Sweetness and Light

by Liam Pieper

Then the winds pick up, in from the ocean, to lash the bamboo beach bar and make the hilltop church’s bell ring out in protest from dusk till dawn, sinking the town further into the sullen, insomniac heat of night. And then, right around the point it cannot be endured for another second, the tension snaps.

  Those first sultry days of monsoon. The crack in the world through which pure relief rolls in with the rain; the romance is undeniable. Dark days and lamp-lit nights blurring into each other, the white noise of the endless drumming rain drowning out the whole world, shrinking it down to the size of a hotel room. Slow, languorous sex, the drip of sweat on linen sheets; if he snags the right companion in that first week, he is set for the whole monsoon.

  Connor recalls with fondness, a pang of longing, the woman who had once taken him into her care for the whole glorious month, starting with a car to Mumbai and a room at the Oberoi, looked the other way when he helped himself to her credit cards and wallet. What was her name? It escapes him now, but he will never forget that month; room service and cocktails that were already coated in condensation by the time they were placed in front of them, cotton robes, sitting cool and dry on the balcony, watching the palm trees whip under wild winds.

  That was so long ago it might as well never have happened. Each day the dry season wears on, and still no talent comes to the beach. Connor begins to despair. He counts his money, smooths out the crumpled hundred-rupee notes, stacks the coins in a pile.

  Finally, the bus comes again, and, miracle of miracles, last off the bus, shuffling heavily, a sporting chance. He is so relieved he doesn’t even move in, can’t trust himself to play it right. He backs off and waits to make contact, watches for a day or two, makes discreet inquiries.

  She is elusive, flinty, bookish. Her hair worn in a bob that is impractical for the weather, the humidity poofing it up until it resembles some sort of absurd desert flower. She reads alone by the guesthouse pool – bright orange Penguin classics piling up next to her sunbed – all through the day and only emerges for dinner on the third night, when she goes down to the beach bar.

  Connor makes sure he is at the next table to hers and dines alone, as does she. He has brought a well-thumbed copy of Catcher in the Rye, a guaranteed conversation starter – everyone’s favourite book, especially those who have only read one book. Pretending to be absorbed in it he watches her with his peripheral vision, mirroring her movements – taking a sip of his drink when she does, raising his fork to nibble at his meal when she does. He’s in her line of sight so that whenever she looks up from her book she will catch him absorbed in his own, or staring in thoughtful blindness out towards the water.

  For dinner she orders chips and a club sandwich, so he does the same, even though he knows it will be a soggy nightmare; sugary white-bread, year-old bacon defrosted on the grill. He tries not to read too much into her choice of meal. It isn’t a great sign, doesn’t flag a great love of adventure, but he’ll have to take it. It gives him a chance to make contact.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he says, sidling up to her table. ‘Could I please borrow your tomato sauce?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she says. She is American.

  ‘Your ketchup.’ He points to the bottle, then gestures over his shoulder to where his own chips sit untouched. ‘They never remember to give you ketchup here.’

  ‘Oh yes, okay.’ She hands it over. ‘Keep it. I have enough.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ There is a long, long pause. She looks up from her book, cross. ‘Is there something else?’

  ‘No,’ says Connor. ‘Yes.’ He dithers. His game is off. ‘It’s just . . . I was wondering if you’d like some company? At dinner, I mean. I don’t know about you, but I hate eating alone.’

  ‘I like it just fine, thank you,’ she says primly, and returns to her book, leaving him holding the ketchup like his dick in his hand.

  He goes back to his dinner, makes a show of finishing it, or as much of it as he can down in three chewy bites, then pushes it away.

  He should try to get her on the boat. In his entire playbook, going out on the water is the most work, but it always pays off; nothing works like the ocean. After all these years, Connor has it down to a fine art.

  He is good in the water, he knows. It’s the great leveller; his infirmities, his bad ear, his lack of education, none of that matters out there. When he’s swimming he is faster, stronger and happier than anywhere else on the planet. An old girlfriend compared him to a penguin, for the way he shuffled around on land, taciturn and awkward, only to slip into a more graceful skin beneath the waves.

  Connor backs right off, waits a couple of days, until he spots her on the beach one late afternoon. Through the day, the tourists get up to chase the shade across the beach, and at this time of year, at this time of day, Connor knows exactly how the shadows will fall on the sand as the sun creeps across the sky. He calculates where the Talent will shift later in the day and lays his towel out so she’ll move next to him just as the afternoon heat mellows. Sure enough, right on cue, she lays her towel down at a neat right angle to his, a few metres away.

  He is prepared, has stashed an Esky in the tree line, produces a six-pack of frosty beer and catches her eye.

  ‘Hi. Listen, could you do me a favour?’ He holds out the beer to her. ‘Could you open this for me?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘It’s a twist-top, I can’t get a grip. Sunscreen.’ Connor holds his hands out, a shrugging gesture.

  ‘Okay sure, give it here.’

  It’s a cheap trick, one he picked up from a book, but it works – ask a stranger to do you a favour, even a small one, and somewhere in their subconscious they’ll start to trust you. Why would they be doing a favour for someone they don’t trust? She hands the beer back, he thanks her, offers her one, which she takes after a careful pause, and then they are talking.

  She is here on her first holiday abroad, she’s turning forty soon, single, and was worried that she’d never done one wild thing in her life, so she booked flights on an impulse, is now anxious she’s jumped in the deep end coming to India, is having a hard time with culture shock. She’s Midwestern, religious in that baked-on-Christian sort of way.

  Connor finds himself improvising. ‘Do you know my favourite thing my priest once said to me? “Keep an open heart and an open mind. Unexpected invitations are dancing lessons from God.”’

  She looks sceptical. ‘Your priest said that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Because he stole that off Kurt Vonnegut.’

  Ah fuck, thinks Connor, recovers and rallies, barely misses a beat.

  He points out over the horizon, where his boat bobs against the current, tells her he runs a dive class, that he’s going out the next day, that he’s short one spot, that he’d like her to come.

  ‘I can’t let anyone dive without a buddy. It’s the rule on dive boats. Right now there’s an odd number on the dive, so if I don’t have a buddy I can’t dive. And I’m not exactly spoiled for choice around here.’ Connor uses an open palm to gesture around the empty beach.

  ‘I’m not much of a swimmer.’ She shrugs, and he feels a cold, prickling plunge of despair. He’s going to lose this one too.

  ‘Neither am I, really. That’s the beautiful thing about diving, you don’t have to know what you’re doing. The gear does all the breathing and floating for you. And it won’t cost you a dime.’

  He is onto the hard sell, and if there were other candidates in town he might not be so pushy, but there are slim pickings and he’s running out of time. It sometimes pays to be a little forceful; some women will do almost anything to avoid making a scene.

  He opens the Esky and hands her another beer. ‘Do you really want to turn forty without trying scuba? Live a little.’

  The ride to the dive is choppy. To reach the wreck on the edge of the coastal shelf takes about fifteen minutes, against the current. By yelling over the roar of the outboard motor, and recruiting a cou
ple of the more garrulous travellers, Connor can get a banter going on the boat that sets everyone at ease. Once they are past the breakers, the captain cuts the engine and opens up an Esky full of beers, which Connor passes around. The Australians accept them, the Americans demur. The Talent, after refusing once, takes a Kingfisher when he insists and sips it gamely.

  In good weather the itinerary is always the same; they head out with the high tide in the morning, snorkel around a couple of the sandbars and minor reefs, then break for lunch before heading on to the wreck. Lunch is fish rubbed with chilli and vinegar on a little charcoal brazier above the gunwale. Connor likes to show off on the barbecue, telling stories about reefs he’s dived as he flips the fish. The ship’s captain, a mild-mannered local guy in Baba’s employ, lets him run his mouth.

  The boat can hold ten, but today they have only six, Connor and his Talent, an older Australian couple – bright zinc on their noses, they’ve dressed in their own rashies and brought their own snorkels – and a large American who works in tech and speaks loudly about it the whole trip, perhaps to compensate for his wife – petite, polite, silent when not directly addressed. All through lunch the tech guy keeps up a steady monologue on cryptocurrency, the corruption of the Democratic party, his wish for the state of Georgia to secede from the union. The rest of the boat listens, makes polite noises, the Australian couple exchange glances. Connor catches the Talent’s eye and they share a meaningful look.

  The Australians, on hearing Connor’s accent, try to engage him in conversation, ask him where he is from.

  ‘I’m from the Central Coast.’

  ‘Like Gosford? We’ve been to Gosford. It’s lovely there.’

  ‘Yep,’ Connor says flatly. He has no wish to talk about the past. ‘Just near there.’

  By the time lunch ends, the early sun has given way to a low, overcast sky, and a strong easterly is whipping up the waves. The ship’s captain gently suggests turning back and the Georgian stands up, immediately red-faced and incensed.

  ‘Oh no you don’t, buddy!’ he says, his tone not quite friendly, poking the skinny man with a jocular finger. ‘I paid for scuba.’

  The captain smiles politely, looks over the tech bro’s shoulder at Connor. When Connor nods at him, the captain waggles his head – of course – and helps the tech bro into his gear.

  The six of them line the side of the boat in their wetsuits, put on their masks and regulators, then perch on the gunwale and plunge backwards. Conditions are not ideal. The chop has stirred up the sea floor, raising a miasma of silt that ruins visibility. Connor dives to ten metres, a midway point where the wreck looms out of the murk below. The boat above is no longer visible.

  The Australian couple are uneasy. They dive to the ocean floor, take a picture of themselves with a waterproof camera and then, job done, return to the boat. The tech guy leaves his wife paddling in neat circles on the surface and dives straight down to the wreck, only to surface soon after, complaining of a problem with his regulator. He and his wife return to the boat and then, moments later, he dives again, alone this time, wearing his wife’s gear.

  Connor keeps track of all this only peripherally. Mindful of the poor visibility, he sticks close to the Talent, who is having the time of her life. She too is like a different person once she is in the water – delighted by everything, grabbing his hand to get his attention and pointing at this, that, look at this fish, what is that? Isn’t this amazing? Connor is relieved. This one is going to be easier than he thought. He starts to relax, begins to sketch the evening ahead in his imagination – a light dinner at the Shanti Bar, gin, a walk by the seawall where the fireflies flit through the scrub, go in for the kiss on the sand-dunes. Moonlight on water. Sex on the sand. It is a sure thing, he knows it now.

  But first, the best part of the dive, the float through the guts of the ship. Taking her hand, he guides the Talent down to the mouth of the wreck and then into it. He draws her close, embraces her so they float horizontal to the sea floor, and then with one flipper turns them around so she is upside down, staring up to the surface. Through her faceplate, he sees her take in the reef around them, the motes of silt dancing in the water above, stark in the shafts of light, sees her eyes widen, the exclamation of delight muffled by her regulator. ‘Oh!’

  They are wearing the thinnest of wetsuits and through the neoprene he feels the tension in her back, the delicate, barely there muscles. Connor allows himself the subtlest caress, one hand on her hip, the other on her forearm, and then he pushes away, putting slight torque on her so she spins in dreamlike pirouettes as she drifts through the carcass of the ship. Connor leaves her to marvel, kicks forcefully to swim ahead and up the slight incline where the bottom of the wreck sprawls upwards and then suddenly vanishes over the coastal shelf.

  This is the secret of the wreck: the mellow current draws you through the reef like a dream but, in the final few metres, as the warm waters of the reef are sucked down into the abyss, the flow unexpectedly picks up and hurtles divers out over the coastal shelf and down. One second you’re floating in the shelter of the reef, clownfish darting playfully in and out of anemones, the next you’re snatched by a rip that sweeps you into the infinite black below.

  It’s dangerous, but only if you don’t know what you’re doing. While the Talent dawdles through the wreck, Connor powers ahead and will be waiting over the abyss to catch her when the current seizes her. He’ll take her in his arms and then they’ll swim together to the surface, but not before she’s had a moment of stomach-dropping terror, the depths of the ocean calling her to her death.

  His thesis: everybody likes adventure. Even if they don’t, they like the idea of adventure. Few people want to think of themselves as no fun, or else they would never get onto a boat with him in the first place.

  Everyone is wired the same way. The best way to bring someone to life is to shock them, to give them a taste of the void, a glimpse into the endless, freezing cold that lies outside their comfort zone.

  Nobody ever feels as alive as they do the instant they realise, viscerally, the possibility that they could end, that life is finite. Every experience becomes a symphony of taste and texture – breakfast the next morning, the incredible richness of a pop song on the radio as a truck goes roaring past your car, the feeling of air in your parched lungs as you surface from the deep; sex. Even the most mediocre sex is elevated – the most fizzled squib of a climax is glorious if you thought you would have no more.

  Connor has come to believe that it’s what everybody is looking for – why they trail through this town, through this state, this country, this forsaken beach – a chance to feel alive, by any means necessary.

  He’s done this before, many times. Knows that when he surfaces with the Talent in his arms she will be a new person, every nerve ending alive with possibility.

  Connor doesn’t want to take any chances in this chop, with this poor visibility; he waits, braced against the cliff edge, for the Talent to come over the lip. When she comes, she’s moving faster than he expects – not drifting with the current but barrelling along with it, big kicks and sweeping breaststrokes powering her forward. Just a flash of fin and wetsuit and then she’s gone into the black.

  Connor is after her in a second, and then he’s alone in the void. Visibility down to nothing. He listens desperately for some clue, but his bad ear is useless and his good one confused by his own ragged breathing, the roar of the outboard motor of the boat starting up on the surface. Taking a guess, he duck-dives, stretches out a hand. Miracle of miracles, it lands on a fin.

  The other swimmer is panicked. No longer confident but flailing, bubbles from the regulator spraying all over the place, blinding Connor. By tugging on her arm, Connor is able to communicate: ‘Up, up.’

  He takes her weight, reaches down to her dive belt and drops her ballast, kicks up.

  Only when they break the surface, when he reaches for the mask to reassure her, does he realise what has happened. ‘Don’t t
ouch me!’ the tech guy snaps, mottled and embarrassed. ‘I’m fine. You back right up.’

  Connor dives again, into the black. Down as far and fast as he can until his lungs sing and the pressure in his ears threatens to cave his head in. He stops, forces himself to think.

  There is no sign of her in the wreck, or out in the blackness of the coastal shelf. He kicks down deeper, feels his good ear screaming in protest, realises he’s risking the bends, hovers. A loose neutron vibrating in agonised uncertainty. Something is wrong with the water, furious around him. Chunks of coral and steel are breaking off the wreck and flying by him. Something unreal and unstrung about the world – maybe he’s already dived too quickly, nitrogen in the blood, making him loopy.

  He starts kicking up. When he breaches the surface and tears off his mask, he finds the wind is wild – hot, wet, the change is in the air. The monsoon has arrived with fury, the rain coming in fat, sharp needles against his face. The boat has ripped free from its anchor and is heading back to shore. Far away, on land, he hears the ancient bell on the church tolling wildly as the wind whips it back and forth. Connor, hoping against hope, swims for the boat.

  Connor dived. Just a foot or two down and the world above – its noise, pressure, the exhausting weight of expectation – none of it could reach him underwater. Down there, the world behaved itself; things worked the way they should. Even as his shoulders burned and his chest ached for air, he knew how to turn this to his advantage, used the pain to propel himself forward and up, surfaced to fill his lungs and dropped into a leisurely butterfly.

  The hardest part was resisting the urge to look over his shoulder, although he was sure that his closest pursuer was a good ten metres in his wake. He had nothing to back this up, but knew it the same way he knew the distance to the end of the pool, how many strokes it would take to reach it, that atavistic space between body and mind he slipped into during a race. Still, he left nothing to chance, ploughed through the water with smooth, even strokes until his fingertips hit the edge of the pool.