Beyond the Sea

by Paul Lynch

  It steps towards the meat resting in a container of seawater and pecks at it. Then it steps back as though aware by instinct it has met itself. Hector slides the meat towards it, laughs as the bird eats.

  There are always choices, isn’t that so, Porky? Choices and consequences. One thing leads to another. All men understand this.

  Bolivar cannot meet the eyes.

  Hector says, what can a man know about himself? It is a difficult matter. Different for every man. In your case, Porky, you maintain that life is a simple affair. Yet the question of will must always be looked at. How much of the will is the man. How much the man is aware of the will. The path made by the will, whether it is blind or not. In every man this is different. We must think about you, Porky. The will as expressed within you. That time on the beach. Were you aware of what you were doing? The boat you willed out to sea and beyond. Into that storm. Towards my death. You acted without questioning the source of your actions. What was the source? A type of darkness, maybe. An unknown thing inside you. The dark will leading you, Porky, blindly, from one thing to another. The will seeking always more of this and that. You see, Porky, you are not a man but an unthinking thing. An animal, really. A base instinct. An animal in thrall to the instincts. The man you think you are does not in fact exist. That means you, Porky, do not exist. Really, you are nothing. This is simple to understand.

  Bolivar sits shut-eyed, holding the blade against the palm of the hand. He can hear the bird pecking at the meat. Hector’s quiet laughter.

  * * *

  Bolivar wakes from comfortless sleep. He opens his eyes upon a shut sky, the waters voided, he cannot see a thing. It is then he hears Hector moving outward from the cooler. He grips the knife. Hector’s body travelling as though floating in the dark. Then the whispered voice close by.

  Are you asleep, Porky? Do you want to know what happened to her? Your child. Shall I tell you?

  Get away from me.

  * * *

  In the morning, he is skinning a bird when Hector climbs out of the cooler. The gaunt hand feeling its way across the boat.

  Bolivar wheels upon him with the knife.

  Did you have a good sleep, Porky?

  The space between them hot and airless until a ruffle of wind pulls Hector’s hair from his eyes.

  Bolivar watching Hector’s bloodless face.

  Hector watching Bolivar with a fixed blind look.

  Bolivar shouts. You have no eyes. The birds ate your eyes. Why are you pretending to see?

  Hector shrugs and opens his hands.

  He says, blindness is a type of seeing, is it not? Are we not blind when we dream? And yet we see. Sometimes what we see is perfectly clear. The dream reveals what you are afraid to look at. What you are afraid to think. How many people look into the dream for what is real? You never thought to look, Porky. So I am seeing what is real for you, what you cannot allow yourself to see.

  I said get away from me.

  You abandoned your child, Porky. Your only daughter.

  I said leave me alone.

  How old was she again? Three or four years old? What is a child at this age?

  Bolivar’s breathing clots in his mouth. He is afraid to move. Over and over he says to himself, do not listen to the words, his words are lies.

  He moves stiffly backward until he is crouched against the hull. Shutting his eyes to a needling light. Pressing the blade into his hand, tasting the blood.

  Hector says, the daughter standing in the shadow of the father. Tell me, Porky, who is that man? How is he a man, a father? The figure running away. You can see him, can’t you, the shadow in flight. Do you know where she is now? Do you know her tale? The child that never knew your love. I will tell you, Porky. I will tell you what you have sown. When a woman does not know love she abases herself before love. Your daughter became a whore. Yes, she was had by many, many men. She was had by those in the cartel you ran from. They had her like a dog. They swapped her around, one by one, two by two, then they cut her throat and dumped her in the hills. All this is to be expected. You were not there to protect her from this life. It is as they say. Nothing gives to nothing, Porky, don’t you think?

  * * *

  Bolivar sits scratching his face. His beard is wet with tears and blood. The cheekbone swollen by blows from his fist. He shakes his head and tells himself, his words are just lies, lies, he cannot know the truth, how can he know the truth? He pulls at his hair and stares into her face. It is drawn of shadows, fleeting and half-seen, a bloodless underwater flower. He whispers the name of his daughter until the sound of her name becomes strange to him. He asks himself, who were you then? What were you? Why did you? What is it you have done? He squeezes his hands in anguish.

  * * *

  He cowers against the hull, the gaunt shadow growing out of the body. A great shaking in his hands. Then a thought arrests him. His head snaps up and he roars, it is not true! I would have heard! My cousin knows where to find me. No one but he has known.

  He lets loose a wild laugh, climbs up and moves with the knife calling for Hector.

  You are a liar, he says. I know what you are doing. You are trying to trick me. You want this boat for yourself.

  Hector says, your cousin is long dead.

  Then he says, be careful with that knife, I cannot see you coming.

  Hector begins to climb out of the cooler. Bolivar watching him as he feels his way until he reaches the birds. There are three left among the mess of dead birds, two types of gull and a tern. Then Hector with blind hands quickly wrings each neck. He throws them overboard, then turns upon Bolivar.

  It is pointless, Porky, what you are trying to do. You cannot escape. When an act is committed it is written into your life.

  Bolivar puts his fingers into his ears.

  Hector unfolds his hands and seems to stare at them as though each hand were taking measure of some truth.

  Then he shrugs.

  He says, what was your mother’s name again?

  It is then that Bolivar turns and opens his eyes, stares at Hector. He grabs at the knife and begins towards him.

  I am warning you. Do not speak of her.

  Yes, Estelle. That was her name. You have not spoken much about her, your own mother. It is as if you were trying to forget her also. This is a shame, don’t you think? Maybe it is even a crime. The burden a mother must carry. It is true that each birth wounds the mother because the child is born through the heart. The heart is torn open with love. This is a wound that never heals. But here is the question, Porky. What does the son do for the mother in return? In your case, you closed off your heart. She watched as you abandoned her, Porky. You rejected the mother’s love. Yes, it can be said that this is what men do. But you walked out of her life as though it were as simple as closing a door. She asked herself over and over what she did wrong. She began to curse her own womb. She wanted to tear it out, to undo herself of your birth. She never knew what became of you. And when she died, she died without sight of you. Yes, Porky, all this has happened—

  Bolivar slowly bends over a low groan, his hands over his ears. She is not dead, she is not dead, he is lying. The scream building within him is savage and black. It resounds then out of the moving body. The hands reaching out as the body comes upon Hector, the hands grabbing Hector by the hair and the throat, the hands that drag the youth across the deck, then hoist Hector up against the trim, the youth screaming, pleading, his hands without power. The sudden cursed shout that leaves Bolivar’s mouth as Hector is lifted and thrown into the water. The eyes watching as Hector flails blindly, the hands reaching for something to grip but the mind is without bearing and blind in the sea, the youth turning one way and another, there is nothing to hold on to, he lets loose a scream, he shouts to Bolivar, save me, I can’t see—

  Then there is silence. The eyes watching the resting water.

  * * *

  He lies spent and breathless against the hull. His head hanging. His hands shaking in h
is lap. He does not want to think. But the mind screams within the body.

  Why did you do it? They will know for sure what you did. It will be easy to work out. They will ask, where is he? You will not be able to answer. They will say that you killed him and ate him. How can you prove you did not?

  An eye for an eye.

  An eye for an eye for an eye. That is how it is. They will find people to kill you.

  He sees them ranged before him. He is speaking to them, pleading, their eyes searching his face as he talks.

  Look, it was like this. He refused to eat. He starved himself to death. What could I do about it? He had this crazy idea he was next to God. It was the mind gave up first. Then the body followed.

  Look, he drowned in the storm. I tried to save him. It happened so quick. It was that storm that took him. The waves were as big as a two-storey house. There was nothing I could do.

  * * *

  A sound reaching from a dream. Schlik schlik, schlik schlik. Bolivar wakes from broken sleep and wants to wake again. He blinks upon spreading blood light. His own blood heavy and unwilling, his dry tongue tacked to the roof of his mouth. He sits watching the empty cooler rise out of the shadows. The blindness of wind. The silence of light as it spreads its blood within the boat. The knife resting on his thigh. It is then he sees within the light’s unfolding the rows of lines carved into the hull. His breathing stops. His body leans forward.

  What he sees is the hull scored with an infinitude of what was scored before. An endless series of barred lines criss-crossing the bodywork. He lets out a wounded roar, his hand fumbling for the knife. He kneels to the hull, begins to scratch out the lines but there are so many now, endless weeks amounting to years, his mind cannot take sight of it all. The knife upon the hull and it is then that he turns and sees Hector standing over him.

  He cowers backward and screams.

  Hello, Porky.

  * * *

  The heat rests in silence upon the water. Hector sits with a wrinkle of a smile. His hands playing with a dead tern. Blood wets his fingers as it drips onto the deck. His blind-eyed gaze fixed upon Bolivar.

  Hector says, I cannot believe it, Porky. You tried to kill me. This makes you a murderer. And not for the first time either. That time in the hills. What you are still running away from. What you refused to discuss. You were complicit then even if you did not do it.

  Bolivar tries to speak against the bile building in the throat. The blood slow and heavy into the rising hand. He manages to point a finger.

  That is not true.

  You watched that time in the hills, didn’t you? Maybe you did not do it. Maybe you did. Maybe you thought about what it would be like to do it. You knew, didn’t you, who that man was. The man you buried. He worked in your town. You knew him for years. You knew what he was. A man. A father. A husband. All the things you could not be. So you took away from him what you could not have for yourself. Isn’t that so? Isn’t this how it always is? Isn’t this why you fled? You cannot escape what you are, Porky. Which is nothing. That is why all this talk is trivial. Nothing gives to nothing. This is how it is. That is why you should kill yourself.

  * * *

  A rain cloud threatens far-off waters then passes out of sight. He looks and sees a corner of water in the barrel. He dips his cup and takes a small drink and spits it out. The water is nothing but piss. A low laugh echoes from the cooler.

  * * *

  Throughout the night Hector remains quiet. All night Bolivar dreams faces and within the eyes of such faces he sees his own shame. He does not want to wake. When he wakes he can sense Hector waiting.

  Watching with blind eyes.

  I know you are awake.

  Bolivar rubs his eyes with his fists.

  It is like this, Porky. All your life, you have spoken of freedom. It is your favourite subject in Gabriela’s bar. How simple life is. Follow your desires, you say. Follow your loins and your belly. Please tell me if any of this is not true.

  Hector leans forward.

  Bolivar cannot move.

  You do what you please and you call this freedom. You speak this word as though you understand it. The mother of your child. You taught her the meaning of your freedom, didn’t you? The woman cursed by man. The poisoned fruit of the womb. All those other women you told me about. You ensnared them one by one. And poor simple Rosa. You ignored her until there were no women left. Such are the things that make up your life. The next plate of food. The next beer. The next female body to lie beside you. What are you, Porky, but wants and needs? You are just the body talking. The body’s endless, insatiable instinct. You are nothing but an expression of the body. An expression of that instinct. What I mean to say, Porky, is that if you do not exist, there cannot be freedom.

  Hector falls quiet a moment. Again he speaks.

  Even now as you look at me you are thinking about what you must do to survive. But it is not you who is doing the thinking. It is not you who dreams all this. There never was a you. That is the illusion. Only a man who is free of all claims of the body understands the meaning of freedom. Only a man who chooses to die rather than to live, let me tell you, Porky, that man understands freedom. Whereas you, Porky, have never lived. And even if you had sought to truly live, it would never have been possible. So if you want to taste freedom, Porky, let me tell you—

  Hector leans forward and whispers.

  Free yourself from the body.

  Kill yourself.

  * * *

  Bolivar sits a broken figure, his hands shaking on his lap. His face very still watching not the day give way to night but some inward night come upon him. He cannot stop crying. He beats himself about the head, the thighs, beats the hull with his fist. This other person who he sees is himself long ago. He shouts at him but his other self does not listen. He is doing what he wants to do and cannot hear. Bolivar watching helpless before every action.

  Hector has moved closer to him.

  His voice now a whisper.

  All this is simple to understand, Porky. What is living but the will in meeting with the will of others. The simple facts of involvement. The gestures and greetings. The words spoken that lead to understanding. The understandings that lead to duties and debts. Such commerce is one of the laws of life. Such things create affection, bonds, devotion, loyalty to others. The blood trafficking in blood. But such is what you do not give, Porky. And in your not giving you never possessed them. All your life you have been like this. Faithless. Inconstant. False. Always in flight, chasing after your will like a dog. You fled the house of your own flesh and blood. You sought the comfort of women. Who did these women lie with? There was nothing there but a body. And so I can tell you this, Porky. The answer to the meaning of your life. Really, it is simple. It is found in what you have not created. People have forgotten you exist. It did not take them long to forget you. They looked out at the sea and blessed themselves. They shrugged a little. Then they got on with their lives. You see, Porky, you have not touched the heart of another. So there can be no grief. You have passed through life without meaning, Porky. The sea does not know you exist. That is why you should kill yourself.

  * * *

  The knife. The knife going into the hand, hand over fist. The fist turning the point of the knife towards himself. He sits within the stark shadow of the body. Watching the knife, watching the shadow grow within the boat. The shadow more true than the man. This is what he thinks. He brings the knife beneath the ribs. Sits like this a long time. The cold crawling his skin. Watching the shadow’s increase within the dark until it meets the dark’s completeness.

  Then a voice from somewhere inside him speaks.

  Do not listen. He is trying to kill you so he can have the boat.

  He closes his eyes and just sits.

  * * *

  Something slaps the hull beside him. Bolivar quickly opens his eyes. What he sees is a silver bait fish floundering on the deck. He stares at it confused, lifts his head towards the sky
and stares at it. Behind him then a tumult upon the water. He turns to see bait fish leaping out of the sea. Two gulls have come down to squawk and flutter. He knows what this is. A shoal in turmoil tormented by sharks, other big fish. He sees the lithe torsions of dolphins. He grabs at the bait fish as they land on the deck and shouts to Hector.

  Look! It is a miracle!

  Watching Hector’s slim hand upon the cooler as he lifts himself out. The youth feeling his way along the trim. A bait fish leaps into the boat and wriggles by Hector’s feet.

  Hector sighs. You are still here, Porky.

  Yes, but come and look at this.

  What is it?

  Come closer and I will show you. Look. Fish are flying into the boat. For sure, it is some kind of miracle.

  You know I can’t see. I am blind thanks to you.

  I thought you said you could see.

  I can see other things.

  Bolivar watching as Hector moves towards him, the youth pulling the hair out of his face. Bolivar feeling the sudden war summoned by the blood. The war surmounting the old torpor.

  He says, I have been listening to you, Hector. I have decided you are right.

  Hector smiles and folds his hands.

  He says, this is how it should be.

  It is then that Bolivar grabs Hector by the hair and puts the knife firmly between the youth’s ribs. He pulls the knife free and begins to cut at the neck, the youth letting loose a whistle from the torn valve of the throat. Bolivar lets the body drop, bends and continues to cut.

  He shouts, there will be no tricking me this time.

  An agonised roar escapes his mouth when he throws the head overboard. Then he closes his eyes and dispatches the body. A moment only before the sharks are upon it, the waters foaming with blood.

  Bolivar watches and experiences a sudden chill. He leans out over the water and screams for Hector, reaches out his hands, begins to beat at his head.