by Ferenc Máté
He caught himself at once: It’s not the Aranui and you know it. It comes but once a month, exactly on the same day. The Aranui has four more days to go. And if that’s not the Aranui on the horizon, it can only be the frigate. But it’s best not to think of that; get on with your life. “Which is exactly what?” he asked himself aloud. Then he heard the ship’s bell ringing thrice, the same way he used to ring the bell when he called his flock to mass. He thought he was dreaming until he looked back at the ketch.
The Finn stood in the cockpit ringing the ship’s bell, waving his arm broadly, beckoning.
Father Murphy thought he heard some words, but the only one he could make out he thought was “hard.”
What is “hard”? he thought. Life is “hard.” Every bloody thing in bleeding life is hard. That’s no bloody news. Certainly not news enough to ring the bloody bell. But he waded into the sea up to his knees with his black cassock flowing around him in the foam, as if coming a few feet closer would help to solve the puzzle of what’s “hard.”
The Finn had climbed into the pirogue and with mighty strokes paddled toward him. Father Murphy wished he hadn’t drunk so much the night before.
When the Finn closed in, his hoarse voice came clearly. “Testard,” it was saying, “Testard.” Then, “Last rites.”
Father Murphy became suddenly sober, but couldn’t for the life of him remember the last rites. He hadn’t given one for years, the natives never let him go near their dying, and now he fumbled about in his memory for the words. “Dearly beloved,” he rushed in a murmur, “we have come together in the presence of Almighty God . . .” No, that wasn’t it. He waded toward the pirogue. “Maybe it’s with penitent and obedient hearts, that we confess our sins . . .” No, that wasn’t it either. He slipped and sank up to his neck in a wave.
The Finn steered hard to keep the pirogue headfirst through the sea. Father Murphy clambered in and they paddled back.
The stream of black smoke grew darker on the horizon.
GUILLAUME FOUND HIS BAG and slung it over a shoulder. He turned and followed the creek down through the village to a hillock of voluptuous mangoes. He saw the crumbling meae where Joya said he should turn down a thin path to the sea and the demi. He neared. I’m here to help, he kept telling himself. I’m here for the common good. He moved down the path until he saw the sea and the hut on stilts in the shallow lagoon.
You should have stayed with Joya, he thought. Just a few days until the Aranui comes, then if you asked her—no, if you insisted—she would have gone with you. Where? Anywhere.
There was no movement below him at the hut, but to be sure, he sat and waited. He didn’t know how much time had passed when he heard a muffled cry. Startled, he jumped to his feet. The cry came again, of pain, but held in. He hurried down the slope to the shore.
At a thicket of bamboo, he stopped. A yellow flickering light shone down through the leaves. Before him was the hut. An old woman came out of the hut, a basket on her arm, and waded ashore. She walked along the forest, reaching up now and then for fruit. Guillaume circled, keeping the hut between the old woman and himself, then he waded, without a sound, into the lagoon.
In the shadow of the palms he put his face against the hut’s slats. The demi lay on her side next to the doorway. She lay with her head resting on her arm, with only a tapa draped across her thighs, and she ran her hand over her swollen belly, lit by the sunlight tumbling through the door. There was something majestic about her—the repose, the straight nose, the perfect mouth and noble chin. Guillaume understood how she could bewitch a man. And for an instant a jealousy ran through him, one he could not recall having felt before; he felt jealous of all men who lusted after women.
He heard the old woman returning and he ducked below the floor of the hut into the darkness. Then, without a ripple, he eased himself underwater and swam along the bottom toward shore, stirring up sand with his fingers as he went.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he scrambled up the slope, up to an outcropping with a clear view of the hut. No one could come or go without him getting a clear shot. He pulled out his revolver, checked it, cleaned it. Drawing back into the shadows, he waited. With the warm breeze over him he must have dozed off, or surely he would have heard something before he felt, on his neck, the cool, gentle touch of the muzzle of a gun.
Chapter 45
Nello had turned uphill. He hadn’t really meant to, but when he reached the path using the rifle as a crutch, the last push of the rifle made him bear right, so he turned uphill, away from the ketch, away from where everything in him said he should have gone.
He wasn’t sure what he’d say to Darina when he saw her, if he ever found her, or to Dugger when he returned—if he was still there, if the ketch was still there—he just pushed on uphill, into the gloomy canyon, until he heard footsteps grind on broken rock ahead. He stepped off the path deep among the ferns, and let the great fronds of the ferns shroud thickly over him. The steps grew louder, closer, and he pumped the lever of the Winchester gently, but it made a metallic click no matter how he tried. The steps abruptly stopped.
Goddammit, Nello thought, whoever that is knows the sound of guns. He pointed the barrel at where he had last heard the steps. Then he heard the thud of rifle butts knock together. Good, he thought. As long as they’re moving, they’re not ready to shoot. But he felt the sweat break quickly over him. He saw slow movement through the ferns. He leaned his shoulder against a tree trunk to steady his aim, somewhere about chest-height. He was looking forward to the invigorating thunder of the gun. He slid his finger down the trigger for more leverage, when he heard grunts and sighs louder than the pounding of his heart. The rifle butts banged again, and he wondered if he could get two men with one shot, when he heard an angry grumble: “If you want to ambush someone, smoke a less putrid cigar.”
“Goddammit, Cappy!” Nello hissed. “I bloody nearly shot you!”
“Well, you didn’t, so quit yelling. You ever been to a Turkish Bath? This place is steamier than a Turkish bath. Darina said you were hurt.”
“Is she all right?”
“Was she ever all right?”
He pushed through the last frond and stood pouring sweat, his hat crushed in his hand, his eyes rings of fatigue.
“How’s Kate?”
“Kate’s okay. She’s better.”
“One hell of a lady.”
“So is Blue Eyes. She’s up there. Maybe a quarter mile.” He reset the rifle straps on his shoulders so the rifle butts sat snugly on his hips.
The sound of gasping breaths rose behind them on the trail. Nello aimed. Dugger ducked to give him a clear shot.
FATHER MURPHY CLUTCHED THE BIBLE between his knees and paddled with all his might, with the Finn straining right behind him, and thought, Blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter through the gates into the city. For without are dogs, and sorcerers and whoremongers, and murderers and idolaters, not to mention the French frigate with a great big cannon that can blow this island into kingdom come.
He pulled hard and they rammed into the ketch with a thud. He stood up quickly and crossed himself. “And the grace of our Lord be with you. Amen.”
“Move, Padre,” the Finn said, pushing him aboard in one quick motion. “Because the grace of your Lord won’t be with him much longer.”
TESTARD LAY IN THE SHADE of the awning, with Kate beside him holding his hand. He mumbled in a near-whisper, “. . . We’re a benevolent nation. We are men of good will . . .” Father Murphy knelt beside him, but Testard just raved on as if the priest weren’t there. “To inspire the joy of hard labor. Murder and theft will disappear, and marriage will create, in the end, the true and only—” He coughed with convulsion but without strength.
“For God’s sake, man,” the Finn hissed at the priest, “say what you have to say and let him die in peace.”
Father Murphy trembled with uncontrollable fear. “I can’t
remember,” he mumbled. “I can’t remember the last rites . . . It’s been solong ...”
“You damned old drunk,” the Finn growled. “Tell him anything. Tell him a bedtime story. Here.” And he grabbed the Bible from the priest, whipped it open, and threw it in his lap. “Read any damned thing.”
With shaking hands, Father Murphy held the book and his eyes fell on the page and he read with trembling voice, “And Jesus said unto him, This day is salvation come to this house, For the Son of man is come to seek . . .”
Testard had risen. With his last vestige of strength and the Finn’s help, he sat halfway up. “. . . les indigènes doivent être surveillés de très près, comme des enfants. Mes enfants. Mes chers, chers, chers enfants.”
“May the Lord Jesus Christ protect you,” the priest rattled. Then he touched Testard’s forehead with his thumb, but, not remembering the phrase, stopped himself and turned red.
“We’ll need oil, won’t we?” Kate prompted in a whisper.
The priest looked at her, astonished. “I anoint thee,” it suddenly came to him, and he gave Testard the sign of the cross. He looked pleadingly at them. “I have no oil,” he said.
Kate rose slowly, protecting her wounds, and went below. She came back at once with a greasy puddle in her palm. The priest dipped his finger in it but grimaced with doubt.
“It’s lard,” Kate whispered. “It’s all we have.”
The priest ran his finger over Testard’s feverish forehead. “I anoint thee with the . . . oil of sanctification in the name of the Trinity that thou mayest be saved for ever and ever.”
Testard smiled. His gaze went inward. “Mes enfants,” he whispered for the last time.
“You are not dying alone,” Kate prompted in a whisper.
“You are not dying alone,” the priest repeated. “You die with Christ, who promises and brings you your eternal life.”
Testard went limp, seemingly content. He looked with immense gratitude at Kate’s loving gaze. Tears filled his eyes and he raised a hand toward her face and whispered barely audibly, “The beauty . . . The beauty.”
The Finn let him down gently to the deck. “Son of a bitch,” he murmured. “So much for our ticket with the French.” He stood and looked above the awning, past the masts, beyond the cabin, where the dark smoke, like some filthy rag, dangled in the sky. I wonder who’ll be next, he thought, to get smeared with holy lard.
NELLO HELF HIS FIRE as the figure rushed passed them, then recognizing the long limbs, the smooth strides. He called out, “Lil’bit.”
The girl stopped and turned. She pushed toward them through the scrub and, catching her breath, said, “The frigate is coming. There is smoke on the sea.”
“When will it get here?” Dugger blurted.
For a second she was startled by the new voice, then she looked up through the bowers at the sun. “Near dark,” she said. Then, with a movement like a deer taking flight, she was off running hard over the broken ground, uphill toward the plateau.
Dugger froze in sudden helplessness, then, pushing toward the path, he growled, “If they catch us . . .”
“We have done no wrong.”
“If Testard arrested us, why wouldn’t they?”
“Testard can vouch we helped him.”
“I’d rather run.”
“Outrun a frigate?”
Dugger stopped. “You’ve got half an hour,” he said. “If you’re not back, I’m sailing without you.” And he turned and headed downhill toward the ketch.
Nello took the rifle and hobbled up the hill.
WITH THE GUN TO HIS HEAD, Guillaume sat, unmoving. You’re finished, he thought. The second time in two days you have dropped your guard. Whoever it is came silently, but that’s no excuse. And there was no love to distract you this time. No passion. No Joya. Just you. Careless you.
He began to turn his head, but the gun pressed harder and he froze. “I have money,” he said in French, and repeated it in English when there was no reply. When there was still no sound, he added, “I have fourteen tons of gold.”
The holder of the gun made a nasal sound, a snicker. Then silence. Minutes passed.
Nothing moved anywhere and Guillaume started thinking that perhaps there was no gun, just a branch he was leaning against, and maybe he had just imagined the snicker, until he heard feet shifting slightly. He began to calculate the distance between his elbow and the gunman’s thigh. He had to be there standing upright; he couldn’t be leaning forward and holding that position for such a long time. If Guillaume spun fast enough to drive his elbow in the man’s knee, the side of his knee to knock him off balance, then roll while with his other hand he raised and fired his gun . . . Unless, of course, it was a rifle and the man was out of reach. But then you can roll, grab the rifle barrel, and fire at the same time. His concentration must be broken by now. He must be tiring standing there. But why doesn’t he speak? Or do something? What is he waiting for?
“What is it you want?” he asked. And was surprised when the gunman whispered, “Shhh.”
Then came the cry.
It was shrill but from a great depth as if from the deepest part of a soul, not of fear but pain, and not pain without pleasure. The old woman he had been watching jumped. She swung her feet up over the sill of the hut and disappeared inside. There were words and calming sounds, then another cry, longer than the last. Across the cove, in the low steep scrub, someone began to move. The scrub shook and Guillaume looked but saw only movement without a shape, and not until it burst out onto the sand did he see the tattooed man, his tattoos glowing dark blue in the sun. He moved with hurried strides along the shore, slowing only when he was near the hut. He waded in and pushed on toward the door.
Guillaume squeezed the grip of his pistol and began imperceptibly to raise it along his leg. The gunman must have been distracted watching the hut, because there was no change in the pressure of the barrel of the gun. The tattooed man was looking into the hut, and Guillaume was aching to raise his pistol aim and fire; he would never again get such a close and easy shot, easy except for the gun against his head. That was when he first smelled the gardenias.
IN SILENT AWE the tattooed man watched the demi in the hut roll her head from side to side. She had her knees up, legs apart, and the old woman was massaging her legs to keep the muscles loose, prevent them from cramping, and sometimes with a wet tapa cloth she wiped the demi’s brow. The demi looked elated, in pain, and beautiful, and a deep ache and sharp bitterness filled the tattooed man. He tried to concentrate on the shadow between her thighs, waiting to see a small head appear, tried to share the demi’s expectation, but all he could feel was envy of the unborn child upon whose birth the demi now focused her life.
The old woman began to hum, a slow soothing melody, and she gently rocked the demi where she lay, until her limbs slackened and she closed her eyes and smiled. “Sleep a while, child,” the old woman said. “It will not be born while the sun is high.”
The tattooed man drew back from the wall and moved pensively through the water to the shore. Once there, he looked out to sea at the vast blue water and sky, then he walked unhurriedly back along the shore.
LIKE SHOOTING FISH IN A BARREL, Guillaume thought, watching him. But you have to shoot him now; ten more steps and he’ll be gone for good, safe in the thick scrub along the shore.
He squeezed the handle of his pistol, coiled his leg muscles, then as violently as he could he moved. He whipped his head to the side and down, rolled to his left, swinging back his arm, and as it hit the rifle barrel, he swung his pistol up, and without aiming, without looking, with his head still down, he fired. He was facedown in the dirt when the body fell beside him. And on the ground rolled a crown of fresh gardenias.
Chapter 46
The day went suddenly dark, with only a slit of sunlight cutting through the clouds. Exhausted, Darina sat on a stone. Folds of hibiscus bushes shrouded over her. A quick rain came, slanting through the sunlight pattering on the
leaves, making the flowers tremble. The world oozed color: hibiscus petals glowed against the dark green like hot coals, red and white, with pink-ringed centers.
Her eyes burned from fatigue. She turned her face up to the sky and let the rain wash over them. She was holding her face up when Lil’bit ran by. She saw her fleetingly through the trees, a bit of her here, an angle of her there.
The rain drenched Darina, awakened her. She pushed herself to her feet and fought through the undergrowth to the path turning uphill. She had gone some distance when someone called her name. She stopped. The voice called again, hesitant but urgent. Recognizing Nello’s voice, she calmed. He came through the speckled light, hobbling, toward her, stopping only when they stood face-to-face.
“Are you all right?” he asked, out of breath, and his gaze raced over her.
“I’m fine,” she said as strongly as she could manage, but seeing his concern, she felt her eyes tear up. “And you?” she said looking at his leg.
“It’s nothing.” Then he said, “The frigate is coming. It would be best to go.”
“Go where?”
“I’m not sure. Out to sea. Another island. Anywhere.” When he saw she remained unconvinced he added, “We can come back when it’s all over. When things quiet down.”
“When my brother is dead.”
“Are you so sure he’s here?”
“I’m not sure of anything.”
For a moment she seemed to him frailer than before, seemed to tremble slightly as if the ground shook under her.
Darina leaned slightly forward, sure that if he moved toward her, gave even a nod, she would just keep leaning and fall into his arms. She would wrap her arms around his neck and hope that he would hold her, hard, comforting, protecting her from all harm. But he didn’t.
He stood there watching the veins throb on her temples, watching her eyelids sag, waiting for a sign of yearning or wanting that would encourage him to move, to sweep her up like one does a tired child, into his arms, and carry her with long strides down to the harbor, the ketch, out to sea; out into the enormous safety of the empty sea.
