High as the Waters Rise

by Anja Kampmann

  On this evening the moon seemed scarce, hovering as it did above the swaying sea. In his bed, Waclaw still wore his boots, a few feathers escaped from the pillow. Some huge being had ripped everything away, everything that had been, only yesterday. He stood in the cabin and regretted winding up Mátyás’s headphones. He thought about it, about the fact that he’d picked them up, that he couldn’t hold any of it off, that it was now evening, and the storm was over and it had grown dark, as it always did. He heard steps outside, the men ambled into the mess hall in their sweaty T-shirts. They were hungry, the food smelled, he couldn’t stay in the cabin. He went out. The sea was almost calm. Now and then they sent someone to come and check on him, at some point Petrov came and offered him cigarettes, and Waclaw watched as he sat next to him, wordlessly smoking.

  They could cost you your job, Waclaw said, and Petrov laughed softly, took one more drag, and looked straight out at the sea.

  They’ll be asking you, too, he said.

  They’re not going to send anyone out to look for him, are they?

  No, Petrov said. They most certainly won’t.

  They were silent awhile. Gas was still being flared, a seagull flew past through the floodlight, sometimes they came over from the tankers.

  What will you do now? Petrov asked. Where will you go?

  They looked down at the water, as it grew dim and a light sheen rode the swells.

  Back, Waclaw said.

  Where is that?

  He thought he saw a smile in Petrov’s eyes.

  What about you? Waclaw asked finally.

  Wife and kid, Petrov said. Fucking hell. They think it’s good money out here. That’s what they all think.

  The last light came from far away and fell on the gray stubble of his chin.

  Drops fell, echoing behind them on the empty tank. The wind picked up, rubbing against the bars and cables. Petrov put up his hood.

  I can’t let you stay out here, Wenzel. Come on in.

  He put his arm around Waclaw. It was an arm that knew that the next days, too, would taste of rain, of rain and clouds, and of their passing. He couldn’t stand to be in the cabin, he said dobranoc to Petrov and went to the mess hall. Fat Lúkacs stood behind the counter, and he wrung his chef’s hat between his hands when he saw Waclaw, as if he saw a shadow beside him. And he heard how they lowered their voices. Mikael and Ray and Steve, someone pushed back a chair.

  Wenzel, do you want to join us?

  Thanks, but I won’t stay.

  But then he sat anyway, a long line, with an instant lemon tea, lukewarm in its paper cup. Enough silence to make their forearms stick to the tabletop. Have you guys seen these T-shirts? Bright red and green, Ray was wearing a washed-out sweatshirt with a manga print. A princess and a sword. A few feet separated his table from theirs. He noticed how they looked at him, how their eyes wandered surreptitiously over, as if it were his fault that no one was getting out the cards and they couldn’t yell across the room to Lúkacs, who absently wiped at the glass as if he’d only just noticed the film of grease on the divider before the shimmering meatballs.

  He wasn’t sure it was the same room. He told Lúkacs to fry him up a couple of eggs, and ate them with some cold potatoes. Suddenly he was hungry. He was careful not to scratch the plate with his fork. It was no longer their mess hall, but it was the same room. At some point a new decade had begun, and they’d sat here and played, with all the strength of extinguished firecrackers. Mátyás, young enough, lively. Never before had Waclaw spent a night at these tables, never had he loved the sudden distance that surrounded them more.

  The smell of cabbage and fryer grease hung in the air.

  The door opened and Eugen stuck his head in.

  Waclaw, they’re looking for you, they’re going to send a Super Puma for you, first thing in the morning, it’s coming over from the mainland. Just for you. A Puma!

  He heard the voices rise and knew they’d start talking about helicopters now, weighing the pros and cons of particular models, among which the Puma’s superiority was unchallenged. He sat there and listened, Lúkacs was shoveling down some kind of food, then his gaze fell on the clock over the door: XI, what did that mean, eleven at night it must be, he looked at the face of the clock and felt something rising in him, he could still hear their voices, made it to the hall and into the cabin, to the metal toilet bowl where he vomited, and it was night, simply night, and he sat there and saw his hands shaking as if they were someone else’s, like this night, in which he didn’t belong.

  Everything that followed seemed too clear and yet somehow blurry, frayed images, their edges ungraspable. After an hour-long conversation, Anderson the generous rig manager had given him the last four days of his shift off. While he spoke, Waclaw thought of the birds that imitate rain to lure worms out of the soil.

  He didn’t have strength to ask him. Through the window of Anderson’s office Waclaw saw the men continuing to work, saw the rotary table, the colored work clothes and glaring white helmets, the water had grown still, lay there, flat, and no one came and threw a wreath in the water, a speech, anything. There was no place in his brain for a farewell without dark restaurants and brown sauce. He thought of the steel mills of the Ruhr, what he’d been told as a child about men who disappeared in the middle of the day, a white-hot heat after years spent between Carnival and grain alcohol, after the misery of the war came the silence of oak sideboards, the cramped miners’ estate, lives turned to less than ash in the boiling steel of the blast furnaces. As a child, he’d carried within him the image of locker rooms, street shoes never worn again. He saw the choir at St. Cyriakus, widows lined up in their heavy suits. A parish hall filled with pies, fruit from infinite allotment gardens, black shoes smooth as washed plates. Children singing songs in Polish and German, collars starched. The waves had died down. Not even the colors were right: T-shirts, colorful helmets, hairy calves, the sea bright all around them.

  Anderson asked several times if he wanted to go home. Several times Waclaw told him that the address he had listed as his emergency contact no longer existed.

  Anderson said it would be good if he went back to land soon, and didn’t hesitate in reporting the loss to headquarters. He held the phone to his ear. He said Mátyás’s name in the middle of sentences that sounded like a list of things that were no longer needed. Perhaps he didn’t understand what he was saying, perhaps he was trying to stay businesslike and matter-of-fact. From the wall gleamed a photo of some unknown crew taken with flash, the reflectors on the arms and legs of their red coveralls shining more clearly than any face. Waclaw tried to guess how old Anderson was, surely fifteen years younger than he, mid-thirties, maybe. Anderson’s checked shirt slid back a bit and revealed a light, fatty hand. Everything about him was pale and hairless, and his voice had all the energy of a stick stirring up a lukewarm puddle.

  He didn’t know the tears Alexej had shed, missing the birth and short life of his son, he knew nothing of the languages in which each dreamed his private dreams. He spoke evenly, nodded a few times, then hung up. He reached for a yellow leather case, pulled out a fountain pen, wrote a few words, and looked at Waclaw as if he’d done something important.

  He would do his best to make sure that Waclaw was transferred to another platform after the weeks on land, Anderson said.

  That would be a relief for you, surely?

  His smile.

  What about him? Waclaw said.

  Anderson looked at him in astonishment.

  What about him?

  He shook his head slowly and then pointed to the chart on the wall.

  Mr. Groszak. You do know what these shadings mean?

  For a moment they both stared at the topographical map where the test drillings and the platform were marked.

  Yes, he said, absently.

  Either the waves pushed him against one of the steel pontoons—he balled the fingers of his right hand briefly into a fist—or the undertow swept him away.

&nb
sp; Anderson looked out. His mouth was also soft and he avoided Waclaw’s eyes. Waclaw missed Pippo. He wondered what Pippo would have done. Pippo had hairy hands, and they could smoke together when something was wrong. Pippo knew his people. When the others laughed loudly, only a faint smile would cross his face, but his voice could get hard as the spiny fin of a perch, you could hurt yourself on it. He would never have talked with this secretary like a little puppy dog.

  Anderson nodded toward the door.

  The men will let me know if they see anything unusual outside.

  He leaned back in his chair.

  We’ll be in touch. Your shuttle will be here around three.

  And it was only this sudden rage that made him stand up. There was the curve of his seatback, his thumbs boring into it, and the fact that Anderson fell silent when he saw him standing like that, yes, frightened, but more the way one is frightened by a bug or by an unexpected noise, as if he might suddenly jump at him. Waclaw just stood there and stared.

  Don’t be stupid, Anderson said softly, biting his lip. I mean it.

  On the way to the cabin Waclaw suddenly felt heavy, as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. He tore open their closets and threw their things together, stuffed them into the bags, then carried them out, both bags, on deck, into the sudden sea air.

  He climbed up to the helideck, and the drilling continued, they pumped more drilling fluid into the depths to keep up the pressure, the Puma wasn’t there yet, and the bags were heavy. Only Petrov accompanied him to the landing deck, he stood bent like an oak and spoke little.

  Waclaw leaned against a wall, saw the others continuing to work, the crane swung around, the wind was still cold, his face felt hot, his eyes welled up. Behind him he heard steps on the stairs, saw Francis, still filthy in his overalls.

  Wenzel, he said, taking a breath. What did they say, where are you going?

  Francis took off his gloves and let them fall next to him like two dead fish. Waclaw could see the line of his boots under his pant legs. Everything seemed too big, the clothes, the helmet, Francis reminded him of an animal whose fur had gotten wet, making it look suddenly pitiful and sick.

  What are they going to do now? he asked. What will they do with—he faltered, as if he didn’t dare to continue.

  With Mátyás, that’s still his name, Waclaw said softly.

  It felt wrong to play this role. As he talked, he listened almost curiously to his own voice, which sounded unusually firm.

  They’ll do nothing.

  He could see Francis pursing his lips, his skin shone greasily, as if he hadn’t washed in days. Do you remember that boat a couple years ago? Off Mehdya? They were almost to land. Three of them were never found. And divers—

  Waclaw waved him off.

  Are you coming back? Francis asked quickly.

  He was nervous. The shift was about to start up again and he had to get back. Even after so much time he still had the feeling that he couldn’t afford to make a false step in front of the others.

  Of course. Waclaw clapped him on the shoulder. Sure.

  Then he watched him climb back down to the deck and cross the bridge to the drill floor. It gave him a pang to see him like that, already back with the others.

  The Puma didn’t come till evening.

  This isn’t Mexico.

  The sentence crossed his mind several times, but he didn’t know what to make of it. This wasn’t Mexico, and the ocean was calm, but Mátyás wasn’t there.

  What remained that evening of the platform was a small light on the waters, a dark horizon that stretched and stretched. He leaned against the glass with double hearing protection, a sweaty survival suit, the motor vibrating above him. He saw the bright spots, the gas flares and illuminated structures far below, growing ever blurrier.

  And as he looked at the bright spots, he had to think of his father, of the garret and the oval window. The tremor of his dust-eaten lungs as Waclaw sat with him, a fear in his eyes that couldn’t be reconciled with the hand that stroked his arm comfortingly. He asked Waclaw to tell him of another ocean, one that was nothing like the Baltic, with its dim cutters and cabins. He let Waclaw tell him of the sand that the Saharan winds carried over the water, which crunched between their teeth during the days, and Waclaw named coastlines, dunes of the finest sand right on the ocean. They spoke of traveling, to places where no one would follow them. Iść tam, dokąd nikt nie idzie za tobą, his father whispered, and Waclaw nodded. Go where no one will follow you. He tried to be strong, as he’d always been strong, and then they sat for a long time in the half-light of the room, which was so small that lying in bed he could touch the far wall. A few times his father drifted into a light sleep, then opened his eyes and said Waclaw’s name.

  The helicopter lurched through this sky, the helicopter would find a coast and land where a boat would bring him to the nocturnal harbor of Tangier.

  The crouched running under the rotor blades with two duffel bags. The bags lay next to each other on the back seat of the taxi as the car drove off in the direction of the cutter. A light rain ran in red streams through the dust on the windshield. They drove. Low barracks with wire fences, now and then he saw the barred windows of workshops with car lifts behind them bathed in cold nocturnal light, a few well-secured warehouses. It was one of those industrial areas near the coast that looked like they were used only for scrap metal and car dealerships. He was tired. Next to him, the driver was chewing something, and he heard the sound of the windshield wipers. They drew streaks across the glass. And there were raindrops that lit up in these foreign streets, they got wiped away, and no one noticed. New ones would come.

  2

  Tangier

  The ocean smelled of salt and oil, the slight rain had only increased the odor. Engines and outboard motors lay between the tin huts and from behind a high fence he heard the whimpering of two dogs who were meant to keep watch at night. From here it was only a few hours to the harbor of Tangier, a trip Waclaw knew well. It was a small cabin cruiser and the driver paid him no mind. There was a pain in his back again, and he tried not to think about it. The buckles on his bag were worn and dull.

  The boat steered through the bay into the fishing harbor, agleam with yellowish light. The driver reduced their speed, and as they chugged softly past the other boats, Waclaw saw flies and moths dancing like white shadows around the floodlights of the harbor, strangely beautiful against the dark night. The shimmering of all the years that added up to nothing, surfacing without order in the narrow cone of light.

  There were endless rows of little fishing boats moored close to one another. The driver let the boat float in until it stopped with a jolt against another. Instead of throwing a line, he held on to the other boat with both hands and gave Waclaw a nod. Waclaw hurried to heave over the two duffels, following them to the other side with a last long step. A bit of light fell between the two boats on the otherwise oil-black water, voices came from the shadows under the low concrete buildings. His helmet, which hung from the duffel, gave a distinctly hollow sound as it hit the side of the boat. That morning Waclaw had searched everywhere for the big Thunder Horse sticker—a red horse on the plastic—but Mátyás’s helmet was nowhere to be found. Only his headband, still damp, which Waclaw had hurriedly stashed with the other things. He was barely to the other side when he heard the motor start. The shadow of the boatman had slipped back behind the steering wheel, Waclaw saw him maneuvering carefully through the rows of ships, and soon the boat could no longer be heard.

  In the fishing harbor everything was as it had always been, the lights were dim, and it seemed far from the customs area, where the sound of yapping dogs hung permanently in the air. The mood here had changed since they’d rented the room a few years ago. Merchants on the streets sold cheap synthetic blankets that people draped around their shoulders like the shepherds in old pictures. They’d spent New Year’s here, among too many faces who didn’t know what a new year would mean for them. They’d stood betwe
en them on the cliffs to watch the distant glow of fireworks from across the strait.

  The pier swayed, and he avoided looking to the side at the dark shadows under the awnings until he had the harbor behind him. The mild smell of tobacco filled his nose, soon he reached the street and walked up the hill to the city wall, accompanied by the sound of his own steps. This was the beginning of the alleys, which opened and branched for so long that it seemed all the haggling and noise of the merchants was just a distraction, a curtain before a picture whose depth one can only occasionally glimpse.

  The streets were still alive: small, windowless shops with merchants sitting out front. A woman shelled peas in a small, dirty storeroom, next to her a boy slept on a crate. Waclaw knew the way. It was a room they’d rented in a colonial building at the edge of Tangier’s old city. It was one of the few places they had together—determined primarily by the accident of its proximity to the airport and water—and it was their first place after Mexico, after Katrina and the storms, and for a while there were rumors that here off this coast, as in Brazil, one had only to bore through the salt crust to reach a massive oil reservoir. All that had been found was some gas on the mainland. They’d kept the room anyway. A port of call where they could leave whatever there was no room for in the lockers, whatever didn’t fit with the bright shine of the water, where they were forced together with the others for two, three weeks, once again.