THIRTEEN
Aboard the MV Atlas
HIS NAME WAS Arjen. He was tall, at least a foot taller than Mariama, and as skinny as a fig sapling, with big knotty hands and a prominent Adam’s apple that moved up and down when he laughed. Which he did often.
And a thin, bony Scandinavian face that lit up whenever he saw her. Green-blue eyes that glinted with amusement as he told tall tales of his years aboard freighters like the Atlas. Stories of sea monsters, ancient as dinosaurs, rising from the calm surface of the horse latitudes at dawn. Of a wooden house floating a hundred miles from the mouth of the Amazon River, a family of monkeys clinging to its roof. Of a flying saucer hovering over Hong Kong harbor, illuminating thousands of upturned faces on the boats below before ascending and disappearing at unimaginable speed.
Laughing when Mariama mocked him. Saying, in his thick and joyful accent, “Yes, you doubt me. But can you prove I am lying?”
Arjen, the Atlas’s first officer, knocking on Mariama’s cabin door when his shift was over. Sometimes this was at 4:00 A.M., but Mariama was always waiting for him.
Sweet Arjen. Doomed, she thought, like all those others who spent their lives on ships like the Atlas.
The coal mine’s canaries.
* * *
WHEN HER HOSTS in Fuerteventura told her about the next stage of her journey, Mariama sighed and shrugged.
“The slow boat,” she said.
But she wasn’t surprised. With no passport, she could not fly. When you couldn’t fly, and governments knew who you were, the world became a huge place once again. A huge place where you had to move slowly, quietly, to avoid notice.
For enough money, though, you could always find a freighter that would take you aboard. No passport necessary, and entry to any of a hundred port cities. It was hardly even a risk. No one would be paying attention.
Mariama’s hosts chose the MV Atlas. They knew the captain, knew that he and the crew would look the other way. They’d done it many times before.
But it could just as easily have been another ship. The port of Las Palmas, where Mariama embarked, was overrun with freighters. At least half would cross the Panama Canal, the next step on Mariama’s slow journey.
And then? As the ship made its transit across the Atlantic, and she laughed with Arjen, and shared her bed with him, and talked with the other passengers aboard the Atlas, Mariama allowed herself to dream.
To dream of cold, and the safety cold could bring.
* * *
“VALPARAISO,” ARJEN SAID to her one night, close to dawn. He stretched in her little bed, years of experience somehow allowing him to lie comfortably without crowding her. Too much.
She wasn’t sure she’d heard of it.
“In Chile. A beautiful city on the Pacific Ocean. All hills. Staircases and outdoor elevators and these little trains that take you up and down.”
He grinned in the dim light that came through the porthole of her cabin. “And the curanto! The best seafood stew you will ever eat.”
“Where is it?” she asked.
“I told you. In Chile.”
“No. I mean the latitude.”
He turned his head to look at her across the pillow. “Thirty-three degrees south, more or less.”
“Not far enough.”
Not cold enough.
Arjen stayed silent for a few moments. Mariama was still, feeling the motion of the boat across the Atlantic’s long swells as a pull on her bones. The first night or two, the unceasing movement had bothered her, but now she only noticed it in quiet moments like this.
Then he propped himself up on his elbow. “Every day,” he said, “you walk the decks, even going places you should not. Some of the crew believe you are a terrorist, but I don’t think so.”
“Thank you,” Mariama said.
“Me, I just think you are strange.”
She smiled. “Thank you very much.”
But now his expression was serious. “When you walk, Mariama,” he said, “what are you afraid of?”
She felt her chin lift. “I am afraid of nothing.”
He didn’t smile. “All right. Then what are you searching for?”
For a long time she just looked into his eyes. Then, deciding, she reached out and took his rough, callused hand in both of hers.
“Listen to me,” she said.
* * *
WHEN SHE WAS done, he was silent for a long time. Then he said, “I have seen birds, rats, spiders, snakes on board. But never one of these—”
“We call them thieves.”
“No. Nor smelled them.”
Mariama sighed. “Not yet.”
“But I will?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe not on this ship, but others, certainly. Airplanes, cars. Any place they can hide.”
“This is happening already?” he asked. “Now?”
She said, “Oh, yes.” Then paused. “I am standing still, and they are not.”
“But you know of a way to stop them?”
She was silent.
He thought for a while. Finally he said, “Valparaiso. I know why you asked where it is.”
She waited.
“You wondered if you would be safe there, because it is cold. Those . . . thieves could not live there.”
Mariama shook her head. “No. Not there. It would need to be farther south.”
“Magallanes?” he said. “Tierra del Fuego?”
She did not reply.
Again he thought. Then he said, “Would you do this? Know what you know, and run away?”
Again Mariama was silent.
Gatun Locks, Panama
SHE SMELLED IT soon after she stepped off the ship. Drew in a single breath and felt her heart flip inside her chest.
Arjen was there, walking her past the Customs officials who met every ship, but who also looked the other way if provided with the proper inducement. The Atlas was in dock for two days, maybe three, and his plan was to enjoy all the delights Panama City offered for every minute he was free, starting immediately. He’d asked Mariama to come along, but hadn’t seemed either surprised or disappointed when she’d smiled and shaken her head.
Now he was looking at the expression on her face. “What?”
She breathed in again, then said, “Come with me.”
They walked past the visitors’ center, the big concrete-and-glass building that overlooked the locks, the carts and trucks selling candy and Coca-Cola and batteries for your camera. Beyond lay a row of ramshackle stone and wood buildings that, like thousands of others throughout the Canal Zone, had belonged to the Americans before they handed over control of the canal to the Panamanians in 1999.
Mariama told Arjen to stay where he was, then walked up to one building, another, a third. She rattled doorknobs, looked inside when the doors were unlocked, stood still and breathed in.
At the sixth building she tried, a one-story stone structure little larger than a shed, she saw what she knew she’d find. Closing the door again, she gestured for Arjen to join her.
“Stay beside me,” she said as he came up.
She swung the door open. Inside were jugs of cleaning fluid, bottles of bleach, mops, brooms. The bitter odor she’d detected was stronger, making Arjen wrinkle his nose.
“There,” she said.
The thief moved forward, out of the shadow and into the rectangle of sunlight that splashed through the open door. Seeing it, Arjen cursed.
Mariama saw at once that there was something wrong with it. With its wings, which twitched and whirred but did not lift it off the concrete floor.
The injured thief crawled toward them. Mariama knew it could have been close to death, missing half of its body, and it still would never think to hide. Thieves attacked.
Its head was t
ilted, and its shining green eyes were focused on Arjen. She sensed his anxiety, his desire to run, and did not blame him for it. There was something about the intensity of a thief’s gaze that terrified even the bravest men.
But Arjen stood his ground.
When it was about two feet away from him, it reared up on its long legs like a demonic spider. Arjen gave a sudden gasp, as if awakening from a daze. He took one quick step forward, shifted his weight onto his left leg, and lifted his right boot into the air.
The wasp’s eyes were like multifaceted mirrors, but somehow they still conveyed . . . fearlessness. Rage.
Arjen brought his boot down.
In the last instant, he altered his aim. The wasp’s long body was the obvious target, but all its venomous intelligence seemed to radiate from the creature’s head. So it was the head he crushed with his heel.
His foot hit the stone floor with a crack. Instantly the bitter odor intensified a thousandfold. Mariama heard Arjen gag, but again he held his ground. When he lifted his foot, they looked down at the black-and-green pulp smeared across the floor.
Beside the remains of the wasp’s head, the nearly intact body writhed, first on its belly, then its back. The long black legs stretched and twitched, grasping at air. The abdomen pulsed, and as they watched, the needlelike white stinger emerged from its tip, then withdrew, leaving a drop of black liquid gleaming like an evil jewel on the floor.
“Let’s go,” Mariama said.
Arjen didn’t move. She had to say it again, and then put a hand on his arm, before he allowed himself to be led away.
* * *
OUTSIDE HE SPENT more time than he needed scraping the bottom of his shoe in the dirt. “The smell is all over me,” he said.
“It just seems that way,” she told him. “It will fade, I promise.”
Eventually he straightened and looked at her. His face was pale. “You were not afraid,” he said.
Mariama didn’t reply.
“You said you did not fear anything, and you were telling the truth.”
She made a gesture of frustration with her hands. “I am standing still,” she said. “And soon they will be everywhere.”
Arjen didn’t seem to absorb what she was saying. Again he stared at the shed’s closed door. “That thing,” he said, “it wanted to kill me.”
Mariama laughed. He gave her a surprised, nearly offended look.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course it wanted to kill you. I told you. That’s what the thieves do.”
Then her amusement ebbed.
“One of the things they do,” she said.
* * *
AS THEY PARTED, he asked, “You need a place to stay?”
She nodded.
“For how long?”
A shrug. “A few days.”
Every stop just another way station.
His eyes had cleared, though his gaze was still troubled. “And when you move on, will you be heading south like you said? To Magallanes? Tierra del Fuego?”
She shook her head. “No. That was just a dream. I have a job I must do.”
“You alone?”
Mariama closed her eyes for a moment.
“I hope not,” she said.
FOURTEEN
FIVE MINUTES AFTER they pulled away from the airport, Sheila fell asleep in the taxi. Trey had to shake her awake when they reached his apartment, and though her eyes were open he had to keep his hand on her arm to make sure she didn’t crash into any walls.
Most visitors who stayed at Trey’s place used the sofa, but he let her take his bed. He knew at least some of what she was going through. Knew that it was more than jet lag. What she was seeking, embracing, wasn’t sleep, but freedom from consciousness, and the comforts of a bed might help, at least a little.
He remembered his own experiences too clearly. It had felt like he’d slept for days after his parents died. But he always woke up, which was a blessing and a curse.
The blessing was that for an instant or—if you were very lucky—a few, you did not know who you were or what had happened to you. The curse, of course, was that you remembered, and then had hours to wait until you could sleep and forget again.
There were other alternatives, of course. Trey had never been tempted to go to sleep after making sure he wouldn’t awaken, but he could understand why others were. He’d known a few over the years, people who craved the kind of timeless freedom the waking life could never provide.
He could understand it, but not sympathize with it, not much. Humans were the only species with the inclination to commit suicide, and he thought it was a strange evolutionary quirk. A herd that culled itself.
Sitting at his table, wide awake, Trey wondered what kind of person Sheila was.
* * *
HE SHOWERED, PUT on clean clothes, stayed up the rest of the night. He’d had enough sleep on the airplanes.
Every once in a while he stood to stretch and to check on Sheila. Though she never seemed to change position, he could see the lightweight sheet that covered her rising and falling.
It was strange, having her in his apartment. Strange having anyone there. Most visitors used it when he was on the road. It was little more than a hotel to them, and to him, too.
* * *
HE WOKE HER at eight. But instead of retreating beneath the covers, trying to hold on to oblivion, as he’d expected, she merely opened her eyes and looked at him. Her eyes, that strange blue-green, were at once clear, alert, though her face was so gaunt that the tendons along her jaw stood out. The hollows under her eyes were bruises.
She sat up. “We’ll go see your friend at the museum.” Then, looking down at the dirty, rumpled clothes she’d slept in: “Soon as I have a shower.”
Trey nodded. “Okay.” Then, “There’s coffee.”
He hesitated. What else? He had little experience as a caretaker, and no particular desire to learn how.
“We’ll stop for something to eat on the way,” he said finally.
Sheila’s mouth compressed. “I’m not hungry.”
He suppressed an unexpected flash of anger, though from her expression it must have shown on his face. “What’s the first rule for you guys, the aid workers in the refugee camps?” he asked.
She stared at him but didn’t answer.
“Stay healthy, right? Something like that? Stay hydrated and well nourished.” He stood and walked to the bedroom door, then turned back to her. “Otherwise you’ll just get sick, too. Die. Be of no use to anyone, only make more work for the others. Right?”
Sheila’s eyes were still on his. Her face was stone. Trey thought he might not be grading out to an A in this caregiving thing, but he didn’t much care.
“We have a lot of work ahead,” he said. “Jack and me. With you, if you want, or without. But the one thing you’re not going to do is slow us down. You want to walk away, do as you please. Prove a point. Starve yourself. You want to help, then we’ll stop to eat on the way.”
Before she could say anything, he pointed. “The shower’s that way,” he said and went back to the living room.
* * *
SHE EMERGED FIFTEEN minutes later, scrubbed, her hair in place, the application of soap and shampoo only making her look more fragile and unhealthy. Trey felt a moment’s regret for his sharp words, but only a moment.
“Coffee’s over there,” he said.
She nodded, went to the coffeemaker, and poured herself a mug.
“Cream?” he said. “Sugar?”
“This is fine.”
Taking a sip, she looked around the apartment. “None of this looks familiar. Guess I didn’t notice much on my way in last night.”
“Yeah. Hard to see much with your eyes closed.”
She glanced into his face, away. Her expression softened, and suddenly she
seemed almost embarrassed.
“Well,” she said, “you know . . . all this? Thanks.”
Trey said, “You’re welcome.”
After a moment, she walked over to the bookshelves that lined the interior walls. The mystery stories that his father had read almost exclusively (the last chapter invariably first, because he didn’t like surprises). The complete collections of Dickens and Twain that his mother had inherited from her mother. And Trey’s own contribution: row upon row of nature books, travel books, field guides, and explorers’ and scientists’ memoirs.
Sheila picked up an Inuit sculpture of a grizzly bear carved from green serpentine, looked at it, put it down. “Your place,” she said. “It’s nice.”
Something in her tone caused Trey to say, almost without realizing, “It belonged to my parents.”
“Yeah?” She looked over at him. “Where do they live now?”
It was a casual question, but he couldn’t mask his reaction, the tightening of the skin across his cheekbones. And she noticed.
“They died,” he said.
Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh! I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
She nodded. Then he saw something in her face change. “Wait,” she said.
Trey sighed. He hated when this happened.
“You’re that Trey Gilliard.”
“Never met another one,” he said, as he had before.
“The doctor’s son.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him. He held her gaze, waiting. Knowing what she’d say.
The repertoire was limited. People always said one meaningless—or even cruel—thing or another. Some said, Your father was a real hero. Others, What was your mother thinking? I’d never take risks like that if I had kids.
Trey had a gracious, meaningless response to each. He never rose to the bait.
But Sheila said, “Do you ever get over feeling like an orphan?”
After a long pause, he shook his head.
* * *
JACK WAS WAITING impatiently when they walked into his office. Jaw set, beard bristling, he was standing behind his desk, and Trey could see that he already had his pencils and sketch pad ready.
Invasive Species Page 10
