Gun Island

by Amitav Ghosh

  Rafi helped me find my way to the reception area where I learnt that Cinta’s injuries – a twisted ankle and a fracture in her tibial shaft – had been attended to and she was now under sedation, sleeping peacefully in a private room (arranged by the direttore of the hospital, who happened to be a friend of hers).

  There was no need, said the nurse, for me to remain in the hospital any longer. I wouldn’t be able to see Cinta anyway; it would be best if I came back the next day.

  With that settled my first thought now was of finding a phone.

  ‘Is there any way we can call Lubna?’ I said to Rafi.

  He nodded. ‘There’s a public phone in the waiting area. We can try her from there.’

  ‘Won’t we need a phonecard?’

  ‘I have one,’ said Rafi. ‘A nurse lent it to me.’

  He led me to the phone and dialled a number. ‘Here,’ he said passing me the handset. ‘It’s ringing.’

  Lubna answered after a couple of rings and I wasted no time in getting to the point. ‘Lubna? Shunun – listen, are you and your colleagues still planning to set out to meet that refugee boat?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lubna. ‘We’ve hired a rescue ship – it’s at Marghera, not far from here. Palash and I will be going there tomorrow to join the others. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I’d like to come with you.’

  ‘Really?’ She sounded more than a little surprised. ‘Keno bolun to? May I ask why?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I said. ‘Let me just say that I think I may know someone who’s on that boat. He’s a Bengali – Rafi’s friend actually.’

  ‘Oh? Will Rafi want to come too?’

  I glanced at Rafi, who was standing right next to me, listening intently.

  ‘Rafi is in no condition to travel,’ I said. ‘But I have some other friends who might want to come. Would that be okay?’

  ‘Shomoshya nai,’ said Lubna. ‘It’s no problem, so long as you can all contribute to the expenses. The boat’s quite big and there’s plenty of space. How many of you will there be?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I have to speak to them first. I’ll get back to you in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Sure. Let me know.’

  I rang off to find Rafi glowering at me.

  ‘Why can’t I come with you?’

  ‘Because you’re injured and in hospital, Rafi – just look at yourself! You’re in no state to travel.’

  He began to argue but I cut him short. ‘Rafi! Bas! Enough! There’s no point in dragging this out. You can’t come and that’s that.’

  * * *

  The circumstances being what they were I decided to permit myself the extravagance of a water taxi. Within half an hour I was back in Cinta’s apartment, seated in front of my computer. Once online, everything was surprisingly easy: Gisa was eager to join the expedition and as for Piya, nothing could have held her back after she had heard Rafi’s story and learnt that Tipu was on the Blue Boat.

  That Gisa’s presence would be a great asset was soon evident. It was she who took charge of the practical details, arranging for sleeping bags and provisions, and booking a minibus to take us from the airport to Marghera to meet the ship that Lubna and her fellow activists had hired, the Lucania. She even managed to find a flight that would get her and her crew to Venice at about the same time as Piya, the next day. So it was arranged that Lubna, Palash and I would meet them at the airport, at midday, and that we would all go on to Marghera together.

  Winds

  I woke next morning to find that the weather had taken an odd turn. While the acqua alta had receded, the sky had turned dark. Banks of cloud, of many shades of colour, ranging from silvery to almost black, were scudding and whirling across the heavens, swept along by fierce and changeable gusts of wind. Every now and again the apartment’s windows would rattle and draughts would whistle through, but only to die down a minute or two later, amidst a chorus of indignant creaks and groans from the ageing timbers.

  I ate a quick breakfast, packed a bag, and set off at once for the Ospedale Civile, thinking that I would drop in on Cinta before proceeding to the airport.

  By the time I left the building it was around 9 a.m. In the surrounding streets migrants were out in force, taking down the passerelle they had set up for the aqua alta and sweeping away the silt that had been deposited by the flood.

  Sudden bursts of wind made it hard to keep from slipping on the wet paving stones; I had to stop every few minutes to huddle against a shopfront until the gusts died down. During one of these stops I heard a man call out, in Bangla – ‘Kono din dekhi naai – never seen anything like this…’ – and a moment later a flowerpot came crashing down from a balcony above, shattering into pieces on the flagstones, no more than a yard from where we were standing.

  Under ordinary circumstances it would have taken me fifteen to twenty minutes to walk from Cinta’s building to the Ospedale Civile. But today, after half an hour, I was only two-thirds of the way there. I was crossing a small campo when I heard a pounding noise around me. A moment later something cold struck me on my back, and then on my shoulders and head. I clapped a hand to my neck and found myself clutching a hailstone.

  Running to the side of the square, I took shelter under the awning of a café. There were some other people there and we watched in astonishment as the hailstones came hammering down, shattering windows and cracking shopfronts. Then someone shouted, ‘Guarda! Attenti!’, and I looked up to find that the awning above had filled up with hail and was sagging dangerously downwards. I managed to move away just as the awning tore open, sending down an avalanche of hailstones.

  And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the hailstorm passed and the sun appeared. Soon steam began to rise from the melting hail; it was through this shimmering, mirage-like fog that I finally made my way to the hospital.

  * * *

  A nurse showed me to Cinta’s room and I stepped in to find her sitting in a wheelchair, with her left leg and ankle in plaster.

  I had assumed that Cinta would be alone, but no sooner had we exchanged baci than she pointed over my shoulder. ‘Look, Dino, your friend is here too.’

  I turned around to see Rafi sitting in a chair, smiling sheepishly.

  ‘This morning,’ said Cinta, ‘the nurse told me that a ragazzo Bengalese had come by to ask after me. So I told her to send him here and we have been talking ever since. Rafi’s Italian is better than you might think.’

  She paused to run her hands through her flowing white hair.

  ‘I gather, Dino, that you’ve been very busy. Rafi says that you are about to go off on a little sailing expedition.’

  ‘I would hardly call it that.’

  ‘I’m disappointed, Dino – why didn’t you think of including Rafi? Or me?’

  ‘That’s obvious, Cinta,’ I cried. ‘You’re in hospital, with your leg in a cast. How could you possibly come? And why would you even want to?’

  Cinta wagged a finger at me. ‘I think you know very well why Rafi would want to go, Dino. After all, his benamato is on that refugee boat. And as for me, I have a different reason.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘I have received a sign.’

  ‘What sign? From where?’

  Cinta made one of her dramatic gestures. ‘It is from the story of the Gun Merchant – you will no doubt be interested to know that Rafi and I have solved the last rebus in the legend.’

  ‘Which rebus?’

  ‘The one near the end, after the Merchant leaves Venice and is taken captive by pirates. You remember, no, that they are taking him to be sold as a slave, on an island? But on the way there is a miracolo and he is set free by the creatures of the sky and sea?’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘And do you remember the name of the place the slavers were taking him?’

  ‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘It was “The Island of Chains”.’

  ‘Say that in Bangla.’

  ‘Sh
ikol-dwip.’

  ‘There you are! That’s the solution – shikol.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said in puzzlement. ‘How is that the solution?’

  ‘Because,’ said Cinta, ‘the Arabic name for Sicily is “Siqillia” – the resemblance to shikol is not incidental I think. The word must have metamorphosed as the legend was passed down from mouth to mouth. At any rate, I am sure that Sicily was where the Merchant was going when the miracolo happened. And as you know, Sicily is exactly where that refugee boat is headed.’

  I stared at her incredulously. ‘Let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘You want to come with us because you think that a scene from that story will repeat itself?’

  Cinta laughed.

  ‘Well, maybe something will happen and maybe not. Whatever it is, I am not going to miss it, you can be sure of that! Especially now that I know you’re going.’

  ‘But Cinta!’ I protested. ‘It’s not I who’s hired the boat. It’s not in my hands.’

  ‘I am well aware of that, caro. With Rafi’s help I have already spoken to one Signora Lubna Alam. She said she would be glad to have us join your expedition.’

  Cinta shot me one of her mischievous smiles. ‘Of course, the fact that I made a sizeable donation may have had something to do with it.’

  ‘Well, Cinta,’ I said resignedly, ‘it seems that you’ve thought of everything.’

  She nodded. ‘So I have, caro. It is all arranged. Rafi and I are both coming with you!’

  I glared at Rafi: ‘Was this all your doing?’

  ‘Not really.’ He shook his head but I could tell that he was quite pleased with himself – and I have to admit that I was not unimpressed by the dexterity with which he had outmanoeuvred me. But that didn’t stop me from making one last half-hearted attempt to dissuade Cinta.

  ‘Look outside, Cinta – have you seen what the weather is like today? I was caught in a hailstorm on the way here. This isn’t a day to be out of doors in a wheelchair. And how are we going to get you to the airport anyway?’

  Cinta patted my hand again. ‘Non ti preoccupi, caro,’ she said. ‘You worry too much. You shouldn’t – it’s all been taken care of. My friend, the hospital’s direttore, has reserved a special, wheelchair-enabled water taxi to take me to the airport. And the pulmino that Gisa has hired to take us to Marghera also has all the right equipment too. Sta’ tranquillo – we will travel in great comfort, all of us, but especially me.’

  * * *

  Because of the strange weather, and the whipping winds that were tearing across the lagoon, the journey from the hospital to the airport took much longer than expected. The driver of our water taxi told us that he was under orders to be very cautious; already that morning there had been several accidents, on the water and on the roads.

  Luckily no flights had been cancelled and by the time we arrived at the airport some of the others – Lubna, Palash and Piya – had already settled into the minibus. But Gisa and her four-man crew were still busy, loading their equipment into the luggage hold, along with piles of sleeping bags, cartons of bottled water and provisions of all sorts.

  It was evident at a glance that Gisa had taken charge. I realized now that she was, in her own way, a formidable figure, with her streaked blonde hair, her thick, pink glasses and her quick tongue. Quickly and efficiently she saw to it that Cinta’s wheelchair was properly strapped in and that Rafi had some sleeping bags piled on the seat beside him on which to rest his plastered arm.

  I found myself growing nervous as I waited to get on the bus: I hadn’t seen Piya in a very long time and I had no idea what to expect. But when at last I climbed in, it was to find that she had kept the seat beside her for me. My heart leapt – but my hopes were quickly dampened when she greeted me with a perfunctory ‘Hi!’

  ‘Hi!’

  I noticed now that she was wearing the same expression of anxiety that I had seen on her face at the hospital in Lusibari. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘Almost half an hour,’ she said. ‘I hope we’re not going to miss the boat. Are we?’

  ‘No way,’ I said. ‘It’s just one o’clock now and the ship doesn’t leave till three. I gather that the drive from here to Marghera takes only twenty minutes, on the autostrada.’

  But as if on cue, the driver announced, a moment later, that the high winds of that morning had caused an accident on the autostrada so we would be taking an alternative route. There was no cause for worry, he said; we would still be in Marghera with time to spare – the drive wouldn’t take more than an hour.

  Within minutes of leaving the airport we were hit by whirling squalls. At times the rain was so heavy that our pace slowed to a crawl. From our windows we could barely see the edge of the road. Even when the rain abated there was a strange menace in the sky, with eddies of inky cloud standing out against fields of deep grey.

  Then abruptly the rain stopped altogether while at the same time the cloud cover thickened.

  We were on a winding country road now with lush, green fields on either side. Piya was sitting by the window, looking outside. Suddenly she grabbed my arm and cried out: ‘Look! Look at the sky over there!’

  Glancing up I caught sight of a patch of dark cloud, heaving and shuddering, almost as though it were trying to give birth. Then all at once it split apart, like a bursting eggshell, and a thin, grey extrusion emerged from it and began to descend towards the earth, twisting like a whiplash as it grew.

  ‘Oh my God!’ cried Piya. ‘It’s a tornado!’

  The fear in her voice startled me, for Piya had never struck me as someone who would be quick to take fright. But then she did something even more unexpected: taking hold of my lapels she buried her face in my chest. Almost unconsciously I put an arm around her and hugged her closer.

  Every eye in the minibus was now gazing out of the window, looking leftwards, where the twisting, serpentine form was spinning and dancing above a green cornfield. For a minute its mouth hung above the ground, almost touching down but only to pull back at the last minute. This happened three or four times until suddenly it bit into the ground.

  Instantly a fountain of matter shot up above the field, accompanied by a thundering sound, like that of a speeding train: branches, fence posts, stalks, grass, dirt and soil began to spin in the air, rising into the sky as the tornado swept towards us.

  I was dimly aware that the minibus had come to a standstill and that there were many voices screaming around me; I was conscious also that Piya’s nails were digging into my back and her teeth were biting the fabric of my jacket. I too was terrified now; I couldn’t bear to look out any more so I buried my face in Piya’s neck. The only thought in my mind was: ‘If we’re going to die, let it be quick.’

  The noise outside rose to a deafening pitch and the bus began to shake and quiver, windows rattling. Then suddenly there was an explosive, tearing noise and a moment later the ground shook, as if under the impact of some immense weight.

  Looking up I saw that the tornado had narrowly missed us, crossing the road twenty yards ahead, and knocking over a tree on its way.

  Then the noise faded away to be replaced by an eerie, seething silence. We could sense that the tornado had lost contact with the earth and shot back into the sky. But the air was now so filled with dust and leaves and soil that it was as though night had descended. It wasn’t until the driver switched on the headlights that we saw that the road ahead of us was blocked by the fallen tree: its branches were heaving and shaking as if in the last throes of death.

  And then, by the light of the headlamps, I caught sight of something moving on the far side of the tree trunk: a dimly visible figure had materialized out of the dust cloud like some unearthly apparition. A moment later the figure leapt over the trunk and began to walk towards us.

  We saw now that it was a man, dressed in a flowing yellow robe; wrapped around his head was something that looked like an ochre-coloured turban; his face was brown, with a trimmed, greying beard. />
  There was no hesitation in his movements as he approached the driver’s window and tapped his knuckles on the glass; he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. It was the driver who jumped in shock, fumbling as he lowered the window.

  The man asked no questions but simply pointed down the road. ‘C’è una altra strada,’ he said. ‘There’s another road – it’ll be on your right after two kilometres. If you stay on it it’ll get you to Marghera.’

  Without another word the stranger turned on his heel and walked away.

  ‘Grazie!’ the driver called out after him. ‘Grazie mille!’ There was no answer.

  On the seat beside mine I heard Rafi murmuring under his breath, ‘It’s him – Bonduki Sadagar. It’s him.’

  My nerves were now so fraught that I couldn’t keep my voice down. ‘Nonsense, Rafi!’ I snapped. ‘He was just a migrant in a jellaba, a North African.’

  We glared at each other and then suddenly the driver chimed in: ‘Ci sono tanti marocchini qui – there are many Moroccans around here; they work on the farms.’

  A wave of relief swept over me.

  ‘You see,’ I said to Rafi. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

  But almost at once Cinta, who had been watching us quietly, reached over from her wheelchair and patted Rafi’s hand. ‘Ti credo, Rafi,’ she said. ‘I believe you. I think someone is looking after us.’

  The Lucania

  With her bright green hull and white superstructure, the Lucania was a sturdy workhorse of a ship. Built in Germany in the 1970s, the vessel had been in the coastguard fleet for thirty years before being sold to a Gibraltar-based charter company; in recent years she had twice been hired to serve as a rescue boat for refugees.

  At Marghera, surrounded by giant cruise ships, the Lucania seemed tiny. But this was deceptive for the ageing coastguarder was by no means small: from stem to stern she measured over 250 feet and her hull and superstructure could accommodate several hundred people. Since our numbers were much smaller, there was plenty of space to go around.