Rubicon Beach

by Steve Erickson

  Catherine’s father ran into the water, reaching the edge of the boat.

  Catherine, enveloped in nausea and a hush in her ears, caught her breath enough to raise her head and her eyes to the shore. She saw her father in the river, and her mother and brothers emerging from the trees.

  She had to blink twice, then again, then many times when Coba, in a way that reminded her remorsefully of her attempts to kill the watercreature, took the huge wooden oar and brought it whistling down from the sky squarely into her father’s skull.

  She kept blinking many times at it, a funny befuddled expression on her face. If she could not convince herself of what she saw, she could not mistake, she knew there was no mistaking the sound of the crack, the sound of her mother, and then her own sound, a wail that was reeled from the pit of her, as though it was on the end of a string.

  * * *

  They entered the maze of the river. They slid their boat into one of the river’s green and blue boxes, expecting to trigger secret panels and swiveling walls. She wouldn’t have expected anyone could find his way, when she had been so unable to find her own way. The sailor inched along carefully, his eyes watching everything and his ears hearing everything, feeling his way. It grew dark and they continued. He’s a good sailor, she thought, this bastard who’s murdered my father.

  * * *

  Of course I’ll kill you, she explained to him in her language which he’d come to understand better. He laughed back at her but bound her hands. He put her in the cargo hold. Night came and he lit a candle and peered into the hold at her. He touched his fingers to her face and she snarled at him, Don’t even think of it. It’s not even a possibility. When he was not dissuaded by this advice she carefully aimed and delivered her foot straight between his legs. He howled in agony, and when the pain subsided and the water had cleared from his eyes, he saw she was no longer in the cargo hold but at the front of the boat on the edge. I will sleep on the bed of this stinking river, she told him in her language, which he now understood with startling clarity, before you’ll touch me again. He rubbed his chin and his pants aIternately. It’s better this way, he said, nodding. Nothing gets complicated this way. He wanted her less than the fortune her face would bring him.

  * * *

  By the end of the following day she saw the end of the maze before them, opening up in a white glare. It was then she noticed the watercreature guiding them out. Traitor, she whispered to her face, don’t think you do this for me. If you were a friend to me you would have guided us back to the village the way you did the night I tried to escape. If you’d been a friend to me I would have gone and my father would be alive. Your treachery is no less terrible simply because you might have thought it was all a joke. Someday I’ll kill you too, she said to herself, as I will kill him.

  * * *

  When they emerged from the maze of the river, there hovered above them a mining town built into the side of a hill, small windows blinking out of the black earth. Those who lived in the town had spent ten years searching for gold. At every point that they decided the venture was futile and considered deserting the town for good, someone would strike it rich and the promise of a new lode made the town come alive again. Coba and Catherine happened into port in the aftermath of one of these discoveries, so that the air of the town was charged with frenzy. In the evenings the miners came trudging back to town exhausted in body but not hope. A small saloon and brothel operated, the liquor of the one and the favors of the other flourishing only in a dearth of competitive attractions.

  Catherine anticipated the sailor’s schemes. Don’t think you’ll sell me to these men, she said to him. I’ll sleep on the bed of this stinking river before— Yes, yes, Coba cut her off wearily. He took Catherine to the saloon where he kept her outside, bound in rope and rags under a cloth. As he had with the men of the Crowd, he lured the miners into a game. He told his stories of kings and queens and jacks. He gave special emphasis to the ace of spades, which would unearth, he explained, the treasure of the hills. He proceeded with efficiency to lose his money. In the early hours of the morning, among the pale crusty yellow of the lantern fires, beneath the sagging roof of the saloon and the constant drizzle of the jungle, he looked at the mangy faces around him aglow with new windfalls; he noted how they were primed for the eventuality of fortune by their belief in the lodes of the mines. Convinced after weeks or months or years that good luck was just beyond their grasp, they couldn’t help but believe Coba was an omen of that luck and that, beginning this very night, none of them except Coba could lose. Coba did not refute this conviction. Rather he sat back, opened his arms good-naturedly, and said, What is it about me? Why is it fate hates me so? Is it that I tempt it so often? All right I’m a fool. But I’m a sailor and I love navigating the winds of fate even as they dash me on the rocks time and again. So I have nothing more with which to gamble now, virtually nothing I should say, nothing that would interest serious men, my final possession would only amuse you, gild the lily as it were, and what do you need with more gold than that already at your fingertips though I suppose (he said, rubbing his chin) if there were no answer to that you wouldn’t be here on this mountain far from the pleasures of civilization, stuck with the bad whisky of this establishment and the company next door, of whom you must be presently tired assuming (allowing a moment for each man in the room to contemplate the familiar whores of the brothel) assuming you were ever much diverted in the first place.

  None of them knew what he was talking about.

  It’s nothing, said Coba, forget it. It’s been an interesting evening, he said, standing up from the small table of three and a half legs and picking up the cards. I’ll leave with what I still have, my prized possession, get while the getting’s good. Whimsically he turned over the top card of the deck to reveal the ace of spades, and then the next to reveal the queen of clubs; he chuckled to himself knowingly and snorted with relief.

  Wait a minute, the miners said, what do you mean, prized possession? What does this mean, ace of spades, queen of clubs?

  It means I get while the getting’s good, Coba said again. Ace of spades is the card of your fortune, and the queen of clubs is the card of a woman with hair black as this earth (he stomped on the ground for effect).

  Where is this woman? the miners asked with some excitement.

  Coba squirmed as though placed in an uncomfortable position. You place me, he said, in an uncomfortable position. My wares would only appear sentimental before worldly revelers who know the cognac of empires rather than the trivial aperitifs of women.

  The miners still didn’t know precisely what he was talking about, but by now they had gotten the drift, namely that the sailor didn’t want to tell them about something important. You’re trying to get out of telling us about something important, the miners accused.

  All right, it’s so, said Coba. But calling her a woman overstates the matter, she’s only a girl, really. . . . He cast them a sly look and then, resigned, threw up his hands. He gestured for them to wait. He went out the back of the saloon while the miners crowded after him, fearing he would try to get away. He led in Catherine who was still under the cloth, and unveiled her like a statue.

  For the next few moments they all stood in silence, the miners thunderstruck, Catherine seething in their midst, and Coba with his wide amazed smile. He’d never seen men so awed by a face. Men who’d spent years searching for nothing but gold forgot years and gold aItogether. This, Coba said to them rather heavily, is all I have left. She’s a wild girl, I found her living among the animals of the jungle. She’s a river girl, you can tell by the way the water of the river lies on her naked body, what I mean of course is you could tell if you had ever seen the water of the river lying on her naked body. The miners still didn’t say anything; they appeared dazed. So I found her, the sailor went on, and clothed her (he picked at her dress) and fed her and cared for her, and as you can see I’m still in the process of taming her (he pointed at the rope around her han
ds), though no man has yet done that, if you get my meaning. So I’d feel, well, irresponsible turning over such a girl to a man, in the way I’d feel irresponsible turning over a lynx. God knows what she’s capable of. I think we all shudder to consider it.

  The miners looked at each other.

  Now that you understand the situation, Coba said, we’ll call it a night.

  Not so fast, said the miners.

  If any one of you touches me, said Catherine, I’ll bite his thing off and spit it down his throat.

  She said something! the miners shouted, though they didn’t understand the dialect. A river plea, Coba translated; she says she tires of her wild ways and longs for the hand firm enough to break her of them.

  What do you want for her, sailor? said the miners, getting control of themselves. For several minutes the air was filled with offers: gold found, gold yet to be found, younger sisters in Bogota, sisters yet unborn, cocaine and marijuana and exotic strains of peyote, anything the miners could think of that a stupid white European might want—offers including guest privileges, leasing arrangements, escape clauses. To all this the sailor became heated and indignant. I don’t sell her—his voice rose as theirs fell—I’m not a bloody slaver. The miners said nothing and Coba peered around furiously. He wiped his chin and straightened the front of his shirt. He said, I’m a gambler. I scratch out a living making respectable wagers. I may not be good at it, my luck may be bad an inordinate amount of the time, but don’t insuIt me with bullshit about buying a girl. This is the damned twentieth century.

  The miners grumbled among themselves and apologized.

  Coba said, If you want to propose a wager, then propose it. She’s worth more than twice what you have. But I’ll settle for twice what you have. Match every coin you’ve won from me with a coin of your own, there’s a wager for you. If that’s unacceptable, then good night.

  The miners watched him and watched her. Something went tight in their bellies and dry in their mouths. They watched his resolve, they watched her hair black as the earth they plundered for gold (they looked at it beneath their feet). They each knew that no other woman any of them ever saw again would have a face of her own after they had seen this face, and the idea of spending their lives with women they had to hide from the light appalled them; it was as though learning they had only moments to live.

  They whispered, Deal.

  * * *

  Once Coba had won back his fortune as well as that of the miners, he excused himself from their company with haste, took Catherine and made his exit. They were still a hundred yards from the boat when they heard the miners coming after them. We’re lucky these men are so stupid, Catherine thought to herself as she ran with the sailor down the side of the mountain for the river. But sooner or later he’s going to get his throat slit, which he deserves, and something worse for me, which I don’t. Near the base of the mountain her feet went out beneath her and she tumbled the rest of the way, lying face down in the riverbank trying to get up, her bound wrists making the effort impossible in the slick of the mud. Coba took one look at her, chewed his lip, considered the horde of swindled men coming down on him, thought of the money to be made at mining towns all the way up the river. He ran to Catherine and yanked her to her feet by her black hair and out into the river, where they climbed aboard their boat to the music of guns.

  * * *

  By the third such town their escapes were becoming more hairbreadth. Catherine understood more and more each time that one night she would fall in the mud and he would look at her and leave. It’s a race, she told herself, between his stupidity and the stupidity of the men he cheats: one day he will be stupider than they are. My only hope, she said almost out loud, is that the day he becomes that stupid, l will get him before they do.

  * * *

  The fourth town was far down the river, after which this river that ran west among all others that ran east would curl even more westward into a denser, more foreboding jungle than either Coba or Catherine had known. In the time between the third and fourth towns their supplies dwindled; they’d gotten out of Town Three so quickly they’d taken nothing with them but loads of gold. Loads of gold, she said to him, and nothing to eat or drink. There’s enough food and water until the next town, he said, I’m taking care of things. Sooner or later, she thought, word of mouth will catch up with us. She didn’t say this out loud because if the sailor were to intelligently appraise the risks, he might intelligently conclude his scam days had run out on the river, which meant Catherine was no longer of value to him. In a floating context of finite supplies, one eats better than two. My survival, she thought, now rests on the arrogant indifference to danger this sailor has for brains. For the moment he must continue believing he’s smarter than he is.

  * * *

  The day Coba discovered he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, Town Four was in the distance, a rim of dirty white lying on the green of the river. He watched the town with satisfaction and brought out from the cargo hold the last couple of pieces of fruit, saved for the moment when it was certain more food was on the horizon. Catherine sat at the other end of the boat watching in the other direction. You’re looking the wrong way, he called to her, and pointed to the town; she glanced at it briefly and silently turned back. He shook his head, relishing the day he wouldn’t have to put up with this crap anymore. He took out a sharp knife and cut the fruit, and tossed her a piece which fell on the deck at her feet. Someday this business will be over, he said to her, and you can have the long siesta on the fucking riverbed you want so bad. He feIt satisfied saying this because by now he was sure she understood him.

  About this time he heard another voice.

  He spun around to face in the direction of the town, which had now grown nearer. There, just a few feet from him, was another boat, somewhat smaller. Three men were in it. Two of them sat watching Coba idly while the third stood at the front of the boat, smiling broadly underneath a comic bushy mustache. Coba was confused; he looked at them and looked at Catherine and then back at them, wondering if he should rush to the girl and throw the cloth over her. Hi ho, said the man with the mustache to Coba; he tipped his hat to Catherine and called her señorita. Been on the river long? he asked cheerfully. Since the last town, Coba said; he laughed his laugh. Is this a welcoming party? he said, a bit more uneasily than he had planned.

  Yes, that’s it, said the man with the mustache. A welcoming party. I’m sort of the town’s diplomatic service, let’s say. Trying to fix things before they get broken.

  Uh huh, said Coba, still confused.

  That’s it, said the man emphatically. Trying to fix things before they get broken, save everyone a lot of trouble. You, for instance. I’d like to fix you before you get broken, save you a lot of trouble. Give yourself a chance to take yourself out of the hand before it’s too late.

  Coba did not like the gambling metaphor.

  Now you can do one of three things, the man with the mustache explained with great joviality. You can sail into town, where a more formidable welcoming party is waiting for you and where you’ll find yourself put in a small jail and kept an undetermined period of time until it’s decided what’s to be done with you. Or you can sail back to the town from where you just came, at which place you might be given similar treatment if you’re very lucky. Or you can continue to sail downriver where it narrows, and where the jungle thickens so as to blot out the day, and long living vines throttle men slowly, and there are fast rapids, fanged serpents, fierce wild cats, mosquitoes the size of oranges with malaria that runs like juice, and natives the size of children that eat men the size of you. How’s that sound?

  Coba said nothing.

  The man with the mustache said, That’s about how I figured it sounded.

  We have no food, Coba said in a dry mumble. We’re getting low on water.

  Well now, that has to be your problem there, said the man with the mustache jauntily. During this discussion the other two men continued sitting id
ly in the boat, not saying a word but staring at Coba and Catherine with heavy lidded eyes. Now they picked up the oars and turned the boat in its place, starting back for town. We’ll be waiting for your decision, the man with the mustache said with a wave. Adios.

  Coba sat a long time staring at the other boat as it grew smaller and the approaching town grew bigger. When he was close enough he could see that, as the man with the mustache had advised, a throng was waiting on the makeshift dock. They carried hatchets, machetes, guns and ropes. Coba decided he didn’t want to go there. He also knew he didn’t want to go back to Town Three. So, aimlessly, without any real command on his part, the boat slid past the town and approached the beginning of a more astounding lethal maze than any he had sailed. The entrance to the new jungle seemed to ooze darkness. He noticed there was a funny roar that seemed to come not from the ooze but from all around him, or behind him; and then he realized that it came from the town itself, and the roar was the laughter of the populace, ushering him off to oblivion. As Coba closed in on the jungle the merriment seemed to grow instead of fade.

  Or perhaps it was mirth at another turn of events. For he turned to find that Catherine, who was still at her place on the other end of the boat, now instead of bonds was wearing two ragged rope bracelets, the two wrists having been separated from their captivity to each other. In her hands she held the knife with which the sailor had been cutting fruit.