by Kim Ekemar
“Gone where?”
“Gone out.”
It’s easier to get information out of a dead gook than from Lorena. She exasperates me, she really does.
With Inocencia gone the house was huge and empty, and I suddenly felt a sense of abandonment I haven’t experienced since the war. I couldn’t help thinking about Nam, and I couldn’t concentrate on writing. Besides, the war reminiscences provoked a dormant hunger for drugs. I thought I had conquered the hunger. Yet here it came again, more insistent than I care to remember.
When I went down from my study at dusk, I couldn’t even find Lorena around. I was completely alone in the house. Apprehensive of the solitude, and I guess also to distract my craving for coke, I didn’t want to return to my cozy writing den and instead ventured outside. The hostile air greeted me with icy snow-laden gusts coming in from the sea. The climate was fiercer than any time over the last week.
I walked up and down the deserted streets of Harbor. The ice in the bay is breaking up with a promise that warmer weather is arriving, although it was hard to believe in the bitter wind. When I exhaled the cold air icicles seemed to form on my breath. I thought of the humid heat in Viet Nam and shuddered. Why is it I always end up with the extreme? I decided to return to my lodgings.
On the way back I glanced inside Captain Morgan’s, really only to give my body the chance to soak up some warmth before the last leg. Xavier was in the back holding court for some locals. He didn’t notice me when he expansively ordered another round of beer and German sausage for those in his company. He shouted to the bartender to add it to his bill. I left before he or anyone else observed my presence.
I headed back to the McPherson residence with a sinking feeling. I felt lonely. From a distance I saw Inocencia come out from our neighbor’s house. Only her short, light blue feather-down jacket wrapped carelessly over her shoulders protected her from the cold. Did I imagine it or were her hair and clothes disheveled? She hurried up the driveway to the front door, crouched against the wind and the cold. I watched her from a distance but she didn’t notice me. Local practice, I have been told, is to have total confidence in Harbor security. Consequently, it is not customary for the neighbors to lock their doors when they go out. Inocencia didn’t ring the bell for someone to open the front door. I hadn’t locked it on my way out and I suppose she thought I was busy working in my attic. She didn’t turn on the lights in the hallway or in the kitchen when she let herself in. I lingered outside in the cold, and soon enough the light in her and Dan’s bedroom came on. It occurred to me she didn’t want anyone to know about her arrival.
I was dumbfounded by the unexpected situation, then infuriated with, well, I don’t know – a sense of jealousy, I suppose.
February 22, 1973
Without leaving my room the whole day, not even to eat in spite of Inocencia’s persistent knocking, I wrote feverishly to complete the next chapter of my book. I tried to put Inocencia’s messy appearance yesterday into some logical, comprehensible light. The only conclusion I could come up with was that she had been tricked by her neighbor to enter his house with her husband away, and then Brett had tried to force himself on her. That would explain why her hair was in a mess. I had seen how he gloated over her at the dinner less than three weeks ago. It made sense. This unexpected knowledge gave me a strange sensation. It was as if she began to slowly slip away from me the moment I penetrated this secret.
Tomorrow I’ll send the finished chapter to JP. He’ll be surprised, I’m sure, because it will contain more violence than he cares for. He is easily upset by violence. For some reason I have a nagging feeling about him that won’t leave me alone. He’s so patronizing sometimes, as if I can’t write without his constant advice. I thought JP was my friend and wanted to help out. Now I suspect he’s only being encouraging so he can squeeze another successful manuscript out of me before my dwindling career is over. I looked through the notes he’s written me since I came here, and after a second reading I see them in a different light. All of a sudden it has become obvious to me that he orders me around with the details and the characters I should consider for my new book. I’m sure he’s planning to do some fancy editing of what he doesn’t like before he thinks also this book will be publishable. I hope I’m wrong, but I can’t shake off my suspicion I’m not. I will have to surprise him and study his reactions.
Note from PBC to JP on February 24, 1973
Look, JP, since I’m so marvelously caught up with writing at the moment, you’ll have to make do with the next chapter of my forthcoming epic instead of some effusive lines mentioning my personal remarks about life in general, you in particular and that black cloud of a manuscript that I’m obsessed with presently …
Paul
P.S. You should write me profusely, regardless – your brief notes and occasional letters are always such a welcome inspiration to me here in my locked-up hermitage in Harbor! You’re a very good editor. Sometimes I get the eerie feeling you even edit my life. I only hope I can live up to everybody’s expectations.
P.P.S. Inocencia asked me to send you her greetings along with a hug. Dan’s away on some business, which has made the usually exemplary housewife Inocencia less interested in keeping things tidy. She appears more absent-minded with Dan absent, so to speak. But please rest assured that she treats me as kindly and sweetly as always.
Note from JP to PBC dated March 1, 1973
My dear Paul, how am I supposed to interpret the burials of your murdered protagonists under the ice? I know you must associate events in your present work with gruesome experiences in Viet Nam … is this what it comes to – to purge oneself from the psychological burdens of taking other lives? After their burial beneath the ice letting the currents carry them off? The traces extinguished but for the knowledge branded on the brain?
Still, my curiosity can’t wait to see where this all leads to. You have given me many surprises in the past, and I know you won’t let me down this time either. I hope things from now on may take a more agreeable turn, because there is a morbid undertone in your second work that scares me witless.
And I must admit that I have a hard time to comprehend how any purging will take place – memories will linger although the bodies may have disappeared. As I believe you well know. Best … JP
P.S. Although I of course expect you to be diligently at work on your book I don’t want you to push yourself too hard. I know I’m the one to blame for whatever you’re subjected to ever since I convinced you to leave Las Vegas for Harbor. I’m very optimistic that this is for the best, though, both for your reading audience and yourself.
In your last note you I detect a different tone than previously – is it bitterness over my meddling with your life? I do have responsibilities, and the day you accepted me as your friend and editor you became one of them. Of course I’m aware of the phenomena of sweet success and writer’s block. But, although I give you some strong hints and important suggestions – please don’t you ever think my intention is, or has ever been, to manipulate your life.
P.P.S. Return my best also to beautiful Inocencia – I cannot believe she’s failing to manage her perfect household. No one I can think of keeps a better house than Inocencia - something she has given me proof of on my various visits with her and Dan.
The Ship: Chapter V
THE HOLE
Three men had died before our eyes within the space of half an hour. Oona and I were the only ones in the cabin who expressed horror over the violence that had taken place. The rest acted as if nothing extraordinary had occurred.
Gary had returned in time to witness how Lewis and Everett had killed each other. Now he leaned against the frame of the revolving door and chewed on a match with his arms folded across his chest. Gordon ruminated the strips of fat that he incessantly sucked on with loud smacking noises. Wayne bent over his dead shipmates and kicked them to confirm they were actually dead. Wayne’s eyes frightened me more than anything. They were nasty, joyless slit
s that did not reflect on the deeds he had just committed.
The playing cards Stuart had used to build himself a house he now tore halfway through. With amazing ability, he joined them together in two crosses four cards high, each standing erect supporting one another. Distractedly he studied his work and finally blew on the cards. They flew over the room and floated down on the remains of Everett and Lewis.
Porfirio’s feet rested on Irving's overcoat casually thrown over a chair in front of him. A tin can by his side was filled with half-smoked cigarillos. He incessantly replaced the one in his ivory holder not even halfway finished. I gathered that the pleasure of smoking was not important to Porfirio - it was the impression he made that mattered.
Oona moved closer to me. I could feel her body quiver as she pressed it against mine. She panted in shallow breaths through her open mouth. Despite the draft from the window, the sweat trickled down her body. Her perspiration was absorbed by the stitches of the jersey I wore, and sensing her fear made me too break out in a sweat. She clutched my upper left arm with both hands as if I were her lifebuoy in this sea of unpredictability. The scent of her sweat and her agony provoked an unexpected, and undesired, reaction in me. Some slumbering animal instinct passed down through the generations got me uncontrollably excited over the woman who now chose me for her protection. Maybe it was the macabre situation that caused my arousal, or perhaps the unexpected closeness to Oona. I put my arm around her waist.
Finally, Porfirio took command of the situation.
“Wayne, the mess you make is the mess you tidy.”
Wayne immediately looked as if he wanted to object. Porfirio quickly parried by raising his hand.
“I anticipated this would happen sooner or later”, he pondered, “but I really couldn't see any reason to avoid it. As I’ve told you before, we do have a lot of bread but far too little circus.”
Wayne, his nostrils wide, jutted his chin. He appeared unsure of what Porfirio had in fact said.
“Calm down, Wayne”, Porfirio said with a lopsided smile, “I'm doing my best to rein in what has so obviously run out of your control. We can't leave the dead in the cabin. You alone made the decision to, ahem … floor our large visitor. Besides, you have more brawn than any of us, which makes you the best choice for dumping the dead overboard.”
Wayne's face went dark red and shifted defiantly as he repeatedly snorted and clenched his jaws.
“I … I was provoked … why should –”, he stuttered, upset.
“You need help, Wayne,” Porfirio interrupted him. “Of course you shall get help.” His eyes studied those still standing in the room until they rested on me. Harder than before, Oona embraced me to ward off the evil powers that threatened us. I took a step back. How could they bring me into their madness? Why’d they make me an accomplice? Why choose me? Why, why …?
“Among our remaining guests it is of course the young man who is most suitably dressed for a visit outside our secure hearth.” Porfirio guffawed alone at his comment while he eyed Oona through the tobacco haze. He pointed at me with the ivory holder.
“You there – help Wayne to rid us of the ballast.”
Even if I had been a hundred times stronger, with a hundred men behind me, I still would not have dared to disobey his command. The innuendo he used when he voiced what he desired came from a source that would never accept a challenge. Reluctantly I could only nod that I would comply.
Oona clung to me firmly and I doubted she had had understood what Porfirio had ordered me to do. Her wide open eyes were full of refusal to understand what they had moments earlier taken in. Porfirio locked his gaze into mine. My knees trembled as I detached myself from her and went over to Wayne.
To reach him I had to pass Stuart who, slumped on his chair with one leg crossed over the other, was studying his extraordinarily dirty fingernails. Gary had begun to explore the corpses. He slid like a shadow between those of us still alive to rob them of their remaining assets. As I came closer I saw him pull a ring off Everett's hand and a silver chain that Lewis wore around his neck. Unsatisfied with the meager harvest, he then started to go through their pockets.
Unsure of what I was expected to do, I stopped some distance from Gary. His lips were glossy with saliva and hunger shone in his eyes. The hands groped anxiously over linings and recesses. As sudden as he had settled on his prey he withdrew with his spoils, mostly articles he’d found on Irving. Gary bolted between Porfirio and Wayne, then waited warily by the revolving door for some reaction. When none came forth he surreptitiously disappeared into the guts of the ship. The door hardly moved as his shadow slipped through it.
Porfirio had left his easy chair and stood close by me. He smelled strongly of tobacco smoke.
“First, carry Lewis out of here,” he instructed us. His voice dripped with the pleasure of authority. Wayne muttered, then pointed where he wanted me to grab one of the corpse's legs while he got a grip on the other. Lewis was much heavier than I expected and the burden made me stumble. Wayne cursed at me. We dragged the body around the chair where the immense Gordon sat sucking his fingers and teeth. The blood from the knife cuts trickled down Lewis's shoulders and head and left dark streaks on the boards. Gary returned to the cabin.
“Gary!” Porfirio shouted. “Open the door to the deck.” Gary obeyed.
We staggered out into the gale that had intensified since our departure from the van. The snow and the fierce cold pierced my clothes. I felt my perspiration freeze in the bitter wind and began to shiver. Porfirio strode out on deck and Gary closed the door behind us.
The weak light that penetrated the portholes illuminated a flurry of snowflakes dancing around us like drunken dervishes. Beyond these flakes the darkness was absolute.
In spite of the storm it was impossible to miss out on Porfirio’s patronizing note when he spoke.
“You, Wayne”, he said, “strong enough to kill oxen with your bare hands. Why don't you lift Lewis over the rail and throw him down on the ice? Our uninvited visitor here is cast in a different mold and definitely does not possess the stamina for such labor. Well, show us what you're worth, heave him overboard …”
I couldn’t see Wayne's reaction, but I sensed it. He finally gave in to Porfirio's taunting voice, pulled up Lewis's corpse and let its arms hang over the side of the ship. While he pressed Lewis against the gunwale with one arm he put the other under the legs and hoisted them in the air. With a jerk he let the body slide over the gunwale and ride down into the darkness. That very instant the storm's wailing went up an octave as if to compensate for the fall.
I was shaking from cold, fear, discomfort and anxiousness. Porfirio yelled something across the wind that I didn’t catch. When Wayne lumbered after Porfirio to the door I could do nothing but follow.
When I entered that room of dread again, very little had changed. Gary was busy searching through Irving's clothing to see if there was anything he had missed. Once again seated, Oona now tried to cover herself with some of her garments. The other two had remained on their chairs, absorbed in their activities.
We hauled the notably lighter Everett out on deck in the same manner as we had Lewis. As before, Porfirio kept harassing Wayne. After a brief time of angrily clenching his fists in the storm, Wayne eventually raised Everett's corpse over his head. With a roar he catapulted it out into the night. The sound of a distant thud reached us as the body hit the ice.
Irving was the heaviest of the three. Porfirio called on Gary to help us carry out the last corpse. Gary hesitated but complied when he understood that he could not dodge the task. I don’t know how he accomplished the theft but later when I tried to wipe my hands clean I realized that my watch was gone. Gary had been by my side when we had pulled Irving out on deck and joined forces to heave him overboard. I had never before lost it. Somehow he must have managed to get the watch off my wrist.
Gary vanished to the warmth inside the cabin. He left Wayne and me in the bitter wind, neither of us wearing outd
oor clothes. We stood with our backs towards the sea with Porfirio positioned in front of us to prevent our return.
Porfirio's voice cut through the whipping wind, and it was as cold as the air that carried it forward.
“Now, Wayne … we can't leave our dead on the ice. How would that look?”
The carefully pronounced words were loaded with scorn.
“Wayne, to begin with we have to rid ourselves of the casualty of your … enthusiasm. Why don't you fetch the axe you employed to kill him and hack a hole in the ice?”
I caught a glimpse of Porfirio’s contemptuous expression beyond the whirling snowflakes. It was obvious he relished the situation.
“Look here, run for the axe or some other tool. When you play, you’re indeed eager to play rough. The winner gets all –and you won! Now you get to bury your playmates. Part of the game, you see.’
I could see Wayne straining to control himself.
“Dig your own grave!” he yelled, “You might as well join them on their way to hell!”
Without bothering to hear Porfirio’s reply he marched to the cabin, yanked the door open and disappeared inside. There was a long pause as I patiently waited for Porfirio to say something. I shivered in the cold wind.
“Well now, we're not left with too many volunteering undertakers to choose from.” Porfirio came forward and stopped close to me. In the light that seeped out from the cabin I could see the blood pulsate in his temples. I waited. Porfirio regarded me noncommittally.
“Due to the circumstances I can't imagine how to proceed with the burials other than to let you, my young friend, descend to the ice.” He studied me, and what he saw apparently caused him either diversion or derision. “Take the rope ladder down while I bring you the axe. Then make a hole in the ice and pitch our deceased friends into it.”
Porfirio could see that I wanted to protest, but also that I was too afraid to contradict him.
