The Jesus Germ

by Brett Williams

  ‘Zachary Smith, you assume too much for your own good. I believe you have overstayed your welcome.’

  ‘I’ve had a little too much wine to drive.’

  ‘No more than me and I feel perfectly sober.’

  ‘Care to take the test?’

  Rachel regarded him with half-hearted exasperation, resuming her guard.

  ‘The only test I care to take is getting you down the steps of my apartment into your flashy sports car. Does that compute, Robot?’

  ‘I concede.’ Zachary raised his hands in defeat.

  ‘Thank you, Rachel, I really did enjoy this evening.’

  Hearing genuine sincerity in his voice, Rachel thought her sarcastic thrusts might have been too pointed but decided he had engaged her just as vigorously.

  ‘My pleasure, Mr Smith.’

  She walked him to the door then spun to face him, placing her hands on his shoulders, rising on her toes to kiss him hard and fast on the mouth.

  ‘Now please go before I change my mind.’

  She saw him down the steps. Zachary floated to his car. Rachel had called him Mr Smith, sending him packing with unexpected affection. He gunned his Ferrari onto the street with glee, honking the horn all the way to the corner.

  When the tail lights disappeared, she emitted an unstoppable squeal of delight. The precipice of adventure no longer held any fears. She leapt into the void, not caring where she might land.

  48

  A thin haze covered the pale sea. The Taka Matsuri droned monotonously, plying the depths, diesel fumes billowing from her stern. Two steel booms fixed at right-angles to her rusting hull, trailed ropes, chains and cables into the ocean. Deep below, they coupled to giant nets weighed down by a necklace of lead that bounced relentlessly over the sandy bottom, disturbing every living thing in their wide paths. Suddenly the engines groaned as the boat encountered a titanic ball of swarming prawns that quickly filled the nets to capacity. The captain eased the throttle to an idle.

  The Taka Matsuri slowed to a stop on the shimmering blue desert. A winch wound the nets up from the sea floor until they floated at the surface. The left boom flexed as one net was lifted over the deck, the large balloon of prawns released onto the sorting table with a heavy rush.

  The boat listed then moved to an even keel as the second boom aligned with the deck and spilled its load. A dozen pairs of yellow gloves sorted the popping prawns into plastic tubs. Bony mackerel, jellyfish, sea urchins and starfish were tossed overboard, dead or alive. Any tuna was kept, and sharks immediately relieved of their fins and left to writhe helplessly to the bottom of the sea.

  The gloved hands worked unerringly. Full buckets were emptied into a chilled hold through a hatch in the deck.

  The pile shrunk quickly. A crewman, famous in Japan for his lightning hands and quick eye, toiled ruthlessly; beginning at a frantic pace and not relinquishing his speed until the sorting was done.

  Today Yuki was celebrating his birthday and tonight he planned to dine his wife in a fine restaurant and see a movie at the local cinema.

  Yuki fished out dozens of smooth pebbles and rocks, some as big as his fist. Other lumps were grey and porous and he pocketed one to examine later. They were unusual and he imagined they were ballast from an ancient war junk, the flagship of a long-forgotten dynasty, scuttled in the throes of a violent battle.

  After the last prawn was recovered, the sorters ran flat-edged pans across the table, scooping up sand, broken shells and coral to fling overboard and away in the strengthening breeze.

  Yuki rested his eyes on the horizon where a dark bank of clouds pushed in from the south. Three hours from safe harbour, the captain pointed the Taka Matsuri directly north, surfing the waves as they gathered amplitude, driving the bow deep into the water. In the lull of each trough the engines strained as the next swell surged in from the stern. The temperature dropped rapidly, icy water from the plunging bow showering the deck. The crew busied themselves hosing off the sorting table to the roll and pitch of the hull. The booms were chained to a heavy shackle on the transom, and loose ropes and cables coiled neatly in designated areas.

  The sun was blanketed by speeding clouds that brought driving rain, cutting visibility dramatically. The heart of the storm approached and by the time the Taka Matsuri neared the bay entrance it would reach its furious best. The captain watched the deep red core on his radar. The trawler continued its steady grind homeward while the crew took refuge in the galley, drinking green tea, smoking cigarettes and leaving the turbulent sea to the skill of the captain.

  The storm front hit the boat as it neared the coast. The searing wind screamed in the rigging, the swells rising steep as mountains. Every climb from a trough was laboured and dangerous. The Taka Matsuri no longer rolled over the waves but crashed through their peaks.

  The crew braced themselves as the captain nervously watched the waves rise up in the stern. They were climaxing and breaking into rolling surf as the boat neared shallower water. To enter the bay meant steering across the waves and risk being rolled broadside. The run needed perfect judgement.

  The captain sighted the bluff and the colossal walls of water exploding against the cliffs. He sought the headland and the safety of the peninsula jutting into the bay. He timed the rise of the boat, throttling back on the engines. A giant set of four waves lifted the boat high into the air, heaving underneath, collapsing and tumbling into the channel with terrifying thunder. Marbled black water spread in their wake. The captain applied maximum throttle and the Taka Matsuri accelerated in the temporary runway of even sea. Approaching the bluff, the engines roared in hope and his spirits soared, though he was far too wily to claim victory. He promised to visit the temple if he made it to safety.

  Then he heard it, invisible at first; a rumbling locomotive. Out of the void of sea and sky, tall as a high-rise, it dwarfed the trawler. Rather than crash down, it engulfed it, pushing it along like a toy, loading the decks with tons of water, snapping the chains securing the booms, submerging the bridge windows in boiling foam.

  The trawler stayed straight at first, then veered, threatening to capsize as the force of water weighed against the port hull. The captain heard the creak of fatiguing metal and when he thought the boat might founder under the heft of sea, the water fell away, cascading over the gunwales, the Taka Matsuri resisting suffocation. The rogue wave fanned right, following the other set into the beach. The motors spluttered but stayed alive, the captain coaxing them until they blew clear. He idled down, resting in the lee of the headland, and spoke into the intercom. The crew emerged topside to slanting rain and a tangle of equipment, but safe from the angry sea. They tidied the steel deck, checking for loose debris as the booms swung freely, bound together in the howling wind.

  Yuki spotted a rocky lump encrusted with coral and shells wedged between two sorting buckets. He tossed it high off the stern and it punched soundlessly into the leaden water amidst the noise of the storm.

  49

  Peter and Anthea Trimble left the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum in a reflective mood. Their solemness only deepened on entering the International Peace Memorial Hall, built to honour those who died in the terror of August 9th, 1945.

  Both their grandfathers were Australian infantrymen who fought for God and country in Western Europe and North Africa during World War II. However, the couple’s singular interest lay in the surreal history of nuclear obliteration. To the surprise of family and friends, the couple had excitedly made plans to honeymoon on Japan’s southern island of Kyushu.

  As the storm of the previous evening travelled northward, lashing the countryside, moving through the Korean Strait into the Sea of Japan, the couple sheltered in their hotel room watching in-house movies. Now the last rain clouds rolled over the horizon leaving a pall of humidity over the bay. After breakfast, they took a walk along the beach. Though the wind had abated, the ocean remained formidable. Heavy surf barrelled onto the shore, walls of liquid concrete slamming and exploding
up the sand, draining back in deep beds of foam.

  They watched the swells erode the beach, marvelling at their power. Surf thundered around the rim of the bay as they searched the banks of weed building beneath the dunes, for jetsam, flotsam and special shells. Anthea found a blue rubber sandal amongst the driftwood. Peter found a green table-tennis ball and a yellow plastic duck with a red beak, half submerged in the wet sand. He brushed them off and popped them into a string bag.

  Hand in hand the couple wandered, stopping to check out bright bits of colour that caught their eye, mostly old lengths of rope or small broken containers. Something shiny caught Andrea’s attention. Next to a ribbon of kelp lay the body of a gold watch. The face was badly scratched but the hands were visible. The winder had corroded, and the stainless-steel backing plate, dulled by salt water, was engraved with Japanese characters. She showed it to Peter who’d found another yellow duck. He convinced her there must be more of the little creatures and so began a compulsive search to reunite them. He imagined they’d survived wild storms and the threat of pirates, braving the elements to swim the East China Sea, now castaways on a foreign shore. The quest for ducks suddenly became more important than an old broken-down watch.

  Anthea slipped the band-less Omega into the pocket of her tan shorts and walked after her driven husband. A treasure chest full of diamonds would not distract him from his task. But his sense of humour and skewed view of life made him interminable fun to be with. She found herself drawn to the duck hunt, wondering when his enthusiasm would wane. When secretly he’d think of abandoning the search in favour of a cold beer at the hotel, he’d find a duck, and after an hour there were seven in his string bag.

  Anthea suggested they head back to the hotel. At a steady pace, without stopping for treasure or ducks, meant a good half-hour’s walk. Peter agreed.

  Anthea saw it first, rolling in the rush of water up the beach, an oblong log of coral and shells about a foot long. Its geometric shape suggested an encrusted object, and a sliver of glass showed at one end. She snatched it out of the receding water while Peter pulled playfully against her unauthorised stop.

  ‘Don’t be so one-eyed, Peter. What do you think it might be?’

  ‘Maybe an old bottle.’

  Anthea handed it to him. He weighed it in his palm, examining the exposed section of glass.

  ‘Coral doesn’t grow on things overnight. We could chip it off to see what’s underneath.’

  He handed it back to her and she dropped it in the string bag with the ducks and the ping pong ball.

  ‘Be careful of the ducks, Anthea.’

  She kicked a fan of water toward him. He arched his back to avoid the cold spray, sprinting off up the beach. She chased and caught him, wrapping a slender arm around his neck, kissing him joyfully on the cheek.

  ‘We’ve only been married a week but I’m giving you an ultimatum.’

  ‘What do you mean, Anthea?’

  ‘It’s me or the ducks.’

  Peter turned forlornly, trudging toward the hotel.

  Anthea ran at him from behind and he pretended not to hear her pounding across the damp sand. She jumped onto his back, clamping her legs around his hips, forcing him to his knees, maintaining her balance beautifully all the way to the sand. She sat on his stomach, pinning his arms out to the side.

  ‘I love you, Peter Trimble.’

  He pulled her close, as a raft of cold foam washed over them, From Here to Eternity’s silvery Hawaiian moon replaced by the shimmering glare of the Nagasaki midday sun. Peter saw a flash of yellow shoot by and a plastic duck deposited on the beach. When Anthea released him from her embrace he rescued it, and the others welcomed it into the fold.

  After they showered and changed, Peter and Anthea sat on the end of their hotel bed, their faces warm and pink from the sun. Peter had lovingly washed the ducks in the bathroom sink and arranged all eight in a row along the sideboard near the door. Anthea read his mind.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Name them.’

  ‘Suggestions?’

  ‘Huey, Dewy, Louie, Daffy...’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The seven dwarfs, plus one?’

  ‘No. How about names associated with the bombings of Nagasaki?’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘The plane carrying the bomb?’

  ‘Bockscar.’

  ‘The bomb.’

  ‘Fatman.’

  ‘The bombardier?’

  ‘Kermit.’

  ‘You’re not just a pretty face.’

  ‘The pilot?’

  ‘Forgotten.’

  ‘Charles Sweeney.’

  ‘That’s four, Peter. Add some references to Hiroshima.’

  ‘Okay, there’s Enola Gay, Little Boy, Paul Tibbets the pilot, and let’s assign a head duck, something around the Manhattan Project.’

  ‘That’s eight. We can soften them up a bit to suit those little ducky personalities.’

  ‘All yours, Anth.’

  ‘Okay. Bocky, Fatso, Kermit, Charley, Eno, Little Boy, Tibbets and the Mad Hatter.’

  ‘Perfect, but how will you choose the name for each duck?’

  ‘There’s a permanent marker in my suitcase.’

  Peter handed it to her.

  ‘You go first.’

  ‘No, you choose. Consider it my first acquiescence as a married man.’

  ‘How generous, Mr Trimble. Do I get baby naming rights too?’

  Peter stared at her with his mouth ajar.

  ‘I mean, if and when.’

  He thought for a second.

  ‘Agreed.’

  Anthea took the first duck off the sideboard, printing Eno on its flat bottom. She took another and labelled it Kermit. On a whim, she appropriated names based on a scratched beak, a faded wing or discoloured eye.

  ‘What if we find more tomorrow, Anth?’

  ‘I haven’t decided to let you down to the beach again. We should take a drive into the hills instead.’

  She sensed it playing on his mind.

  ‘I’m going to duck down to the hotel foyer, pardon the pun, and see if the jeweller has fixed my watch band. I can get the inscription translated on the watch you found.’

  ‘I’ll do that later, Peter. I’m going to have a nap. No traipsing back to the beach.’

  Peter entered the bathroom then emerged with a cap, sunglasses and a small pack.

  ‘Well prepared for a trip to the foyer.’

  ‘I’m going to walk the streets for an hour or so and visit some old curio shops. You never know where a poor abandoned duck awaits rescue.’

  He left the hotel room, closed the door quickly behind him and heard the thud of a balled-up towel hit the other side.

  Jimmy Rokonata was always smiling. The permanent creases around the corners of his eyes attested to it and there were no frown lines on his forehead. His jet-black hair, parted neatly on the left, shone with oil. His toothy grin endeared him to everyone.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Peter. Your watch ready, very good job, very good price.’

  Jimmy had a sharp memory. From a drawer in the counter, he picked out the repaired watch, laying it carefully across Peter’s wrist.

  ‘For you, Mr Peter, only five dollar.’

  Peter said nothing. He peeled a ten dollar note from his wallet and handed it to Jimmy.

  ‘Too much, Mr Peter, too much dollar.’ Jimmy held his hands up in protest.

  ‘I insist.’

  Jimmy grinned wide and took the note. ‘Thank you, Mr Peter.’

  ‘I have something else you might help me with, Jimmy.’ Peter slipped the small pack off his shoulder and pulled out the encrusted object Anthea found in the surf.

  ‘Can you clean this up?’

  Jimmy offered his palms. ‘Very heavy, Mr Peter, and old too. Leave it to me, Mr Peter, very good job, very good price.’

  ‘Today, Jimmy?’

  ‘Big job, Mr Peter. 6 p.m., I work late, very good p
rice.’

  Peter shook Jimmy by the hand and slid a fifty dollar note across the counter. ‘Deposit, see you at six. Know any good places to lunch?’

  ‘Noodle house in Hakata Road best in the world, Mr Peter. Cheap too, very good price. Two blocks walk, go left out hotel, can’t miss it, Mr Peter, big sign.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Jimmy’s. Tell my wife I sent you, very good price.’

  Jimmy’s grin burst out of his head.

  Peter smiled and collected his pack off the counter. Fastening his watch to his wrist, he walked out of the lobby into the warm street in search of noodles and ducks.

  When Peter arrived back at the hotel, Anthea was reading a novel. He bounced onto the bed, stretching out to rest.

  ‘Any luck, Peter?’

  ‘Watch band fixed but no ducks you’ll be glad to hear.’

  ‘Peter, where’s the crusty length of old glass from the beach? I searched high and low for it.’

  ‘I thought it was in the string bag. I’ll have a scout around for it later.’

  ‘Shall we eat out tonight, Peter?’

  ‘Steak and beer?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Around six,’ Peter said, rolling over, burying his head in a pillow.

  They came out of the lift at 6 p.m. Anthea made for the chemist shop while Peter returned to the jewellers where Jimmy was busily polishing the glass counter. His grin erupted when he spotted Peter coming.

  ‘Mr Peter, good result, very pretty, special price.’

  From the counter drawer, he removed a green velvet sheath tied off with a drawstring. He stood it up, prised the neck apart and pushed the sheath down to the counter. Peter’s eyes widened in astonishment, bedazzled by the shiny jewel, unsure if it was the object he had left with Jimmy. The glass glistened, clear as a mountain stream. Suspended inside were brightly coloured frogs. It was the most beautiful ornament he’d ever seen.

  ‘Good job, Mr Peter, very hard, special tools, very happy for you.’

  ‘Jimmy, it’s not what I expected but thank you so much. Name your price.’