Turbulent Wake

by Paul E. Hardisty

  The old engineer nodded. It wasn’t a rock; it was an island – a single monolith spearing the soul of the tumult.

  ‘Keep to the right side of the river,’ the kid shouted above the din. ‘Right side. After, we can rest in the flat water.’

  The old engineer gave the thumbs up. His heart raced. He could feel the adrenaline pounding through every living part of him as they were pulled towards the turbulence.

  This time the surge was stronger. The first trough pulled the boat down hard, pitching the bow deep and sending a sheet of green water crashing over him. The force of the water knocked him back into the stern deck and carried away his cap, but he recovered quickly, spluttering out a mouthful of water, paddling hard as the boat sprang free, and lurched up the next wave. At the crest, he caught a glimpse of the young man, just ahead, immersed to his shoulders, and the black dragon’s-tooth rock ahead. And then down again, steeper this time, so that he was looking into the maw of the vortex, the water like oil, viscous and spinning, the sky collapsing away behind him. The old engineer whooped as the boat sprang from the trough and hung for a moment on the next crest. He was right on track, the young man no more than a few metres ahead, awash in churning white foam.

  The young man glanced back, pointing with the blade of his paddle. ‘Right side,’ he shouted above the roar.

  The fear was gone now, and the old engineer was back on the Capilano river, one drizzling September day on his fifteenth birthday, skittering down between the rocks in his new kayak, following his father in the old banged-up two-man with the yellow stripe. And then the rock was there, much bigger than it had looked from upriver, steep-sided rhyolite glistening wet in the sun. The young man was almost abreast it now, nearly at the calmer water beyond. The old engineer dug his paddle deep and pulled with all his strength. He was drifting too close to the rock, the current pulling him towards the black wall. The young man was waving his arms frantically over his head. ‘Too close,’ came his voice over the churning of the river.

  I know I’m too close, goddamn it. I know.

  He was sliding beam-on towards the rock. He paddled till his shoulders screamed, trying to turn the boat away from the rock and back towards the line, clawing back the lost water. He dug the paddle deep and pulled. He was making progress, regaining the line. Another hit of adrenaline surged through him. Then something whipped the boat into a violent turn and he was facing upriver, the rock behind him now, drawing him in, magnetic. He dug the paddle in deep to port and the boat started to yaw left, twisting against the flow. But it was not enough.

  The boat hit the rock at speed, full amidships. The fibreglass flexed as the boat tried to wrap itself around the rock. For a moment, it was stuck fast, pinned to the anvil, water rushing over the port beam, filling the space around him. He could hear the fibreglass scraping across the rock, straining against the force of the water, the hollow groan as the gunwales began to splinter, the weave of the fibreglass starting to come apart. He was glad he was on the far side of the rock, glad the young man could not see him, could not witness this wrecking.

  And then something gave way; some balance in the forces that had held him there tipped and he was tumbling, free of the boat now, twisting in a deep vortex, limbs flailing, the sound of rushing water filling his ears. Somehow, he had managed to fill his lungs before going under. He fought for the surface but was pushed deeper. His hip collided with something hard, a sickening dull cartilage thud. A spear-point of pain drove through him. He spun away again, the oxygen in his body burning up in panic, a cold ache spreading into his legs, daylight laughing down at him through a thousand warping lenses. When his head hit the rock, it registered only as the briefest flash of white surprise.

  Thirst. It was the first thing. A burning desperation, deep and wide. He reached for the cup and held it to his mouth, gulping down the cool, pure liquid, not letting go of the wrist to which it was attached until every drop was gone. And then the pain came, flooding his senses until there was nothing else.

  After a while, he opened his eyes. He was lying under a blanket. A fire burned nearby. It was dark. He forced a thin rasp across his vocal chords. He tried to sit up, but was driven back by a crushing wave of agony in his lower back. His legs felt numb. He closed his eyes and drifted away on a river of pain.

  ‘Old man.’

  The old engineer opened his eyes. The young man’s face peered down at him. Behind, a trillion stars. And then it all came flooding back. ‘I was thrown,’ he gasped.

  ‘It’s OK,’ whispered the young man. His voice was gentle, like a mother’s. ‘Don’t talk. You need rest.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You were knocked unconscious. Please, rest.’

  ‘How long have I been out?’

  ‘Two days.’

  Jesus. The old engineer sank back on the camp cot and stared up at the night sky. ‘I was caught in a whirlpool. I couldn’t get to the surface.’

  The young man reached over, poured more water into the cup and raised it to the old engineer’s lips. ‘You must stay still.’

  ‘I can’t feel my legs.’

  ‘You have bones broken. There is bleeding inside.’

  ‘Helicopter after all, then.’ The old engineer tried a smile.

  ‘Sorry, oud man, the sat phone is gone, and the equipment in your boat.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘It is my fault,’ said the young man, head bowed.

  ‘No.’ The old engineer reached up and touched the bandage around his head. ‘The boat?’

  ‘Gone.’ The young man tossed another piece of wood on the fire. ‘Tomorrow I will walk to the village. Mokanou will come to care for you. She is a good healer. Then I will bring the helicopter.’

  ‘How long?’

  The young man looked up at the stars. ‘Two days. Maybe less.’

  Too long. He could feel the life leaving him even now. The old engineer looked up at the young man. ‘You pulled me from the water.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You could have left me.’

  ‘You are a stupid old man.’

  Truer words never spoken. ‘That boy in the photo. It was you, wasn’t it?’

  The young man nodded. ‘I was three years old. It was the last time I saw him. After he was killed, his friend from the army came to the village and took me away to Natal. I went to school like an Afrikaner boy.’

  The old engineer thought of his own son, sent away to boarding school, married now and living somewhere in London. ‘And these are your people,’ he said.

  The young man leaned over and placed two tablets in the old engineer’s mouth. ‘Drink,’ he said, helping him with the cup.

  The old engineer drank, spluttered back some of the water. ‘Your people?’ he said.

  The young man closed his eyes, held them shut for a few seconds, opened them again. ‘They are my people, but we are not theirs.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My wife and son.’

  ‘You live here? With them?’

  The young man nodded, poured more water into the cup.

  ‘And those girls,’ said the old engineer. ‘The ones you gave food to.’

  ‘My sisters.’

  ‘Well, that says something.’ The old engineer closed his eyes and breathed deep, fought to keep back the pain. ‘They don’t need to live like this, you know.’

  ‘Live like what, old man?’

  ‘Like this. Barefoot, naked, healing with herbs and river spirits. The dam will bring electricity, jobs, prosperity.’

  ‘The Himba people have chosen this life. It is not a misfortune. Not something that needs to be fixed. If the land is destroyed, if the graves of the ancestors drown, it will be the end of the world. Everything you have seen will disappear. The Himba will fight to stop it, die if they have to.’

  The old engineer tried to shift on the cot, but the pain pinned him. ‘This thing is coming, whether you like it or not,’ he grunted through clenched teeth.

 
The young man stood and looked down at him. ‘Then you are lucky, vader. You have a choice. We do not.’

  The next morning the old engineer woke to a grey, overcast sky. The fire had burned down to ash. The young man’s boat was gone. Propped on a camp chair next to him was a litre bottle of water and some food, a package of painkillers. A piece of thick bond paper the size of a postcard was propped against the water bottle: on it, a little black-and-white bird perched on a twig, head turned side on against a blue watercolour background, the pencilled outline washed in delicate, feathered brush strokes. Beneath, in a neat lead-pencil hand was written: ‘Pied Kingfisher♂, Kunene River. October 2012.’

  March 21st. Calgary

  It’s warm here. Not much snow in the mountains. The new normal.

  The moment I finished that last story, I decided to quit London. I packed up the few things that mattered to me: my camera, a couple of books, some essentials; binned most of the rest. I gave notice on my flat, left my Ducati with a friend, bought a one-way ticket and came here, back to where I was born.

  All the way here, all I thought about was that last story, the one about Namibia and the river trip. It’s hard to believe that anyone could be that hard, that stubborn, that completely fucked up. All those years, pushing me away every time I tried to get close, rejecting my every attempt at reconciliation, until finally, one day, I just gave up. Penance, he called it. Punishment. Protection. But for who, Dad? You, or me?

  I walk along St Stephen’s Avenue towards Fourth Street SW to meet with Dad’s solicitor. The sky is blue with wisps of high-blown Chinook cloud coming off the Rockies. My feet move across the pavement, but they don’t feel like my feet. The lawyer contacted me earlier about selling the house and tidying up the last aspects of Dad’s will. He insisted that I meet with him in person.

  Before leaving London, I ended it with Constantina. I went to her place and sat there on her sofa and just told her that I was going away, for a long time probably, that it was something I had to do. She cried, said I didn’t love her. There was nothing I could say to that, so I didn’t say anything. I know I hurt her, but I couldn’t lie to her or myself anymore. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

  I arrive at the lawyer’s office. The receptionist tells me that he’s running fifteen minutes late. I sit in the waiting room, pull the manuscript out of my bag. On the flight over here, I resisted reading the final story. It was the very last one he wrote, one of the three that somehow were added to the manuscript after he died. I wanted to read it here, where all of this started, where it’s going to end.

  I turn to the last story and start reading.

  I’ve almost finished reading the first sentence – When the old engineer had been a young man, just starting his life, when all of what was to come still lay hidden – when the receptionist calls my name. I am deep in thought and it registers as if part of a dream, a distant voice from across the mountains. I shake it off, grab the manuscript and follow the receptionist through to the office.

  My father’s lawyer is an old guy, stained and grey. He sits behind an old desk, flanked by shelves of old books. The place smells of mould and cigar and dust. There isn’t a computer monitor to be seen, not a hint of technology anywhere. He looks up at me over his half-frame reading glasses.

  ‘I knew your father well,’ he says. ‘We were friends for a long time. I am glad we could finally meet. Please,’ he says, indicating a worn leather armchair.

  I nod, sit.

  ‘You sold the house,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And the bank account?’

  ‘Transferred.’

  ‘So, we’re good?’

  ‘There are only two final items of business.’

  I say nothing, wait.

  ‘I see you found it,’ he said, glancing down at the manuscript in my hand.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And have you read it?’

  ‘All but the last story.’

  ‘Good. He was hoping you would.’

  I think about it a moment, decide not to ask.

  The lawyer opens a file, reads, looks back up at me. ‘First,’ he says, ‘there is a small property on the coast of British Columbia, near a place called Tuwanek. Ten acres on the water, a small log cabin, off the grid, quite rustic. It belonged to your grandmother, then, for a while, your father.’

  ‘I’ve been there,’ I said. ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘Yes. So have I. It’s beautiful.’ He passes me a dossier. ‘It’s yours.’

  I am sure he can see the shock on my face. Inside, title deeds, a map, keys. ‘I had no idea,’ I say.

  He nods. ‘There is one other matter,’ he says. ‘Of a trust account, bequeathed to you, under condition.’

  ‘Condition?’

  ‘The trust account presently contains just over two hundred and eighty-five thousand Canadian dollars. If you have read the manuscript, I am authorised to transfer half of that amount to you, and half to the charity of your choosing.’

  I do the math, swallow. ‘And if I haven’t read it?’

  ‘I am to give it all to a charity he specified.’ The lawyer glances down at the manuscript again. ‘It certainly looks as if you have read it.’

  ‘Like I said.’

  All the Good Places

  When the old engineer had been a young man, just starting his life, when all of what was to come still lay hidden and when everything was still possible, he had decided that he would be a writer.

  He had read Tolstoy and Sholokhov and some of the other great Russian writers, and for a time, had been enamoured of Hardy and then Balzac and the war poets, Graves and Sassoon and Remarque. There was so much to read, and all that men and women had ever felt or dreamed or wondered seemed to be there for his consideration and reflection. Later, he had discovered Hemingway and Joyce and Lawrence and Conrad and Dos Passos and Huxley and Orwell, and at nineteen, he knew he wanted to be a writer.

  Of the reasons for this, it would take him many more decades to understand, to break apart, finally, into their constituent elements and see the forces between them and the gravity that controlled his own thoughts and the deeper forces that were beyond thought. But at twenty, with his life still unbounded and nothing but the horizon to guide him, he came to the resolution that he would be a writer. That fall, he did not register for his second year of engineering studies at the university, but took the money he had earned over the summer working on the rigs in Texas and rented a room in a crumbling turn-of-the-century house in the old part of Calgary, armed himself with notebooks and pencils and an old typewriter and he became a writer.

  Every morning he got up and he wrote. He filled notebooks with ideas, and pages with prose. He could write the words, string together sentences and paragraphs, and sometimes what he had written seemed well formed, and even, occasionally, worthwhile. But he found, after a time, that his writing was empty, without substance. He had nothing to offer. He didn’t know anything. He hadn’t lived. Even when he tried to write about his childhood, about his brother and the things he had seen on his travels with his parents, he found that the events themselves were not enough. It was as if everything he wrote was shell, and there was nothing inside.

  Mark Twain said, ‘Write what you know’. Later, Hemingway, who was a great disciple of Twain’s, added to this, asking himself, ‘What did I know about and truly care for the most?’ Much later, Martin Amis perfected the thought: ‘Write what you know so you don’t have to write what others already have.’ The young man he was knew nothing. He did not know what he truly cared for the most. And everything he wrote was a copy of what others had done – and done better.

  He knew it wasn’t a matter of trying. Of putting in the time. Some were able to write as if they had been formed with the knowledge and memories and wisdom of many lifetimes already stored within. Rimbaud completed his entire oeuvre before his twentieth birthday. But at this same point in his life, the you
ng man came to know that before he could write, he needed to live. He also began to fear that perhaps he did not have the talent, and that he was deluding himself.

  And so, he decided to live. He decided to find what he truly cared for.

  Much later, when the knowledge and timing of his end and the reasons for it were made clear to him, he came to understand that for him it had always been a battle between what he knew and his ability to write it. In his engineer’s way, he pictured it as a graph with time as the abscissa – birth on the left, death on the right. One curve started quite flat and turned sharply into a steep climb at adolescence, peaking and falling away just before death. This was what he knew. The other curve stayed dead flat until sometime in his twenties, and then it slowly started climbing. This curve was his ability to write it. The question was, would his writing ability catch up to his knowledge of life, and leave enough time to produce something?

  He knew now that the answer was no. He had written a few stories, worked hard on them over many years, between work and trying to raise a family. He had never shown them to anyone. There were many flaws, he knew. Perhaps, with another lifetime he would have been able to make something good, something worthwhile. But that was not how it was going to be. And it filled him with a great sadness for all the good places he had been lucky enough to see, and for all the things he now knew he would never be able to share. For what he had learned was that the truly good places, the places he cared about, were being destroyed. He felt a great sadness for the forests of his youth that had been cleared, for the reefs and coastlines he had known that had been reduced and dredged and concreted over and for the emptiness that he now knew dwelled in men’s souls. And though he had devoted all of his life since meeting Helena to trying in some way to protect these places and the people who had for a long time lived peaceably among them, in balance with nature and the laws of physics, he now knew that his efforts had been of no consequence. That the forces of greed were inestimably more powerful than the endeavours of any one person. And he reflected that in the calculus of life, while at the beginning the variable tends towards infinity, at the end, it tends towards zero.