It hits like a hammer blow, but he does not succumb. Underwater he goes, using the breast stroke that is like second nature to him. His ears register the moaning of the waves and wind above, but it all seems quiet beneath. Lungs bursting, he kicks upward and thrusts his head into the roaring tempest, wind and spray pelting him and blowing him back toward the rocks.
Now he breaks into a swimmer’s crawl. This desperate, hard-paced flinging of his limbs above the wind and waves succeeds in moving him away from the island by no more than a few meters.
Again and again he tries, using all the force he can muster, refusing to let the cold numb his will and his flesh. But it is no use. His head is aching with the windchill, and he must bob under to escape it.
He rises again, gasps for air, and begins a slower loping crawl, the classic method of doing laps that now returns to his muscle-memory. It has been more than a year since he was arrested, the muscles are weaker than they once were, and he has eaten little today; moreover, there is not a gram of fat on his body. Even so, there are reserves of strength that he had not suspected. After some minutes, he glances over his shoulder and realizes that he has made a little progress, fifty meters or so. He quickens his pace, spearing himself arm over arm through the whitecaps. Now the crests are shattering into sea foam, and sporadic gusts that would capsize boats blast the foam into mist. The spray is hard in his face by the time he is a few hundred meters from the island, and the effort to resist both wind and wave is sapping his strength. The top of his skull feels like ice, and he dives for a respite.
It is cold beneath the surface, but the windchill ends. Holding his breath, he kicks hard and swims underwater, hoping against hope that there are no strong currents. Perhaps he progresses a few meters, perhaps not. But he knows that if he continues to swim on top, every expenditure of energy will end as complete waste. He rises, gulps for air, takes a slap of salt water in his face, chokes, spews, and sinks again. A few more meters forward. He opens his eyes for an instant and sees nothing. It is dark above but darker below. Up he goes for air. The waves smash into him again and again, and he must go down.
Down—forward—up. Down—forward—up. It is impossible in this water-labyrinth to know if he is making headway or slipping farther and farther behind. Rising, he turns in the water and pops his head out for a quick view of the island. He can see Glavina as a shadow against the black west. Yes, he has been moving away from it, slowly, slowly. The hill seems a little more distant, though he is alarmed when he realizes that he is gradually being blown to the south.
Down—forward—up!
This oblique route will lengthen his journey to the shore, yet it might also increase his chances, for the wind is veering, blowing on his left cheek whenever he rises. Hour after hour he goes. Why does he not die? Why is his heart not giving out? The manic obsession with flight from all that lies behind is energizing him, but the limitations of the flesh cannot be expanded by will alone. He forces himself to slow down, to reduce the time above and the time below, and to make shorter strokes.
He is a boy again, going down to the Miljacka each morning, walking along the shore to a stretch of mud, and wading in. First, he learns to float in the shallows, then to dog-paddle, and finally to master the crawl with motions that are economical, graceful, and relentless. By autumn of that year, he is able to spear his developing limbs into the swirling waters of mid-river, going against the current a hundred meters at a time. He does not give up until ice forms on the banks of the Miljacka and the more challenging Bosna. This pushing of the outer limits of endurance is a game he plays with death. Who is the stronger? What secret reserves does he contain? His body wills to survive, his mind and heart sometimes will to die, but with every plunge into the mountain streams, the balances of life and death, energy and cold, will and despair, are shifted. Down—forward—up!
Rising, he sees a spark of orange light ahead. It is still distant, but now the island seems farther behind. By its shape he can tell that he has not gone very far south, and is, in fact, still proceeding toward the coast.
Is he leaving a trail of his blood from the barbed wire cuts? Perhaps the water is so cold that the wounds have closed, the vessels contracted so tightly that no messages are trailing out for predators to read and follow.
O Jadransko more! he cries into the wind at his next rising for air. Do not betray me!
Down—forward—up!
He is slowing, slowing, his arms are aching, a leg is cramping, and his feet feel as if spikes were being driven through them. He rolls onto his back to float spread-eagled. Though there is some loss as the wind pushes him westward, there is a crucial gain as blood pumps through every extremity, his heart pounding as it never has before.
Down—forward—up!
On and on, until he is nothing but a will sending micro-impulses of command to the resisting parts of his body. He stops more frequently now and is blown backward each time. He must cling to the hope that his underwater progress is still a little greater than his surface losses.
Down—forward—up!
On the next gulp of air, he finds that the wind has declined significantly, and he remains on the surface, trying to resume a crawl. One arm over, another arm over, slowly, slowly. Head to the side, draw in air, head to the front, blow it out. Kick one leg, kick the other.
A bit farther, not much more, keep going!—see, the sky is pale above the mountains.
One arm over, head to the side, sucking in air, the other arm over, head to the front, blow it out, kick—I am not an animal, I am not a number, I am not a machine—I will not stop—I am not an animal, I am not a number, I am not a machine—I will not stop!
Now all strength is going, and his feet and hands are without feeling, though his limbs can still move a little; his face is ice, his lungs are fire. He is a lastavica, diving, rolling in the impossible trajectory, looping around his own body, wings cutting the liquid air, but he goes lower and lower and can no longer rise.
As he sinks, he cries her name:
O Ariadne! I am sorry, I am sorry, I am so sorry I did not come to you!
With the final lashing of his arms and thighs, he rises—and then the worst occurs. In the pale predawn light, he sees that the sharks have found him. Flanking him, two on his right and one on his left, they are swimming parallel and closing the gap. Their fins are slicing the whitecaps, angling toward him. He cries out, even as he knows that all human cries are useless against the powers of death when it comes. Now it is here at last, in one of its most terrifying forms. They will tear chunks from his living flesh.
Oh, my child! Oh, my child, Oh, my little child, I shall never see your face!
He sinks—and the sharks hit him.
There is no pain, though they buffet him hard.
O my God, O my God, I am sorry, I am sorry—O my God, let me drown before they eat me!
He sees for a moment the blue light of dawn beneath the waves, and the three sharks circling and buffeting and smiling at him.
Then his feet hit something solid, and his knees scrape on round white stones. He thrusts his head above the waves, coughing water from his lungs, crawling forward, staggering out of the sea, and placing his first foot on the fields of heaven.
THE WALKER OF THE WORLD
21
The singing wakes him.
He forces his eyes to open, then closes them immediately, for they are encrusted with salt, and stinging. All his flesh is burning from the seawater. Still, he feels warmer, and he opens his eyes again.
It may be, after all, that he has come only to the borderlands of paradise, for a little girl is approaching along the shore, singing to herself, dabbling a stick in the water. An orange cat strolls a few paces behind her, its tail pointing straight up. It does not like to get its paws wet, but it is willing to endure it when a dead minnow is spotted in the surf that washes onto the beach of white stones.
The girl is about five or six years old. She is wearing rubber boots and a heavy
sweater. Her dress is bluer than the sky. She is blue upon blue. He knows this color, its meaning is returning after all these years. She is the essence of blue—that shade halfway between water and sky on bright days.
“Josipa!” he croaks.
The cat hears him and turns its head to stare suspiciously at the creature lying in hummocks of grass between a tumble of rocks at the base of the hill. He rises unsteadily on one elbow but can do no more than this. In this shelter, there is no wind, and the newly risen sun is cresting the mountains. His scraps of clothing are dry. The bura has declined to fitful gusts, no longer fierce but still capricious, winnowing westward over a rippling light chop farther out, leaving a band of near-calm by the shore. Where it strikes the sea, there is no spume on the whitecaps, no sea foam. In the distance lies the naked island, shining brilliantly in the morning light.
“Josipa!” he croaks again. The cat meows and saunters over to investigate. The girl does not hear because she is standing with the toes of her boots in the lip of surf, laughing and singing to something splashing offshore.
Dupin, dupin, dupin,
play with me, one, two, three,
dupin, dupin, dupin . . .
“Josipa!” he cries.
Startled, she turns and stares at the hill, searching for the source of the voice. She is not Josipa. Now she sees the creature in the rocks and gives a little cry of alarm, turns on her heels, and trots away along the beach.
In the water, three fins cut the waves as they drive out into deeper water and plunge beneath.
He closes his eyes and falls back onto the grass, unable to move.
Later, a man’s voice:
“No, no, the dupin cannot turn themselves into people. You imagined it—they and the man are your pretends, no? See, there’s not a soul to be seen. Isn’t this where you say you found him?”
“I can’t remember, Tata.”
“Besides, the dobri dupin swim only far out. Never have I seen one here, nor anyplace else along this shore.”
“But I saw them—one-two-three.”
“O Jelena, Jelena, what a girl you are! Was the man you saw one of the three?”
“No, he was another.”
“You were imagining it. Let’s go home.”
“Look, Tata! There they are!”
“What! Yes, you’re right and coming closer! And three of them, just as you said. Oh, what a tale we will have to tell Mamica!”
Josip opens his eyes, then opens the cave of his mouth and moans, Zdravo!
They do not hear him.
“Zdra—” he cries, “—vo!”
The man and girl turn in his direction, and startle. The girl seizes her father’s hand and hides behind his leg. The man strides toward Josip and kneels beside him.
It is night, in a small room with space enough only for the cot he is lying on and a wooden chair beside it. At the foot of the cot is a black window, with a tallow candle burning on the sill. The walls are stone and the roof is timber beams and clay tiles.
He is under a blanket, and his head lies on a pillow of wadded cloth. His ears are aching as if skewers are turning within them. His face, hands, and all his skin are burning; his eyes too.
The man who knelt beside him on the shore now comes into the room from a side door. He is carrying a basin and towel. Behind him comes a round country woman with a steaming pot and a ladle. Both man and woman are in their forties. Their clothing is faded, their hands rough from a lifetime of physical labor. The man’s face is humorous and wrinkled about the eyes in a way that indicates he has seen much in this life, has been surprised by a good deal of it, and likes to ponder what he has seen. Though his conclusions will not be complex, they will be sensible. All of this is visible to the man on the cot.
“He is awake”, says the woman. Her face is a sweeter one, though not as humorous as the man’s. Her eyes have seen much and suffered much. There is kindness in those eyes, but also a trace of fear. She worries about many things, and this too is visible to the man on the cot.
“Look how thin, so terribly thin”, she says.
“A man can be thin yet strong”, replies her husband.
“If he is a fisherman who was cast into the sea by the bura, why is he this kind of thin? I know what thin is.”
The man laughs. “You know what thin is? What are you trying to say, Marija?”
“There is good thin and bad thin. This is starvation we are looking at.”
The man sits down, puts the basin of water on the floor, wets the cloth in it, and wipes Josip’s face. Then he helps him to sit up.
The woman spoons soup into his mouth. He swallows—again, and again, until the pot is empty.
“I will make more”, she says, a hand fluttering above her heart, sighing as she goes out of the room.
“My wife”, says the man. “Marija. I am Drago.”
Josip looks at him. Drago looks back.
“Well, then, do you have a name?”
“Jo—” he murmurs, “—sip.”
“Ah—Josip. Then lie down, Josip, and rest. Sleep if you wish.”
And so he does.
Morning. How long has he slept? He is thirsty, and his ears are still aching. He struggles to rise in the bed. The window is small, a single pane of glass. Blinding light is coming through it, along with the rhythmic sound of surf not far away. Above a fringe of bushes, a band of blue can be seen, and beyond that—with a stab of fear—is the island. It is white and beautiful but naked and dreadful, and many evils are occurring on it, even as he lies here in safety.
Is it safety? These people who have taken him into their home—are they loyal to the regime or quietly enduring it?
The woman enters, clicks her tongue when she sees that he is awake and upright, clucks over him like a mother hen, then spreads a cloth beneath his chin and begins to spoon-feed him another pot of soup. It is thicker than yesterday’s, and full of chunks of fish and clam meat. Because it is not very hot, he reaches for the pot and asks permission with his eyes to take it into his hands. She nods. He lifts the entire vessel to his lips and gulps it down as fast as his throat will allow.
“Ooh-ooh”, she sighs, making the sign of the cross on her chest.
“You need water, poor soul. Now let the soup get into your bones for a while. Too much all at once and you will explode.”
He cannot yet speak to her, because his throat is raw from the salt it took in during his swim from the island. His eyes continue to crust with salt as well. Or is it sickness that makes the crust? His ears are draining, putrid; his lungs are rasping, trying to cough up phlegm. He coughs and coughs and coughs. Between fits of his coughing, the woman brings him little bits of soaked bread and pops them into his open mouth. Like Sova and Propo and Tata did when he first arrived on the island.
His eyes cannot focus; he sees her face melt, and she becomes a bird. She is a pelican, stabbing her own heart to bring forth blood to feed her chicks.
Night. Josip wakes. His throat is swollen, permitting only a little breath to pass through. He is gasping, panicking from lack of air. The man holds him upright, thumps his back with the palm of his hand until more poison is hacked out into a basin. Drago—yes, Drago is his name.
“It is a foolish thing to fight the bura”, Drago mutters. Josip remains afloat, though the cot is rising and falling. “Better for your lungs you don’t lie down for a while.” He props Josip up with his back against the wall. For a time, they regard each other in silence.
“Josip”, says Drago at last. “Josip who came from the sea, it seems you have good friends.”
Since the sick man does not reply, Drago goes on:
“Do you mind if I talk? No? Well, permit me. I am a simple fellow with no thoughts to speak of between my two ears. But it seems to me that a man who falls into the sea must have very good friends if he lives to tell of it—yes, friends up above and friends down below. My own Tata drowned when I was a boy, in a storm just like the one that brought you here. The Ja
dran is not always friendly, as we know, but there are friends swimming in her. Three of them brought you to us, three made sure we found you. Now that’s a hand reaching down from the clouds and dabbling a finger in the water, I say! So, I ask myself, who is this man from the sea who has been washed up on my shore?
“I have done much thinking about this. Yes, I think and think as I scrape the dirt in my little garden, and when I go up with my brother to his meadow above the great road—that’s where we watch his sheep—he has a boat in Rijeka but owns the land we have here, and I look after it for him—and whenever I throw a net into the sea I think some more.
“So, I am thinking, as I mentioned already, about many things. Especially, I think as I watch the boats cruise along the shore and the men with guns asking questions about those who fall into the sea and are washed up on shore. And I say to myself, well, that’s no concern of mine. The man who visits my family is not the one they are looking for, since it is the dobri dupin who brought him here, and if the dupin like him, who am I to argue?!
“So, you see, Josip, it is very clear to me—and to Marija and Jelena also—that you are a fisherman who fell out of his boat in the storm. Yes, that is what you are and nothing else. The men called to us, since their boat is too big to beach, and I told them I have seen no criminals washed up on the shore. Jelena—being very little—said that she had seen a man lying on the shore. And when they asked her where she had seen him, she told them it was not really a man but a dolphin that she and her cat had found, and the dolphins had all swum away. Then she sang them her dolphin song, so they left and have not returned. I feel sure that their boat is not the one you seek. I think you are a fisherman who has lost his own vessel, and you want to find her again, no? Perhaps it has sunk. Maybe it blew out to sea and is waiting for you somewhere. Or it might be riding at anchor in a nice cove, safe from the storm. I wonder where it is. I wonder where you need to go to find her.
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