The Canal House

by Mark Lee

  THE CREW ON THE Seria owned a video collection of karate movies and Indian musicals, but the VCR had jammed. As the only woman on the ship, I was the next option for entertainment. Pak, the first mate, and his friends spent their free time staring at me and chattering to each other in Indonesian. Occasionally, Captain Vanderhouten translated their comments so that I learned that they were discussing which T-shirt best showed off my breasts. Vanderhouten was an alcoholic who kept asking me to look at his hernia and the fungus growing beneath his toenails. Collins and Briggs were convinced that I wanted to sleep with them. They were each drinking ten to twelve cans of lager a day until Richard restricted them to three. Now they consumed their quota with great ceremony during dinner, then secretly drank more when it was dark.

  Billy had assumed more power ever since we’d left Darwin Harbor. The day that we sailed, I discovered that someone had stolen a case of chloramphenicol and some infant dysentery medicine. I mentioned this to Richard, and then Billy showed up at my cabin.

  “It’s probably somebody in the crew,” he said. “Although it could be Vanderhouten. I’ve never trusted that bastard.”

  “You don’t have to start a war over this, Billy. Just search the ship. You’ll probably find the medicine hidden somewhere.”

  Billy smiled at me like I was a little girl who still believed in Father Christmas. I realized that he wanted a confrontation and would make it as threatening as possible.

  “I don’t want anyone beaten up,” I said. “This is an aid organization and we’re supposed to be helping people.”

  “I’m not going to hurt a fly,” Billy said. “All I need is a prop.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He rummaged through my medical bag and pulled out a piece of plastic tubing. “Don’t worry, Julia. This’ll do.”

  Billy called the entire crew up on deck and lectured them about the theft, all the while playing with the plastic tube, snapping it in the air and whipping it around his fist. Billy never said what the tube would be used for or if it would even be used at all, but there was something frightening about his performance.

  “I want the drugs back by tomorrow,” Billy told them, then had his remarks translated into Indonesian.

  The stolen medicine was stacked neatly outside my cabin door the next morning. After I had sorted through the boxes I realized that the thief had held back 10 percent, accurately gauging the amount of loss I would allow without complaint.

  “Good job,” Richard said to me when he saw the boxes. “All you need is a clear statement about consequences. Of course I couldn’t do it and you couldn’t either. In this particular area, Billy has credibility.”

  In London, Richard and I had managed to establish a professional relationship. He’d drop by the office once a week and we’d communicate through e-mail and faxes. When we flew to Australia, Richard sat two rows in front of me and tapped away on his laptop. He never mentioned Westgate Castle or the fact that we had been lovers. He was polite, but not overly personal, and I began to relax around him.

  But the moment we’d left Darwin, everything changed. Richard started to touch my shoulder or arm when we were talking. I would step back slightly when this happened and yet it continued. He wanted us to eat every meal together so we could discuss our supplies and the messages we received from the United Nations. Gradually he stopped talking about cooking pots and asked more personal questions. Did I sleep well last night? Did I like his shirt? Should he run for Parliament when he returned to Britain? In the past, when I had separated from men, I had taken another job and never seen them again. Now Richard was standing next to me and acting as if nothing had changed.

  OUR SECOND NIGHT in the harbor, I asked Richard if I could borrow his phone to call Daniel. “Sure. Give it a try,” he said. “But for all we know they could still be in Australia. Maybe they never got on the plane.”

  I dialed Daniel’s phone three times and kept getting a recording. There was no electrical power in East Timor and I decided that he was keeping his phone switched off to spare the battery. Early the next morning I called Laura, just to hear a friendly voice.

  “I’ve become East Timor Central here in Islington,” she said. “I’m buying all the newspapers, listening to the radio, and watching television. There was a nice photo of Richard and you in the Telegraph. He’s pointing at a map of Timor and everyone’s staring at his finger. You seem a bit tired, but Richard looks good. His hair always has that little wave.”

  “Nicky took the picture.”

  “Yes. I saw his byline. Daniel sent out three articles from Dili. It does seem rather”—she paused for a second, trying not to sound worried—“rather difficult there.”

  “The whole city is burning down.”

  “Where’s Daniel?”

  “I don’t know. Probably walking around Dili.”

  “Where’s Richard?”

  “On the ship with me.”

  “God. And I thought I was the one who had complex relationships.”

  “I’m here to do my job, Laura.” I tried to sound confident, as if the future was already planned. “I’ll hand out the food, Daniel will cover the story, and then we’ll go back to Italy.”

  The Indonesian soldiers set fire to their barracks, then marched down the boulevard to the wharf. Using the binoculars, I watched them board the ferries and saw the deck crews cast off the lines. The soldiers waved their rifles and stomped their boots on the top decks of the ferries while their friends honked the horns of the stolen trucks. Then both ferries turned slowly in the water and headed north. The soldiers were taking their loot and going back to Indonesia.

  Soon our radio started squawking with military commands and two navy ships pulled into the wharf. The Australians were running the operation, but they were under the command of the United Nations. Although the Timorese were starving, the military action had top priority and we were told that the Seria would be the last ship to dock. I wanted to get on the radio and yell at the Australians, but Richard ignored them and called UN headquarters in New York. He chatted with someone in the secretary-general’s office and got transferred to someone higher up in the organization. They discussed apartment rentals in Manhattan and ski holidays in Canada before Richard nudged the conversation around to East Timor.

  “You know, we have a fair amount of supplies on our ship,” he said. “Lots of journalists are in Dili and they’re looking for a positive spin on the story. It would make the UN look good if we could reach the wharf fairly soon.”

  Messages ricocheted back and forth between New York and Canberra, and suddenly we were allowed to jump the queue. Richard grinned like a football player who had just scored the winning goal. For a second, it looked like he was going to embrace me, but something in my expression kept him back. Instead, he placed his hands on my shoulders.

  “Did you hear that? They’re going to let us dock.”

  “That’s wonderful, Richard. You handled it perfectly.”

  “Take a look around you.” He motioned to the ship and the crew and the supplies stacked on the deck. “All of this happened because the two of us were working together.”

  “It’s not over yet. We’ve got the food. Now we’ve got to distribute it.”

  The main wharf was on the right side of the bay, a concrete ledge built out on pilings. Although he looked hungover, Vanderhouten maneuvered the ship to the wharf with confidence and flair. Water surged from under the stern as the propellers went into reverse and the ship shuddered like a living thing. It looked as if we were about to smash into the concrete, but Vanderhouten spun the wheel around at the last moment and we drifted up against the wharf in perfect position. There were three buildings on the wharf that looked like warehouses. I saw a burned car and the rotting carcass of a dead pig and remembered Laura once asking me how I was able to deal with the sort of things I witnessed during relief work. I told her that it wasn’t Julia looking at the famine victims or the sick children; it was Dr. Cadell.
Usually that protected me, but sometimes it was hard to play the role.

  There was a short drop from the ship to the wharf. The crew jumped down and tied up the boat while Pak shouted directions. I told Vanderhouten to get ready to unload the supplies and left the ship. Not knowing what do, I walked toward the warehouses, then Billy caught up with me. He was wearing a flack jacket and carrying an assault rifle.

  “Be careful, Julia. We don’t know what’s going on.”

  “That’s right, Billy. So don’t run around pointing that rifle at people.”

  We went down a concrete ramp to a tarmac area where there were stacks of shipping containers, all of them torn open and looted. The wharf was surrounded by a fence topped with barbed wire, but the entrance gate was wide open. I stepped around an abandoned refrigerator and looked down the street. Australian soldiers were on patrol, moving toward the Governor’s Office, but there were a few civilians, too. From a distance, I could see only the color of their clothes—a bright green shirt or a red shawl—but as they came closer I saw the faces of frightened women and children and crippled old men. Somehow they knew our ship was carrying food and water and this knowledge passed between them like a magnetic force, pulling them forward.

  I HURRIED BACK to the ship and told the crew to place four cargo containers on the wharf. Using rope, I marked off the evaluation and distribution areas, and within minutes, the first people arrived. I greeted them in Tetum and tried to see if anyone was seriously ill. The first group was strong enough to walk to the harbor, but most of them were suffering from malnutrition and dehydration. I took their names, marked their arms with a red felt pen and Richard distributed packets of supplies: a cooking pot, a spoon, three water bottles, a sack of cornmeal and a sack of rice, a bottle of cooking oil, and a length of blue plastic sheeting. Using some phrases from a Portuguese travel book, Richard told everyone he was muito prazer, glad to meet them. The Timorese were cautious and polite with me, but everyone smiled at Richard. I was evaluating them and he was giving out food.

  The first group left the wharf area and spread the word throughout Dili; within hours, thousands of people were heading toward us. We needed extra help and I wandered through the crowd, hiring a young woman who had once worked for the Red Cross, another who was a Jehovah’s Witness, and a schoolteacher who knew the island languages. Some young men introduced themselves as freedom fighters and suggested they be in charge. I looked at the people standing around them and I sensed their fear. Não necessário, I said and kept moving.

  The Seria’s crew used a power winch to lift the plastic-wrapped pallets of supplies out of the hold and place them on the wharf. Collins and Briggs guarded the food while Billy slashed open the pallets. It was very hot now, but people kept coming. Hundreds of them passed through the broken gates and went up the ramp to the wharf. There was no fighting or pushing; they were all too exhausted. The children were hungry and some of them couldn’t walk. If I had been looking down on the crowd, I would have felt overwhelmed by the situation. Instead, I concentrated on whoever was standing directly in front of me. I had ten seconds to decide if he or she was strong enough to get food or if that person needed immediate medical attention. The real division in the world wasn’t race or culture or language, but food. You were either hungry or you were fed. Hunger was the acid that could dissolve all those moral qualities we felt were basic to mankind. Hunger destroyed beauty, pride, and cleverness; it made philosophy and ethics seem like luxuries.

  Billy spoke loudly to the Timorese as if the increased volume would help them understand his English. That morning he had his sleeves rolled up to show his biceps. Richard stood next to him with his expensive sunglasses and a Hard Rock Cafe baseball cap. I wondered what the people on the wharf thought of us. Perhaps we seemed as strange as a group of space aliens that had suddenly landed. The Timorese were starving, but most of them acted with a quiet formality that suggested a gentler culture. They never said, “I’m hungry,” in Tetum but instead, “Excuse me for being hungry,” as if the war and famine were somehow their fault.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw Daniel and Nicky coming up the ramp to the wharf. My body relaxed for a moment and I breathed deeply. I wanted to run over and embrace Daniel, but I knew that was inappropriate. It was easier to do my job if I didn’t give in to emotion. Daniel nodded as if we’d met at a garden party several years ago, but then we shook hands and that was a mistake. Neither one of us wanted to let go.

  “Here you are.” Daniel looked tired and on edge, not as calm as when I had first met him at Kosana. Nicky stood behind him, anxious, forcing a smile.

  “Here we all are,” I answered.

  Nicky raised his camera. “There’s a bottleneck at the airport and no other organization is bringing in food. Looks like you’re the only game in town.”

  “Daniel! Nicky! Good to see you!” Richard said, striding across the wharf. “How long have you been in Dili?”

  “A day and a night,” Daniel said.

  “I really have to thank you, Nicky. You’re an incredible photographer.”

  “Sometimes I get lucky.”

  “Remember that photograph you took in Australia? The one where I’m standing in Julia’s cabin and studying the map? People have been calling me from all over. The damn thing’s appeared in at least forty newspapers.”

  Nicky didn’t answer. He switched cameras and began to take pictures of the people receiving their food. Richard fell in behind him, listing the different papers that had published the photograph.

  Daniel let go of my hand. “The militia have burned about half the city. There’s no government, police, running water, or electricity. General Bates is going slow on deployment. He’s cautious about everything, although this area seems fairly safe in the daytime. The militia are still active in the villages.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “A hotel near the government building. No electricity or water, but we have a room. I’ll come back for you around sunset.”

  I heard angry voices. An old woman was quarreling with Billy. “No! Only one bag of rice!” he shouted. “We follow rules around here!”

  “Be careful,” I told Daniel. “And come back whenever you can.”

  I left him and went over to the food line. As the argument got louder, one part of my mind remained quiet and separate, remembering the Canal House. Daniel and I were alone together. It was dark outside. Lying on the red couch, I placed my head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat.

  THE CROWD GOT A little smaller, but it never disappeared. People began to arrive from the outlying parts of the city. An afternoon breeze came off the ocean, but the smell of ashes remained in the air. Now hundreds of people were camped on the beach or in the courtyard of the Igreja Motael across the street. People began cooking the food we had given them or made shelters with the blue plastic sheeting. I walked over to the church and watched women loan bowls to one another, then barter for spices and salt.

  When the first television crew appeared on the wharf, Richard pretended to ignore them as he passed out food. The cameraman and the reporter with the microphone were blond and sunburned. Germans, I thought, but they turned out to be Dutch journalists. With the refugees shuffling forward in the background, Richard stopped working and gave his first interview. He had learned years ago how to deal with a camera; there was nothing dramatic about his voice and posture. He was your television friend, relaxed and sympathetic, looking directly at the lens.

  He must have given over twenty interviews that afternoon. Reporters and photographers lined up next to the refugees while Billy told them, “You’re next, then you’re after him.” The television crews all seemed to take the same shots: the city and the ship, Richard talking, a family receiving their food and cooking it in the churchyard across the street. The cameramen had already walked through Dili and photographed death and destruction. Hand-to-Hand’s activity was a positive ending to a negative story.

  Think of the good, I said
to myself. I knew that the publicity would help Hand-to-Hand as well as the other aid organizations coming here. Richard was the perfect spokesman, modest but confident, and I could tell that the reporters liked him. “This has nothing to do with me,” he kept saying. “It’s a gift from the people of Britain to the people of East Timor.”

  Think of the good. I had, after all, accepted the contradictions of famine relief many years ago. People donated money for tax reasons or to get their name in the paper; aid workers were there to play hero or victim; and the aid itself was often questionable. Sometimes the food was used for political reasons and it destroyed the people you were trying to save.

  I knew all this, had experienced it directly, but watching Richard with the television cameras made me angry. Had this always been the goal for him, even when we had first met in Cambridge? Was Hand-to-Hand just an elaborate way for him to help his political career? As I watched, Billy raised a piece of cardboard behind a French cameraman, cutting down the glare and shielding Richard’s face from the sunlight.

  Think of the good. I spoke to my helpers, making sure that they understood my instructions, then packed my shoulder bag with medicine and headed for the church across the street. As I left, a Timorese nun approached me. She wore a brown cotton skirt and blouse and a white head scarf. Her body was small and delicate, but her face was severe.

  She spoke to me in Portuguese, then switched to English with an Australian accent. “I’m Sister Xavier. Do you work with the United Nations?”

  “No. We’re a private organization. Most of the UN staff are out at the airport.”

  “I just walked here from Liquica, on the coast road. In the last few days, the militia forced everyone out of their houses. A boat was going to take us to West Timor, but it never arrived. Now maybe four hundred people are on the wharf. The children are dying from sickness and lack of water. Someone must help them as soon as possible.”