The Destroyers

by Christopher Bollen

  I used to think I could read time the way Charlie reads the seas, that I was acutely sensitive to its passing, its thrusts and currents, its heavy iron roll. But fear isn’t mastery, and, as a kid, time was simply the nightmare monster of the daylight shift. Yet, in moments like this one, lying on my back with the sun on my forehead and the blue outside finned with sails, it’s hard for me not to recede into that boy so certain he can see the fragile seams that connect each second to the next. The conclusion after five minutes of out-of-focus staring: I am alive, for this instant, on this bright August day. It is almost enough.

  I struggle out of bed. Louise was right: too much free time and you could end up devoting your life to entries in a dream journal. I’m almost relieved by my meeting with Charlie at his dock today. At least it’s a worry I can do something about.

  My tongue tastes toxic. Overnight, my mouth has transformed into a shriveled diving board slung over a septic pool. The grim condominium complex that surrounds it—i.e., the rest of my head—is experiencing a rash of small electrical fires. Less vodka at dinner from here on out. I run the shower, gulping down stray streams under the nozzle, and brush my teeth using an American-brand toothpaste that tastes more astringent than it does in America. “I am alive, for this instant, on this bright August day,” I recite, but the magic is gone, the words failing at incantation, and as I spit toothpaste at the drain I see only my father buried below a fresh clump of dirt. The faucet turns and the towel is on my face, wiping the water away.

  I slide open the patio door and plunge into the hottest day so far. When I look behind me, the sun is already sucking my footprints from the stone. Down below on the driveway, Helios wheels our two motorbikes from the truck bed. Their lean, yellow-and-black frames, with gleaming handlebars and spoke mirrors, have the look of lethal wasps.

  Helios has on acid-wash jeans with machine-deconstructed rips at the knees; his black, long-sleeve T-shirt advertises an American rock band that has already crested in popularity back home and is now splashing up in the discount bins of dying music stores. He has a diamond stud in his ear, neon-rimmed sneakers, and a stringy goatee. Last night at dinner, someone mentioned that most of the young Greeks on Patmos spend the majority of the year in Athens, returning in the summers to work in their parents’ tavernas and hotels. But I get the sense that Christos’s son is a permanent islander, a left behind. He’s like a bent antenna trying to pick up stray frequencies of youth transmitted from across the ocean. He walks in lazy circles, his sneakers kicking up dust clouds. He glances up at the cabins with his scabby lips pursed, and even after I wave, he doesn’t seem to notice me. Maybe he’s learned to erase tourists from his field of vision. Soon the last prehistoric Greeks will go extinct—with their unfitted housedresses and scratchy wool pants belted with rope—and the islands will be run by a legion of Helioses: manqué rock stars with mousse and tattoos and pot-smoke cologne, St. Marks Place on Santorini.

  “Thanks for bringing the bikes back,” I yell down. My voice startles him, and he lifts his arm in acknowledgment with vacant eyes. He gets into his truck, and in one graceful maneuver, backs up, rotates, and heads down the steep road. To be fair, he is diligent at doing what’s asked of him. I wonder about the cold sores on his lips: Who does Helios kiss on Patmos? Is he one of the locals Charlie mentioned who cleans up on the rich vacationers full of alcohol and loneliness?

  As I dress, I hear Louise climbing out of bed on the other side of the bolted door. Her feet pad across the wood, and her computer starts up with an organ groan. I reach into my bag and retrieve my phone.

  From:

  To:

  CC:

  Subject: Where are you?

  Ian, you weren’t at the funeral. Ross, mom, and I assumed you’d be there. We’re all shocked and angry—in the middle of grieving and making excuses for you to people paying their respects. Even the goddamn gardener found the time. We need to talk. You were the last one with dad and, at the very least, we’d like to hear what his final moments were like. Was he alert? Did he hear you? What did you say!? He’s OUR father too. You can’t just breeze in and out whenever you feel like it, not without answering any of our questions. Honestly, where the hell are you? I tried calling your phone, but it connects to a foreign ring and then a foreign computer-woman’s voice comes on and there’s not even an option to leave a message. I can’t find Helen’s e-mail (Ross, do you have it?) otherwise I’d bother your mother in India just to ask where her son is. WHY DOES NONE OF THIS SURPRISE ME!!!! Also, there’s a suspicious withdrawal from the family account in the hours AFTER dad died. WTF? Mom’s understandably too upset to pursue it, but I’m going to report it as a bank error unless I hear from you. I’m not leaving it alone. Call me. Immediately.

  Lex

  Ross responds in CC:

  Ian, we really just want to talk and clear things up. You could swing by the house tomorrow, or if you’re out of the country like Lex believes, we can all link up on three-way. Or are you back by the weekend? When? We’re serious. Please let us know. We’d hate for anything to get ugly. R

  Lex and Ross must each stand to inherit upward of two million dollars, with the majority of Edward Bledsoe’s estate going to Lily. Two million for each of them, and yet Lex is chasing down nine thousand dollars like there’s a tiny rip in her pocket and she’s desperate to sew it shut before any more money falls out. But I’m more afraid of their questions—the final words I spoke to him, the begging and hatred and resentment as his hand grasped the sheet, and then let go. They think I’m to blame. They know my talent for speeding his suffering.

  “Ian,” Louise calls through the bolted door. “Are you awake? Are you making coffee?” She wiggles the knob. “I had a dream about the vultures.”

  I tiptoe toward the bike key on the nightstand, snatch it, and head for the door. I step outside and lock it behind me as quietly as I can. The e-mails from my half-siblings have made this morning’s existential worries seem like vacations in themselves. I can’t spend the morning trying to seduce Louise and contemplating the meaning of time when my entire future hangs in the balance. Would Lex really turn me in for raiding the family account? Is it even illegal to withdraw money in the hours after its primary account holder expired?

  I walk my bike halfway down the hill before I start the motor. The sheep crowd the western-spilling shadow of a tree. In the distance, pink umbrellas bloom along the shoreline. This isn’t vacation. It’s a very warm exile.

  ALONG THE ROAD leading to Charlie’s port, jasmine buds droop in raw, gray grass, and seagulls pick at meat and rice in discarded Styrofoam containers. The smell of algae blows inland. A red motorbike appears up ahead on the trail. It’s Rasym flying over the bumpy terrain. I try to speed my bike elegantly over the divots to affect a more pronounced command. Rasym passes by without a word, casting an angry scowl in my direction before he zooms away. At the dock, a sleek, white yacht, freshly painted, with a satellite whirling on the roof, is preparing to embark. Greek crewmen in light-blue uniforms hurriedly lasso the lines. The orange splotch of a Cypriot flag hangs from a pole on the stern. The yacht glides into the harbor like a slowly exhaled breath, and a man wearing an olive shirt and thick glasses ambles down the dock while drumming a clipboard against his thigh. He walks into the hangar. I park my bike by the aluminum-sided trailer and peek through its dirty windows. It’s an office with a chessboard already set up on a table, but Charlie isn’t inside. I wander toward the hangar in search of him, practicing my speech.

  “A nonprofit, multiformat, charitable wing of Konstantinou Engineering would be a fabulous PR move for your father’s company. And while I wouldn’t be nominally on the board, I could be the behind-the-scenes man, aligning vital causes with corporate and familial interests. For instance, I know your father is an art collector. What about sponsoring art schools among the underprivileged in the very Middle Eastern communities that are subject to Kons
tantinou contracts? Corporate altruism is tradecraft on which I’ve become something of an expert, and I’m uniquely qualified to oversee all handling and liaising from proposal to execution.”

  Admittedly, the pitch is a semi-incoherent word jumble, but Charlie is merely the gatekeeper to his father and I only hope to gild the idea enough to make it sound legitimate. The real work will come later, in research and presentation, when I finally secure a meeting with Mr. K or even Charlie’s brother, Stefan. All I need is Charlie’s blessing. For better or worse, this proposal is all I’ve managed to concoct for a secure position in the Konstantinou empire—the best view is that it’s a contribution to humanity, the worst that I’m merely the smallest and most benevolent tick on the fat, hemophiliac body of a family fortune. Right now, either view looks pretty decent. At least it’s a job I’m presenting in lieu of throwing myself at Charlie’s feet or making bat swoops at his wallet.

  As I enter the hangar’s darkness, I’m hit by a wave of noxious fumes. The burning of butane issues from blowtorches that two young, shirtless workers inch along the hull of a harnessed yacht. They’re welding a boxy, steel base to the refurbished luxury boat, patching its foundation with additional support. In the far corner, similar steel boxes are piled alongside cans of paint and timber. Oil leaks across the cement and across the workers’ shoulders. Their eyes and skin gleam like wet horses in a stable, strong and easily spooked. The bespectacled man appears from around the yacht, shoving the clipboard under his arm. He sees me and begins to shout in a language I don’t understand. The workers glare up at me, holding the blowtorches away from their eyes.

  “I’m Charlie’s friend,” I say, raising my hands. “I’m supposed to meet him here at noon. I’m a little early.”

  “E-on? You are E-on?” The man’s accent is so thick that for a second I don’t recognize my name. He shuffles toward me. Both of his cheeks have a deep indent in their centers. He lifts his arm out, sword-straight, for me to shake.

  “I am Ugur. I work for Charlie as manager.” His grip is solid, and I’m so dizzy on the fumes that when I step backward for air, I pull him along with me. “Charlie tells me about you. Yes, I’m glad to meet. You joining team.” He laughs, and I copy his laugh, relieved by the news that I’m being invited to join something. Thank god for Charlie. He hasn’t forgotten me, and it’s almost like this man’s hand, unwilling to relax its grip, is saving me from drowning.

  “I suppose I am. I haven’t really worked out the details yet. Do you know—”

  “We are securing the shells, you see? This is how we add the value. To make able to send into sea. Back and forth.” Ugur raises his index finger and swings it from imaginary point A to B. Charlie must have told him that I know next to nothing about the business of boat rentals. I feign attention, as if his lesson has been instructive. I have no intention of learning the trade.

  “Yes, very nice. But I should really speak with—”

  “Old friends. Best friends.” Ugur winks. “Charlie is in bad mood today.” He circles his eye with his finger to communicate the source of Charlie’s mood. Ugur must have overlooked something.

  The sound of yelling reaches us, muffled inside the hangar. Ugur lets go of my hand, and we both step outside. Along the rocky shoreline, Charlie brandishes a stick, shouting angrily at the sea, his bad mood on full display. The back of his T-shirt is sweat-soaked in the shape of a stingray. At first it looks like that’s all he is wearing, due to the skimpy yellow shorts that barely peek out under it.

  “You’re trespassing,” he roars. “Get the fuck away from this area. There are limits, borders.”

  The intruder isn’t the sea. I find his targets ten feet from him, a young man and woman of freckled, henna-blond persuasion in torn denim cutoffs. The man wears a red ANTI-BETHLEHEM T-shirt, and the woman’s orange T-shirt traces the evolution of a stick figure from hunchback ape to hunchback desk worker. I fear we are reaching the end days of T-shirt irony; we are leaving very little material for future designers to work with. The couple has constructed crosses and daisy-chain necklaces from woven grass blades, and they stare at Charlie in pretty, stoned delirium.

  “I thought all the beaches here were public,” the woman says. She has a cloying New Jersey accent. “That’s what we’ve been told.”

  “This isn’t a beach,” Charlie yells. “It’s a port, and it’s private. This is a business. Do you get that?” He slams his stick against the ground much like Duck did yesterday before our boat ride.

  “We’re having a barbecue,” Anti-Bethlehem interjects. His thick blond beard is almost green in the morning light, and a gold loop hangs from his septum. His earlobes are stretched open like unlidded sewer holes from the raver plugs that once filled them. “At our camp. Vic would want us to invite you. All are welcome.” Although his accent is Scandinavian, he seems to subscribe to the American belief that neighborly invitations will eradicate hostilities. Differences can be settled over hot food. And from there, religion might be found not far off in the tenderness of waves. I can’t blame him for trying.

  Charlie raises his face to the sky, as if seeking fortitude in the God he doesn’t believe in. He slaps his forehead theatrically.

  “Charlie does not like the hippies,” Ugur whispers with an amused smile. “And he is right not to. They enter the hangar, steal supplies. Last week we find one asleep inside a boat.”

  “Turn around and go back to your camp,” Charlie orders. “And tell Vic to shepherd her flock, otherwise the wolves will get to them. In case that wasn’t clear, it’s a threat. Come here again and I can’t promise you’ll make it out in one piece.”

  The man turns, but the woman is more obstinate—either more or less stoned than her companion. She steps forward and tilts her head. White foundation covers the moles and pimples along her jaw, giving the bottom of her face a blurry, lunar-like patina. Orange salamander tattoos creep up her ankles. “You’re Charlie, right?” she asks. “Charles Konstantinou?”

  “It’s none of your business who I am!” Charlie stammers. “Go. I’m giving you ten seconds or I swear . . .” He shoos them with a fussy hand. They recede over the rocks, their hair lit like matchsticks in the sun. Charlie spins around, surprised at finding Ugur and me side by side, watching him. He nods and puts on an easy smile, briefly leaning down to pick up an empty chip bag caught in the weeds. But now I understand Ugur’s bad-mood gesture. A purplish bruise hangs like a crescent moon under his right eye. I try to deduce who could have punched him in the last twelve hours: the drunk Hungarian in the square, scowling Rasym, a stoned Christian missionary? His smile doesn’t defuse the black eye.

  “They’re getting braver,” Charlie says to Ugur as he marches toward us scrunching the plastic bag, “so I had to put the fear in them. I take it you two have met.”

  “Oh, yes, we are friends now,” Ugur says, but he backs away, as if to disclaim me. “Do you need anything?”

  Charlie doesn’t answer. He threads his arm around mine and steers me toward the trailer. Ugur melts into the darkness of the hangar.

  “How did you sleep?” Charlie shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out a key chain to unlock the glass-windowed office door.

  “Okay. A few bad dreams.”

  “Tell Sonny,” he says. “She’s collecting them. She’s probably at her psychic in Chora right now. I’m assuming they’ve run out of lines on Sonny’s hands to study for three hundred euros an hour. You don’t realize how ugly someone’s hands are until each wrinkle is traced for a happy future.”

  “Sonny has a psychic?”

  “Yeah,” he replies wearily. “A psychic, a masseuse, a Pilates instructor, an energy healer who also doubles as a facialist. I support an entire cottage industry of quacks. I keep expecting to find a little man in my bathroom, examining Sonny’s bowel movements for fresh insights into who she is.” Yesterday they had seemed so in love. I wonder if their relationship swings daily from one extreme to the other or if it ever levels out into whole
some boredom.

  “Was it her psychic who punched you?” I ask.

  Charlie touches the bruise. “Oh, this. No. That happened last night. Two tourists got in a fight, and my face was in their way. It looks worse than it is.” I don’t believe him. I’ve never encountered an eye that was punched by accident. But I’m not interested in getting on the wrong side of Charlie’s mood.

  He opens the door and directs me in with a wave. The tiny, rectangular office has a plastic desk running under the bank of gritty windows. The desk is strewn with maps and paperwork, a telephone, and a microwave-size radio with three walkie-talkies Velcro-ed to its base. There’s a computer monitor in the corner, its screen glowing an outline of the Aegean. Eleven blinking dots are scattered across it; one must indicate the boat that just left. Charlie tosses the chip bag on the desk and cracks open the window, glancing out to ensure that the hippies have left the vicinity. He crouches like a soldier staring from a trench.

  “Maybe you should call the police if you’re worried about trespassers,” I say.

  “The police?” Charlie taps his knuckles against the papers on the desk. “The ones on Patmos are useless. It’s the old Greek system: three managers for every one worker, and they’ve all been trained that the best way to resolve a conflict is to wear the victim down with questions. You say a man has entered your property, a human being, did I get that right, walking as a human does, onto land that is different from other land, that belongs to you, and you say you don’t want that? Now this is a problem, indeed. Very troubling. Yes, yes, so tell us, this problem, what was it again?” Charlie snorts and shakes his head. “God love them. It actually makes running a business easier in the long run, because they do their best to leave you alone. But I swear, Ian, don’t let anyone steal your wallet. They’ll find your mother in India before they find the thief.”