by Tobias Hill
‘Hola, Felicia.’ It is the Brazilian. She tries to remember if he owes her money for his room. Then she is guilty at the thought. She nods. ‘Euclides, good morning. What do you have?’
He opens a cast-net between his spread hands. All Felicia can see is the flexing and folding of oversized fins, flesh mottled red and blue. She leans closer, trying to see.
The older fisherman tuts. ‘Flying fish. Stew-meat. They don’t concentrate, Brazilians. He was thinking he saw sharks all morning, this one. As if we don’t know when there are sharks in our country. Too much drink, eh? Too much ganja. How much were you going to ask the señorita for those?’
‘Four days’ rent.’
There are dogs scavenging under the mango trees, digging for ghost-crabs. Felicia hisses at them and they run away sideways, stilt-legged, barking. She turns back. ‘Two days’.’
He nods, hands her the net. The old Venezuelan lowers the tuna into his arms, cradles it, walks away without speaking.
‘Thank you.’ He smiles. His teeth are already a little rotted by sugar-cane. She smiles back.
‘I hope they make good stew.’ She wonders what he is doing here. In the middle of nowhere, in a foreign country; and why she sounds strong in her own ears. Taking his fish, leaving him his money.
It makes her think of Noah. She looks round.
He is up already, sitting under the concrete awning in his wickerwork chair. Not frowning but staring out inland towards the oil fields. He is wearing shrunken blue swimming-trunks and a torn cotton beach-shirt. There is something held on the table in front of him and Felicia shades her eyes to see. A pen and paper. She wonders how long he has been sitting there.
He doesn’t look up until she is beside him. Hesitant, looking down. His writing is angular, leant back on itself. She frowns, translating the French. ‘I had a terrible dream.’
He looks up. For a moment his eyes are wild and out of focus and she is scared.
He smiles. ‘Felicia. What do I owe you, sex or money?’
Money, Noah. You know that. She doesn’t say it. He is an old man. He deserves respect. She leans against his chair. ‘Good morning, Noah. How long since you ate flying fish?’
*
Santa Fé, 16 May 1996
I had a terrible dream.
Ascension Day. There are no newspapers. The boats still go out. Euclides the Brazilian catches flying fish. Felicia cooks them in the hotel kitchen. The meat is good, sweet.
He writes slowly, pausing between sentences. Looking away. Inland is the see-saw of derricks over the hotel roofs. Felicia has hung her pans on a cashew tree by the kitchen window. They bang together in the sun and wind.
His eyes are tired. It is easier to look down at the paper, to write. The ink dries quickly in the hot shade.
They sleep in the holes of the reef, where the nets are no good. So Euclides is proud today. A handsome, honest, proud young man. I would like to see him old. Or to see him lie, I would like that. He holds up two flying fish for the tourists to see. Mister Eels from Room Five takes photographs. Children unfold the wings. Ribbed, like wet umbrellas.
I hate him because I am jealous of him. I am jealous because he has never fought a war. Imagine that, to have never fought a war. All his life, he has only had to fight for what he loves.
This is the dream. I am in Paris. The Île de la Cité and the cathedral over water and trees. I am young and clean-shaven. It is summer, 1946. I know this because there is no war in my dream. War came before and then later.
It is summer in Paris, and I am walking along the promenade with my only jacket over one shoulder. I am twenty-three years old, a soldier for four of those years, and I believe I am done with war. On the promenade there is the sound of women talking. Laughter catching in their throats, high and low. Like the voices of boys when they are about to break.
The wind smells of last year’s burning and the Seine. It tugs at my jacket. I look back and there are men following, sixteen or seventeen years old, already they look like boys to me. It was not the wind I felt against me.
I feel for my wallet, the brown leather fold with my identity card, discharge papers, American dollars with their smell of cordite. It is still in the jacket. I can see the boy now, apart from the rest. Frowning eyebrows and the oily down of a first moustache. Still following. He is not much of a pickpocket.
I wait for them. I watch them come up to me. What can they do? I am not an old man, this is not Cassino prison camp or the siege of Dien Bien Phu. This is peacetime, my peacetime. I smile and stare at them. I am waiting for them to look away and go on under the trees and over the bridges.
‘How much for three nights? In dollars?’
‘In dollars? Twelve. For you both.’
He puts down the pen again, looks across the yard. Felicia is unlocking Room Seven for a tourist couple. Blond hair, checked shirts, matching purple backpacks. Seven is a good room, he thinks. Felicia must like them, they should take it. He doesn’t call out to them. His mind is somewhere else. He picks up the pen.
They do not go. The pickpocket starts to shout. He is offended. I have embarrassed him here, on the Boulevard Saint-Michel, in front of the women with their new dresses and laughter. Is he hurt enough to fight? He never stops moving, shifting from foot to foot. Certainly he is angry and scared (what is he scared of?). He waves his arms and swears at me in Breton.
This is how people die. Angry and scared. It is the way their stories end. Sometimes it is also the way people kill. The boy wants to hurt me and I wonder why, and if he can. It seems trivial. My flat is not far. I apologise. I walk away from the boy with his aggression and wretched face.
At my door they catch up with me. What is the boy shouting? Why doesn’t he leave me alone? I smile and apologise again. I put my hand out to his shoulder. To touch him, to show him how alike we are.
The other young men kick my legs away and hold me down. Together they are ridiculously strong. One of them hits the thief and he falls down. Why do they do this? Is it to make my killing look like self-defence? But this is only a dream. They are pressing something into the boy’s hands. It makes sense only as a dream.
I call out again. He sits up and throws the knife. I feel the coldness of it in my chest, smooth between ribs. I am still alive. I stand up and reach for the black plastic knife handle. Now I will kill them if I can.
But they are running away, the young men, whispering. They hide my killer in their crowd. The sky goes red but it is only my eyes. I sit down on the hard pavement. I am starting to die and I cannot stop. I sit up in my old man’s bed, alone in Venezuela, with the sweat cold in my hair and on my skin.
All morning this has stayed with me. Not because of the death. Because they wanted to kill me and I do not know why. I wanted clear reasons and to die knowing them. But there was no reason. I did nothing.
‘Nothing. I want to deserve to die.’
‘Noah?’
He turns, disoriented. ‘What do you want?’
It’s Felicia. He searches for something else to say, some civil word. But it’s all right. He can see the white of her teeth.
‘I want to know why you are out here talking to yourself.’ She comes over, walking easily across the hot sand, not hurrying. ‘What are you writing?’
He turns the pages over, weighs them down with his hand. ‘Nothing. History.’ He sighs, coming back to himself. ‘A history. Of French cheese.’
‘Really?’
‘Maybe not. Maybe a history of French wars.’
‘Really. You lying to me?’
He puts an arm round her waist. It is warm and solid against the skin and bones of his hand. He leans on her a little. ‘Yes. I’m lying.’ He tries to stand but his legs have seized up, he has been sitting too long. ‘I’m thirsty.’
‘What would you like? Beer?’
He waves her away. ‘God, no. Rum, I want rum. With ice.’ He watches her walk towards the beach bar. ‘Golden rum,’ he shouts after her. ‘Not that whit
e trash from the islands. On my tab, eh? Felicia?’
He sits back, distancing himself from the description of last night. The pen is still gripped in his hand. He looks at the tension in his fingers. The back-slanted writing on cheap lined paper. The pen.
It is from Hanoi, lacquer worn down to metal where his third finger habitually rests. He remembers picking it up on a house-search there. Indochina, the third year or the fourth, a war they still believed would be won. He laughs to himself, quietly, in the shade of a concrete canopy. He remembers with his eyes open.
The house of Mister Nguyen. French windows, Laotian incense-urns, a verandah with bell-beetles in a cage. He recalls walking through the echoing mahogany rooms with his uniform and American gun. Pen and ink laid out on a writing-desk. Just picking up the pen and walking on. Mister Nguyen sitting in the courtyard while they searched. Thin hands in his lap, reading Maupassant. The pages catching light as they turned.
He wonders what happened to him, after the war was lost. Today it seems important. There are Chinese characters etched into the steel. He has never been able to read them. He lets the pen go.
There is a tall glass on the formica table. Ice clinks in the yellow alcohol. Noah looks up, dazed. Felicia is talking to him.
‘ – do you think?’
‘Delicious. Good.’
‘Noah, listen. We have to talk about it. Can we? Tonight?’
‘Sure.’ He smiles up at her and then away. He’s said the wrong thing. Has he said the wrong thing? He doesn’t want to see her eyes. Her hand is on his shoulder and he reaches up and holds it. Against her skin his own is dark with veins and liver-spots. He doesn’t want to see that either.
He looks out across the hotel’s dirt courtyard to the beach. Euclides and Mister Eels are playing dominoes on a little table in the shade of a coconut palm. Beyond them the sea is blue under a blue sky.
He wants to tell her about the dream. About what he deserves. But he can’t. He thinks of something else to say.
‘Damn beautiful day. Good for a swim. Every day here is a good day to swim.’ He drinks, closing his eyes at the cold sweetness of it. The alcohol reaches him almost immediately. A slow, uneasy excitement.
‘Not today.’ Felicia picks up a carton of cockroach poison and a broom. Noah watches her walk towards the guest rooms, unhooking the keys from her sand-paled jeans. She looks tired, he thinks. Last year she looked better.
‘Why, you think I’m too drunk? Too old? Come with me. We’ll swim to Puerto La Cruz,’ he yells after her. ‘Bring back the newspapers.’ But Felicia is already gone. He sits back, alone with himself. The wicker creaks under him.
‘Don’t swim today, Mister.’
He turns at the voice. Screws up his eyes to see. Euclides is standing under the palms, a bottle of beer in his hand. Listening, thinks Noah. Standing behind me, waiting. Like a pickpocket. He smiles with anger.
‘I saw a shark this morning. When I was out. Near by the reefs.’ Mister Eels is squatting beside the young man, arranging dominoes in their box.
Noah pushes himself up. He looks round to see that Felicia is gone. Then he walks quickly across the hot clean square of sunlight, towards the shelter of the palms. His open shirt flaps against the tanned bars of his ribs. ‘A rogue shark? Close in?’
Euclides nods. ‘A hammerhead.’ Noah leans back against the palm tree and the ridges dig into his skin. Painful and undeniable. It feels good. He smiles again.
‘Well. It must be fifteen years since a hammerhead came in. All sharks are scared of hammerheads, did you know that? Why do you think that is?’
Euclides shrugs. Avoiding the old man’s eyes. Noah leans forward. ‘You know how long I’ve been in Venezuela, Euclides? Thirty-two years. I killed the last hammerhead here. Four shots in the neck. How about you? You’ve been here what – ten months now, double figures, eh?’
‘The sea is the same where I come from.’
The Brazilian’s eyes are strong. Not aggressive. Embarrassed of their strength. Of Noah’s weakness. His hand is cold and he looks down. He is still holding the glass of rum. He knocks the drink back.
‘Did it kill someone? Attack a boat? When you were catching flying fish like little birds?’
‘I saw it. Hiding in the reef holes.’
‘In the reef holes? Oh, it sounds big. Christ, it sounds dangerous. We have to kill it, yes? All the boats. A rogue shark hunt. It’s been years. I’ll get my gun. When are we going out?’
The young man looks away. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘For a hammerhead? A real man-eater? But – I see. The other fishermen, they don’t believe you, is that it? Señor Flying Fisherman?’
He is shouting again. Euclides is walking away towards the shack of the beach bar, draining his beer, the bottle swinging in his hand like a weapon. He doesn’t look back. Noah grins. The rum feels feels good in his gut.
‘Are you going to swim?’
He turns round. Mister Eels is still standing, the domino box in both hands. He is wearing discoloured yellow swimming-trunks and a T-shirt printed with a faded slogan in Portuguese, BRAHMA BEER – TASTE OF CARNIVAL! He is frowning, the way he frowns when he plays dominoes, unable to work out the mechanics of prediction. A simple man, thinks Noah, and he feels another tightening of jealousy. The vigour of argument begins to ebb away from him and he looks out at the flat light of the sea.
‘It’s a good day to swim.’
‘The fisherman says it’s dangerous.’
‘Fisherman.’ He tries to be angry again but his voice is quiet, the force gone out of it. ‘You make him sound like St Peter. He’s a boy. He thinks there’s a shark, he should ask me. He shouldn’t tell me. It’s too cold for rogue sharks.’ It’s not true. He sighs. ‘The others don’t believe him, do they?’
‘He’s Brazilian. They are Venezuelan. They don’t trust him.’
Noah looks back. The tourist’s burnt skin is still white around the eyes, where sunglasses have protected the pigment. Pallid blue irises. Angry or wincing against the sun. Waiting for something.
Noah pulls a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his trunks, looking down from the other man’s face. The lighter is jammed with sand and he has to shake it clean.
‘You know when I had my first smoke? My seventieth birthday. I thought, what the hell? I am old now. I need all the vices I can get. In Vietnam they tried to teach me. But I was young. Like you. I was in Vietnam, did you know that? They are lovely people, the Vietnamese. Beautiful. They can sell anything. But I was proud of my body. Young and stupid.’ When he finally lights the cigarette it tastes harsh and hot. He inhales, coughs, throws it away.
‘Will you swim?’
He shrugs. A caricature Frenchman, scrawny arms lifted, thin shoulders hunched. ‘Of course. I had a shit life. So now I swim. Every day. OK? Is that OK with you?’
He walks away, not wanting an answer. The sand hurts his feet and he is glad to reach the hotel. Pelicans watch him from the wooden pier as he stops to open the lobby door. It grates in the dust and he has to lean against it and push. The air-conditioning is a pleasure against his face.
‘Buenos, Ricard.’
Felicia’s man is behind the counter, watching a soap opera. He waves a hand without looking away from the screen.
‘Noah. You well?’
‘I’m always well.’ He stands for a moment, watching the TV. Catching his breath. On the screen an old woman with dyed-blonde hair and a baby pram is standing by a blue swimming-pool. Noah can see the shadow of a cameraman on the water.
‘It’s a beautiful day. You should get outside.’
When he turns his head, Ricard’s teeth show. A smile or jeer. ‘Fuck off. In here it’s always a beautiful day. I only go outside to piss.’ His eyes are staring. Territorial. Noah is flattered by their aggression. If he could mention Felicia, he would. Just to feel the adrenaline.
Ricard looks back at the television. The pink tiles of the lobby are cool against Noah’s bare feet. ‘But it
’s a good day for a swim. Can I use your snorkel?’
‘Two hundred bolivars.’
‘You owe me a thousand.’
Ricard hisses irritation, ‘Che! Do you want to talk about debts, old man? Are you here to pay your hotel bill?’
‘We have a deal.’ He means with Felicia. They both know that.
‘Do you fuck her for money?’
‘No.’
‘Deal. You have no deal, Noah. You think we pay you to drink?’
He shakes his head, tries to smile. Something bangs against the formica counter and he flinches away.
‘Take it. There are no real guests to rent it anyway. Only backpackers who are so poor they steal each others’ clothes-pegs. When you come back, we talk about the money. Maybe we kick you out, eh?’
Ricard sits back laboriously, shirt pulling up over his belly. Noah picks up the snorkel and diving mask. He imagines this man with Felicia, the thick weight of him on her. The rubber smells bitter and chemical. He turns and walks away. He wants to feel the sea’s weightlessness. The false vitality of his arms moving through water.
‘Kill the hammerhead, you can stay another week.’
He pulls at the door, not looking back. The set lines of his face make his emotion look artificial, like a painted mask. He has to stop again outside, an old man crouched over in the heat. Someone is calling him from the beach bar. He looks up.
‘Noah!’ Felicia is standing by the wooden tables, waving something. At this distance it looks like a white flag. ‘Your writing! I keep it for you.’
‘No, no.’ He swears in French. Raises one arm and brings it down, pushing her away. ‘I don’t want it. Get it away from me.’
She can’t hear him. He turns and starts to walk down the beach, away from the hotel and the sound of people. Felicia is still calling him. He ignores her, concentrating on his footsteps in the hot sand. Frowning up at the harsh scrub of the headland. The goggles bang against his leg as he walks.
He thinks of the hammerhead. Ten, eleven years ago. First the pelicans and dogfish, washed up on the beach in haloes of their own blood. Then the first man-eating. A girl-child from Santa Fé, Alia or Alicia, was it? He remembers the shark better. Skin like dead skin, long as two boats, its eye-stalked head seamed in the middle like an arsehole. Obscenely ugly. He had never killed a shark before. Only people.