Fuck pearling, he thought, he wasn’t going to chase oysters that weren’t anywhere. What he’d do tomorrow was put in at the nearest Thai port and kick these Jap divers off. No matter that according to his agreement with them so far he owed each a hundred and fifty dollars. To pay them would be like infecting the wound. With them gone he’d sail down to Penang and find a buyer for the boat, wouldn’t even paint it up to make it look better or anything, just get rid of it and get into something else. That’s what he’d do.
He finished most of the bottle and it finished him for the night. He slumped, his head dropped, then all of him dropped to the aft deck.
He didn’t feel the sudden lurch of the boat as the anchor line snapped, nor was he conscious of any of the various motions as the current got to it.
The current seemed to enjoy having its way with the boat, took it down that channel to another, spun it twice around where there was a sort of basin and, helping it to just barely avoid collision with sharp rocks, carried it through a narrow outlet. To the sea proper. There it relinquished the plaything to the night wind.
The night wind was not a violent wind but one made up of a steady stir and frequent firm gusts. More than forceful enough, however, to catch the excessive freeboard of the boat and blow it farther and farther out.
When, well into the next morning, Bertin opened his sticky eyelids he was looking straight up to sky. He didn’t realize what had happened until he sat up and looked to starboard and port and saw only ocean. He stood quickly, his head suddenly cleared. Rushed forward and pulled in the weightless anchor line, as though proving what had happened would help.
How long had they been drifting? Bertin wondered. Evidently quite a while for there not to be any land in sight. So, where the hell was he? West of those islands of yesterday, sure, had to be, but how about north or south? North would be bad. Those islands of yesterday must have been only a few miles within Thailand jurisdiction, so it was possible these waters now were Burmese. Burma had a nasty political disposition, an attitude of belligerent isolation. No trespassing. Anyone who violated its borders, went in by land to find rubies or sapphires or for any other reason, such as pearls in Burmese waters, stood a good chance of being killed. Burmese army patrols were thick along the border, shot intruders on sight. It would be the same out here. Any moment a Burmese patrol boat or maybe even a destroyer could come bearing down and, without even asking or warning, start firing on them.
Bertin glowered at Setsu, Michiko and the boy. Fucking Japs, he thought, they probably knew when the anchor broke loose. Why hadn’t they awakened him? It was typical, their abiding so steadfast to his rule that limited them to the foredeck. Inflexible bastards. And look at them now, standing there absolutely expressionless, no help at all, not even sharing his distress.
He went aft and started the engine. Because it was yet morning the sun told him which direction was east. He swung the boat around, lashed the wheel to hold course. Got out Miller’s binoculars and scanned the horizon. Saw nothing on the hazed line of it, however the glare off the water prevented him from being certain. He scanned again, all around, more slowly, his pessimism expecting to come across something that would turn out to be a Burmese patrol.
And there it was.
An interruption of the horizon. A darker thing, not large.
He was headed straight for it or it was coming straight at him. He strained to make it out. Useless to try to run from it, he thought. That might make matters worse when it caught up. Maybe he’d be able to bluff his way out. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d lied for his life. Sweat was trickling down his rib cage.
He kept the binoculars focused on that dark object.
And not until he was only a couple of miles from it, did he accept that it was something fixed in place, a piece of land, an island way out there by itself. From his perspective at that moment its horizontal profile was wedge-shaped, higher by fifty feet or so on one end. A grove of palms on the lower end seemed to be providing balance. As the boat drew closer Bertin realized how small an island it was. Less than a half mile long.
Anyway, Bertin thought, thank God or whoever for it. He’d use it for cover, remain with it until nightfall. The prospect of sailing at night made him uneasy, but it was the safer of his choices.
He circled the island to determine where the boat would be less likely seen. The island’s opposite side turned out to be proportionately wide because it included a crescent-shaped lagoon that had been created by a reef of coral. The demarcation between the roil of the sea and the calmer, contained water was easily visible.
Bertin decided on the lagoon and sailed back and forth along the reef, searching for a break in it that would allow access. Four times back and forth. The reef was like a continuous rampart, the forbidding spires of its coral growths and the more solid built-up sections of it reached within inches of the surface and, in some places, above. Apparently there was no way in.
He ran the boat back to the side of the island he’d initially approached. Hurriedly attached the spare anchor and let it drop. The boat was then only about thirty feet off the higher end of the island, holding parallel with it, black against dark, fairly well blended. Bertin cut the engine and made coffee, which he laced with some from another bottle of brandy in case the adrenaline wore off and the hangover he was supposed to have had got to him.
At that moment the boy, William, was lying front down on the foredeck with his head extended over the side. Peering down into the calmer water between the boat and the island. He remained like that for a while, then sat up and from a small cloth bag that had once contained salt he removed an ample pinch of roasted rose leaves.
He moistened the leaves with saliva and formed them with his palms into a ball and, after he’d made sure that it wasn’t too wet by testing it against his forehead, he used it to rub the lenses of Setsu’s diving mask. It was an old ama method of preventing the lenses from fogging, and it had been his given responsibility for two years.
Finished with Setsu’s mask he took up his own and gave it the same thorough treatment.
Setsu knew it was his botherless way of asking could he go for a swim. With the long bus trip to Ban Pakbara and the past several days of diving, William hadn’t been in the water in a week. She waited for him to bring his look around to her with the request in his eyes. No reason to deny it. It wouldn’t be an annoyance to the man Bertin and the water appeared agreeable.
A single nod from her.
Within seconds William had jumped in.
The sound of the splash he’d made as he entered the water touched off in Setsu the suggestion that she share the swim. Seldom these days did she get to swim merely for the fun of it and with him. Hurriedly, she put on her mask and dropped overboard. Submerged, she found him about twenty feet from her, headed away. She caught him unaware, grasped his ankle and enjoyed seeing his expression change from alarm to delight.
They went to the surface for air, then swam underwater together along the coral-studded base of the island. Giving in to the spirit of the moment, they playfully pursued a wayward clown fish that darted away but soon returned for more play. They also pantomimed, performed silly posturing for each other’s amusement, and when William did riding a bicycle, Setsu did applause. They swam close beneath the boat, pretended to beat upon its slime-coated hull, were tempted not to pretend, which they knew would have aggravated the sour-tempered Bertin. Laughed, which caused them to lose their air. Surfaced for more.
Resuming the swim, William suddenly made for the bottom. Setsu wasn’t concerned. The depth there was no more than six fathoms, she estimated (thirty-six feet). William had been deeper a number of times. She kept him in sight as, leisurely, she followed him down. Approaching the bottom, she saw it consisted of a dark sand with an unusual indigo cast to it. The indigo became more pronounced as she drew closer. She grabbed up a fistful of the sand, released it and appreciated its iridescence as the dappling sun caught upon its particles.
She noticed that William had taken up an object from the bottom. He pivoted to show her. Just then, a lemon yellow something claimed the water between them with swift, lively swerves. After about fifteen seconds, as though satisfied that it had sufficiently startled, it swam up in the direction of the surface.
Setsu recognized its precise motions.
A sea snake.
Wide flat tail, distended, venom-storing jaws.
She had encountered sea snakes at various times but never one such as this. Not this color nor this large. Six feet long, at least, with a girth equal to her upper arm. She’d heard it said rather too lightheartedly that sea snakes were often shy, at times friendly and always unpredictable. They required air, protruded their heads above water every so often to fill their lung, which ran the entire length of their body. They were, of course, extremely poisonous.
Setsu couldn’t get William up to the boat and out of the water quickly enough. She explained the danger to him in two solemn, pointed sentences and then gave attention to what he’d found on the bottom and brought up.
An oyster. As big around as a dinner plate. It was thick, convex, weighed ten pounds, was mainly gray to black with radial ridges delicately tipped a flashing blue. It was, Setsu presumed from its size and all, the type of oyster pearlers speak of as a max and marine biologists call Pinctada maxima.
Bertin noticed and came forward. Compared to how incited he’d been by oysters just two days ago he was now almost indifferent. Surely he’d never again get so worked up over them. He demanded the oyster without saying a word and William, concealing reluctance, handed it over. Bertin took it to the aft deck, placed it on the wooden block.
Left it there while he relighted a half-smoked Gauloise and took off his canvas shoes to air his huge feet, which told him his toenails needed clipping. They’d told him that a month ago and if the clippers had been right there he’d have seen to it, however…
He took up the dah-she, the Burmese knife, and went at the oyster. Because of its size he had difficulty keeping it up on edge long enough to allow him to sever the ligament at its hinge. Finally he managed, cut through its adductor muscle as well, so the oyster lay flat. He lifted off the top shell as though he were uncovering a serving dish.
The pearl stunned him.
To such an extent that he didn’t believe it was a pearl, nor did he trust his eyes. He was afraid to touch it, for it might be merely an illusion and his fingers would come away with nothing between them. He closed his eyes and pinched his upper eyelids sharply left and right, inflicting pain to reassure reality. And yes, there it was, within the iridescent nacre of the interior of the shell, lying comfortably in the variegated black-and-dun-colored mantle, that slick and soft but gristly-looking skirt of flesh around the oyster’s body.
It was huge, this pearl, about three-quarters of an inch in diameter (later it would measure eighteen millimeters or .7079 inches with a weight of 153.14 grains), and it required the coordination of two fingers and a thumb for Bertin to pluck it out. As he held it up to examine it he moved well away from the side of the boat for fear that his excitement might cause him to fumble it overboard.
How round it was, appeared perfectly spherical! And flawless, not a bump or pit or any other kind of spoiling blemish on its complexion. Its orient or luster was so deep and rich Bertin could see in it his image distinctly, mirrored and surrounded by a luminous aura.
All those attributes, however, were secondary to its color.
It was blue.
Not just a hint of that shade to be seen if held a certain way in a particular light, but an intense outright blue. The blue of a fine Burmese sapphire, or that of a cornflower at its summer peak. Flashes of cobalt came from it, as though it were transmitting beautiful, innermost secrets.
Bertin hadn’t ever even heard anyone tell of such a pearl. Was he perhaps the first ever to see one? Whatever, he knew what he had in hand was a rare and extraordinarily precious gem.
He’d keep it to himself, not let the Japs in on it, was his immediate thought, But then, a far more lucrative possibility occurred to him.
He went forward to them, showed the pearl to them. They gathered around and gazed at it with wide-eyed wonderment. Didn’t comment or question or reach to touch it, as it lay there in the depression of Bertin’s upturned palm. He flexed his hand slightly, activating the pearl’s luster, which provoked vowel sounds of awe from Setsu, Michiko and the boy.
Bertin was amiable now, and collaborative. He reminded them that they were his one-third partners. Possibly, he remarked, the bottom here was covered with such oysters containing such pearls. Think of it. Think of having a handful.
Setsu didn’t really need such persuasion. In her mind’s eye she was already diving and finding.
Michiko and William would tend the lines.
Setsu dropped into the water, adjusted her mask, took a dozen hyperventilating breaths and with her gathering sack rode the attached weight to the bottom. The bottom of indigo-colored sand and sea snakes. Perhaps, Setsu thought, as she took a quick look all around, that sea snake had been a solitary one. And the same might be the case of that blue-pearled oyster. She didn’t put stock in either presumption.
She searched the bottom swiftly but thoroughly in one direction and then another, her whereabouts guided by the underwater base of the island. Her lungs were just commencing to burn when she came to where the bottom dropped abruptly and became much deeper, a sort of trough that ran perpendicular with the island. From the looks of it she guessed the depth of the trough was about thirteen fathoms. A swarm of shrimp came streaming by, a translucent cloud, just as she went up for air alongside the boat.
The first thing she saw as she broke the surface was Bertin’s face, avarice and anticipation in it. He was kneeling on the deck, leaning over the side, awaiting her. No doubt expecting her to hand him up an oyster or two. She chided herself mildly for the pleasure she felt from disappointing him.
She remained in the water while Michiko attached the catskin bag to the right side of her face mask strap. Two rubber tubes ran from the bag. One tube was inserted in underneath the edge of the mask; the other, the longer, went to Setsu’s mouth. She blew into that second tube, thereby inflating the bag to its limit. It was a flesh-colored balloon half as large as her head. Again, she rode the weighted line all the way down.
At once she swam to the trough, continued over the edge and down into it. Wasting no time, for time was breath. Sought the bottom. Reached it at a depth of fourteen fathoms (eighty-four feet). The pressure down there was thirty-six pounds to the square inch, so it wasn’t so easy for Setsu to move about. She felt the thumping of her heartbeat; the pace of it well over a hundred to the minute. Her insides were intimidated while outwardly she remained in calm, confident control.
By now the catskin bag had deflated, the air in it having been forced by the pressure through the tube and into the space of Setsu’s mask. That offset somewhat the effect her eyes would have suffered because of the pressure. They would have bulged grotesquely, near to the point of popping from their sockets. There would have been searing pain as the muscles that held her eyes in normal place were strained. As it was, with the catskin bag arrangement, a makeshift ama device, what eye pain she felt was endurable.
She investigated the trough. A strange aspect of it she immediately noticed was the good visibility. At that depth it should have been murky, sombrous. However, shapes and shadows were sharp, and she could even make out the consistent texture of the sandy bottom, those same bluish grains. What wasn’t to be seen were oysters. Not a one.
She followed the trough in to the base wall of the island, and not until she’d turned and looked back and up did she realize she’d passed beneath a sizeable overhang. More unexpected was the formation directly overhead: a vertical shaft made up of irregular layers of stones and the clings of various corals. It was as though she were at the bottom of a deep crudely constructed well looking up to its surface—an oblon
g patch of calm, which was intensifying the sunlight that struck upon it.
How long had she been down? How far to air? Her sense of fractional time was keenly developed, like a stopwatch in her head. She trusted its accuracy. It told her she’d been under a minute and a half. Two and a half was her limit. In keeping with her usual caution, she’d play it safe, allow ample margin rather than put off surfacing until the last seconds.
She was about to swim back out the trough and go up when it occurred to her that it would require less breath time and effort to go up right there, up the shaft. As well, that would be continuing on, not disappointing anyone, including herself, by surfacing empty-handed again.
She undid the lifeline from the back of her belt, tied two knots at the end of it. Her way of letting Michiko know she was all right, merely exploring someplace where the line would be a hindrance. She jerked the line sharply three times and saw it being pulled away.
A glance up to the patch of surface that she was now committed to. She flexed her knees a bit. The sand beneath her feet gave a little, then held for an upward push, much less than a full-out spring, which started her upward. That, along with the buoying air in her lungs, made rising nearly effortless for her. With respect for the decrease of pressure and the effect that could have on her, she’d go up slowly. She had plenty of breath time, she thought.
As she ascended she considered the shaft. It was about twelve to fifteen feet in diameter with the rocks of its sides stacked haphazardly, some flat and some on end, some protruding and others creating recesses. They were for the most part a dull, dunnish brown color, and it was that characteristic which, when she was about a quarter of the way up, allowed her to make out the snake so well.
It was lying on a ledge in a neat, tight serpentine arrangement. About five feet from her. Partly in soft shadow, partly in the strike of the sun. At first sight its head was only slightly extended, its chin resting on the flat of that rock, rather coylike or perhaps insouciantly waiting to see what might come along. When it caught sight of Setsu, its head, and that section of it that could be thought of as neck, alerted, stiffened abruptly and crooked up. It was bright lemon yellow, possibly the same snake that had made such a surprising appearance earlier. Was just as large.
18mm Blues Page 4