Fishing for Stars

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘It’s a start,’ Anna said quietly. There followed an awkward silence between us. I sensed she was aware of my unspoken disappointment. Then she said suddenly, ‘Nicholas, we can do this together.’

  ‘What, buy slum houses?’ I said somewhat disparagingly.

  ‘Property. My rich clients call it from rents to riches, buying at teardown prices and selling at skyscraper rates.’

  ‘In your dreams, Anna! We’re in scrap metal merging into the shipping business. My two partners will think . . . well I don’t know what they’ll think, but it won’t be about property development, that I can assure you.’

  Unaware at the time of the training she had received at the hands of Konoe Akira, I simply regarded Anna’s determination to succeed as the result of her appalling experiences under the Japanese. Now as a single woman in a dog-eat-dog world where nobody seemed to care what happened to her it was hardly surprising that she wanted financial security; something more anyway than the income, uncertainty and associated problems that I felt sure would be involved in running an illegal high-class whorehouse. But what the hell did Anna know about buying rundown houses for future property development?

  Even if I thought it a good idea, and I didn’t, I couldn’t ask my two American partners, Kevin Judge and Joe Popkin, to get involved. They’d think I’d popped my lid. I smiled inwardly. In my mind I could hear Kevin saying in his Chicago slum accent, ‘It dat cockamamie island, Nick. Too much fuckin’ sun, baby! Put some ice inside’a yer hat, wear dem dark glasses and take a aspro!’

  Joe, on the other hand, would listen carefully, then shake his dark head slowly like the swing of a pendulum. ‘I don’t think so, Nick mah man. Dis prop-o-zee-tion ain’t for such as me. Nosirree! Did you say dis chick, she got herself a heroowin habit, like she a smack queen? If she bin chasin’ da dragon she gonna burn, man, burn!’

  I dismissed the idea of Anna’s property dreams more or less out of hand, but if I didn’t want to lose her from my life, I’d have to think of something else to capture her imagination. Although I was beginning to realise that I wasn’t really all that close to possessing her.

  Increasingly, Anna struck me as the kind of woman one could never take for granted. Beautiful as she was, she was never going to be someone’s handbag. Still, romance wasn’t what this visit was all about. It was about helping her. While I was certain Anna would not take kindly to being kidnapped and so forced to go through the long and painful process of heroin withdrawal, in the end she would understand. I even saw myself as a bit of a hero, although I wondered if I possessed the strength of mind to persist when things got really bad, as I had been told they assuredly would. This was, I realised, a test for both of us. It might even decide whether we had a future together. I was risking the loss of any affection she may have felt for me.

  Whereas my passion had been rekindled almost immediately, Anna appeared hesitant and unable to recover the spontaneous affection she had shown when we’d first known each other. Despite my declaration of love, she had not yet expressed any feeling for me. I recalled my churlish and self-indulgent assumptions when Marg announced she was going to marry Rob Rich, and told myself I had learned my lesson and had no right to expect anything simply because we’d shared a relationship in the past, although I was fairly confident something good, something close, remained between us. I convinced myself that, at the very least, she had decided to trust me, even though her experience may have taught her to trust no one else. She had come to Beautiful Bay with eighty persimmon trees to plant, trusting me enough to charge me with planting one each year on her birthday. Eighty seeds adds up to a long time. I decided rather arrogantly perhaps that she would eventually learn to love me again. It was a chance I had to take.

  When we had finally finished our tea I rose and took Anna’s hand. ‘Come,’ I instructed, ‘the gardeners have prepared the soil; you have five persimmon seeds to plant.’

  Anna became strangely excited. ‘Where will we plant them, Nicholas?’

  ‘Well, eventually there will be eighty trees. I’ve measured the length of the driveway, and planting them ten feet apart would take the last tree almost exactly to the front gate.’

  Anna planted the first five seeds, carefully smoothing the soil over each with her palm. I handed her a watering can then moved a short distance away so that she could baptise each seed in what seemed to be a private ceremony of grief. As she completed the last one I heard her sob, ‘Sayonara, Konoe-san.’ It would be many years before I knew the story behind the seeds.

  Which brings me back to the moment when I stood watching Anna, the wind lifting her hair and her slender body reminding me of the Spirit of Ecstasy. Although she was patently nobody’s mascot, in the short time we had been reacquainted I realised that she had become a woman with an iron will, and a quick, clever and inquiring mind; a woman who backed her own instincts. The next six weeks would not be easy.

  I had provisioned, fuelled and taken on board sufficient water, bought all the toiletries, creams, cleansing lotions, unguents, whatever she might need, with the help of the little French assistant at the chemist shop. We’d blushed mutually when she’d thoughtfully included a packet of sanitary napkins and I’d stupidly asked her what they were. I’d purchased a dozen knickers from La Petite Boutique owned by a very large woman with a mole on her nose, petite as a female elephant. I bought six pairs of shorts and the same number of tops, two sets of ladies’ pyjamas, two sweaters, two sunhats in case one blew overboard in a sudden breeze, a weatherproof jacket and bad-weather gear. In each instance I guessed her size, erring half a size larger and hoping for the best. I knew nothing whatsoever about female clobber, so stuck to shorts and shirts, skirts and dresses being well beyond my grasp. As an afterthought I even purchased chopsticks from one of the Vietnamese shops in town, thinking that while she was accustomed to knife and fork she might prefer the chopsticks she would have used under the Japanese.

  The decision about when to tell Anna was easy enough – after the moonlight picnic when hopefully she’d had a couple of glasses of champagne and felt relaxed. If Anna was a little sozzled it might be easier for her to accept what I had decided to do.

  While Anna had agreed to go cold turkey for a week, the expert advice I had received was that she would almost certainly have brought a secret supply (a stash) with her to Beautiful Bay in case her withdrawal became unbearable. However, I reasoned that she wouldn’t have brought any heroin on board, surmising that she would not have the privacy to give herself a fix. If she’d brought any with her she’d chase the dragon before we left, wanting to be at her best for the evening picnic and knowing we’d return before midnight. Chasing the dragon is a way of imbibing heroin by smoking it so that there are no outward signs, no needle marks to reveal addiction. As I previously mentioned, all this apparent expertise I had acquired was second-hand and I had no way of knowing what might happen. I was, as the saying goes, flying blind.

  Dinner was simple enough: cold roast chicken, new potatoes and a mixed salad. At the suggestion of a French chef I knew on the island I’d purchased an expensive bottle of French champagne named Cristal. He assured me it was a great drop and, in the name of l’amour, he’d presented me with two champagne glasses and lent me an ice bucket. Dessert was a gooseberry mousse bought from a French patisserie in Port Vila.

  The open sea was calm with the breeze persisting and I tied the tiller to a fixed course that would take us to a small island. I spread a cloth on deck and we sat on cushions. Anna, I noted, knelt quite naturally in the geisha style with her feet tucked under her, back straight, so that she was balanced on the back of her heels. I confess I thought nothing of this at the time, nor the fact that she assumed control of the food, serving me personally, completely attentive, seemingly waiting for my approval with each mouthful. She placed no food on her own plate until I was forced to remark, ‘Anna, you are not eating?’

  ‘It is a pleasure to watch you,’ she replied.

  ‘Hmm, I�
�ll have to watch my table manners,’ I grinned, then added, ‘Perhaps a little chicken . . . a small glass of champagne to keep me company?’ I added casually, hoping like hell I remembered the instructions my mate the chef had given me on how to pop the cork without it flying off into the sea. (‘This is not professional,’ he’d sternly advised me.) I reached over and lifted the bottle from the ice bucket, removed the foil and untwisted the loop of wire, then eased the cork out of the bottle with a small and professionally perfect pop. A wisp of gas escaped from the bottle before the fizz of white bubbles appeared and started to pour spontaneously from the spout. I panicked. Grabbing frantically for a champagne glass, I filled it to the brim with froth and bubbles.

  ‘Shit, what now?’ I exclaimed involuntarily.

  ‘Let it settle,’ Anna laughed, adding, ‘You did that very well. Add a little more when the bubbles have settled.’

  So much for Mr Suave. ‘We must drink to the good fortune that brought us together again,’ I said, trying to recover my poise while handing her the now settled and half-filled glass.

  Anna’s expression suddenly saddened. ‘Oh, Nicholas, I hope it will be nice for us.’

  My heart skipped a beat knowing what must come when we’d completed the meal at about the time we reached the small island, which Anna would expect us to sail around before heading back to port. I knew I could no longer delay telling her of the plan to keep her captive at sea. ‘Anna, there has been a lot of water under the bridge, but it is still the same bridge, same bricks, same railings to hold onto so that we don’t fall; it has two ends and meets in the middle.’ I held up my glass. ‘To us . . . to meeting in the middle.’

  We clinked glasses and Anna took a tiny sip, her eyes cast downwards. Oh, God, what is she thinking? Then she looked up at me directly and to my relief her eyes, clearly seen in the moonlight, were smiling. She waved her glass so that her gesture seemed to encompass Madam Butterfly. ‘Oh, Nicholas, it was like this when I was a child, in this same boat, Papa and me, we would go out and have a picnic on board and find a small island and make a fire and sleep there for the night. In the morning we would sail home.’

  ‘We can do that!’ I said with alacrity. ‘There is a tiny island called Hat Island, less than an hour away to the north-east. It’s only a narrow strip of beach but the tide is out and we’ll be awake before it comes in again. I have sleeping bags on board.’

  I saw a hesitant look appear on Anna’s face before it was masked by a soft smile. ‘I am not ready yet, Nicholas.’

  ‘What? To sleep on a sandy beach and wake up in paradise?’ I grinned. ‘I’ll wake you up with a cup of coffee, condensed milk, hot and sweet as early-morning sunshine.’

  Anna looked directly at me. ‘You know what I mean, Nicholas. I cannot now sleep mit you. I have kept myself for you, always you, but now it is not yet the time.’

  Anna’s grammar had deteriorated, she was upset, though I couldn’t help wondering whether it was because she knew she would wake up needing a fix or because she wanted more time for our renewed relationship to develop. I reached out and took her hand. ‘Anna, there’s plenty of time. It’s not why you’ve come and I understand. I promise you will be safe.’ I grinned, adding a little lamely, ‘Safe from my clumsy clutches on the beach.’

  ‘No! No! You are not clumsy, Nicholas! Some other time I would love to stay on this island, but tonight we go home.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘I want to wake up in Beautiful Bay where I have planted the seeds for the persimmon; that is enough for now; I cannot want more.’

  ‘Anna, it’s only twenty minutes’ sailing. We’ll go ashore and I’ll make a fire and you can have that coffee tonight and not in the morning.’ Oh shit, what now? Should we stay on board? Should I tell her now? Face the consequences? Get it over with? The island wasn’t much more than a jumped-up coral reef. In profile it looked like a hat with a strip of beach and a tuft of jungle at its centre, but if Anna was going to resist me, there was less chance on shore of her falling overboard or getting knocked about. A yacht of just thirty feet is all bits and pieces, awkward angles and it’s very easy to fall and hurt yourself. If I needed to restrain her it would be a lot easier and safer to do so ashore. I had no idea what to expect or how she might react when I told her what was in store for us.

  ‘Yes, that will be nice, darling,’ she replied, her voice once again relaxed, syntax perfect.

  Anna hadn’t called me ‘darling’ very much in the few weeks we had known each other the second time around and I confess I ached to hear it as an endearment, no matter how casual. Now, knowing what I was about to do, the trust it implied filled me with dread.

  We reached the island not long afterwards. Bathed in the moonlight, the strip of white sandy beach gleamed against the dark backdrop of the silhouetted jungle. If I say so myself, it looked wonderfully romantic. ‘Our own desert island,’ I quipped as we reached the shallows and I dropped anchor close in.

  We waded ashore, the water not much above Anna’s knees. The sou’-westerly had almost dropped away and the humidity, always present at this time of the year, was somewhat alleviated by an offshore breeze.

  I quickly collected sufficient driftwood for a small fire. The tinder was somewhat damp from the receding tide and so I removed my shirt and used it to flap the curl of smoke to fire, casting it aside as the kindling licked into flame. I boiled the billy and tossed in a couple of tablespoons of coffee from a jar, then pouring the dark liquid into two tin mugs stirred in a generous portion of sweetened condensed milk. ‘Nothing nicer than this after a good dinner,’ I said, the moonlight so bright that I could see the blue rim of the white enamel mug and the steam rising from the surface of the coffee as I handed it to Anna. ‘Careful, it’s very hot,’ I cautioned. Reaching for my own cup, I placed it on the sand and sat on my haunches facing her.

  Anna blew at the lip of the mug and then took a tiny, cautious sip, drawing back. ‘Hmm, hot . . . delicious,’ she announced. She looked at me through the steam rising from the surface of the mug. ‘We must do this more often.’

  ‘Anna, there is something . . .’ I began.

  Her expression was immediately cautious. ‘Something? What is it, Nicholas?’

  ‘Please understand it is for your own good,’ I stammered.

  ‘What?’ she asked sharply, lowering the mug. ‘What is for mijn own good?’

  ‘Coming clean, the heroin, your addiction.’ I was making a hopeless mess of explaining.

  Anna glared at me. ‘So?’

  ‘So, well, we are not going home tonight. We’ll be at sea six weeks, then you’ll be cured . . . clean.’

  ‘You bastard! You fucking bastard!’ I managed to jerk my face away just as the scalding hot coffee hit. There followed a moment when I felt nothing and then an excruciating pain spread across my chest and the side of my neck. I jumped to my feet, rushed across the narrow beach and dived into the shallow water.

  When I emerged, I turned and stood facing the beach, water dripping from my hair and body. Anna had reached the shoreline and was stepping into the water holding my own mug of coffee. In the bright moonlight I could see the rage in her eyes and the curl to her lips. ‘Come, there is more, you bastard!’ she snarled, then furiously splashing towards me she hurled the contents of my mug at me, the coffee splashing harmlessly into the surf a foot or so short of where I stood.

  ‘Anna! Anna! Please,’ I cried, arms spread wide, palms open as I started to walk towards her.

  ‘Dog shit!’ she screamed and hurled the empty mug at me.

  I rushed forward and grabbed her. Lifting her out of the water, I held her tightly against my scalded chest. She managed to get one arm loose and I felt her long fingernails rake the side of my face and down across the section of burned skin on my neck. The pain was so intense I gasped and for a moment lost it. ‘You bitch!’ I yelled furiously, then lifted her across my shoulder and ran splashing onto the beach. I couldn’t think what to do next except perhaps to hurl her angrily onto the wet
sand. But then suddenly I started to laugh, and carrying her towards a coral rock worn smooth from the constant pounding of the tide, I sat down and placed Anna across my knee. Holding her down with one hand, with the flat of the other I gave her a damn good spanking. She jerked, cried out, then realising she couldn’t escape my grasp, she started to whimper and moan with each whack, but when she let out an anguished cry I immediately stopped spanking and removed my restraining hand. It was to be the first and last time I would ever raise my hand in anger to a woman.

  Anna lifted herself from my knee, sobbing and panting. I was surprised to see that her beautiful blue eyes were no longer angry, her expression seemed contrite, almost loving. ‘Oh, Nicholas, you are bleeding!’ she cried. ‘Your beautiful face!’

  ‘It’s not my face, woman! It’s my bloody neck and chest!’ I yelled, attempting to show that I was still upset.

  ‘Oh, Nicholas, you are hurt so very bad. We must go home, to the hospital. There is a hospital, ja? You showed me when we were going out from the harbour, the British Hospital.’ While she was attentive and sympathetic as she examined the burns to my skin, she appeared to take no responsibility or show any regret for her action.

  I had a couple of tubes of paraffin-based salve on board, but realised the burns covered my neck and most of my chest. The ointment, if it helped at all, wouldn’t last me two days. I’d treated a few burns on board our salvage vessels where crew had been injured in the engine room. You did the best you could at the time but got them to the nearest port where there was a mission clinic or hospital. A bad burn in the tropics festers quickly and can lead to the direst consequences. I recall on one occasion I had watched helplessly while a young boy, a member of the crew from Pentecost Island, died as a result of burns received when a valve in the boiler room had broken and we were three days out from the nearest port.