by Kim Ekemar
Since I was standing on a hill that overlooked the harbor with perhaps three or four blocks of houses in between, I could also see the area where my next home would be for some time to come. ‘Three blocks straight ahead, four to the right, then take the cobblestone street uphill until you get to the second last house on the left,’ I had been told. It sounded closer than it actually was, or perhaps it was only that I was very tired when I trudged up the hill to meet my new landlords. I walked along the empty street where the snow reached my ankles, and of course I couldn’t see any cobblestones, or anything else for that matter, under the blanket that covered the ground. The night, the snow and the town were truly beautiful.
The house belonging to Daniel and Inocencia McPherson is built on a bluff overlooking the frozen harbor. It is a huge house compared to the one I grew up in. There are three floors including the attic, where I have been given some very cozy quarters, and a big basement. It was quite a sensation to plod towards it in the snowfall and see every window lit with warm, welcoming lights. All the houses I passed to get to my new lodgings were smaller, quaint buildings with their lit windows invitingly offering a passing stranger the thought of peace and comfort. There are no grilles or other protective devices covering their doors or windows. Their fences - which I suppose exist under the recently plowed drifts only to mark where the patch of grass you have to mow ends - are low enough for a five-year-old kid to jump. It is obvious the people in Harbor feel secure. I bet they don’t even lock their doors at night.
Daniel is a long-time friend of JP’s – I think JP was a friend of his father, and when he died in an accident he took care of Daniel. On JP’s insistence the McPhersons have agreed to take me in as a lodger, and he’ll pay the rent and deduct it from whatever they still can squeeze out of my successful war narrative. I know JP hopes the distractions in this remote corner of the world will get me onto the path of creative writing again, and away from the sins of Los Angeles and its kind. I wonder what he’d think if I wrote him a book about my peculiar days wallowing in the sinful city – I doubt I would remember half of what I went through, though. Somehow I failed to wake up and keep a diary during that endless night.
No doubt JP is trying to get me to do what he thinks is best for me. Occasionally I resent that; just because he edited my book it doesn’t give him the right to supervise my conduct for the rest of my life. Surprisingly, I feel relaxed in the McPherson house - could it be that JP is right, and what I really need now is to hide away from the world in a quiet, harmonious place? Time will show.
January 17, 1973
I can’t remember if I was ever received with such genuine warmth – I must write and thank JP for his idea and introduction. I realize the McPhersons are doing their utmost to make me feel welcome here. It wouldn’t surprise me if they found me a bit hostile to begin with – I’ve never felt easy on first encounters.
Dan is about 42 or 45 years old, tall, erect, with a somewhat pompous air that is contradicted by his lack of self-consciousness. He is kind and pleasant enough, but suddenly he forgets he is in the middle of a conversation. Out of the blue he begins to talk about a completely different issue, just when one’s getting heated up about the present subject. He doesn’t have a sense of humor at all. Dan reminds me of Captain Harding, who became my mentor the first months in Saigon. Captain Harding was in essence oblivious of everything but the mission he had been assigned to, except when he spoke about his wife as the most desirable woman in the world. He remained single-mindedly locked onto his targets until the day he was reported missing in action. Dan’s job is decidedly more peaceful, though. He is a port official with little work on his hands during winter. I suppose some women would find him handsome because of his unconscious regal bearing and classic looks.
His wife Inocencia is a completely different person. She must be the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes on – quite a catch for Dan. She’s of Colombian origin, and from what I’ve gathered so far she has been in the US for about eleven years. That means she wasn’t even twenty when she came here. There is a great gap between their ages, but I suppose she finds Dan very reliable. LUSH is the best word I can think of to describe her. She wears her thick black hair shoulder-length, has warm brown eyes and a mature body that moves with an extraordinary natural grace. On top of that she’s an excellent cook; what more can a man want! She avoids my questions when I try to ask her about Colombia – why, I don’t know. Before she talks she hesitates slightly, but when she does it’s always with a shy smile. She’s really nice to me and does everything in her power to make me feel at ease.
She has a maid, Lorena, who I gather Inocencia brought with her from Colombia because they frequently converse in Spanish. Not that Lorena replies much, she’s so quiet she could have been born a mute. I’m not particularly impressed with her skills as a maid. Inocencia does most of the work while Lorena sits idly by. And whereas her employer is a perfect example of neatness and attractiveness, Lorena is Inocencia’s complete opposite. Unkempt hair, dull eyes, slovenly appearance. Neither Dan nor Inocencia seem to give her lack of attention – to her own person or otherwise – a second thought.
January 18, 1973
Contrary to my expectations I feel quite settled down now. This is mostly thanks to Inocencia, whose shy smiles and earnest concern to make me comfortable certainly help me feel at home. I even feel optimistic about writing again, which of course is what JP, that sly old fox, wanted when he suggested Harbor as a retreat in the first place. But what the hell shall I write about?
I’m doing a great effort to cut down on the coke, which the tranquil ambience should help me accomplish. My intention is to spend whatever I brought of grass and coke wisely. By gradually reducing the rations I could then give it up completely. Anyway I don’t think there will be much around of it here in Harbor. Which means I’m forced to be more disciplined and use it less and less over an extended period.
January 20, 1973
… I’m kind of itching to get some good writing done. It’s been quite a while since I last made any serious attempt. The thing is I have no inkling about what, and I know JP expects me to give him a rundown of a general idea before long. Without being able to put my finger on why, I feel compelled to write something in an opposite setting than the humid jungles of Viet Nam. A place like Harbor in winter’s shroud fits perfectly into that concept, and I could add some of the local characters into the picture. I’m certain a good story would emerge with the help of some imaginative writing.
Letter from PBC to JP, dated January 21, 1973
Dear JP,
Thanks for arranging this marvelous opportunity away from the temptations in the gravity center of sins. By being here I realize I was caught in a web of meaningless activities in places like Vegas and LA by night, and with no backdoor to slink away from the spider’s jaws. ‘Hi hi hi hi’, as the spider said to the fidgety fly.
Daniel, and in particular Inocencia, have done everything in their power to make me feel at ease. I understand your friendship with Daniel goes a long way back, and he talks very highly of you. Yesterday the snowy weather eased up enough to let the sun come out for a few hours, and he took me for a walk around Harbor. It’s a beautiful town, with old brick buildings and wooden houses you see the owners have hammered a lot of loving care into. We went down to the port that is closed for ships during the winter except for a few ferries that go out to the islands. One of Dan’s responsibilities is to keep the channel in the ice open. There is an icebreaker working along the coast that he calls on whenever it’s needed.
I also met with his boss, a Mr. Rawlins. We bumped into him on the street, but instead of greeting us he started to holler about the icebreaker and some paperwork that I understood Dan was lagging with. Calm as you please, Dan parried the verbal attacks that Rawlins made; I’m impressed with the self-control Dan possesses. He later told me that the best thing to do when Rawlins starts a shouting bout is to ignore him. It seems Rawlins has bec
ome very choleric since his wife left him a couple of years ago.
Inocencia is a dangerous cook and I think I will add a lot of extra weight before I leave Harbor. She is very nice and serves me afternoon tea in my attic room with lots of homemade cookies. Although she has a maid Inocencia does most of the chores herself – I think she likes to fuss over the members of her household. Like Inocencia, the maid – whose name is Lorena – is Colombian. To me she appears less of a maid than a listener Inocencia needs for her small talk (that seldom requires response).
I know you wanted me to come here to get my wits together and be productive again. Well, happy news! Lately I’ve contemplated the idea to juxtapose desire with evil - but with an element of chance to make it more interesting. What do you think? When I wrote about my experiences in Nam, and tried hard to capture the essence of that fierce reality, I now realize I was describing exactly that without knowing I was. The core of the one book I’ve published I now find to actually be about concepts of necessary evil and selfish desires with an element of chance to unpredictably weigh the scales. Neither good nor evil exist in their pure form, I suppose, only opinions of what is right and wrong according to your own personal universe. That universe is of course managed by desires (your own or those of others), which may or may not be in conflict with what your morals dictate.
I’m still working on the details and will send you an outline of what I have in mind the moment I’ve defined it better. This much I can tell you now: the setting is a winter landscape, in which a ferocious storm throws three people together with unexpected events when they try to reach a safe haven. I enclose a sheet describing the first chapter. Do let me know your opinion of my humble beginning to begin with …
Bear with me, and I will not fail you – another epic’s coming up.
Regards, Paul
Note from JP to PBC, dated January 26, 1973
My dear Paul,
I’m so happy you’ve settled in with Dan and his wife. Then again, I’m even more so because you have rediscovered your literary muse for the benefit of our insatiable readers. I read your letter with great interest, and I like the idea of you doing a novel in completely different surroundings. The brief lines you gave me about the first chapter are not without appeal but could be more captivating. If you’re looking for dramatic impact, I propose that the storm be sudden and unexpected. The dark and the cold will stimulate the protagonists’ fears and tensions, and you can let their difficulties rapidly accumulate.
I can appreciate the confrontation of three totally opposite personalities in small quarters: the naïve immaculate woman, the single-minded rock of a man and the lily-livered manipulator. May I suggest that one of these characters take on the narrator’s role? It gives a tale of suspense so much more intimacy. Also, be a good boy and work diligently to describe each personality in depth. The readers like to identify with the people they read about.
I’m sure you don’t mind if I continue to give you my suggestions. I consider it my dour plight in life to feed my professional opinion in a very precise manner back to those authors who depend on it. It is of course based on a considerable amount of experience – thirty-four years of it actually – of how the audience reacts.
As always, remember that the heartbeat is the center of gravity for the reader’s interest, and it has been so for the last 10,000 years. It is probably ridiculous of this grumpy old editor to remind you as I do out of habit – certainly the final result of your present effort will make hearts beat faster, be it from nail-biting suspense or romantic conquests.
My best,
JP
The Ship: Chapter I
THE STORM
The storm that settled on us was as sudden as it was unexpected. According to the report we listened to before we left the Inuit village the same morning, the weather was to remain overcast with light wind. This time of year there are many unpredictable forces on the loose, however, and I guess we shouldn’t have become as surprised as we eventually were.
Squally gales began to pour snow on the road we were on, going south. We had put snow chains on the tires of our minivan so the snow did not stop us, it only forced the speed down. The snowfall became heavier. The wipers worked slowly back and forth in their futile attempts to keep the windscreen free of snow. In the beams from our headlights the densely, diagonally falling flakes prevented us from seeing farther than a few feet ahead.
Irving Forster, my superior at the anthropological institution where I worked, was driving. He was a large, handsome man, with whom women had the knack of falling in love. I may sound somewhat grudging when I state that, but the truth is that he had me to thank for a lot of the success in both his professional and private lives. Irving was a nice man although his brusque manners sometimes bordered on rudeness. He was an impressive, distracted and emotionally immature man with all the apparent characteristics of a university professor – albeit not the mental. Now, at the age of forty, he was probably at the pinnacle of his professional life as director of the institution that employed us both. His promotion to the post was a result of my doings. I didn’t want to spend my time on the dull repetitive tasks necessary to perform as the man officially in charge. Irving’s position as director allowed me to pursue the projects that interested me without the need to sit in on the endless meetings that came with the job. Irving thrived on meaningless activities. I think it’s fair to say that the arrangement suited us both.
There was another passenger in the van besides Irving and myself. Oona Vermeil was the most beautiful woman I had ever met, and she was engaged to be married to Irving in spite of my early efforts to catch her attention. I thought my thirty years went better with her twenty-seven, Irving reasonably being too old for her. Perhaps I had been too keen in my pursuit and this had only driven her into the arms of Irving, a man capable of patience to the border of frustration.
Oona had started as an assistant at our institution two years earlier. Since she was always cheerful and encouraging, there was not a single person who did not immediately feel comfortable in her company. She had never been married and was, as far as I knew, still a virgin. It was not as if the men surrounding her did not attract her, but she always said she was waiting for the right man and that in her life there was only room for one. For some incomprehensible reason she had chosen Irving, the least romantic person imaginable.
I asked her out a couple of times when we first got acquainted. We were always on the best of terms and had a lot of fun together. The reason I enjoyed her company so much was probably because she never had a bad thought about anybody. Oona was considerate and cheerful to everyone without exception, and she had a way of finding something positive even in the most difficult of situations. Mind you, I'm not saying that she was a particularly imaginative person. She was spontaneous and could utter stupidities as easily as she could be sagacious. Her nature, however, was such that all and one accepted what she said as part of her loveable personality.
Her mother had passed on the three things that never went unnoticed about Oona: her beauty, her Tahitian heritage and her unusual name. Her hair was long, dark and wavy. The eyes, which she said she had gotten from her father, were large and blue surrounded by the most extraordinary eyelashes. She had not left the sheltered existence in which she grew up until she was twenty-three years old.
With time the three of us had grown to be a research team closer to each other than mere call of duty. Irving handled all the bureaucracy. He had the personal presence necessary to convince the decision makers to give us additional funds for new projects. Moreover, being a natural leader it came easy to him to motivate our employees who did the dreary basic work. I was always there behind him as the gray eminence to discreetly feed him new instructions. He accomplished all my wishes as if they had been his own, yet he was unaware that it was really I who had expressed them. Oona was the putty between us; an assistant who oiled the wheels and accepted easy and difficult missions with the same unaltered enthus
iasm.
Our research work mainly consisted of mapping the minority peoples of North America and their vanishing cultures. Irving had over the years given more preference to the study of the most primitive tribes, which was something I agreed to. Our reasons were different, however. Irving said he felt empathy with the most primitive cultures. In my case it was the challenge to register the ways of vanishing aborigines before it was too late. We complemented each other well.
During nearly three months we had lived in the northernmost part of Canada to study a remote Inuit village. Their primitiveness was really only an impression that more sophisticated persons got from what they saw on the surface. The more we penetrated their world, the more we could comprehend about their singular attitude towards life. Whenever their needs for physical survival had been fulfilled, they had reached a limit they never crossed. Yet their vocabulary was more extensive in certain areas than many less primitive civilizations. For example, we found that they used more than seventy different expressions for snow and ice depending on the season, location, time of day, consistency et cetera.
We had been aware that the blistering storms of the season would soon start. Our hope had been to avoid them although we left the Inuit village two weeks later than we initially had planned to leave. In our van we only carried the essentials for a three-day ride, along with all our research material. The other van we had brought would carry all excess luggage and was due to leave later the same day. Tom and Jimmy, our helpers, would drive it.
“How far is it to Haven?” Irving asked me.
“I’m not sure, but I think it’s about another five or ten miles.”
