Ghost Sea: A Novel (Dugger/Nello Series)

by Ferenc Máté

  In the street, the gaslights burnt yellow through the fog, and the drizzle dripped from wires overhead. Horse carts and rickshaws popped up like apparitions, then just as quickly disappeared again. My head still swam from the rum; I sucked in cold air but it did no good.

  I kept along the docks. Smokestacks of steamers jutted from the fog, and the rigging of the last clipper ship, which, hogbacked from weariness, still managed to sail the coast. More than a thousand of them were built on the west coast in fifty years—clippers, schooners, brigantines—but less than a hundred still survived; the rest had been wrecked, burnt, abandoned or sunk, or run on rock, or were simply and forever “lost at sea.”

  The Sunshine, a three-masted schooner, was found bottom-up off Cape Disappointment in 1875—the year she was built. Aida, a four-master, “vanished” out of Shanghai in ‘96. Rosario, a schooner, was crushed by ice in ‘98; Parallel blew up in San Francisco a year later; and D. H. Talbot, whose skipper fell ill, and his sixteen-year-old daughter steered her, broke up on the Chinese coast—only two of the crew survived. Oceans of dead ships. God rest them all.

  I asked after Nello but no one had seen him for a while. Someone heard he’d gone on a Jap fish boat, but fishing was tough now, the fish all gone, didn’t sound to me like a place he’d hang his hat.

  Water Street swarmed with the drunk and nearly dead. Stevedores jostled in the road, hungry immigrants cowered in doorways, Indians from up coast, with heads down, lumbered on; and the dead drunk curled up like curs beside the boardwalk or splayed out devil-may-care where they fell. But some were resurrected when coins spilled on the boards, slipping through the cracks, and they dove and clawed about in the gloom below.

  I found a lodged penny, and from a stall with mounds of sauerkraut bought myself a pickle.

  I turned uphill to ask Mr. Chow. He supplied Chinamen to everyone in town—had a cousin or nephew in every sawmill, cannery, beer parlor, and hotel—no one sneezed without Mr. Chow hearing about it, so if he didn’t know where Nello was, Nello had left the planet.

  I left the wood-blocks of the road and turned down an alley into Chinatown. Planks formed haphazard bridges in the mud, and the air was a stench of fermenting things, smoke, spices, burnt meat, and sweat. Lanterns dangled in the steam of noodle carts whose owners called or whistled, weaving among people lugging nets, pots, children, bamboo cages, or sacks of coal, all searching for a small space in the mud among the vegetable stalls, and butcher stalls, and stalls where fish hung, still alive, cut clear in half, their head on one hook the rest on another. A goat head with dangling tongue hung on a hook and one with lonely eyes sat in a bowl—and I wondered who they got: the captain or the cabin boy. In a wicker cage, puppies whined. A cleaver thudded and a hammer beat a rivet in a pot.

  I swung a door open. At a long table strewn with dishes sat a mob of Chinamen of every age, size, and description, all chop-sticking noodles as fast as they could. Old Mr. Chow, tiny and gaunt at the head of the table, waved me over and the others slid along the bench to make me room. I sat and was handed a bowl of soup with a chicken foot and a seahorse bobbing in it. “Good for cold night,” Mr. Chow said in greeting.

  I slurped down the soup and tore the chicken foot with my teeth. It all tasted just right after the rum.

  “You look tired.”

  “It’s just the fog,” I said.

  “Fog good,” Mr. Chow said. “Indian say fog breath of rain. Rain wash you outside, fog wash you inside.”

  “I could use a good wash inside,” I said.

  Mr. Chow laughed, held his bowl to his lips, shoveled and sucked in some noodles. “Sorry about Missis Hay. She nice lady.”

  Chow was running way ahead of me but I wasn’t surprised; that’s why I was here.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “No worry; you find.”

  “First I have to find Nello.”

  He said something to the old woman beside him, and she to the kid beside her, and so it went down the line.

  “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Chow,” I said. “Nice big family, like happy tree in forest.”

  “You are lucky man, Captain Dugger,” he retorted. “Alone, like bird in sky. Question is”—he smiled coyly—“which mo’ happy?” He laughed and chased his last noodle, “Me old man. Dream many night go home. To village. Big sky. Fish. Old man need quiet. Need peace.”

  “Maybe we’re all old men.”

  He gave a gap-toothed grin. “You be good old man, Captain Dugger.”

  “I’ve always been old man.”

  A plate of sliced-up roast duck came with a bottle of plum brandy, and we chewed a piece—all skin and grease—and washed it down with long slugs.

  “Mr. Chow,” I began politely. “Kwakiutl men escaped from jail.”

  “Nephew take picture. You want see?”

  I wanted see. He spoke to the old woman again.

  “And that night on the yacht?”

  Poking, whispering. The place quieted; I could hear the old lady gum her greens. Someone laughed out nervously and I looked up. It was a fleshy girl beside me clearing the table: pretty, flushed from the stove, sweat on her face and naked arms, smelling of ginger. People started to leave. A young man came in with photographs, bowed to Mr. Chow, and slipped them before me. The first was a group of Indians, mostly men, all ages, all short-legged, broad-shouldered water people who seldom used their legs but had paddled all their lives. Some wore pants, some blankets, one a polka-dot shirt, and all wore caps or bowlers or straw skimmers.

  “Which one?” I asked.

  The young man pulled out a photograph taken closer, all broad-faced, fleshy, thick foreheads, staring in cold defiance, or anger, or bitterness, and an older man as calm as a stone. One—young, bare-headed, big eyed, and hollow-cheeked—could have passed for a European with that cleft chin and slight smile.

  “Which you think?” Mr. Chow asked.

  I pointed at the European.

  Something passed between the boy and Mr. Chow, something private, then Mr. Chow politely laughed and the boy poked his finger at a face I hadn’t noticed, but now that I saw him I couldn’t look away. I held the picture closer to the lightbulb. Straggly hair framed his face; he wasn’t old—the forehead was lined not horizontally from age, but with lines curving downward from the center to the outer corners of his eyes. His eyes were fixed, unyielding and shiny as ball bearings. A thick, graying mustache and haggard beard rimmed the tight-set mouth, around which, from the flare of his nose to where the mustache ended, ran deep furrows—as if from smiles.

  I didn’t remember ever having felt such a strange unease.

  “And the other?” I asked, surprised by the tightness of my voice.

  He pointed at a man who seemed about to die. The huge-hooded eyes were nearly shut, just dark slits, but it was his parchment skin that held my gaze. Between the eyebrows were deep creases that could have been gashed with a claw; and below the jutting cheekbones and the mouth, the dark skin hung in folds and pleats, as if the muscles that held them had surrendered long ago.

  “You sure?”

  The young man seemed offended. “Cousin cook on Mr. Hay yacht. He see Indian men come. See cabin boy with knife. Big fight. Lady hear noise so she come. Men take her. Cousin see. He hide, he see.”

  The kitchen noises ended, the place fell quiet. We sipped the plum brandy without the duck to absorb it. It was hot in there, and when I got up to leave, my head swam. “Could I keep this?” I asked. They both said yes at once. I thanked them for everything and was pushing down the door handle when Mr. Chow called after me.

  “Young Indian, dangerous warrior. But old Indian, he from other side. Have much power; from other side.” And he indicated somewhere over his right shoulder.

  I tried to smile. “You believe those tales, Mr. Chow?”

  “Captain Dugger,” he said, “land is land, sky is sky; other side is other side.”

  A shaft of light fell through the doorway into the fog. Something scurried
out of a barrel and under a plank and when I stepped down, it gave a gurgling squeal. With the door shut, the alley was dark; only the coals of a noodle cart lit the face of the noodle man.

  I was at the top of the alley when I heard steps hurrying after me. I stopped. The steps stopped. I turned into another alley, then another. The steps followed. I pulled out my knife, crouched down between two crates, almost losing my drunken balance, reached out, and, with the heel of my hand, thudded softly on the plank, softer and softer, like fading steps. A small figure came slowly up the planks. It stopped right before me. I lunged against the side of his knee and he staggered but grabbed my wrist as he fell and pulled me with him into the mud. I thrashed, grabbed his arm, and held the knife against his throat. The flesh was soft, and smelled of ginger; I held the arm of the plump girl from Mr. Chow’s.

  “Jeezus,” I burst out angrily. “You fight good for a girl.”

  “Fight good for boy too,” she said. “Chinagirl no get work; Chinaboy do.”

  I pulled her up. We were drenched in mud. “What the hell did you follow me for?”

  “Uncle send message. Mr. Nello in cannery in river.”

  “You had to sneak up to tell me that?”

  “Uncle say to be sure you get home okay.”

  I felt bad; dug around in my pocket counting my change.

  “Come on,” I said. “I’ll buy you a bath.”

  THE LOTUS GARDEN was full of the sound of splashing water and the smell of wet cedar. An old bent woman finished wiping down the shower walls in our room and turned on the tap in the soak tub in the floor. I asked to have our clothes washed and pressed dry. The steam rose.

  The girl took off her coat, went and hung it on a peg, then stood there—an honest face. She undressed. Didn’t hurry, didn’t tease. Such pretty breasts. She unbraided her hair; smiled at my watching, then went to the shower. So young. So pretty. She soaped her hair, scrubbed her head with spread fingers, and the bubbles ran down her shoulders. She soaped herself all over, then rinsed off, turning to one side, then the other and, seeing me undressing very slowly, she smiled; an old smile for her age. She wrung the water from her hair, then, covering herself with her hands, went to the soak tub in the floor, felt the water with her foot, and waded slowly down the steps into the steamy water.

  When I came out of the shower wrapped in a towel, she was sitting deep in the tub, her breasts floating on the surface. Damn life. Damn stupid life—everything at the wrong time. If only this had been yesterday. Or better still, before I even met Katherine Hay. I sat on the bench against the wall. I was so drunk I could barely sit straight.

  “You’re very pretty,” I finally said.

  She blushed. Cupped her hands and poured water on her face to hide it. Then looked up into my eyes. “Uncle say you much in love,” she said softly. “No have to say; I see your face in house.”

  It was my turn to blush.

  “Is she very beautiful?” she asked.

  “No more than you.”

  She leaned back, her face full of confident warmth.

  “Does she love you?”

  Her directness was a shock. “I don’t know,” I said. “Wish I did.”

  “Always same,” she said a bit sadly. “One love much; other not sure.” Then she cheered up. “Uncle say you go save her. When you save her, she will love you.”

  WE SAT ON the bench wrapped in towels, waiting for our clothes to come.

  “Uncle say old Indian have power of other side.”

  “Yes.”

  “Cousin say her husband have much power this side.”

  “So it seems.”

  Slowly she sorted the tangles from her hair. “You not afraid they kill you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Not afraid to die?”

  “No. Too busy being afraid of everything else.”

  She stared at me with motherly concern. Then she moved close, leaned her head on my shoulder. In a few minutes her breathing was even. She slept. It felt comforting having her against me. I closed my eyes. When I awoke it was dawn.

  THE STREETS WERE empty; only a milk wagon came slowly up the hill, the horse snorting steam, the bottles clanging softly. I went to find the horse cart that hauled new cans to the canneries. The tide was so low that mussels crackled on pilings and the air smelled as if everything had died.

  6

  NELLO

  The young men dive (t!e’qwa), carrying heavy stones about one hundred and fifty pounds in weight…. They walk into the water…to a depth of one or two fathoms, to see who can carry them farthest.

  —FRANZ BOAS

  Oi vita, oi vita mia, oi core ‘e chistu core, si’ stat’o primm’ amore; o primo e l’ultimo sarai per me!

  —Canzone Napoletana

  A mile away you could see the sun glitter on the new tins. Old Nagy took the feed bag off his horse, checked the net that held the mound of tins, and told me to get on for the ride to Steveston, on the river. Nagy loved company; would never accept anything for the rides—well, maybe a bottle of rye at Christmas—but you had better know how to listen because he could talk your brain to mush. This time he railed about the price of oats, how horseshoes don’t last, the long wait at the whore-house, and the goddamn Pakies who didn’t net the tins tight so they’d clink and clang and drive you out of your mind.

  I mostly ignored him, but he never noticed because I threw in the occasional “damn right” or “you said it,” then with the clap clap of the horseshoes I drifted off and had a nap. I was startled awake in the stench of rotten fish, to the shriek of gulls.

  The great cedar-shaked cannery leaned darkly over us. Steam engines hissed and a fish boat engine roared as it made a tug-turn on the spot. Anxious voices yelled in every language you can name but over it all rose Nello’s melodious, “Donato, Donato, sarebbe stato meglio se non fosse nato!”

  Nello and I went back a long time; we slithered in the same mud in the war—on opposite sides, but then mud is mud. He was the best sailor I ever shipped with; it was in his blood because his father had been a sailor from Pisa, and he also knew the northern coast, and that was in his blood too because he was born there to a Kwakiutl mother, in a village called Karlekuies. It was at the end of a narrows Cook named Beware Passage.

  Except for the odd run with me, Nello had quit the sea a year ago; no explanation, just threw up his billet on a clipper ship that sailed lumber to New Zealand and took on odd jobs on the waterfront. Now he was filling in for the dock foreman unloading the listing fish scows, organizing the chaos of Hindus, Chinamen, Dutchmen, and Bushmen on the fish-slicked docks. Nagy blew his horn so loud his old horse startled.

  I crossed the vast shed where soldering irons belched acrid clouds and a monstrous machine named the Iron Chink clattered. Chinamen hosed down the floors, and women, with their infants on their backs, stood in water slicing, gutting, and throwing; the same motions in endless repetition from the first light of dawn until the place went dark.

  I saw Nello coming up the ramp through the spraying water. He was a couple of inches shorter than me, but his feisty stance coupled with what he used to call my “condescending stoop” made us, in my mind, similar in height. He had his mother’s skin and straight black hair, but his father’s frail bones, held together by a flesh so hard that his veins only found room by bulging through his skin. His face was gaunt, making his blue eyes even more startling.

  His movements were quick. Aboard the ketch, he would always fidget with blocks and lines, making minuscule adjustments to sheets and halyards until the sails were set to perfection, without a ripple. He was the perfect first mate except for his mouth. He would say whatever crossed his mind, consequences or reaction be damned. And he would say it to anyone’s face with his eyes riveted, softening the blow only with an occasional, “Don’t you think so too?” even when the unsaid answer was obviously no. And having embarrassed or offended, he was never apologetic. “It’s the Tuscan in me,” he’d say with a shrug, as if that s
omehow justified all.

  He came leaning slightly forward, a worn, narrow-rimmed black hat pushed back off his forehead, in a dark seaman’s sweater with the sleeves ending halfway down the forearms to keep away from fishhooks and winches. His strong arms and big hands made him look heavier than he was. He was all of forty but his movements made him younger.

  He seemed glad to see me and was about to extend his hand for a shake, but something on my face must have made him uneasy, for he suddenly diverted his hand to his shirt pocket and yanked out the stub of a cigar. He lit it, took a puff, and blew out the smoke with an agitated force as if trying to blow away a bothersome insect. “Good to see you, Cappy,” he said.

  “You too,” I said.

  “Something eating you, am I right?” he said, studying my eyes.

  “You’re always right,” I said.

  “When you’re this congenial, I’m in trouble.”

  “No trouble, I promise. Just came to offer you a cruise. A vacation from flying fish guts.”

  “I don’t need a vacation; I need money.”

  “There’s that too. Lots of it.”

  “Like the last time. You still owe me half my pay.”

  “This time it’s different. Here’s what I owe you,” and I handed him some bills. “And when you step on board I’ll give you half of your share in advance.”

  “You rob a bank?”

  “Just got me a good trip, that’s all.”

  He snubbed out his cigar. That was a good sign; he was calming down.

  “How long a trip?” he asked guardedly.

  “Can’t tell for sure. Maybe a week, maybe more.”

  “How much more?”

  “A month.”

  “Forget it!” he blurted as if someone had slapped his back. “A month’s too long.”