “Hello?” said a voice into the phone in his hand. It wasn’t Amy; it was her father.

  “I want to speak to my wife,” Colin informed him coldly.

  “Oh, lover boy! Good of you to call!” said Baxter, adopting his amused, bantering tone. “I was wondering when we’d hear from you, once you’d received that little FedEx we sent you.”

  “I want to talk to Amy! Now.”

  “Well, now, that’s a real shame,” replied Baxter with oleaginous concern, “because, you see, she’s made it most emphatically clear that she does not want to talk to you, under any circumstances.”

  “Let her tell me that!”

  “Oh, it’s true, I’m afraid. She asked me to get rid of you if you called, and to tell you not to bother writing. Any letter from you will go into the trash unopened—as mine used to.”

  “I want to talk to my wife!” shouted Colin, losing it.

  “Sorry, old sport; that’s just not going to happen.”

  “You miserable—” Colin salted the air with invective.

  But Baxter was enjoying the moment too much to be goaded out of it. “You saw that the hearing is set for next Tuesday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you planning to attend?”

  “No! This whole thing is bogus! All I need to do is talk to Amy and—”

  “We won’t go into that again. As far as the hearing goes, it matters little whether you come or not. The judge is an old friend.”

  “You think you’ve won, don’t you,” Colin muttered.

  “Oh, I don’t think. I know! The hearing will take place in Thomasville, where my daughter was born and raised. And was married—to an irresponsible, unstable foreign indigent. I doubt you will even be granted visitation rights.”

  Colin was speechless.

  Not Baxter, who had saved his best shot for last. “Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve got my daughter back now, and my grandson, too. But I’m not quite finished with you. I’m going to hurt you where you live, just the way you did me.” He paused. “I’m going to get your boat.”

  Before Colin could ask how, the line went dead. In a daze he made his way back to the White Horse, scarcely noticing that the man who had gone into St. Peter’s was waiting outside the White Horse now, and his duffel, instead of being fuller, now appeared empty. As Colin approached, he saw it was the older crew member from the Laventura, the one who’d gone outside to use his cell phone.

  Just then a black car—larger than most on Bermuda—pulled into the square and stopped alongside the man with the duffel. He got in, and the car drove swiftly away.

  Colin shrugged and went into the White Horse.

  “Over here, mate!” Mike called to him from the kitchen end of the bar, holding up the phone receiver. “It’s Anson Phelps. Says he’s been trying to reach you on your cell.”

  Mike looked around at the raised eyebrows and appreciative expressions. “Yeah,” he told the crowd at the White Horse, “Anson Phelps! The man himself!”

  Colin took the receiver from him. “Anson? Deal me in.”

  19 a cask of amontillado

  The black limousine, a little larger than the size most Bermudians were allowed, crossed the tiny drawbridge and soon pulled into a long, circular drive, stopping at the front door. The dark shutters of the large house were all closed, though Bermudians seldom shuttered their homes for less than a full gale.

  The front door opened. A gentleman emerged, wearing a navy blazer, an old school tie, dark red Bermuda shorts, and dark knee socks—acceptable formal attire on the island. Greeting the white-clad crewman warmly, he informed the driver that his services would no longer be required. The car left, and the man of the house ushered the crewman inside.

  “How was your crossing?” he asked, showing him into the living room.

  “Uneventful.”

  “The best kind.”

  “Yes.”

  “Care for a drink?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “What can I offer you?”

  “Anything but Heinekens,” the crewman replied. “That’s all they drank, all the way across. And what do they order when we get ashore?” He shook his head in disgust.

  The other man smiled. “Well then, how about a Gray Goose martini?”

  The crewman sighed. “Perfect.”

  In a few minutes the man of the house returned with two stemmed glasses and a silver shaker, coated with frost. Oiling the rim of each glass with a twist of lemon peel, he carefully filled the glasses to the rim. “Shaken, not stirred,” he said, placing one in front of his guest.

  The crewman took a sip. “That,” he said smiling, “is the best thing I’ve put in my mouth since Marseilles. My cousin calls himself a chef, but that is hardly the title I would bestow on him.” He paused and sniffed the air. “It would seem, however, that we might have a real chef on the premises.”

  The man of the house smiled. “There is no one here but me.”

  The crewman raised his nose, now studying the fragrances emanating from the kitchen. “Garlic… shallots… sautéed mushrooms?” He looked at the man of the house and raised an eyebrow.

  The latter nodded. “My friends tell me I have a culinary gift. Tonight in celebration of your completing this phase of your mission, I have prepared escargots and bouillabaisse, with a ’95 Montrachat.”

  The crewman took another sip. “I look forward to it.”

  “And afterwards, an English dessert—Stilton cheese with red currant jelly, and the ideal complement, a dry Lustau Amontillado.”

  The crewman took another sip. “I look forward to it.” He studied the clear liquid in his glass. “You know, I must commend you—and your partner. Your concept is brilliant. Possibly even more brilliant than the one you and I worked out long ago.”

  “Times have changed,” said the man of the house.

  “Yes, to make that kind of money today in heroin, you have to use a forklift!”

  The man of the house now eyed the crewman’s small duffle, mildly surprised. “You have everything—in there?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not still on the boat?”

  The sailor shook his head. “It’s ashore.”

  “Where?”

  “In a safe place.”

  The slightest frow
n passed across the other’s brow. “Why didn’t you bring it?”

  “I thought we needed to settle something first.”

  “What’s to settle?” The tone was still pleasant, but the eyes were no longer warm.

  The crewman set his glass down and fixed the other with his gaze. “My compensation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A tenth of what I brought is not appropriate.”

  “Two. Million. Dollars. Is not appropriate?”

  The crewman, not in the least intimidated, explained. “I went to Bangkok to get the formulae and laboratory plans. I went to Sri Lanka to get the two thousand starter pills. I went to Zurich to get the twenty million. And then, at the Cap, I killed a man to take his place on the yacht that brought me here.”

  The man of the house said nothing.

  “So far, I have done all the heavy lifting. And I will be doing all of Phase Two’s heavy lifting. I chose my yacht with great care. Laventura is scheduled to call at Nassau, Port au Prince, Montego Bay, Charlotte Amalie, Port of Spain—practically every place on your list. There could not be a more perfect cover.”

  The man of the house nodded. “A masterstroke, I must admit.” He paused, reflecting on it. “What do you think would be appropriate compensation?”

  “A third.”

  “A third?”

  “Of projected net revenue.”

  Despite his sangfroid, the man of the house recoiled. He needed a moment before he could answer. “You want, in other words, to be a partner.”

  The crewman nodded. “A full partner.”

  “I see,” said the man of the house, tapping his fingers together. Then he smiled. “Well, you have certainly made a convincing case. I will have to consult my partner—our partner—in the morning, but I don’t think there will be a problem. Not when I explain all you have accomplished—and what you are so perfectly situated to accomplish this winter.”

  With a smile, he stuck out his hand, and with a smile the crewman accepted it and shook it.

  “Welcome to our firm,” said the man of the house with abrupt warmth. “Now we have even more to celebrate.”

  He showed the crewman into the dining room, where two places were set, went into the kitchen and soon returned with two small trays of snails simmering in garlic butter, with toasted slices of sourdough baguette on the side. He poured out two glasses of wine and sat down.

  The crewman ate with gusto. “You did these well,” he observed.

  “I do everything well.”

  Little additional conversation passed between them.

  The man of the house arose to clear the trays and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned with a large tureen of stew, the crewman’s eyes were wide, his mouth open. He was gagging, saliva sliding out of the corner of his mouth. With great difficulty, he managed to get to his feet, steadying himself with both hands on the table. “What—have you done?”

  “It must have been the snails,” replied the other man with mock concern. “I suspect one may have been just a bit off.”

  The crewman collapsed to the floor.

  When he came to his senses, he was on his back in a bathtub, in eight inches of salt water, his legs bound together and his arms secured to his side by duct tape. Two full, six-gallon water cooler bottles, filled with more salt water, sat on his chest and abdomen, making it impossible for him to move.

  The man of the house stood at the other end of the tub, his hand on the faucet. “Ah, I see you have rejoined us. You really need to tell me where you have sequestered our—property.”

  The man in the tub muttered an oath in French and clamped his mouth shut.

  The other man turned on the water, till the one in the tub had to arch his neck up to breathe. The man outside the tub came to the opposite end and pushed his head under, holding it there. A minute passed, then an explosion of bubbles indicated the man in the tub had exhaled the breath he had been holding.

  The man outside the tub raised his head, until he gasped and blinked and sputtered. And shouted.

  “This is an old house, Bermuda limestone. Make all the noise you want; no one will hear you.”

  The man in the tub stopped yelling.

  “Where is our property?”

  No answer.

  Down went the head again. This time it was not brought up after the air burst. It was brought up only when the head’s eyes bugged, and the body went into spasm.

  The man outside the tub forced a stiff plastic tube down the other’s throat and blew into it. Several times. Which revived him.

  “Indicate by nodding that you will tell me what I want to know, and I will remove the tube and allow you to speak. I cannot release you until I’ve recovered our property, but then I will. I’m afraid it’s out of the question for you to become our partner, but we can certainly proceed with our former arrangement, as if none of this—unpleasantness—ever happened.”

  The man in the tub remained silent, following his tormentor with eyes filled with hatred.

  “You are thinking that if you tell me, I will simply kill you,” said the man outside the tub. “Believe me, all of this is most distasteful. You may have killed in your line of work. I never have.” He shuddered. “And I cannot bear the thought of going through life as—a murderer. So, I will keep my word.”

  Still no answer.

  The man of the house sighed. “Time for another dip.”

  Putting a thumb over the end of the tube, he plunged the head under the surface, holding it there as long as before, then using the tube to revive him.

  “You have amazing strength of will! You would die before giving me what I want.” He smiled. “But your body’s survival instinct is just as strong. Each time I blow air into you, you recover. So we will go on with this exercise all night, if necessary.”

  It was not necessary. After seven more dunkings, the man in the tub nodded, and the man outside the tub removed the tube.

  When the former had told the latter what he wanted to know, the man outside the tub pushed his head under and held it there, till the air exploded, the eyes bugged, the body spasmed, and a string of tiny bubbles exited the corner of his mouth.

  20 give… and forgive

  Three hours later Brother Bartholomew was awake again. He got up and went to the chair. In the margin of the legal pad on the clipboard, he made a note of the time: 4:30. Two hours before it would start getting light out.

  He said the Our Father, and listened inwardly. God (if it was God) came right to the point.

  There is still unforgiveness in your heart.

  I am not aware of any, wrote Bartholomew. I’ve forgiven everyone who ever did anything to me. Mentally put it all on the altar during Mass. Also went to those I could, and wrote the others.

  And you’ve forgotten what they did?

  I certainly don’t dwell on it.

  Have you forgotten?

  Pretty much.

  But not the way you want me to forget the sins for which you’ve sincerely repented.

  I see what you mean. He thought a moment, then added:

  There are times when I imagine what will happen to them after they die and go through that tunnel towards the light—you. I imagine you reviewing the movie of their life with them. Each time they need to reflect on the hurt they did, intentionally or unintentionally, you’ll hit the pause button. Pause, pause, pause—I imagine them growing so revulsed at what they did—who they are—they start vomiting uncontrollably….

  He paused, and wrote:

  That doesn’t sound much like forgiveness, does it.

  No.

  What should I do?

  Write down everything grievous that has ever been done to you.

  He did. When he finally came to the end, it was getting light out.

  Of all those who’d wronged him, the worst was the master sergeant in charge of the division’s corpsmen in Viet Nam. The man had absolute power, and it had corrupted him absolutely.

  Bartholo
mew—Lance Corporal Doane, back then—had not been afraid of him. So the sergeant had singled him out and broken him, reducing him to tears—and had almost convinced him that he’d done it all for Doane’s soul’s sake.

  God spoke to his heart.

  I want you to forgive them all. By name.

  He did.

  I want you to pray for each one by name, seeing each face, every day.

  Bartholomew felt the resistance rising up in him. I can’t, Father.

  Can’t? Or won’t?

  Don’t want to. Why?

  Why do you think?

  Because—my prayers might make their day for that moment a little brighter. So—I still haven’t forgiven them.

  Not if you don’t want their temporal suffering alleviated.

  All right, Father, I surrender. I’ll pray for them, individually, every day.

  Even the master sergeant?

  Even him.

  Good.

  Bartholomew yawned, got up and stretched, and looked in the little fridge to see if there was enough milk for cereal. There was. Then he remembered he was going to Mass at the Cathedral that morning, and decided to wait until afterward.

  He was about to get dressed and go outside to greet the day, when God spoke again to his heart.

  Come back to the chair, my son. We are not finished.

  Sorry, Father, I thought we were.

  I want you to go back through your life and write down every incident where you did grievous harm to someone else, and why.

  I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to remember.

  If the memory has faded, ask me to refresh it for you.

  Bartholomew started with Novice Nicholas, then Brother Ambrose, and his mother, and Laurel, and then incidents from his schooldays and childhood. As promised, God brought to mind details long forgotten.

  When at last he could recall no more, he told God:

  I detest the person who has emerged from these acts. I am sick at my soul to see who I truly am in the depths of my being, save for your grace.

  Good. I want you to remember who you are, in yourunredeemed nature—if necessary, refer to these pages—any time you are tempted to think more highly of yourself than you ought, or to hold someone else in unforgiveness.