Lifeboat

by Zacharey Jane

  We stayed about an hour, although I had the feeling we would have been welcome to stay longer.

  The librarian walked me to the street.

  ‘I’ll be fine from here,’ I said, when it looked like he intended to walk me all the way home.

  ‘You can’t get home alone,’ he protested.

  ‘Yes I can – it’s quite safe.’

  He could not argue with that.

  ‘Then at least let me find you a taxi,’ he said. ‘You have a lot to carry.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, laughing, but not wanting to hurt his feelings. ‘You’ve done so much already, and my house is just up the hill. Anyway, your aunt expects you to stay for dinner and dinner’s ready.’

  He looked back towards the house, regretfully.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure you’ll be alright?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Alright then. Best of luck with everything then. Let me know what happens, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. Thanks for the book … and the flowers.’

  ‘If it’s not inconvenient, I would enjoy meeting your castaways.’

  I liked the idea. ‘I could bring them to the library. I’m sure that would be allowed.’

  ‘If you come at the end of the day we can take them out for a drink maybe?’

  ‘That would be nice,’ I said, and held out my hand. ‘Goodnight, and thanks again.’

  He took my hand and held it in his own, leaning towards me.

  ‘Good night. I hope to see you soon.’

  He let go of my hand, smiling as I turned and walked away. I had thought for a moment that he was going to kiss me. I was relieved when he didn’t. Was he just being kind and polite and wanted no more than to help? Was it vain of me to assume he had any other intentions? I wished I were going home to my old roommate, who would certainly know. Perhaps I would talk to the secretary again.

  I looked down at the beautiful flowers I carried and inhaled their perfume. The night was comfortably cool, my walking brisk enough to keep me warm. I enjoyed the journey home, listening to the sounds of supper time emanating from the houses, nodding my greetings to the people sharing drinks on their verandahs as I stepped in and out of their light.

  Tomorrow I would show her the book and maybe that would unlock her mind. But if it failed, I would ring the doctor and enlist his help. At last I was doing something.

  THE DOCTOR

  There were no white walls or bars or locks. She found pictures on the walls and comfortable chairs, gardens and books. Her room overlooked a field, dotted with black-faced sheep, coated or overcoated as the seasons dictated. Chickens clucked about the garden, scratching at peonies with no regard for the beauty of the blooms; patients were encouraged to collect the eggs. Patients were also encouraged to paint, dance and sing, take strenuous walks across the fields and help with the weeding. No one would guess there was a war going on.

  In the first months she either thrashed or sank, finding herself out of her depth in life. When she thrashed they prescribed blue pills, when she sank they prescribed pink pills. They wanted her to talk, so she screamed; they wanted her to be quiet, so she stopped making any noise at all. But neither silence nor screaming helped dull the pain in her bones, in her blood, in her chest where her heart used to be.

  She wondered if they realised her heart had stopped beating long ago, that she was no longer alive in the same way as them. She bared her chest, demanding that they listen to the silence. At first they humoured her, going through the motions of listening. They made her listen too, but she knew that the sound she heard through their stethoscope was a fantasy – it was not her heart. After a while they stopped placating her with the charade and gave her a blue pill. She lay still, willing her mind to go the way of her heart.

  She preferred the silence. She would curl up around herself as if to contain the hurt. But it always grew too big, and so the screaming started.

  A new doctor arrived, fresh from the fields of France. He had been patching and stitching broken bodies with little time to nurse their minds. He specialised in war wounds.

  She arrived at her session expecting nothing – it was a pink pill day. He fed her tea and chocolate cake that he had baked himself, or so he said, and talked to her about his travels. She found herself looking forward to her next session, like anticipating afternoon tea with an old friend. She would go, if only to snub the nurses who tsk-tsked about unconventional methods and wasted rations.

  This time he showed her watercolours of an island and something in the blue of the sky reminded her of Africa. She imagined a new world that she could inhabit and felt her heart beat again.

  Many years later, as she struggled to keep his chin above the sucking sands of old wounds, she thought of the doctor. They needed a new world of their own where the pain of the past could not hunt them. The doctor would show him that it could be done.

  DAY TEN

  I went straight to the compound; it was just eight o’clock and the front office was not open yet. I rang the night bell, clutching my briefcase in one hand, their flowers in the other, trying not to hope too much. A night watchman opened up for me, but left me to find my own way to the canteen, where the few inmates were at breakfast.

  My couple sat in a far corner, eating white bread with jam and coffee. They stood when they saw me, the woman stepping forward with an embrace.

  ‘What a lovely surprise,’ she said, as he pulled another chair to the table. ‘Have you come for breakfast?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, taking the seat he offered. ‘I have something for you.’

  I handed each their posy.

  ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, holding the flowers to her nose. ‘They’re beautiful. I love the scent – what are these called?’

  ‘Gardenias,’ I said, pleased with her response. ‘And yours is rosemary – it’s a herb,’ I explained.

  He too put the bouquet to his nose and inhaled.

  ‘Yes, indeed, this smell is familiar,’ he said. ‘Thank you, it is a lovely gift. I wonder if the cook here has ever heard of it?’

  I was too anxious to show her the book to give more than a perfunctory laugh. The woman started to rise.

  ‘We must give them some water,’ she said. I put my hand on her arm to stop her leaving.

  ‘One moment – there’s another thing.’ She sat back down and waited quietly while I pulled my briefcase onto my lap and took out the book. I laid it on the table between them and sat back, slowly doing up the clasps on my case as I watched her face. Seeing me watch her so expectantly the woman took the book.

  ‘Do you recognise it?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. I bent over to put the briefcase on the floor, hoping to disguise my disappointment. She pushed the book over to the man, who picked it up and turned the pages. He stopped and read the biography, then passed it back to the woman without a word, simply pointing to the lines of type.

  ‘I see,’ she said as she read. She turned a few more pages, to find the beginning of the story, and read some more. We waited quietly. At the second page she stopped and closed it. She said in a small, soft voice: ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember; I don’t recognise it.’

  The cheery mood induced by the flowers had dissipated like a crowd from a fiesta, who leave only discarded objects and damaged grass.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. She exchanged a look with the man.

  ‘So, this may be my father?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I replied. ‘But you don’t recognise it …’

  ‘And maybe it doesn’t matter that she doesn’t recognise it,’ he said, speaking for the first time as he took the book from her hands. She gave it up gratefully, as if it were a burden to her.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Why would a book suddenly return her memory, when a mirror doesn’t?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, sitting up straight. ‘Or the sight of our friend here. We were found in the same lifeboat, so we must have come from the sam
e boat originally and we must know each other. In what capacity I do not know. But there is a connection and I feel it.’

  Even as I acknowledged the logic of her argument, I thought of her dream where he was trying to kill her. Did it tell of a more sinister reason for his presence in the lifeboat? She had awoken to find him on board with her, but she did not know how he came to be there. However, I did not vocalise my doubts. ‘You don’t think it is something that has grown since you have been here?’ I asked instead.

  ‘No, I just don’t think I recognised it, or was prepared to recognise it, at first.’

  They both drank from their coffee cups, smiling at each other. She reached out and put her hand over his. The book was forgotten. I slipped it back into the briefcase.

  How could she forget her father’s words? Words that had seemed so important to her in her dream. Or had she simply made it all up?

  I needed to know whether dreams could reveal reality. ‘I have another idea,’ I said. They both looked at me.

  ‘We never doubted you would have,’ said she, and put down her cup in order to give me her full attention.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve found a psychiatrist, someone who may be able to help us, you. With your permission I’d like to ask him to examine you and treat you, if he thinks he can.’

  They looked at each other a moment, then he answered: ‘Of course you have our permission; please do whatever you think you need to. When?’

  ‘As soon as possible,’ I replied. I looked at my watch. It was after nine o’clock.

  ‘I’d better get to work,’ I said, rising quickly, realising I was going to be late again.

  The woman rose and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘We’ll stay here,’ she said, ‘until we hear from you.’ She gave him a stern look. ‘He’ll stay here, I promise.’ He nodded back.

  I hurried to the office, hoping no one had noticed my absence. My boss’s office was empty.

  I was filling out the telephone logbook when she came up behind me.

  ‘Anything I need to know about?’ she asked, peering over my shoulder.

  I started, not having heard her approach. I moved aside so she could read my entry.

  ‘Do I need approval?’ I asked, with the nervousness she usually induced in me.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said and smiled quite warmly. ‘I think we can trust you.’

  I smiled back.

  ‘A few entries I see? You’re not working yourself too hard over these two are you?’ she asked.

  I was surprised by her question and her concern.

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Good. Don’t. All types wash up here and not all as lost as they seem. We can help, but we can’t perform miracles.’

  I nodded, but she frowned at me.

  ‘Don’t step over the line. Don’t get personally involved. I’ve seen you out with them, and although your generosity is commendable, you should not be making any personal sacrifices. These two will have people of their own to do that for them; they don’t need you. You are a clever girl, but you’re young, easy to take advantage of. We don’t know who they are. Make some friends of your own.’

  It was a long speech for her. I stared at my feet.

  ‘And if you get stuck, talk to me,’ she indicated with a jerk of her head to her office door. ‘I’m here to help.’

  Lost for a reply, I nodded. There was a brief and uncomfortable pause as she stared at me.

  ‘How long have they been here?’ she asked. ‘Two weeks, is it?’

  ‘Ten days,’ I replied, looking up.

  ‘Ridiculous. I just don’t believe they remember nothing. Not even their names?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Good grief. What do you call them? Mister and Madam X?’

  ‘Sir and madam, ma’am.’

  ‘What a problem,’ she said to herself. ‘Well, I really don’t see why it should be this department’s problem. The deportation papers are ready so if there’s no progress by Monday I’ll hand them over to the police. You need to get on with something else.’

  ‘But what will the police do?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know – send them back where they came from, I guess.’

  She smiled unconcernedly and left. Despite all the languages I spoke, I was lost for words to argue with her. I had to make something happen before Monday.

  The psychiatrist’s number rang out twice. The operator offered to keep trying for me; I thanked her, put the receiver down and returned to my desk.

  I don’t remember laying my head down upon my desk. I don’t remember falling asleep.

  My body felt heavy, the noise of the typewriters drumming like rain on a roof, pressing me down.

  I heard the telephone ring and tried to move my bones to answer it, remembering somewhere in my sleep-soaked brain that I was expecting a call and had to wake up.

  ‘Wake up. Wake up,’ a voice insisted, a hand on my shoulder shaking me. I sat up blinking, thinking I hadn’t been asleep at all.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked one of the typists. ‘You’re needed down at security,’ she said. I blinked again. ‘It sounds urgent – they need you now.’

  I fumbled my sleeve back to check my watch. I had been asleep for an hour.

  ‘They rang the message through so it must be important – you better get going.’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ I said, running a hand over my hair. I rose unsteadily and left.

  The security office was in another building on the waterfront, next door to customs. I walked quickly, wondering what the emergency could be. The impounded freighter was still tied up outside customs and a small crowd of sailors had gathered near the gangway. A new infringement perhaps; or maybe they were letting them go and needed me to advise them of the conditions of their release.

  I found the chief of security waiting in the foyer, with the captain of the freighter, two police officers and a man I recognised as one of the sailors I’d interviewed the week before. When he saw me, the chief looked angry, but he simply nodded.

  ‘Right; we’ll walk,’ he said and started back the way I had just come. I fell in with them but said nothing. The atmosphere was grim. The policemen both carried batons and walked in step a pace behind the chief and the freighter captain, as if they were on parade. I walked behind them with the sailor. He gave me a smile of recognition.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked quietly, in his language.

  ‘We are going to make an arrest,’ he replied.

  I said no more, until we passed the freighter.

  ‘Not one of your men?’ I whispered.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said, his eyes shining with excitement, ‘this is a big criminal, a wanted man.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘A pirate.’

  ‘A pirate? Who?’

  ‘I do not know his name, but I saw him last night and recognised him. I am assistant purser there,’ he jerked his head back towards the freighter we’d just passed. ‘Last stop we received a notice with the description of this most-wanted man. Then, we were attacked by him on our way here. I saw him at the far side of their boat as we fought with them. He was carrying something. Then I saw him jump. I thought he would have drowned, but then, you know what?’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘I saw him last night, at a bar, just standing there, no worries, just like that.

  ‘So, I tell the purser, who tells the captain, who tells this man and here we are.’

  I remained silent, impressed by the gravity of the situation. I looked at the batons the policemen carried and hoped they would be sufficient. I wondered why they were not armed with guns.

  We turned in to the compound where my castaways were kept. If this man was so dangerous that he attacked commercial freighters, why was he being kept here? The chief had a word with the officer at the front desk, who gave him directions, then we set off down the hallway.

  My familiarity with the building told me we were headed to the common room.

&n
bsp; At the door to the common room, the chief motioned for the two police officers to enter first; we followed.

  The policemen walked up to a table, but my view was obscured by the security chief. They said something, then I heard a voice I knew demand what they wanted. It was her, my castaway; she used English.

  ‘One moment,’ replied the chief, holding up his hand. He turned to the sailor and me, gesturing for us to step forward. I looked upon a familiar scene: my castaways, playing cards, my flowers in tumblers between them on the table. When she saw me she smiled and tried to stand, but one of the policemen put a hand on her shoulder and forced her back down in her seat. The second policeman stood beside the man, looking to the chief for instructions.

  ‘Is this the man you saw?’ asked the chief of the sailor. There was a long pause. I realised that they were all looking at me. The sailor touched me lightly on the arm.

  ‘Miss, what did he say, please?’ he asked.

  I told him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is the man I saw last night and on the pirate ship that attacked our boat.’ He spoke as if announcing an important event.

  As I translated his words I felt like I was taking one of the batons and delivering the blows myself. The woman looked at me.

  ‘What?’ was all she said, before the policeman shook her roughly and ordered her to be quiet. The man had been sitting, legs outstretched, as if relaxing in the sun, but at this he attempted to move to her defence.

  ‘Sit!’ roared the policeman, standing over him. He held up his baton, ready to strike.

  ‘No,’ I cried, stepping forward. ‘Don’t. She just wants to know what he said.’ I gave a translation and added: ‘Please don’t resist, please sit still; I am so sorry.’

  The man looked away as if I were a stranger. She asked me: ‘What does he mean?’

  ‘They think you are pirates, that your friend is a pirate, and they have come to arrest him.’

  I wondered why he did not protest. I wanted him to refute their accusations, to explain to them their mistake. I turned to the sailor, not wanting to believe what he said.

  ‘Are you sure? Are you sure this is the man you saw?’ He looked at me blankly, and shrugged, turning to his captain.