Sea of Lost Dreams: A Dugger/Nello Novel

by Ferenc Máté

  The girl paddled her board toward Darina, glancing over her shoulder, keeping an eye on the shark feeding near the point, the black tip of its fin dark against the glitter. What are you doing on the surface, shark? she said silently. You’re a reef shark who should be feeding on the bottom. Then she thought, What a strange woman. She’s in the wrong place, like the shark. And how strange she looks, with her body all white but her face brown; as if someone had given her the wrong head. Just below Darina, the girl slowed.

  “Could you teach me how to do that?” Darina asked.

  “Sure,” the girl said, sitting up, looking at the shark.

  After a while Darina said, “Do you live here alone?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I go up to the village and find a man,” the girl said with no emotion. “Is that yours?” She nodded toward Nello under the palms.

  “No,” Darina said. “He’s nobody’s man.”

  “And your brother? Is he somebody’s?”

  “Yes,” Darina said, and felt her body tense. “I don’t know. In his last letter he said he was in love.”

  “L’amour,” the girl said, shrugging her shoulders. Then she laughed.

  “He said he was madly in love. Fou in French; no?”

  All the étrangers go crazy for love, the girl thought. Worse than drinking kawa. Especially for the love of that stupid demi, with her half-white skin, her straight nose, and her small pink lips. And the small pink between her legs. Not fleshy and dark like ours. She must have rubbed herself with coconut milk all her life. Just to drive men crazy. So crazy they will do anything to please her—even scary things, even kill others. One even stood the pain for weeks of having himself tattooed from head to foot like warriors of old times. Sad. All that for the small pink of that damned demi. Then she thought, I’m a demi too. So why are they all so crazy for her? And for me only a lil’bit?

  “Then what happened?” the girl asked.

  “Then? He stopped writing,” Darina replied.

  “Did he say what she was like? This woman he loved so fou?”

  “Oh yes. He said she was the most beautiful woman he’d seen in his life.”

  The girl looked down at her reflection in the sea. “They all say that,” she mused.

  “They must say it to you.”

  She laughed. She had forgotten to paddle and the current had pushed her landward, so she lay on her stomach now and, with both hands, paddled hard. Darina watched. From far away, came the sound of her brother’s laughter. Startled, she looked around. There was no one in sight. “Did you hear that?” she asked.

  “Pardon?” the girl said.

  “That laughter.”

  The girl listened. “It’s only water,” she said. “Under the rock. There is a big hole.”

  Distracted, Darina stood bolt upright, forgetting her nakedness, and searched the bluff.

  “It’s only the water,” the girl insisted.

  “How much farther is the village?” Darina asked, pulling on her pants, stumbling on one foot.

  “Not far,” the girl said, surprised.

  “Can I find it?”

  “There’s only one path. The one you came on.”

  “Look after him,” Darina said, pulling her shirt over her head, nodding toward Nello. “He’s a good man. ” She picked her way over the rock, waded across the shallow pass, and disappeared in the shadows of the scrub.

  Une femme bizarre, the girl thought. She sat up and, still sitting, caught a small wave, and laughing at the thrill, crossed her legs and rode the wave until it burst on the sand and set her on the shore.

  NELLO WATCHED HER drag her board up the sand. She walked unhurriedly past him to retrieve her pareu, and on her way back stopped before him unabashed, unteasing, for a semblance of modesty letting the pareu dangle between her thighs. “I will bring you something,” she said, and walked to the pond, waded in, and, standing in water up to her thighs, washed the salt from her hair and skin.

  She disappeared for a while and returned with her pareu tied around her hips, carrying mangoes, and on a banana leaf some raw fish chopped fine with bits of lime. She laid it before him and went and got a coconut with its end chopped off, to drink.

  Nello thanked her. While he ate, she went and gathered more hibiscus flowers, stuck one behind her right ear, and gently pressed the rest. When he finished eating, she came and knelt beside him. She pushed up his pants leg, untied the piece of cloth, took the old hibiscus petals from the wound, and put on new ones. Nello watched her, her hair falling forward, her dark eyebrows that almost touched, her soft mouth that moved slightly as she worked. “Thank you,” he said.

  She didn’t answer, just worked the petals gently on his thigh.

  Embarrassed by his stirring, he squeezed his legs together, but it didn’t help. She saw it and sat up, her wide shoulders slacked, and she smiled an open smile. Then she took half a mango and ate the yellow pulp, some of the juice running down her chin, dripping onto her breasts and her stomach. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Your friend go away,” she said.

  “I saw. She does that.”

  “You not go after her?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “So are you.”

  Her lips smiled, but her eyes stayed serious.

  “Are you still hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Thirsty?”

  “No.”

  She stood up and brushed the sand from her knees. “Can you walk?” And she held out her hand to help him up.

  CASCADES OF BOUGAINVILLEA tumbled from the roof of her hut, and hibiscus crowded around the stilts, and gardenias bloomed velvet-white against the rock. Once inside, she reached a hand back to help Nello up. His legs ached as he climbed, he winced, and when she saw it, her face reflected his pain. Then she drew back to let him in.

  It was a tiny place full of shadows, and a mat of long banana leaves piled low against the back wall. She moved aside in the small space to give him way.

  “Sleep,” she whispered, in that loving voice mothers use with sleepy children.

  He lay down on his side to keep the pressure off his hurt leg. She sat in the doorway with her feet dangling out. The sky grew dark. A black cloud slithered down between the crags. With his eyes half closed, he watched her naked back shimmering in the light. She reached back with both hands to the muscles above her shoulders and massaged with her fingers just above the bone.

  “They hurt?” Nello asked.

  “Sleep,” the girl replied, then, sensing him still watching, turned. “I paddle too much.”

  With the darkening sky, the day turned into twilight.

  Nello got up. “Here,” he said, and got down on his good knee behind her and gently pushed her hands away. She let him. First with his thumbs, then with all his fingers, he began kneading softly the muscles of her shoulders. At first her muscles stayed hard. He slid his hands lower to the round muscles of her arms. And pressed. He rolled his fingers as on the keys of a piano, but firmly, slow and deep into her flesh. Her flesh grew soft. He went back to massaging the stiff muscles near her neck. He pressed and rolled and kneaded a long time. Her head drooped. Her breathing deepened.

  “So nice,” she said.

  “Shhh,” Nello said. “Sleep.”

  She took a deep long breath, as if drifting in a dream. He sat down behind her with his legs on either side of her. “So nice,” she whispered.

  His fingers reached past her collarbone to just above her breasts. There were muscles there, firm and vertical. “I didn’t know these existed,” he said.

  She gave a small laugh no louder than a sigh. Her head sank low and gently to one side.

  The sky grew black. The sea as black below it. The first big raindrops rattled on the fronds. Then the rain came. It poured. Deep curtains of rain covered up the sea. The warm rain fell, caressing her shoulders, and ran in long rivulets down her ribs and thighs. She sighed deeply. T
hen she reached up with both hands onto his and pulled them, through the rivulets, down onto her breasts. He felt them, firm and warm, and she pressed his fingers and moved them around against them. She leaned her head against his. Her wavy hair smelled of mint and tiare and sandalwood. He touched his face against it, kissed her neck, kissed her hair.

  She reached back to touch his head, and his mouth found her fingers. He kissed them with a tenderness he had never felt before.

  The rain thundered on the roof. She pulled one of his hands against the softness of her mouth, and ran her lips, caressing, over his rough fingers. He bit her neck. She turned, and in the stubble of his craggy face, her lips found his mouth. The rain ran over them.

  She pushed him gently onto his back. “Don’t move,” she whispered, and helped with his wounded leg. She unbuckled his belt. “Sleep.” He felt her hands around him. Then she squatted over him and slowly lowered herself. Her eyes closed. Her head fell forward, her thick hair tumbling down.

  As if kneeling on her board, paddling out to sea, she rose and fell and moaned softly a long time. Her lips parted slightly, the rain dripped from her hair, the fragrance of flowers and spices now melded by the rain. He took her head in both hands and pulled her mouth to his. Her smell, like an opiate, tumbled over him. He held her. And hoped the rain would never stop.

  Chapter 41

  The pirogue bumped the ketch riding over a swell. “Shouldn’t we bring him aboard?” Kate said, looking down at Testard lying in the pirogue, drunk and lost in another world.

  “I’d leave him,” the Finn suggested. “Cooler in the shade of the hull.”

  Lashed to the board, Testard stirred. Then he rattled on to no one in particular, “The king of France has sent me to enforce immediate reparation due to a great nation, which was gravely insulted when our two apostolic missionaries were ridiculed . . .”

  “Jesus.” The Finn grunted. “If I have to hear this again, I’ll drown the son of a whore.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “The letter from the French admiral to the queen of Tahiti.”

  Testard rambled on. No one listened. Dugger motioned to the Finn to follow him to the foredeck. He spoke softly with his back to Kate.

  “Can you sail?”

  “Sure,” the Finn said.

  “. . . will force this servant of France to fire with all cannons,”

  Testard grumbled.

  “Could you handle this boat with just her? She’s quite apt.”

  “You going on vacation?”

  “I’m going to find the mate.”

  “And the blondie?”

  “To hell with the blondie. Can you handle the boat?”

  “The boat? Sure. But why the worry about your mate?”

  “We’re friends,” Dugger said.

  Testard cried out. Next to the pirogue, rubbing its gray back against the wood, cruised a small reef shark.

  “Mother of God,” the Finn growled. “He must be bleeding.”

  He scrambled down and kicked the shark hard in the back. It turned up an evil eye but swam quickly to the depths.

  “We better haul him aboard,” Dugger said.

  “Tirez!” Testard yelled. “All cannons at once. Reduce the place to dust! Tirez!”

  “Where do you think they ended up?” Dugger asked as they pushed Testard aboard the ketch. His stitches were holding, but blood seeped everywhere, rivulets trickling down his legs and arms.

  The Finn looked up at Dugger and slightly shook his head. “There’s only one path out of here, and that’s the canyon. It leads to a village. The rest of the island is deserted, except for a hut or two.

  A rustling came from behind them in the cockpit. Kate was leaning down, feeling Testard’s pulse. When she looked up, her eyes were full of tears. “He’s dying,” she whispered.

  “We’re all dying,” the Finn murmured.

  “He’s dying now,” Kate blurted.

  “Some people have all the luck,” the Finn said.

  Dugger came, knelt beside her, and took her hand. It felt hot even here in the shade. A shudder of fear shot through him. “You’re looking better,” he lied. She smiled. He kissed her on the forehead to check her fever. “The sun has turned your hair blond,” he said.

  She laughed. “You’re terrible at small talk,” she said. “Your face looks in pain when you try.”

  Dugger went sullen, couldn’t look her in the eye so he looked at her forehead. “I’m going to find Nello,” he said. “The Finn’s here. Seems a good man. Will you be all right?”

  She held his hand tight. “I’ll be fine,” she said, then added, “Where’s Darina?”

  “Nello went to find her.”

  “And the father?”

  Dugger looked toward shore, where the black frock of the priest stood like a statue in the sand. “He went to find his flock.”

  “There’s a lot of ‘finding’ going on.” She smiled.

  “There are a lot of people lost,” the Finn said.

  Dugger kissed her forehead. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Or we’ll have to come and find you,” the Finn said.

  Dugger climbed down into the pirogue, sat astride a hull, and took the paddle.

  “I’ll drop you off,” the Finn said, and climbed down beside him. “You never know, we might need it here.”

  With the sea running across their bow, they paddled awkwardly toward the bluff, where goats grazed high above.

  At the rocks, Dugger leapt ashore and pushed the pirogue hard back out to sea. The Finn paddled away with long firm strokes. He turned his head and called, “Captain!” Dugger stopped.

  “Don’t be long,” The Finn said.

  The sun had made good progress in the sky. It shone straight down and the sea was a deep blue.

  “If I’m not back by dark . . .” Dugger called.

  But the Finn wasn’t listening. He had turned the pirogue and was heading toward the ketch.

  Dugger hurried along the sand toward the priest, who was standing bareheaded in the sun. Son of bitch, Dugger thought. Another idiot. Was I put on this earth to be a nanny to idiots? Thank God for Kate. The only sane person within a thousand miles.

  He charged up behind the priest, grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around. “You have three choices,” he blurted. “The French can bomb you, or the Kanakas can eat you; or you can get the hell onto the ketch.” And he pushed the priest with so much force that he stumbled onto one knee in the sea. The priest rose, his cassock soaked, stood there like a wet crow.

  “Thank you for your generous offer,” he said, and tried to wring the water from his sleeves.

  “I’m not making it again,” Dugger snapped.

  The priest looked longingly toward the village. “Heavenly Father,” he mumbled.

  “To hell with heaven,” Dugger growled, and turned and marched along the beach to the barracks. He kicked in the courtyard door. The shark was still there, reinflated with heat and rot, but much of it had been butchered off: the jaw, the fins, the eyes, and great slabs of the jowls. A puddle of blood stretched across the courtyard. The air stank. Calm down, Dugger, he told himself, or you’ll wear yourself out. He went into the barracks and took two rifles and his pistol, stuffed his pockets with ammunition, grabbed a machete from a nail on the wall, and marched across the courtyard through the blood. The priest stood where he’d left him. Near him were the two Chinamen, their arms loaded with pieces of the shark. Dugger marched to the path in the steamy shadows of the canyon.

  Father Murphy crossed his hands and hung his head. “Heavenly Father,” he whispered again, “have mercy on our souls. Do not lead us into darkness. Do not lead us to a place of no return. Dear Lord,” he said, and looked up at the sky. “Please make it rain hard, to keep away the frigate. And guard my poor flock. For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory.” He went to the open courtyard. “And mine is the dead shark, and the leftover cold dog.”

  Chapter 42

 
When Guillaume broke through the surface, there were gardenias on the sea. The bullets hissed softly in the water around him. Joya floated nearby, her eyes filled with terror and glee. With firm strokes she swam into his arms.

  She smiled. “I haven’t done that since I was little.”

  THEY HUDDLED UNDER THE OVERHANGING ROCK with the sea at their feet, cold in the shadowed grotto. They had been lying silently in each other’s arms watching the sunrise. There is so much to say, Guillaume thought, maybe it’s best to say nothing, in case you say too little and leave out the best. Or say too much and have the best lost in the muddle. In her arms he felt at home. As if he’d never left.

  “I’m thirsty,” Joya said. She broke out of Guillaume’s embrace and walked deeper into the gloom, where water streaked the dark slabs of stone. She cupped her hands, moving them back and forth until she felt a trickle. “Come. Drink,” she said.

  Guillaume came slowly limping, every joint stiff and aching, legs and chest blue from slamming into the sea.

  They filled their hands and drank.

  “Was he dead? The Atua,” Joya finally asked.

  Guillaume shuddered. He was surprised at the question because it was about someone other than them. He had forgotten that there were others. Not only on the island, but in the whole world. “It was an accident,” he said distantly, with as much effort as if he were pushing uphill a block of stone. “He was killing the pig. It fought. The knife . . .”

  “They will want revenge. That is our way.”

  “I’d forgotten,” Guillaume said, and felt a sudden distance between her and his life.

  “On anyone white,” Joya said.

  “Yes. I remember now.”

  “Especially with Ki’i leading them.”

  “The man with the tattoos?” Guillaume asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A man who fell in love.”

  “With becoming king of Fatu Hiva?”