Savages

by Shirley Conran

  The skipper said, “My mate’s had to get back to Darwin—his mother’s poorly. But I reckon we can manage with just the fisherboy. He’s a sharp lad.”

  From the deck, the skipper climbed up to the wheelhouse, sat beneath the canvas awning and pushed the throttle forward. They’d be quiet below for a bit, they weren’t really awake.

  He headed out to sea, listening to the comfortable smack of water against the bow, feeling the soothing rhythm of the diesel.

  The sky was golden and the water was no longer oily black but gray. The skipper looked down at the stick-thin native boy on deck, who wore only a tattered pair of khaki shorts. He shouted, “Winston, wipe the chairs and get the rods ready, lad.”

  With fluid movements, the boy reached for a cloth, wiped the dew from the blue plastic seats of the deck benches, then swabbed the three white, fiberglass, swivel fishing chairs in the stern. They were fixed to the deck, the central chair further astern than the others. Whistling, the boy set out seven fiberglass fishing rods, each about eight feet long. He satisfied himself that rods, reels and lines were in order, then turned his attention to the tackle box and selected traces, swivels, clips and hooks. He fitted four rods into their sockets, on either side of the hull, then got to work on the mackerel baits. When all the rods were baited, the boy called, “Skipper is okay.”

  “Come up here and take the wheel.”

  The boy scrambled up the short ladder to the canvas flying bridge and proudly sat on the high stool at the wheel, which needed almost no attention. The skipper checked the lines and let out the three at the stern; he watched the baits plane and jump in the wake of the boat, then disappear as the lines ran out. The skipper moved forward to the cabin and stuck his head through the door.

  “We’re three miles out and it’s fine fishin’ weather.”

  To protect them from the sun, they all wore cotton trousers, long-sleeved shirts and floppy hats. Arthur moved to the central chair and waved Ed and Charley to the ones on either side of him; Brett and Carey sat on the benches. They all grinned at each other. They were fishing.

  Carey tested the grip of her rod; it was covered with cork, so that it couldn’t slip in a wet or sweaty hand. The heavy rod had enough give to play the fish but was stiff enough to stand up to the water drag without bending, and to firmly embed the hook into the flesh of whatever was thrashing far below, trying to shake off that agonizing hook. A properly balanced rod should not break when bent at an angle under 70 degrees; the flexible rod acts as a shock absorber when the fish makes a sudden desperate plunge to rid itself of the line which is inexorably controlling it. Carey’s reel carried six hundred yards of non-stretch braided nylon line; it was a simple, center-pin reel, the revolving spool fitted with a braking gear to stop it from spinning too fast if it had a heavy fish on it—any amateur fisherman could use it without trouble.

  Ed felt a strike almost immediately. His reel screeched briefly, until he tightened the brake. As the boat stopped, the other fishermen reeled in their lines, to prevent theirs from tangling with Ed’s or with whatever he had hooked. Everyone longingly watched as Ed carefully pulled the fish nearer the boat. It fought hard but came up quickly, and was obviously not a big one.

  Minutes later the boatboy gaffed a medium-size tuna, and flung it, blue-green and thrashing, onto the deck behind them.

  “‘Bout fourteen pounds. Better luck next time,” muttered the skipper. “Something bigger. A real fish.” He meant shark. Every tourist wanted to land a shark, especially the Germans. They’d rather catch a small shark than a big barracuda. If the shark was longer than the fellow that caught it, and the skipper had his camera ready when they got back to the weigh-in at the jetty, then the skipper always got a really good tip.

  Ed stood up and offered his chair to Carey. After you had a catch, you always gave your seat to someone who was waiting. This point of fishing etiquette was broken only by Arthur, who always stayed in the central chair whenever the fish were running well.

  Nothing happened for the next half-hour. Then they ran into a school of tuna. Two hours later, when everyone paused for breath, fourteen more fish were gasping and flapping on deck.

  The skipper looked at the gleaming scales, at the staring, black, pop eyes as each newly caught fish seemed to gather its strength for one last mighty effort to leap into the air, then subside, quivering, on the slippery dying fish beneath. He said, “I reckon you got near two hundred pounds there. Ain’t caught so much so fast before, in these waters.”

  It was now half past eight and the sun was hot, but there was no humidity at sea, and a slight breeze was blowing under the canvas awning. Limp cheese sandwiches were handed around for breakfast by Winston, who, Carey had discovered, was twelve years old.

  There was hardly any swell; the slight rocking, the heat and the steady rhythmic throb of the engine combined to make Carey feel drowsy. She enjoyed thinking that it was overcoat weather in Pittsburgh.

  For the next two hours they all sat, waiting hopefully. By midday, the hull had long been too hot to touch and the skipper had distributed calamine lotion for noses; they all wore dark glasses and brimmed sun hats, but your face could burn from the reflection of the sun on the water, and the nose was especially susceptible.

  Carey asked the boatboy to draw up a bucket of seawater to throw over her, to cool her, but he shook his head and grinned. Once seawater dries, each grain of salt acts as a lens, magnifying the harmful rays of the sun.

  She could feel the heat striking through her cotton shirt and slacks, and she hoped she wasn’t burning. Nearly all the soft drinks were gone from the refrigerator, although there was still plenty of beer. The skipper also kept gin, whiskey and vodka in one of the lockers, but he could see that this lot wanted to fish, not drink.

  The skipper said, “If fish suddenly stop biting when the moon’s in the first quarter and the tide’s in flood, then it means only one thing—shark.” He slowed the engine almost to idling and called to the boy to hang a bag of mackerel and tuna overboard. As the boat drifted, it left behind a trail of fish oil and blood.

  The boat moved gently ahead on the sea for nearly another hour, without any action. Their attention wandered. The boat kept going because unless you are moving, your lures will sink below the surface, and a big fish will only take a moving lure. Shark and tuna swim near the surface because there’s more to eat there than in the depths.

  Suddenly Carey’s rod was almost jerked from her hand. Instantly she was wide awake again. Her line was reeling out fast.

  The skipper called down from the wheel, “Looks like you’ve got a big ‘un. Let him run for a bit, then strike hard to drive that big hook home. Everyone else, reel in your lines, please.”

  The skipper scrambled down the ladder and stood behind Carey, squinting at the wake. Winston nipped up the ladder to take the wheel.

  “Better get the shoulder harness on you.” The skipper opened a deck locker under the bench seat and pulled out several harnesses. He held up a stained soft leather vest with several dangling straps. Cautiously, Carey released her left hand and slipped her arm into the vest, then her right arm. Two straps dangled down her back. She lifted each buttock and the skipper pulled the straps up between her thighs. Two more straps were pulled over her breasts, then all the leather straps joined to a pad that held a rod socket firmly against her stomach: this gave her more control and pulling force over her taut rod.

  The line went slack.

  The skipper muttered, “He’s running towards the boat. Reel in fast, don’t give him slack line or you’ll lose the hook.”

  Carey pulled her rod up carefully, reeling in with her right hand as fast as she could.

  The line tugged again, and she let it run out.

  The line slackened, and she reeled in again.

  Suddenly the line was yanked away, and she nearly lost it.

  Every man in the boat instinctively leaned toward her as she pulled her rod firmly down in the socket and let the line r
un out—faster this time.

  “Watch that line, you don’t want to lose it,” the skipper warned.

  They all watched the wake of the boat.

  The line went slack again and Carey reeled in fast, hoping that her arms would hold out. She’d never imagined feeling anything as strong as this at the end of a rod. It was as if the line were attached to a runaway horse; her shoulders were hurting already.

  The line pulled again, so suddenly that Carey’s sunglasses fell to the deck, but she barely noticed, because she was concentrating so hard on the fish she was fighting. She reeled in fast. The men watched her big, lithe Amazon frame, silhouetted against the sparkling sea.

  Arthur said, “It’s too big for you, Carey. Why don’t I take over?”

  “That’s okay, Arthur. I’m fine,” Carey said firmly.

  There was a pause, and then Ed said, “Carey, maybe it would be better if Arthur took over.”

  “Ed, this is my fish, whether I land it or lose it.”

  “Carey …”

  “Ed, this is my fish.” The line pulled again and Carey let it out.

  “Let her play it, Ed.” Arthur’s voice sounded unconcerned.

  Oh, fuck, Ed said to himself.

  Seventy-three minutes later, Carey brought in a 192-pound gray reef shark. As the shark had repeatedly tried to break free, she’d hung on fighting her invisible opponent until its will suddenly snapped, exhausted by the violent fight for its life.

  The skipper, who had stood behind Carey quietly advising her, yelled to Winston to put the engine into neutral and get out the big gaff.

  When the shark was nearly beaten, the skipper pulled on a pair of old leather fishing gloves. He leaned over the side and rammed the gaff behind the shark’s malevolent eye. As the shark twisted and thrashed, trying to rid itself of the heavy hook and get away, the needle-sharp hook at the end of the heavy wooden pole sank into its leathery hide.

  With some difficulty, the skipper and Winston slipped a rope noose around the tail, and eventually heaved it aboard.

  “Watch out,” warned the skipper. “Even if you think he’s dead, keep away from a shark in a boat, because if he isn’t, you can lose your foot.”

  Everyone drew back from the huge, dark, glistening bulk of this awesome creature in front of them. A shark, you had to respect it.

  Winston jumped forward with a heavy hammer from the wheelhouse and smashed it hard against the shark’s nose, low on the head and between the eyes, where the brain is situated.

  Until they returned to harbor, Carey stayed down in the cabin shaking with exhaustion. Her clothes were wet with sweat as if she’d fallen into a tub. Her shoulders, her back, her thighs and her stomach ached as they had never ached before. She almost cried because of the pain in her arms, and she couldn’t move her chafed hands or wrists.

  But she’d won. And she hadn’t only been fighting the shark. She’d also been fighting Arthur. Strange that she could stand up to Ed and Arthur, but not to a hairdresser or a head-waiter, she thought.

  Nobody came down to congratulate her, except the skipper, whose upside-down head in the doorway grinned and whispered, “Good on yer.”

  * * *

  In the privacy of their beach hut, Ed yelled at the exhausted Carey.

  “Why do you have to draw attention to yourself? Don’t you realize that your aggressive behavior is standing in the way of my promotion?” He grabbed the miniature bottle of brandy from his bedside table and emptied it into the balloon glass. “Why can’t you be like the other wives and talk about kids and clothes? Why do you want to fish, for heaven’s sake?”

  “For the same reason that Arthur wants to fish.” Carey lit a cigarette, as Ed knocked back the brandy. “If you’d hooked that shark, would you have handed your rod to Arthur?”

  Ed truly didn’t know. He walked round to Carey’s bedside table and poured her bottle of brandy into his glass. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said.

  “Ed, what’s more important, your wife and family, or the company?”

  “Don’t be dramatic.”

  “I’m not being dramatic. I don’t think you realize how Nexus is sucking you up. If you get to be president, I don’t suppose we’ll ever see you at home.”

  “You’re exaggerating, as usual.”

  “I’m just hoping that this Christmas isn’t going to be like last Christmas. Except for Christmas Eve and New Year’s Day, you were working in the lab until the early hours of the morning for six solid weeks. Too tired to do anything …”

  Ed turned his back on her and stared out at the trees and shrubs, neatly groomed like green poodles.

  Carey added crossly, “If I hadn’t known about the chromite find, I’d have thought you had a girlfriend.”

  “What did you say?”

  Carey looked up from rubbing lotion into her raw hands. “I said, if I hadn’t known that you found chromite on Paui …”

  Ed whispered, “How do you know anything about chromite?”

  “When you’re tired, you talk in your sleep.”

  * * *

  “This looks like a goddamn funeral parlor.” Arthur looked around his vast beach hut. White lilies stood on every surface. With gawky angularity, the lily stalks thrust up from the vases; the rust stamens hung from the inverted white trumpet petals, like miniature, menacing chandeliers.

  “It also smells like a goddamn funeral parlor.” With distaste, Arthur sniffed the cloying, oversweet odor which hung oppressively over the room.

  Lying on the couch, Silvana languidly looked up from her book. Arthur hadn’t mentioned his catch, and she knew better than to ask. “It’s the standing order. I’ll have them taken away.” Whenever Silvana was booked into a hotel, two hundred dollars’ worth of white flowers were automatically ordered for her suite. It is impossible, even for a hotel florist, to make white flowers look garish.

  Arthur took the book from her hands. “Elective Affinities. Catchy title.”

  “I think I’ll have a drink,” said Silvana. She moved to the bar and poured a large scotch for Arthur.

  Half an hour later the lilies had disappeared and Arthur lay on the wicker chaise longue in the patio, draining his second, enormous scotch. As he put the empty glass down he said, “I’ve decided to pick Charley as my successor. He’s got that go-for-the-jugular quality that’s needed to run a multinational.”

  Silvana thought, It’s called ruthlessness. She said, “Why not Ed?”

  “A man who can’t control his own wife can’t control a company.” He hoped that hit home—and got back to Ed, via the wives.

  “Would you have considered Isabel, if she were a little older?” Silvana knew better than to mention it more directly, but prior to Arthur’s appointment, three presidents had died within seven years, which was why the board was insistent that Arthur choose a reasonably youthful successor.

  “For God’s sake, she’s still a child, in company terms,” Arthur snorted. “And anyway, I’d never choose a woman. When it comes to the crunch, they duck responsibility.”

  Silently, Silvana went inside and poured him another scotch.

  5

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1984

  After breakfast on Tuesday, Ed walked alone along the dirt road that led from the hotel grounds to the airstrip. He had told no one except Arthur about the chromite strike. If Arthur found out that Carey knew, it would seriously count against Ed in the struggle for the presidency. So Ed decided not to tell Arthur, and hoped to God that there hadn’t been any other leaks, as he mentally reviewed the events that had brought them to this island.

  Immediately after being awarded the first mining concession on Paui, Nexus had sought permission to prospect elsewhere on the island. For years, not even Raki had been able to get permission from the Nationalist president of Paui to prospect anywhere except on the northeast tip of the island, for the President hadn’t wanted to upset the network of powerful tribal chiefs who held him in power, and wanted no whites in their area. Fina
lly, in 1981, Nexus had been allowed to send a small team into the Central Mountains, where, for two years, they had found nothing particularly exciting. However, when they were working on a strip of mountain about twenty miles inland from the northwest coast, on almost the same line of longitude as the Mount Ida mine, the survey leader (for none of the right reasons, as it later turned out) had ordered the team to concentrate their search in an area of nondescript hills called, because of their humped shape, the Turtlebacks. As usual, the survey team had cleared vegetation, bored holes and taken samples of the topsoil and the rock beneath, as well as the sand and gravel of streambeds. The samples had been sealed in canvas sample bags, each labeled with a coded map reference, flown out by helicopter and dispatched to the Pittsburgh laboratories, together with the film of all aerial photographs of the survey site. In due course, Ed had received the lab report, the survey site map and the aerial photographs.

  After reading the lab report on the Turtlebacks survey, Ed took it straight to Arthur. They both canceled their plans for the weekend, which they spent closeted in Arthur’s study, except for brief pauses for fresh air, when, wrapped in scarves and overcoats, they trudged along the chilly bank of the Ohio River, which bordered part of Arthur’s estate.

  As expected, the samples showed copper. They also showed uranium, but the concentrate level was not high, and these days, after Three Mile Island, you could hardly give away uranium. Nevertheless, Nexus had been prospecting unsuccessfully in Australia’s Northern Territory, which contains the highest undeveloped uranium deposits in the world; perhaps this Paui strike would now provide competition for Mary Kathleen, Australia’s only uranium mine. When he reached that part of the report, Arthur nodded with satisfaction, then muttered, “But an ore grade of only five percent and the price is going through the floor.”

  Arthur read on, then looked up sharply. “This cobalt concentrate! There are very few cobalt deposits with a concentrate of forty percent. Remember what happened in Zaïre.”