Eye of the Whale

by Douglas Carlton Abrams

  To argue that whales communicated with a few discrete calls was one thing, but to say that they actually had a language, as humans did, was extremely controversial. Languages had words with symbolic meaning and syntax, allowing humans to form sentences and communicate extremely complex ideas. If whales had language, it meant that their social sounds were not just vocalizations, like a mother calling to her baby, but had independent, symbolic meaning and could communicate far more information. A whale could refer to a baby that was not actually even there. Perhaps most controversial, if whale communication was a language, then there was the possibility of translation—of communicating between our two species.

  Elizabeth knew she would need to address all of this in the chapter she was about to write: her discussion and conclusions. She glanced nervously at the calendar. And then there was the small problem of not knowing what her conclusions were. She did not know if the data justified going so far as to claim that whales might have language, not to mention that such a conclusion would almost certainly jeopardize her career. But she did not honestly know how to account for what she had observed. The rapid song change suggested that the song itself had meaning, and the refrain of social sounds that appeared in the song led her to believe that they were being used in some kind of symbolic semantic way.

  To distract herself from writing something that might bury her career, Elizabeth tried to call her husband for the fifth time. The image of him and Kim came to mind, and she hung up before the call connected. The minute she hung up, the handset rang.

  “Frank?” she said, thinking for a moment that the call had gone through after all or that he had called her back.

  “No, Liza, is me.”

  “Teo? How did you get my number?”

  “Milton gave it to me. He tell me about your husband, too.”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t…I got a present for you.”

  “My DAT recorder?”

  “I got that, too.”

  “I’m happy to pay for the postage.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Elizabeth was distracted by a news report that flashed across her TV screen. In amazement, she read the words in the headline: HUMPBACK WHALE SPOTTED IN SAN FRANCISCO BAY.

  “Teo, I’ll have to call you back.”

  Elizabeth hung up and knelt in front of the television, turning up the volume.

  “This morning a humpback whale showed up off of San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf. It was quite a crowd pleaser. We’re going to go live to Jenny Cho, who’s got a whale of a story for us.”

  “This whale-watching tour didn’t have to go very far today to see a whale. All they had to do was escort this humpback whale as it swam through the bay. It seems to be heading inland toward the estuary. You may remember other humpback whales taking a similar course—our old friend Humphrey in 1985, and then a mother-and-calf pair named Delta and Dawn in 2007. But what’s unusual about this whale is it seems to be singing. Thanks to the hydrophone built into this boat, we are able to hear the whale’s song.”

  Elizabeth’s spine started to tingle—it was identical to the song sung by Echo thousands of miles away, in an entirely different ocean. It was obviously not Echo. There was no way he had swum around the tip of South America in three weeks, but sound could travel much faster than any whale. The song could be propagated across the entire distance over a matter of days. Maddings had said the song was spreading around the world and migrating from ocean to ocean. And here was the proof.

  “Oh my God,” Elizabeth whispered to herself. “It’s really true.”

  “What makes the whale sing?” the television reporter asked. “Is it love? Or is it joy?”

  The hairs on the back of Elizabeth’s neck were standing on end. Right in the middle of the song, she heard them: the social sounds she had recorded in Bequia.

  She grabbed her digital SLR and her video camera in its gray housing. Without her DAT recorder, it was all she had. The door slammed behind her as she ran to find the wayward whale. Something deep in the pit of her stomach told her that this was not a song of love or joy.

  TWENTY-THREE

  8:30 A.M.

  Downtown San Francisco

  REGINALD GATES stepped into one of the two elevators that reached the forty-sixth floor of the Transamerica building. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and straightened his yellow tie in the reflective metal doors. Looking the part was important, and his tie complemented his gray suit nicely. Gates blinked his tired eyes and tried to suppress a yawn. He had been up most of the night staring at the spreadsheet, trying to will the quarterly numbers to change, but no matter what he did, they were still not coming out as he needed.

  The doors of the elevator opened, and he walked over to his longtime secretary. Wilma—or Willie, as she was called—was like a surrogate mother and had moved with him up the corporate ladder. She was even willing to work on a Saturday, like today, when it was required.

  “Mr. Heizer is waiting for you,” she said, rolling her eyes nervously in the direction of the CEO’s office. “Your jelly donut and double pick-you-up are on your desk. There’s also some fresh fruit, which it wouldn’t kill you to eat every now and then.”

  “Thanks, tell him I’ll be right there…Oh, and will you copy these papers from the ESC for the file.” Willie looked up at him, transformed into his accomplice. “I want to take it home with me tonight for safekeeping,” he added.

  Through the large windows, he could see the entire Bay Area and arching Bay Bridge. Despite its grandeur, he had already become indifferent to the view. Most of his time was spent with his back to the window, poring over spreadsheets and other financial documents. Growing up in North Richmond, California, Gates had seen the famous four-sided pyramid for as long as he could remember, and a view like this would have made his jaw drop in wide-eyed amazement. Even as a poor African American kid from the ghetto, he had known that someday he would work in an office on the top floor.

  Gates had spent the last ten years working his way up to chief financial officer at Heizer Chemical Industries International. He was looking forward to taking his wife and baby away for a much delayed vacation. Maybe this summer, as soon as all the remodeling was done on the new house.

  Gates’s cell phone rang, and a picture on the screen showed his beautiful wife holding their six-month-old girl in her arms. He did not have time to answer it, so he hit “ignore.” He’d call her back later.

  The phone rang again.

  “Baby, I can’t talk now. I’ve got to meet with Jim.”

  “Reggie, something’s wrong with Justine. She’s not playing, and she won’t eat. She doesn’t seem like herself, and I’m worried.”

  “She’s going to be fine. I’ll call you back when I’m done giving the bad news.”

  “I’m going to take her in to see Dr. Lombardi.”

  “Can’t this wait until Monday?”

  “No, it can’t.”

  “I’m sure there are good doctors near Blackhawk. You don’t need to take her all the way back up there.”

  “I trust him.”

  “I’ll call you later.” Gates gathered up his spreadsheets and walked over to report the numbers to Heizer.

  WHY THE HELL do CEOs always do this power-play crap and look out the window when they’re unhappy? Gates felt like a schoolboy at the principal’s office, but the problem had nothing to do with his performance. It had to do with that of the company.

  “Reggie, I think you know that your bonus is pegged to making our numbers this quarter.”

  “Jim, I realize that, and I tried everything I could to make them different, but I can’t invent numbers that don’t exist.”

  Jim Heizer, the son of the company’s founder, turned away from the window to face Gates. He looked overstuffed in his green suit, and when he spoke, his double chin jiggled like the pale throat of a toad. “I didn’t say invent numbers. I just said to b
e creative with the numbers. I’m sure you’ll do what needs to be done.” Gates knew what he was being asked to do, and his body felt hot and uncomfortable. “I promoted you because I knew I could count on you, Reggie. Don’t let me down.”

  Gates got up to leave.

  “And don’t forget the Chinese investors. They will be at the Rio Vista plant at four o’clock.”

  “We’ve got the executive committee meeting until three. Can’t someone else take them around?”

  “I don’t trust anyone else with this one. We need their money, and we need it in this quarter. You know that plant better than anyone.” Heizer smiled. “You can take my helicopter.”

  For a moment Gates forgot the pressures he was under. He walked over to the window where his boss was pointing and saw a shiny royal blue helicopter perched on a white rooftop helipad.

  “I thought the neighbors had gotten the heliport closed.”

  “We were able to work with our friends in the city to overcome their concerns. Have a good ride.”

  GATES FELT the smooth, black leather of his seat. Beside him was a little tray with snacks, water, and orange juice. The soundproofed walls kept out most of the noise, so all Gates could hear was the light fluttering of the rotor outside.

  When the helicopter took off, he felt his stomach drop and tried hard to stop himself from giggling. He felt like a dumb kid again, but the ride was more fun than anything he could remember. Out the window he saw the fan of gray streets and gray rooftops. Ahead he could see a patch of green around Coit Tower, the prison island of Alcatraz floating off in the bay, and behind it the brown-green hills that surrounded the Bay Area. Out to the left, he could even see the Golden Gate Bridge. When the helicopter pulled over the aquamarine water of the bay, he sighed and started to relax.

  Before long the helicopter was flying over his old neighborhood of North Richmond, where the small urban houses and apartment buildings were packed tightly together. He remembered, as a kid, hearing the sounds of drive-bys and gang shoot-outs, and was grateful that his daughter would have a different life. He looked at his black titanium watch, its face smiling success at him. It was only 3:10; perhaps there was time for a quick flyover.

  He opened the window to the cockpit. “How far out of our way is Blackhawk? I just bought a house there.”

  “No time at all. There’s not much traffic up here,” the pilot said, accustomed to accommodating any requests his executive passengers made. Gates gave the pilot his address to put into the GPS, and the helicopter started to bank to the right. Below, Gates could see where the blue-green water of the bay turned into the muddy brown water of the delta formed by the drainage of the Sacramento and other rivers.

  As they headed southeast, they flew over large unpopulated tracts of land just outside the Bay Area. The brown hills looked almost like the back of a living animal. He wished he could show his wife and daughter how beautiful it was.

  Then they were back over civilization, the cul-de-sac suburban developments of Martinez and Walnut Creek, where the houses seemed so crammed together. He was pleased that he could afford something better. They were approaching Blackhawk, and he could see the golf course surrounding the homes like a large interconnected lawn.

  “There it is,” the pilot said, pointing to one of numerous gray roofs.

  Gates’s heart sank. From up here, the homes looked no different from the countless other homes they had flown over. The roofs were a little larger and the address more exclusive, but in truth, they were houses packed together by a developer who was trying to make as much money as possible.

  “Thanks,” Gates said, sorry he had come. The pilot banked to the left and headed north to the chemical plant.

  They flew back along the delta and up the Sacramento River. The farmland on the outskirts of Sacramento was a patchwork of green and brown fields.

  He saw a crowd of people on a bridge below, and a flotilla of fishing boats. “What’s going on?” he asked, opening the window to the cockpit again.

  “Haven’t you heard? A whale swam up the Sacramento.”

  “You’re kidding. All the way up here?”

  “Amazing, isn’t it? Just like Humphrey and those other two whales. Must be something the whales like up here.”

  Gates looked for the whale in the muddy brown water. Today whales were simply curiosities, giants from another world, but at one time they had been a vital part of the global economy. Cities like San Francisco had grown up around whale fisheries and had relied on their oil to fuel industry. Gates thought of the historical plaque he passed every day on his way into the office; it announced that the hull of a whaling ship, the Niantic, was buried directly beneath the skyscraper. Gates loved history and knew that the future belonged to those who understood that some things, including the thirst for vital resources, never change.

  The helicopter was arriving at the chemical plant. It was strange to see it for the first time from above. It looked like a maze of pipelines, whole building-sized towers made entirely out of tubes transporting chemicals to large circular holding tanks. Several smokestacks pumped out large gray clouds. As a child, he had called the stacks from the Richmond refinery “the cloud-makers.”

  After landing, Gates was introduced to the group of Chinese investors, who were all wearing yellow hard hats. He put one on his head and welcomed the group to the plant. After the translator had interpreted, they smiled and greeted one another awkwardly. All around them, workers were dressed in gray coveralls and wore the required yellow hard hats. Gates always thought the hard hats were a little silly, since there was really nothing to fall on your head. The place was not dangerous, like a construction site.

  He led the group into one of the testing chambers and explained, “Here we are making a compound called Bisphenol A, a vital ingredient in polycarbonate plastic and epoxy resins.” He tapped on a plastic water bottle that had been left there for tours. “It makes plastic clear and shatterproof, very useful. Global production is over two million metric tons a year, and our factories around the world make over 20 percent of the world supply. It can also be made into flame retardants and has been used as a fungicide.” Next to him, one of the workers was checking gauges and writing numbers down on a clipboard. After the translator was finished, Gates encouraged her to lead the visitors on to the next stop.

  “How’s the baby, Reggie?”

  Gates did a double take.

  The worker raised her safety glasses. “It’s Janice.”

  “Oh, Janice, how are you?” Gates said, out of politeness, but he felt embarrassed by her familiarity. He glanced toward where the Chinese investors were getting into what looked like an oversized golf cart.

  “How’s it going up there? You taking care of everyone?”

  “You know I am. Good to see you, Janice.”

  At the next stop Gates continued the tour and showed the Chinese investors where they were making other chemicals, including very profitable flame retardants. He pulled on the sleeve of his suit coat to explain that these compounds stopped fabric and other materials from burning. “Here in California, all bedding and furniture must use flame retardants. We are the third-largest supplier in this annual market of 2.4 billion dollars.”

  His cell phone rang. It was his wife. Oh, Christ, I forgot to call.

  “Are there any more questions?” Gates asked, hoping he could end the tour quickly and answer his wife’s call. The investors all got very excited. “They only have one question,” the translator said. “Where’s the whale?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  4:15 P.M.

  Liberty Slough, California

  APOLLO WAS SWIMMING QUICKLY—still unsure if he had really escaped—

  He heard only the constant droning of boat engines—but he had long ago stopped hearing the sounds of the killers—

  He was trailing blood from the bite on his back—chunks of his flippers and tail were missing—but that was all—

  Was it the shallow waters that the kil
lers were unwilling to enter or the harbor seals that had distracted them with an easier meal—

  Apollo did not know at what point he would be safe and swam onward—as their clicking sounds became increasingly distant—

  He finally slowed as the water was ever more murky—he tilted his massive forty-foot body downward—his tail floating up and his rostrum pointing down—

  Apollo sang the song once again and then continued upstream—the currents of brackish water washing over his body—the thin water less buoyant—the noise of the boats assaulting from all sides—the brownish channel an echo chamber of sound—

  But he swam on against the current—far from the ocean—

  At last he squeezed through the narrow pilings—the waters ending in land—and he began to sing once again—

  The waters had grown stale and bland as he left the living seas—now far from where all life had been born—

  TWENTY-FIVE

  5:00 P.M.

  THE SUN WAS THREATENING to set as Elizabeth sped past rows and rows of cornfields and endless expanses of bright green grass that would be rolled up and sent to landscape lawns and golf courses around the country. She saw large factory farms of cows and lambs that were being fattened up for the slaughter. Silver-feathered vultures circled overhead.