Wilde Stories 2014

by Editred by Steve Berman

  “I’ll be back in a few hours.” Gus holds a hand up to interrupt me when I ask him to stay. “You don’t want me around and frankly, right now, you’re too wigged out to be good company. I know you’re not angry at me, but it’ll be better in the long run if I leave now while we’re still on speaking terms.”

  I’d protest but that would just make his point. Gus turns out the lights before he leaves. The comforter is wet from melted snow. It sticks to my skin when I fall into bed. I curl up into a ball and roll the comforter over me. Buried, I finally start to relax.

  This time, I have left the world but it still doesn’t feel right. The mattress ought to be sunk deeper. My arms should be around the hulk of a man who can’t ever admit hurt or pain. I should be immersed in the warmth of his body as he is in mine.

  “I love you, Gus.” Now, I just have to figure out how to say it while he’s in the room.

  Snow evaporates off the comforter. I’m warm and dry. I wriggle my head out. Flowers and ozone replace the smell of pine. A spring breeze grazes me. I stare at the door in the dark, wishing it would open.

  Seven Lovers and the Sea

  Damon Shaw

  The men slipped the claws of their bars under the lid. It creaked and began to lift. They twisted away and swore again. I smelled rot, sweet and sharp.

  1. CHRYSOPHILE

  Do not struggle. You will not break free. A sailor knows how to tie knots. And nobody can hear you so far from shore. Do not strain your voice.

  You will need it.

  We will be…companionable. We will talk like friends. I will tell you of my life. And you will tell me of yours. Afterwards, perhaps, I will let you live…

  I was never a good man. The fracture in me, the weakness, was gold. I loved it, as all men love their addictions, deeply, faithfully, and utterly in secret.

  The old man on Varna Quay promised me a coin, heavy and yellow and warm in my palm. Enough to take me back home to Saint Petersburg and to eat well for a year should I be foolish enough to squander it so. I should have known not to trust him, this nobleman in filthy clothes. As he took my arm, I felt a chill all the way to my neck. I tried to pull away, but he held me like iron, leading me to the boxes piled on the quay. With his walking cane he scratched an X on the side of a crate.

  “This is the one,” he said. “It must not be opened, not by crew nor customs. Do you understand?” He withdrew a purse. I caught the smell of him then, musty, like rotten wool, and had to fight to keep the distaste from my face.

  The gold coin he offered winked with a promise of more to come. I gave him a nod and slipped it to lie heavy against my thigh. I did not think of warning the captain we carried some unknown contraband. No, I worried how to give baksheesh to the customs officer in Constantinople when all I had was my one, fat coin. I could not break it like a biscuit. “I need more money,” I said. “For bribes.”

  The rich man grew without moving. Taller than the mainmast, he seemed. He turned on me and his eyes flashed a dark red, like old blood. I tensed to run, but his hand whipped forth and held my chin. He lifted my head until I could not but look at him.

  “You have a strength in you,” he said. “Open the crate after the last customs inspection and not before. You will find your reward.”

  I could not pull away. I nodded and felt his fingernails break the skin on my neck. A warm thread ran down inside my shirt. At this, he threw me back. I fell to the cobbles and banged my head.

  White light flashed as my teeth closed, sharp on my tongue. When my sight cleared and pain permitted, I looked up. Amongst whirling stars, I saw my own blood glint on his fingertip. He put the finger in his mouth and he swelled up, like the wind in a mainsail. He tore into jagged, black pieces and disappeared.

  My heart crashed in my ribs. An echoing spike of pain pierced my temple. I blinked and swore. The blow to my head must have brought on visions. I crawled to where he had stood. There, I found silver coins scattered on the cobbles, like stars.

  I filled my pockets. With every chink of coin on coin, my courage returned. The man surely had slipped between the crates of cargo. The night was dark. He had thrown me down—here I burned with anger at his arrogance—and while I was stunned, he ran. The lid of the marked crate stood an inch loose on its nails. I slammed it shut with the heel of my palm, and turned to look up at the warehouses and the far-off lantern of a tavern. I saw no one.

  Only a skin of mist over the empty quay and a rat that fled even as I gazed upon it.

  No matter, I decided. I was young and rich and full of life, and tomorrow we sailed. Ahh, gold, how its steady light blinded me to the monster in full sight.

  2. ANDROPHILE

  You die and find yourself at a doorway. No angel awaits to judge you, only a mirror set above a door handle. Stare at your face. Judge yourself. Will you open the door to paradise and let yourself enter? Are you, in your own heart of hearts, good…or evil?

  All ships have their goat. Their fool. The man you blame when a halyard is coiled the wrong way. The man upon whom you cannot bear to look after a month at sea, for his filth and inadequacy remind you of your own.

  I saw at once the new man, Olgaren, would be our fool. He was inexperienced and clumsy, and worse, he smiled without cease. He got the worst work that day, under the hoist, to guide the crates into the hold. Obviously, I had to go too, to hide the box with the mark.

  The crew laughed at me for volunteering. Petrofsky said I was after Olgaren’s arse already. Almost we fought for my reputation, but the mate held both our arms.

  “Got a month at sea, boys,” he said. “Save your passion for the sails.” He winked at me.

  I would not back down until Petrofsky swore it was not true.

  When he swore, we shook hands and I climbed down to the hold, content. I did not want Olgaren.

  Or perhaps I did. I did not know. His aspect was not fair to me.

  He was short, though well muscled, and very pale. He always wore that half smile. You will pardon my frankness, but the men I loved did not smile. They were dark, and taller than I, and I never knew their names.

  Olgaren’s hair shone white in the gloom of the hold. He had in his eyes the look of a dog you kick, to stop the guilt it makes you feel, but I could not cease to notice how his strength shifted under his clothes as he pulled the swinging boxes across the deck. We lowered them together and fell into step. Away from the crew, he relaxed. His smile faded.

  He raised one eyebrow when I caught the marked crate and slid it to the back myself. I did not hide it completely. I had to be able to open it after customs in the Dardanelles. To divert his attention, I said, “Stand up for yourself early on. Petrofsky likes to play with weaklings.”

  Standing in the light from the hatch, awaiting the next crate, he said, so quietly I had to strain to hear, “The greatest rebellion is absolute submission…”

  I did not understand his words, but I saw him in that moment.

  He had circles under his eyes and bruises under his collar. I did not think he would last long at sea.

  We loaded the cargo and did not speak further. The wooden crates chilled my fingers and made me clumsy. I was happy to climb up into the sunshine to find the Demeter tugging at her halter, eager to take to the sea. At noon the captain blew his whistle. We cast off, and let her have her rein.

  3. PHOTOPHILE

  We have taken your ship. I, Amramoff, am first mate now.

  Olgaren here is captain. He renamed your ship the Pochemuchka - the Asker of Questions. He aims to judge every cabin boy and captain from here to the Americas. I believe, with a crew of those such as us, he can do it. You, too, could be a part of this scourge. You could be one of us. If you convince him of your worth…

  For five days the wind was favourable. We saw only blue skies, while off to starboard, the Bulgarian, then the Turkish coast slipped in and out of view. The sails took up little of our time, so we trimmed and tarred and made the Demeter a thing of clean lines and sharp edges. Thi
s can bring joy to a crew. The first days of a voyage are always full of promise. But though the sun shone, a cold crept from belowdecks. Our bunks grew damp. Tinder would not kindle in the galley until we laid it on deck to dry. In the hold, our breath hung in plumes before our faces.

  Olgaren had nightmares.

  He woke us three times a night, but would not tell us what he dreamed. Two hours before dawn on the third night, he woke us again. Petrofsky boxed his ears until his head hit a beam and he dropped to the deck. When he hit the boards, I saw he smiled. I remembered his words. Absolute submission…. His smile was his shield. Even unconscious, he did not let it drop.

  Perhaps he was stronger than I thought.

  On the fifth morning, we entered the Bosporus and soon came into the city of a thousand names; Stamboul, Constantinople, Konstantiniye, Islambol, Istanbul…. Her yellow-walled city and seven hills shaded upward into the dusty air, in a hazy stench of spices and cured fish. The crew was divided into two. The larboard watch—myself, Olgaren and Petrofsky—were assigned to stay aboard while the starboard took three hours ashore. This was fortunate for me, as I thus did not have to scheme to ensure I met the customs officers as they made their inspection. More fortunately still, the Turkish officer was lax. He did not open any of the crates in the hold and I did not have to hand over the silver coins from Varna Quay to distract him. When he had left the ship, we played at dice on deck, and though the captain returned and saw us, he let us play on. Olgaren lost his coin and stretched out, clearly loving the sunlight. I took two more silver pieces from Petrofsky and felt myself a rich man indeed.

  That night I needed sleep early, as I had the three-bells watch, long before dawn. But I had hardly dozed when a cry woke me, so full of terror it had me on my feet before my eyes opened. Even in my anger, I feared for Olgaren’s safety. I leaned and shook him awake, but the men had had enough. They wanted to tie him upright to the fo’c’sle steps. Petrofsky wound rope around his wrists, and throughout Olgaren blinked and smiled as though his dreams were full of light.

  I could not see a man so treated like a dog. “He can sleep in the hold,” I said, untying his wrists. “I’ll ask the second mate. I’m relieving him on watch.”

  “We’ll still hear him screaming,” Petrofsky said.

  “And so will the captain,” I said. “So none of us need be seen to complain.”

  The men nodded. Petrofsky clapped me on the shoulder and grinned.

  “I won’t scream any more,” said Olgaren. “Don’t make me sleep in the hold. It is too dark.”

  “Come on.” I took his arm as three bells sounded. “My watch. Sleep well, shipmates.”

  But Olgaren would not stay in the hold. He did not beg again, but would not sleep in the shadow of the crates. He followed me on deck with a face like an abandoned dog and I cursed his company. The second mate, too, swore on seeing him, and sent him to sleep in the galley, which, to my relief, he did with no complaint. Alone, I watched the shore until the moon disappeared. I heard only the creak of the masts, and the whine of mosquitoes. Something splashed in the water nearby. Once a seabird called, low and sweet.

  Then Olgaren screamed. The sound echoed back from the whitewashed buildings on the shore, a wild howl that raised the hairs on my arms. The once warm breeze chilled my neck. I should have left him alone for the captain to hear, but the cries went on and on and I could not bear to hear such pain. I pushed open the galley door and ducked into the gloom.

  Olgaren thrashed on the deck between two sacks of grain. I knelt and took his shoulders, at which his eyes flew open. He clutched at me with desperate fingers.

  “Save me,” he gasped. “Protect me from the dark.”

  I could not look away from the terror in his eyes. “I am here,” I answered, without thinking. “I will protect you. Everything is well. I am here.”

  Awareness was long in returning to his gaze. “Amramoff,” he said. His voice surprised us both. It left behind a silence, in which I became aware of his grip on my biceps, and the closeness of his mouth to mine. From the fo’c’sle, the bell sounded five. Below us, the water lurched in shadow. Olgaren’s eyes were wide and silver-blue. They closed as our lips touched.

  We only kissed that night. I stumbled back on deck, confused, and terrified I had been caught, but nothing stirred above. Only the night bird, half a mile away on shore, cut the silence before dawn with its hollow cry.

  4. AUTOPHILE

  Did you think your cargo human? Did you think of them at all, chained in the hold? Why are they here? What were their crimes? Olgaren and I will not judge them on the legality of their actions. No—many break laws to feed those they love.

  Here, today, we try to find a deeper judgment, not of laws, but of worth…

  The next morning, I woke full of fear this would mean too much to Olgaren. He would reveal our kiss to the crew by favouring me. But neither did he seek to catch my eye while breaking our fast nor when we reefed the main sails to steer a course through the Marmara Sea. The sun shone hot but the breeze was fresh. As we were making such slow speed, at noon the first mate let our watch fish overboard with lines and feathers.

  Petrofsky and I caught several fat mackerel while Olgaren tangled his line and lost his hook overboard. Finally, we set him to gutting. Three worries beset me as the hours slid past. The first: How was I to ensure I was kept behind this afternoon so the customs in Çanakkale did not open the marked crate? The second: What did the kiss with Olgaren mean to him? It meant nothing to me, of course, but I feared he might desire some terrible, clinging romance.

  My third worry overshadowed all: How in all the hells could Olgaren gut the fish without slicing such clumsy fingers on the sharp knife? I could not bear to watch and had to turn away.

  I should have known he had no experience with fish. He cut them into chunks, leaving the scales on, then tried to clean the pieces one by one. The fish were only fit for soup or the gulls.

  Petrofsky picked up a handful and threw them overboard.

  “A morning’s work wasted!” he shouted. “Why not ask if you knew not how?”

  Olgaren blinked up at him, the knife loose in his palm. Fish scales glittered in his eyebrows. “I thought it would be easy,” he answered.

  “The fish are biting,” I said. “We have time to catch more.”

  But Petrofsky had an audience, and the men were bored. “It is easy, if you do not slice them up first.” He threw another handful of fish. It bounced off Olgaren’s chest. “What will we eat tonight?”

  “They would make a soup,” I said. Why was I trying to protect the man? I wanted to hit him myself.

  “Make him eat them,” someone shouted from the rigging.

  Petrofsky bared his teeth like a shark. He reached out a thumb, red with blood. “Clean it,” he said.

  Olgaren reached with his shirt, but Petrofsky waved it away.

  “Lick it clean,” he said.

  A seagull cackled above us. Nobody looked up. Olgaren narrowed his eyes. His smile did not fade.

  “As you will,” he said. He opened his mouth.

  I looked away as Petrofsky leaned forward. I heard the crew laughing.

  “Now eat the fish,” said Petrofsky.

  “As you will,” I heard Olgaren reply.

  I turned back to see Petrofsky’s hand now clean up to the palm.

  Olgaren knelt before him. He smiled, raised a chunk of grey, translucent flesh to his lips and began to chew.

  Petrofsky nodded. “Is it good?”

  “No,” said Olgaren. He coughed. I thought he might choke on a stray bone, but he forced a swallow. His smile returned.

  Petrofsky grew annoyed. He grabbed for more fish and tried to stuff it down Olgaren’s shirt, while the crew whooped and jeered.

  Olgaren shook and flopped in Petrofsky’s grasp, but did not retaliate or try to prevent it. When Petrofsky stepped back, flushed and breathing hard, Olgaren settled back onto his knees, the same ghost of a smile haunting his lips. The
jeers of the crew faded. The greatest rebellion is absolute submission. Petrofsky swiped at the deck for the gutting knife and at that moment, I saw the captain emerge from the hold behind him. As Petrofsky rose, I threw myself upon him.

  He yelled as my weight hit, and we fell. His head thumped off the deck and I saw his surprise turn instantly to rage. Luckily the knife had tumbled aside or he would have stabbed me, I am sure. Instead he twisted and threw me free. His fist flashed. My temple exploded with stars. I managed to land three punches of my own, before firm hands tore us apart.

  “What, boys?” The captain spat on the boards between us. His eyes flashed. “Who began this?”

  I shook off the hands that gripped me. “He had a knife,” I said, staring at the deck.

  “I was not going to cut him,” Petrofsky said. “I was going to show Olgaren how to gut fish.”

  The captain frowned and looked to the men for more answers, but, of course, nobody had seen anything. We were punished by cancellation of shore leave for the larboard watch. Despite the blood trickling from my brow, satisfaction made it hard to hide my smile.

  Petrofsky glowered at me. “Are you mad? You know I would not cut him.”

  I shrugged, touched my brow, and winced.

  In the smaller port of Çanakkale, the starboard watch ran to change into shore clothes, while I pretended to sulk. At the dock, the captain went off first, followed by the laughing, shouting crew. Olgaren dreamed on deck, supposedly splicing line, while Petrofsky glowered at me as he mended sails.

  “You will go down in the hold,” he said. “Not I.”

  When I only nodded in response, he spat. Twenty minutes later, I heard the boots of the customs officer and his two men on the gangplank. I led them down to the hold, keeping my hand against my thigh to stop the clink of coins. The officer shrank from touching the handrail. I noted his polished leather boots, his perfectly creased uniform, his neat moustache and smooth skin, and I relaxed. A man who loves himself always needs extra coin.

  Our hold stank. Worse than other boats. We had all noticed the streaks of mould on the timbers that returned, hours after being scrubbed away. I hoped the officer would stay back when he turned pale behind his moustache and held a white cloth to his nose. But though his men cursed, he led them down the hold, pointing out crates. He opened one in five, keeping an eye on me as he chose. I tried to hide my tension when he neared the marked crate, but his eyes glittered in the gloom. He actually showed his teeth at me as he pointed at the box I was charged to hide. I stepped close and pushed past, leaving a pile of silver on a crate at his hip without the clink of coin on coin. When I turned back, the silver had gone and he watched me with a half-smile.