A Matter of Time

by David Manuel

  “What’s that?”

  “On top of the hill, behind the chapel there’s an old quarry with a ‘cottage’ in it. More like a one-room cubicle. But it’s got a little bathroom, and a RadarRange and a little fridge… a perfect Poustinia.”

  Bartholomew was familiar with the word. It was Russian for a hermitage so small that there was room for only one occupant—and God.

  But he still had an ace in the hole. His mother. After she’d retired from teaching English at Nauset High, she’d taken the job of hostess at Norma’s Café. Now 74, she ran the place and enjoyed giving him a hard time whenever he stopped in, which was not infrequently, as she made the best coffee in town. Three years ago he’d sworn off the bean, having become dependent on it to get him through the day. But last spring he’d taken it up again—in moderation, of course; just two cups in the morning. He despised his weakness. Caffeine was a vile, mood-altering drug, he kept reminding himself. Yet in the early morning nothing tasted quite so good as that first sip.

  For years he and his mother had been at odds. She could not forgive him for throwing away (as she saw it) the Dartmouth education she’d labored so hard to provide—in favor of a vocation that meant that there would be no grandchildren. But the two of them had battled through to where they could both accept and appreciate each other, and for the past two years they’d been genuinely close.

  Her health was not what it once was (whose was?), and she would be crushed to learn that he might be going away for a long, maybe a very long time. He could imagine her pleading with him not to go, and then accusing him, telling him that his leaving was nothing short of cruel.

  So out of concern for her, he wouldn’t leave.

  That was not how it had played out.

  “Oh, thank God!” she’d exclaimed. “I’ve been so worried about you! I’ve been watching you get more and more tense. I almost called Brother Ambrose, except I knew how much that would upset you.”

  He was nonplused. “You think I should go?”

  “Andrew,” she said, calling him by his boyhood name, “It’s God! I’m not into Him the way you are, but I do pray sometimes.”

  He stared at her. This woman never failed to amaze him!

  She laughed. “I prayed He’d do something about you. I guess He has.”

  Never underestimate the power of a mother’s prayers, he thought dourly, as the old station wagon labored up Knapton Hill.

  But as the lush greenery, punctuated by red hibiscus, pink and white oleanders, and purple morning glories passed by, and the scent of cedar wafted in through the window, he had to admit there was something paradisiacal about the little island. No wonder some of those Englishmen whose shipwreck here in 1609 inspired Shakespeare’s final play, The Tempest, returned to make it their home. When Bartholomew had first stepped out of the airliner and onto the passenger ramp’s steel steps, the pleasant, soothing warmth had promised something that seemed to exist only in the basilica back home. Peace.

  He began to take an interest in the passing scene. The houses were built of limestone, a material found, apparently, in endless supply. They were mostly whitewashed, or sometimes painted in pastel shades of pink, blue, and yellow. The roofs were white, regularly washed with lime to purify the rainwater, caught and stored in tanks beneath the houses. On each roof were many little steps, to keep the rain from running off so quickly it would be lost. Rain was Bermuda’s principal source of drinking water, and while tourists might lament its arrival, the locals rejoiced—especially at a hard, long “tank” rain. They would cheer up their visitors the same way Cape Codders did: “You don’t like the weather? Wait an hour.”

  They passed an elementary school just letting out, and Bartholomew was struck by all the children, black and white together, in uniform. The boys wore navy blue blazers, gray flannel slacks, white shirts, and ties in what was presumably the school tartan. The girls also wore blazers, white blouses, and tartan kilts. They looked sharp and seemed happy.

  “Do all the school children wear uniforms?” he asked.

  Brendan nodded.

  “Why?”

  “The strain it takes off the parents, not having to sacrifice to keep their darlings in the height of teen fashion. It’s also a great equalizer. Kids from poor homes look just as good as the ones from wealthy ones.”

  “Is there poverty?” Bartholomew asked. “I haven’t seen it.”

  “We’ve enjoyed prosperity for a long, long time,” Brendan replied wistfully. “Until now.”

  A large woman on a small red scooter took advantage of a rare straightaway and zipped past them. As a curve approached, another rider, this one on a mini-motorcycle, also passed them. Suddenly a car appeared around the corner, and Brendan had to brake sharply to allow the motorcyclist to get back in their lane.

  “A little close!” exhaled Bartholomew.

  “Happens all the time,” replied Brendan with a sigh.

  “But—he was riding one-handed. His left arm was just dangling down.”

  “That’s the brake hand. Some young locals do that. The cool ones.”

  Bartholomew smiled and looked at Brendan in the rearview mirror. “D’you ever do that? I mean, in your misspent youth, before God got ahold of you?”

  Brendan glanced at the mirror. “I never rode one-handed. But—I often exceeded the national speed limit, which was twenty miles per hour then, or as we now say, thirty-five kilometers.”

  “What was the fastest you ever made it to the airport, from where we’re going in Somerset?”

  Brendan hesitated. “Twenty minutes. But I wasn’t driving,” he hastily added. “I was on the back of my brother’s bike.”

  Father Francis turned and stared at his friend with a surprised smile.

  “My brother was so fast, the police didn’t even try to catch him. They figured one day Goodie’d kill himself, and they’d go to his funeral.”

  Coming the other way now were four careful tourists on black scooters, closely followed by a large pastel pink No.8 Bermuda bus.

  Brendan smiled. “Pink whale after minnows.”

  They went by a shopping center, whose parking lot was filled with late-model cars. “You mentioned Bermuda’s prosperity,” Bartholomew prompted him.

  “Tourism’s always been our mainstay. It’s been dying gradually ever since the sixties, and recently its demise has accelerated. In the past fifteen years, some fifty guest properties have shut down and last year bed-occupancy was off thirteen percent. And that was before September 11!”

  Brendan had taken the South Shore route that afforded spectacular vistas of sparkling, bright blue ocean and stretches of beach where the sand was a startling pinkish white. Abruptly he slowed for a mother duck leading a string of eight tiny ducklings.

  “Where are they going?”

  “Down to Spittal Pond. That’s our largest wildlife preserve.”

  “Tell him about the flamingo,” prompted Father Francis.

  “You tell him.”

  The old priest turned around to face Bartholomew. “A couple of years ago, a pair of pink flamingos escaped from the B.A.M.Z.”

  “The Bermuda Aquarium, Museum and Zoo,” explained Brendan.

  “They hung out at Spittal or over at Warwick Pond, which is wide but shallow. Something happened to the male, but his mate kept looking there for him.”

  “We often saw her standing in the pond as we drove by on Middle Road,” added Brendan.

  “One day, a man noticed that she was in trouble,” Father Francis resumed. “She was in the middle of the pond thrashing around, beating the water with her wings.”

  Brendan picked up the story. “The man went to a nearby vet, and they got a boat and rowed out to her. The poor bird’s legs had gotten all tangled in kite string that must have been on the bottom of the pond. They freed her and took her back to the zoo so she wouldn’t get entangled again.”

  Father Francis nodded with enthusiasm. “That’s what I like about Bermuda. Whatever that man was on
his way to do, he set it aside to rescue the bird.” He paused. “He didn’t just shake his head and think what a shame and keep going.”

  Bartholomew took that in and gazed down at the sparkling, light blue water. “Why isn’t Bermuda on everyone’s top-five list?”

  “For a long time, it was,” answered Brendan sadly. “After the war, this was a favorite spring-break destination for New England college kids—it was called Easter vacation, back then. Those who came liked it enough to keep coming back. They came on their honeymoons and as young marrieds. And then brought their kids.”

  He sighed. “In the sixties, all that changed. There were other spring-break places—Ft. Lauderdale and Daytona Beach, and today, Cancun. Plus, Disney World and eventually all of Orlando became a magnet for East Coast families. As tourism became an international industry, other new resorts started competing—further south.”

  He caught Bartholomew’s eye in the rearview mirror. “We’re off Cape Hatteras, remember; if you’re sick of winter and want to go bake in the sun, you’re going to have to go further south than North Carolina.” Then he grinned. “But if you want to jump-start summer or stretch it a little, we’re ideal.”

  Bartholomew, now totally absorbed in the plight of the island that would be his Elba, asked, “So declining tourism is your biggest problem?”

  The men up front glanced at each other, to see who would field that one.

  Brendan did. “No, it’s drugs.”

  “Drugs? Here? In Paradise?”

  The driver nodded, and as they passed another church, Father Francis gestured toward it. “There are sixty-two thousand Bermudians, and they have more churches per capita than any place I’ve ever heard of. But there’s crime now.”

  Brendan sighed. “Our police are good. Very good. But the drug scene is stretching them to the limit.”

  For a long time they rode in silence, then slowed for what Father Francis explained was Somerset Bridge, the smallest drawbridge in the world. The draw part was less than two feet wide—just enough to permit passage of a sailboat’s mast.

  “Now we’re in Sandys,” the old priest announced. “The island’s westernmost parish. The West End is the most peaceful, yet even here we’ve had a couple of drug murders recently.”

  Reaching the Harris Property, they turned right, into the drive and up the hill. It struck Bartholomew how rare it was to find such a large piece of undeveloped land on the island.

  At the top of the hill was a tiny, whitewashed, three-pew chapel, with a breathtaking view of Great Sound and Hamilton Harbour in the distance. It was so quaint, Bartholomew had to smile.

  Adjacent to it was the ancient quarry, an area about the size of two tennis courts. The gray walls of hewn stone were eight or ten feet tall, covered with dense underbrush. The quarry floor was flat and grassy, and in the center grew a huge old poinciana tree, probably as old as the quarry itself.

  The cottage at the west end was even smaller than he’d supposed. Square, squat, and blunt, it was Early Maginot Line. Grabbing his duffel bag, he followed Father Francis to the door. The latter undid the padlock, opened it, and turned on the light.

  “Here’s how it’s going to be,” he said. “We’re going to leave you completely alone. Your only contact with us will be at morning Mass. And on Sunday mornings, you and I will take the bus into Hamilton, to attend Mass at the Cathedral. If you really need to talk, I’ll be available.”

  He opened the window to let in some fresh air. “I’ve talked to Brother Anselm, and he’s told me of your landscaping abilities.” The old priest nodded appreciatively. “We can use some of that around here. You’ll find everything you need in the tool shed by the main house. Do whatever you think needs doing, and the more, the better.”

  He opened the refrigerator and checked it, then the cupboard above, checking to make sure the sisters had left Bartholomew enough to get started. “Grocery store’s up the main road, about a half-hour walk from here.”

  Taking out his wallet, he counted out three twenties. “This should keep you for the first week. But be careful; since everything has to be shipped in, it’s twice as expensive as at home. And keep your food covered, or you’ll have ants everywhere.”

  He turned to leave. “Well, have a good retreat,” he said with a smile. “We’ll be praying for you.”

  Bartholomew put a hand on his arm. “Wait, Father. You said ‘the first week’—how many weeks is it going to be?”

  The latter just smiled. “As long as it takes, my son.” And with that, he left to join Brendan in the car.

  As they pulled away, Brother Bartholomew imagined the great hollow clang of a cellblock door closing behind him.

  5 laventura

  As the late afternoon sun bathed Cap d’Antibes in liquid golden light, Neil and Marcia Carrington reclined in the cockpit of their 82-foot schooner, sipping Bombay Sapphire gin and bitters and watching their crew, all in white, load the last of the supplies for their three-week Atlantic crossing.

  “We can’t wait any longer, darling,” said Marcia, her blond hair up under a gondolier’s hat. “We promised Anson we’d be there to watch him in the Gold Cup. If he’s ever going to beat Dennis, he’ll need all the support he can get.”

  She waited for her husband to respond, but his attention was given to the crew’s activities.

  “That’s why I invited Tim and Lydia, and Stuart and Stacey to join us,” she went on, “I mean, it’s the least we can do.” She peered at him over the top of her sunglasses. “Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

  “Anson needs all the support he can get, so you invited Tim and Lydia, and Stuart and Stacey to join us, because it’s the least we can do.”

  “I hate it when you do that!” Marcia exclaimed, standing up. “I might as well be talking to a tape recorder!”

  Her husband, sensing that anything he might say now would be used against him, remained silent.

  Which only irritated her more. “Well, we’ve simply got to get going! We’ve lost two days, as it is! We’ll be lucky to get to Bermuda before the regatta begins.”

  Her husband, dressed in a white polo shirt and white ducks like his crew (though twice their age and considerably thicker), at last turned his Ray-Bans in her direction. “I just don’t feel right about leaving without knowing what’s happened to Sterling’s boy. Sterling’s been my friend since London School of Economics.”

  Marcia tapped the teak railing with impeccably lacquered nails. She tried reasoning. “What more can we do, darling? We’ve told the local gendarmerie all we know. We even found a picture of Kevin for them in the ship scrapbook. And you know they’ve looked everywhere.”

  He nodded and stared glumly at the brass binnacle.

  Suddenly she brightened. “Darling! Why don’t you call Sterling! He may have even heard from Kevin by now!”

  Neil rubbed his chin. “I was going to wait until we had something definite to tell him.”

  His wife let her impatience creep into her voice. “But darling, we do have something definite! He picked up a woman. A local, older than him. He persuaded her to leave. They went to another place. She left. He left. Now she’s gone. And so is her car. And so is Kevin. End of story!” She shrugged and smiled. “A happy ending, I suspect, for both of them.”

  Holding her smile, she waited. “Oh, come on, darling!” she finally cried. “They’re probably in Paris by now—or halfway to Rome!”

  With a sigh, Neil capitulated. “I’ll call Sterling.” He disappeared through the hatch and down the ship’s ladder.

  When he emerged a few minutes later, he was smiling. “Well, darling, once again you were right.”

  “I was? How wonderful! How?”

  “Sterling was unfazed. Apparently Kevin is given to impulsive behavior. Has a history of suddenly dropping everything and just taking off.” He laughed. “Sterling wished us bon voyage.”

  “He did? Well then, I say anchors aweigh!”

  Her husband put an arm aro
und her. “You want some more good news? When I was below, Dieter informed me that the chef has a cousin who’d come over from Marseilles to see him. According to the chef, the man’s had yacht experience and—just happens to be ‘between boats,’ as it were. His passport’s current, and he’d be most happy to sail with us, so we won’t have to go shorthanded. I gave my approval.”

  Marcia’s brow furrowed. “I thought we made crew decisions together.”

  “We do, darling. But as you pointed out, we’re a bit pressed for time. We can’t exactly spend a few days interviewing, now can we?”

  “I suppose not,” she allowed, still frowning. “Does Dieter like him?”

  “Obviously.” Neil paused. “Although I suspect he also likes the prospect of not having to work himself and the others like dogs. They’ll have a hard enough time as it is, making up the two days.”

  “Then I take it, it’s a fait accompli.”

  Her husband nodded. “The new man came aboard with that last load of supplies.”

  “Well, I trust Dieter’s judgment,” she mused, studying the crew as they moved about the schooner, making ready to depart. “Which one is he? These sunglasses aren’t prescription.”

  “He’s that older one, there,” said Neil, pointing, “the one just going down the forward hatch.”

  She squinted. “He’s a lot older, if you ask me. And frankly, darling, he looks a bit, well—rough.”

  Now it was Neil who was losing patience. “Darling, it’s not as if we’re going to be photographed for Town & Country. We did that last year, remember?”

  “No need to get snippy,” she countered, watching the new man disappear below. “I see Dieter was able to find an outfit for him.”

  Her husband nodded. “Everything but the white Topsiders, which fortunately he already had. A new pair, in fact.”

  “Good. Let’s go; I’m bored with the Cap.”

  Neil did not respond. Shading his eyes, he watched a launch coming towards them. “I’m afraid, darling, there’s going to be one more delay. If I’m not mistaken, that’s the police.”