Skin

by Tobias Hill

  When they were hunting he listened to the fishermen’s talk. They kept him awake in the sway of the boat. Voices, stories. How no shark swims with a hammerhead, not even the great white. How the hammerhead can swim backwards, its head a tail. Not the biggest shark or the fiercest, but the one who never gives up. Smelling old blood in its long head, waiting and remembering.

  They knew the stories. But it was he who shot it. Not talking over the chug of the engines. Watching. So that when the white bulk passed under them, Noah leaned over and fired the shotgun four times into the neck and dorsal fin. A year’s rent, that had been worth. Paid for by the Rural Constituency of Santa Fé. He tries to remember how much he owes now. More than a year, less than two. But he has no money left. Felicia will take care of him.

  The hiss of surf reaches his feet and he looks down. Without intending to he has walked diagonally down the beach’s slope, to the sea’s edge. Here the sand is cold and hard with water. Noah pulls off his shirt, struggling with it in the shore breeze.

  He throws the shirt above the tidemark. It falls short and he has to go back for it. He carries it up the beach and leaves it bundled against a burnt-out oil drum, sheltered from the wind. Walking back he almost falls on the wet sand. He sits down in the shallows, pulls the mask over his head, bites on the snorkel’s rubber mouthpiece. Then he just sits. Listening to the way his breathing hisses in the plastic pipe.

  ‘Hi.’

  He looks up. Above him is a tall young man with pale two-day stubble and a checked shirt. Coming up behind him is the second backpacker, wind catching in her hair. ‘Hi,’ she calls, and waves. Through the salt-stained glass they look faded, Noah can’t make out their expressions. He pulls the snorkel and mask off, rubber tugging painfully at his white hair.

  ‘Hello. You are Americans?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Americans.’ He tries to think of something else to say, something better. ‘Don’t worry. I understand. It’s all right. Later we’ll have a drink, eh?’

  They stand together, looking down at him. The girl turns away abruptly, shields her eyes. A formation of birds goes over, high up over the headland. ‘Wow. Patterns in nature.’ She shakes her head, grinning back at them.

  The boy bends down, hands on knees. Embarrassed by his height. ‘So. What do you do here?’

  Noah shrugs. ‘Nothing. I am old.’ He looks away.

  ‘You been here long?’

  ‘Thirty-two years.’ He takes out his cigarettes but they are already damp from the sand. He turns them in his hand, half-smiling. Enjoying the attention.

  ‘That’s incredible! Really? Why?’

  ‘This is where I ended up. I don’t know why. You don’t like it?’

  ‘Sure, but–’

  ‘I ran away from war, and this is where I came.’ He looks away from their surprise. He is surprised at the sound of his own voice.

  ‘Which war – ’

  ‘Any fucking war. All of them.’ He cuts the boy off and is surprised at himself again. ‘Oh, Second World, Indochina. That’s Vietnam. Cold War. All of it. Six years, eight years, eight more years. They liked me, they kept asking me back. I looked better then. I didn’t smoke. My life was shit. So now I smoke.’

  ‘You fought in Vietnam?’ The girl is kneeling down now. Concerned, as if he might be rambling. He wonders whether he is rambling. He frowns.

  ‘Not your Vietnam. Ours, France.’ He presses his hand against his chest to signify possession, and the dream comes back to him. The knife a cold obstruction in him, where his hand is now. He stands up shakily, feeling his chest, the young people moving back from him.

  ‘I like it here. I deserve it, you understand?’ He thinks he is shouting. He puts the mask back on. They are saying something, he can’t hear words, only their worry. ‘And I am going to swim. Because every day is a good day to swim in paradise.’ He bites on the snorkel and walks away from them. The water rises against him. He keeps walking out into the sea until he goes under.

  He is surrounded by fish the colour of air bubbles. The water is warm against him in the shallows. Out to the left is the dark line of the reefs along the headland. He turns his head slowly to the right, where the sea-floor drops away, the Atlantic deepening to a solid blue. There is no sound except the tick and skitter of sand against sand.

  Coral trees rise up towards him. He moves with the strength of his hands, drifting out along the line of the headland. There are flying fish between the corals, asleep on the sand, just as Euclides said. Exocets, Noah thinks, and the French name makes him think of war again. Ice freezing in his nostrils and tear ducts. The far north of Canada, Echo Bay Base. Alaska, where they could see Soviet troop-carriers across miles of ice. He kicks away.

  The headland goes on down underwater. The reef slants away from him. He pauses, buoyant with air. The corals are larger here, brain-stems and cypresses growing massive in their salt gravity. Leopard eels slide through the passages and branches. A shoal of mackerel comes out of the blue and splits around Noah, glittering and round-eyed. The muscles in his shoulders begin to relax. His beard floats up in front of his face and he pushes it away. He grins, salt water trickling into his mouth.

  This is where I came to be, he thinks. Nothing is relative here. I am not old or poor. I have what I deserve. I don’t deserve to die. The point of the headland is up ahead, light flickering in the deeper blue beyond the bay. Noah waits in the crosscurrents, looking down between the rocks for shipwreck timbers or shells. This is my sleep without dreams.

  There is a shell caught in a bank of seaweed, some ten or fifteen feet down. Noah can’t make out its shape, only the dazzle of mother-of-pearl where the light reaches it. Something large and heavy. A conch or nautilus, the current moving it only a little.

  He treads water, gauging the depth. A conch would be good to take back. Something to show Euclides and the tourists. A kind of proof. Something to give Felicia instead of money. She would like that, Noah thinks, and he owes her. Light winks between the movement of kelp fronds.

  He exhales, sinking towards the rocks. The pain begins almost immediately, pressure aching in his ears. The water around him becomes cold as he falls, the headland looming up above him.

  Better than money, Noah thinks. He looks down as he gets near. Lodged in the rocks is the white-and-tan disc of a nautilus. Broader than two cupped hands, the mouth empty and bright. But he can’t turn and swim face-down, his body is too weak. The slowness of his descent is comic, it makes him smile. His lungs begin to spasm and he shuts his eyes to concentrate.

  He reaches out for the curve of the shell and holds it. When he opens his eyes again the shark is there. Ten feet away, watching him.

  He thrashes upwards. The mask pulls down across his face, choking him. He can’t see the shark’s movement, only the thick whiteness of its chagrin. The last air goes out of him in a muffled shriek as he breaks the surface.

  ‘Help me!’ The voice is old, garbled with water. Noah can barely hear himself. Something tugs at his shoulder. He lurches away from it, towards the headland. But his arms are exhausted, all the muscle has left them. He coughs at the acrid taste of sea-salt in his nose and the back of his throat.

  He reaches the rocks and lets go of the shell, reaching out. He has to scrabble in the dirt, fingers catching in the sharp hill-scrub. He pulls himself up against their roots.

  Then he is out. The snorkel is caught round his neck and he pulls it away. There is no sound on the headland except wind. He can hear the way he whines with fear. He looks around, staring, so that for a moment he recognises nothing. When he looks down, his legs are matted with blood.

  He bends down to find the wound. There are black sea-urchin spines in his calves and the fronts of his thighs. The blood is already lessening, pinked by sea water. He looks out at the sea.

  The shark hasn’t moved. Noah can see mottled patterns across its back. The nose shaped like a missile, the ventilation-slits of its gills. ‘Sand shark.’ He whispers it to him
self. Without the magnification of the diving-mask, the shark is less than three feet long. Its pectorals move gently in the current. Its eyes are quite still, fixed on nothing. As if it never noticed he was there.

  He begins to cry, cursing himself in French. Crétin, idiot. The sobs are like laughter, then no longer like laughter. The old man’s face is screwed up, tears running into his beard. He tries to wipe them away but his face is already wet with sea water. He tries anyway. He sits on the rocks until the blood and water have dried on him and he is shivering in the wind.

  The nautilus shell is at the water’s edge where it fell. He picks it up. The sun has dried the mother-of-pearl, the lustre is gone. The colours of the shell are dull with dust and erosion. He tries to wipe it clean. Then he stops.

  He stands up. It’s a long way back to the hotel and the people waiting there for him. He starts to walk, the shell cradled in both hands, so that it will not break.

  The Memory Man

  for George Szirtes

  She is dressed as a waitress. She is running the fingers of her left hand over the knuckles of her right hand. Feeling her own movement through her skin.

  ‘Anything to go with that?’

  I look away. Next to me is an older woman with a pad and pencil, waiting. Long crimped hair, the same nylon uniform. I shake my head because I can think of nothing to say. She brings me my tea and leaves me alone. I sit and watch Mercedes as she serves the late-night customers. She speaks English with an accent like mine. I try not to stay too long or to attract attention.

  This is not what I expected or where I expected it to happen. I have been looking for this woman for twenty years. And now I have found her I don’t know what to do. She is still very beautiful. A lone pensioner comes in. He leans towards her as he speaks.

  ‘Do you have our three Scotch eggs, love? For our tea.’

  She looks up. Black skin, blond hair, blond eyes, a scar between the eyebrows like a frown. She points at the plastic menu on the wall. The old man cranes round. He has a fading cardboard name tag on his jacket: CAMDEN LIBRARIES HELP GROUP: ELDON EVANS.

  ‘I can’t be doing with that, do you not have our Scotch eggs?’

  She shakes her head. He calls her a bleached hoor and leaves. It is three minutes and eleven seconds to midnight and the display glass is oily with steam and perspiration. I am the last customer. She doesn’t recognise me. She leans against the end table, taking the weight off her legs. Her hair is not bleached.

  I sit at my own Formica table with my hands closed around my cup of tea. I have already been here too long, watching her. There is nothing left to do except talk to her. But I don’t know what to say and I don’t want to scare her. I sit and watch her living in this place we have both come to.

  The Alba Fish Bar. I came in to get out of the rain. It smells of potato bleach and the cigarettes of stallholders from Chapel Market. The neon lighting is the exact blue of a pregnancy test. There is a fishtank in the display window, empty and scummed with dry algae. Where my hands have touched the table they smell of bleach.

  Cod costs £1.95, rock salmon £1.50. The junior fryer microwaves factory peas in polystyrene dishes. At closing time Mercedes eats scratchings with vinegar, crouched avidly over the plate. I can see her teeth through the curtain of her hair.

  She looks like a killer; it shows in a disfigurement of expression, a lack of warmth. No one seems to notice. The fryers stand at the chrome counter in their plastic straw hats and argue in low voices.

  ‘Come on, Ev. Let me clean up now.’

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘Come on, Ev. There’s just one more geezer.’ ‘Five minutes. Tuck your shirt in.’

  The fryers call her Di, not Mercedes. I had almost forgotten that searching for her would lead to this. But I have never forgotten her. She is the only woman I have ever hated. I mean this not-forgetting in a special way. After all, I have never forgotten anything.

  I must go gently. At five minutes past twelve I leave without talking to her. I spend the night in the King’s Cross Scala Cinema, watching a cheap triple bill of science fiction films. The seats are warm and smell of hot-dog mustard and stage dust. I try not to think of her. My eyes are dry with concentration.

  The next day I come back at noon and she isn’t there. I order a piece of fish. It tastes of oil and refrigeration and I have trouble finishing it. A notice has been lodged inside the window above the fishtank: VACANCY FRYER. A number and address in White City.

  I walk to Angel Underground and ring the number from a telephone shelter. A man with an island Greek accent answers. He is busy; he asks me to come tomorrow with my passport and papers. I have an interview.

  I stay in a hotel behind Tottenham Court Road and sleep for several hours. In the morning it is hot again and my thin hair sticks when I comb it across my scalp. I walk to the business address. Twice I make wrong turnings. Around me London is grey as its name. When I arrive I am more tired than I should be, dizzy and sweating. The man who opens the door doesn’t shake my hand.

  He has the sour mouth of someone who worries about no-claims bonuses. His sweat smells of raw onions. ‘Bloody diabolical ozone weather. Hot as Cyprus. Have you been to Cyprus, Rafael?’

  ‘Not recently.’ In the corner of the office, an electric fan revolves its head to face me. The man puts down my curriculum vitae and slicks back his hair.

  ‘I have to tell you, my friend, I have never seen a résumé like this. You get around, don’t you? You’ve got everything here except relevant experience.’ He presses his soft palms against the desktop and stares at his hands. As if they are holding something back.

  ‘Let me ask you a question.’ There is a pepper mill next to his hands, orange plastic. ‘Where d’you see yourself in ten years’ time?’ The pepper mill rests on a pile of dusty menus for the Alba Fish Bar. The office feels like a shut-down restaurant. Traffic hoots in the gridlock outside.

  In ten years I will most certainly be dead. I think of something more appropriate.

  ‘In your seat.’

  The man smiles. His name is Tony Dumitriu. He owns the Alba Fish Bar. He is going to give me a job. The sun does dental work on his gold teeth.

  ‘I like it,’ he says. ‘Eh? I like my fryers with a bit of life in them.’ He’s nodding and shaking his head, as if I’ve made a good joke. ‘You’re right, though. Chips is where I started out. Now I got my own place. First chips, then up to chicken, then fish, with the skill and responsibility of that kind of position –’

  The fan turns towards me again. I close my eyes to preserve their moisture. I visualise my memory as a bare bulb in a room without windows. It clicks on. Perfect illumination.

  In my head is an image of the office, more accurate than a photograph in its depth of sensuality. An eidetic picture. The diffuse window-light smells of turpentine. This is a side-effect of my condition; odours of light and shades of sound. A pastiche of senses.

  My eyes swivel behind their physical lids. Total recall. Worked in wax, Tony Dumitriu sweats behind his desk. The menus are in front of him. There is an eleven-digit telephone number on the menu covers. I don’t need to read it now; I have it like a photograph. Above the number is a picture of the Alba Fish Bar. Five fryers and waitresses lined up in front of an oversized stainless-steel extractor fan.

  The late-shift waitress is the only one not smiling. Black skin, blonde eyes, blonde hair, a scar between her eyebrows like a frown. Her name is Mercedes Dolores Delaura Oe. Her skin tastes like sea salt.

  I open my eyes. Only Tony Dumitriu and the rotating fan have moved.

  ‘You don’t mind me smoking,’ he says. It’s not a question. I watch him wet the cigarette with his damp fingers. He exhales. The fan drives swathes through the smoke. He looks at me properly for the first time.

  ‘Rafael Tanigawa. I’ve never heard a name like that.’

  ‘My parents came to Brazil from Japan after the war. Refugees. It was not unusual.’

  ‘OK.’ He stubs out th
e new cigarette and licks his lips. ‘I want to give you the job, Rafael. But I have some queries. Forty-seven’s a little old to be starting at the chip-frying level. You could be using some of this other – he waves at the paper – experience. Croupier, sign-painter, accountancy, yes? I won’t pay you extra just because you’re good with numbers. So let me ask you one last question: what do you want out of the Alba Fish Bar?’

  I fold my hands in my lap. Not because I want to move them, but because my lack of motion is making the man uncomfortable. I put my head to one side, like a waiter, and smile. ‘To be honest, Mister Dumitriu, I need the money now, I saw the advert now. I hope I can be honest.’

  His face relaxes back into a smile. ‘I’m glad you want to be. Makes me feel good. Well, I think we can arrange that. Any questions?’

  ‘Do you know of a room to rent near the restaurant?’

  Of course he does. He deducts the deposit from my first month’s wages. I find my own way out.

  The first thing I remember is not my birth but the dull sweet smell of rice and black beans, my mother counting out cruzeiro bills under a ‘Pictures of Jesus’ calendar. I am four years old. Since then I have forgotten nothing. Ten years later my voice broke. I understand very little about either of these changes. But they seem natural to me. I accept photographic memory in the same way I accept my voice.

  I cannot face the walk back across London, so I wait by the side of the road for a taxi. It takes a long time. I have to lean against a fence topped with razor wire. I think about this, my first memory, until a black cab arrives. It is an effort to raise my arm.

  I have a clear image of my memories. There is a small room with white walls, no windows, only a bulb hanging on its flex. When I click on the bulb, I can see the memories. Everything I recall is in this room, but the room itself I remember from no time. It may be like a dream. I have never had a dream.