“You told me he died in a car accident.”
All of a sudden the water was cold.
“Yes! You see, Ryan, when you’re wrapped up in yourself the way you are, you stop being curious about other people. You stop asking questions because you think you have all the answers, or because other people aren’t interesting compared to your own amazing self. And when you stop asking questions, you start screwing up. If you’d asked me about that man when I told you a person had been killed, I would’ve given you all the clues, and you’d have figured out pretty quickly that he was my dad. A child of five would’ve figured it out. We grew up in neighbouring towns, you and I. You’re two years older than me, and I told you I lost my dad when I was fourteen. You were sixteen when your story happened, and you could’ve figured out that your story was also my story. I asked you the name of the car dealership, and when you told me, I said I knew about them, I knew what had happened to them. You had a whole day to make the connections. I was desperate for you to make the connections! And when you didn’t, I gave you a chance to regret what you’d done. All I asked from you was toimaginea life in which you allowed an innocent man to live instead of getting your revenge. It needed to happen only in your thoughts, only in your imagination. It was that simple, that easy. And you refused to do even that. Instead of regret you gave me anger, and more anger.”
“Mario, why didn’t you tell me right away it was your father? It would’ve made all the difference in the world.”
“No, Ryan. It shouldn’t matter if the man was my father or a total stranger to you. Kant says—”
“Fuck Kant! Fuck him to hell with no return! Miserable shrivelled little prick, living in the cold miserable world he’s created in his merciless, desperately lonely mind where the Universal Law is his only friend. People are not equal! They never were, and never will be. Knowing a person makes all the difference. Itshould make all the difference, for anyone who’s normal. Why didn’t you tell me it was your father? I would’ve make an exception for you, for your father. Because I know you. It’s that simple. I know you and you know me, we’ve got drunk together and told each other things.”
Mario said nothing.
“I know why you didn’t tell me, Mario.”
“Why?”
“You didn’t tell me because you were setting a trap for me. Because you’d have donethis no matter what! Giving me a chance to redeem myself? Bullshit! You want your revenge as much as I wanted mine. You’re just as human as I am, for all your love of justice and all your blather about Kant. I don’t blame you. How can I blame you? You’re not a lawyer now, you’re a man who’s lost his father and blames me. So please don’t bullshit me, I don’t deserve that. It would never make a difference if I regretted my actions. Please admit it, you owe me that much.”
Mario considered this. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have tried to kill you over a stranger. And no, your regret wouldn’t have made any difference. I made a decision the moment you told me.”
“Then why did you try to bullshit me?”
“Because it would’ve been great to see you grovel, that’s why. I bet you haven’t done much apologizing in your life, have you? You’re not the kind who can say they’re sorry.”
“Mario, Iam sorry.”
“And I believe you. I believe you feel genuine regret because you think there’s still a chance I might forgive you. It’s amazing what people can make themselves feel when they think their life depends on it. But it’s not worth much to me now. It may have made a difference if you’d felt regret five minutes ago. I’ll never know now, will I?”
“You’re about to murder me for something I didn’t do, that I never intended to do. What happened to the idea of justice, Mario?”
“You inspired me, that’s what happened. You, my dear new friend, showed me an example of taking justice into your own hands. It must feel really good, because you’re still so damn proud of what you did. So I decided to try for myself. And I never dreamed I’d have my father’s killer delivered to me like this. What were the odds of this happening, Ryan? The two of us meeting like this? This is like a gift from fate! I’d never forgive myself if I refused to avenge him. You understand that, don’t you?”
This time Ryan said nothing.
“Goodbye, Ryan,” Mario said gently. “Please let go of the boat so I can leave.”
Deciding he had nothing to lose, Ryan rocked the boat as hard as he could. It was a final and futile salvo of his will to live. He knew it wouldn’t do much good to turn the boat over: Mario was a strong swimmer and could easily overcome him in the water. (It never occurred to Ryan that a swimmer loses his advantage when dragged under.) Mario threw himself onto the floor of the boat and grabbed its side with one hand, raising the oar with the other. Seeing the oar above his head, Ryan pushed the boat away in an instinct to protect himself: his body insisted it had a life to live even if his mind knew he was about to die. The boat lurched off and merged with the darkness.
Mario was infinitely grateful that Ryan wasn’t screaming for mercy; he’d been afraid of that, afraid he’d cave in and pull the damn bastard back into the boat. But all he could hear was splashing that soon stopped, and the only sound was that of his oars hitting the water. For a brief moment he wondered why Ryan was neither splashing nor screaming: surely he couldn’t have drowned so quickly. He forced himself not to think about this, to pour all the strength of his mind and body into rowing. He focused on the mental image of his oars dipping into the water, pushing it away and the boat forward. Very soon, or so it seemed, he neared the beach from which they’d launched. Had he misjudged the distance they’d rowed out to sea? Had a current been carrying them back to shore every time they stopped rowing? It had seemed like much less than a mile, but Mario persuaded himself that it only seemed so because he’d been rowing like the devil. It wouldn’t do to come all the way to the shore: the boat would get washed up on the beach too soon and people might not make the connection to Ryan, they might think the boat had simply been moved. He wanted it to be found at sea. When he judged the boat to be about ninety yards from shore he wiped down the handles of the oars and everything else he’d touched, took off his shirt, shorts and sandals and sealed them in the oversized Ziploc bag he took out of his pocket. He tipped over into the water, giving the boat a strong push toward the open sea. He put the same energy into his swim as he’d put into rowing. The sand met his knees and belly with a sudden impact; in the darkness he hadn’t seen the edge of the water and the beginning of the beach. He put on his dry clothes and sandals. Ryan’s bicycle was lying next to his; people would find it there in a day or two. That’s how long he expected it would take for Ryan’s absence to be noted, or for the body to wash up on the beach.
Mario sat on the sand beside the two bicycles and began to shake. The robotic calm he’d managed to summon while rowing and swimming was being replaced with uncontrollable shaking. His world was being flooded with shaking and trembling; even his mind couldn’t stay still. He was terrified now, terrified that he would explode from the shaking and vibrating of his entire being like a glass vibrating to an unbearable frequency. All those preparations to end a man’s life had seemed like a bad gangster movie until now, and until now he’d been watching himself as an actor in that second-rate movie. But it hadn’t been a movie at all; it had happened. Ryan would drown, and he would not see him again. He forced himself to take slow deep breaths through the shaking, and this helped somewhat. Very slowly he regained control of his limbs and his mind. His plan had worked, and there was nothing more for him to do but to savour his victory. Yet he couldn’t believe that this was it. His mind searched for its next task and found none. A tiny, soft and cowardly part of him hoped that he’d imagined it all, but that part of him didn’t dare to speak up. He no longer recognized himself. He hated Ryan for infecting him with this plague, this malevolent spirit that valued the triumph of revenge above living people. He had liked Ryan at first; he must’ve liked him enough to c
opy him without realizing it. Now he’d become like him. No more respect for the law, only greed for revenge. He was no better than a weak-willed child copying a mean, mean older bully!
Before he could start shaking again, Mario got on his bicycle and started to pedal. The exercise was good, it sent fresh blood to his frightened brain and reassured him that all was real, and all was right. He didn’t recognize himself, but so what? Welcome to the new Mario. Ryan’s story may have given him the idea and the boldness, but the decision had been his. And it had been the right one. Did Ryan deserve to die? Not really. But here was another question: had his father deserved to die? And how about this one: had he, Mario, deserved to grow up without a father? No, and no. Nobody deserved anything, good or bad. None of this was about desert. It was about how badly you wanted something, and how good it felt to get it. And it felt good. After years of worshipping the lady justice, it felt very good indeed to drag her snooty ass off the pedestal and to have his way with her.
Mario walked into his room and headed for his bed without brushing his teeth. He dropped into the warm dark abyss of sleep as soon as his head sank in the pillow.
In the morning he woke up refreshed and with the sense of a task honestly completed. His coffee smelled and tasted divine. The news he read on his tablet was infinitely pleasing, global warming and failed peace talks and all. In a world bent on fucking up, he’d hit the bull’s eye of purpose. On second thoughts, he wouldn’t go to Ryan’s hotel later today to ask his landlady if she’d seen him: it wasn’t a good idea to appear too eager too soon. Tomorrow maybe. Or maybe not at all. The less initiative he showed, the better. They’d been seen together by customers of the cafes where they’d shared meals and booze and by the waiters who served them. In time, some of these people might be questioned and might describe Mario. Might, but most likely would not. The evidence so clearly pointed to an accident that Mario had nothing to fear. As far as the world was concerned, he had nothing remotely close to a motive for wishing Ryan harm. If asked, he would gladly tell the authorities of their conversations about work and love and breakups, of Ryan’s enthusiasm for tequila, and of his strange reluctance to learn to swim. He would tell the truth and nothing but the truth. There must be plenty of witnesses who’d been treated to the spectacle of Ryan hopping on the breakers like a little kid in a diaper; nobody had seen him swim. Stupid yuppie. But what if Ryan had told someone of their plan to go fishing together—his landlady, someone else at his hotel, or the guy from whom he’d rented his fishing equipment? Well, it if came to that, Mario would say that this was indeed the plan, but that he had ended up staying in his hotel room with a killer headache, no doubt from all the tequila Ryan had pretty much poured into him. But it wouldn’t come to that because there’d be no need for an investigation. When the body washed up, all they’d find would be a very high alcohol content in the blood. And on the boat they’d find only Ryan’s fingerprints. If they even looked. A senseless death, as the papers back home liked to call it. Except to Mario it made the most perfect sense, so perfect it was tempting to share this with someone. Too bad he’d have to keep it all to himself.
Lost in these thoughts, Mario let his legs carry him to the centre of town where he saw Ryan sitting back at a patio table sipping an espresso. It wasn’t so much Ryan as the sight of the dainty little espresso cup that struck Mario down. Howdarehe hold this cup so clearly meant for the living, not the dead?! What anabomination—
The boat disappeared into the darkness without beginning or end. The fact that Ryan was now without any support on the water hit him only the next second. His brain shrank to the size of a pea, and panic galvanized his limbs. He started to flail.
He stopped flailing because he was out of breath. His first thought was that he hadn’t drowned. Yet. His second thought was that at some point during his flailing he’d kicked off his sandals, and that it felt much better this way. Far away, impossibly far, Ryan saw the solitary light on the shore close to the beach from which they’d launched in another life. He wouldn’t be permitted to reach that light. He’d been banished from that world of the living.Tulum sounded like the beat of a sacrificial drum in a tomb echoing with pagan malevolence. But even a tomb would’ve be welcome. Just about any dry land would’ve be welcome. To be swallowed by this infinity of water, this element without a foothold, without mind or mercy—
“Water means you no harm,” Ryan heard a familiar voice calling out from his childhood. He hadn’t lied to Mario about being close with his sister. On that day on the lake she was teaching Ryan to swim, or trying to teach him, because even her calm sagacity couldn’t chip away at Ryan’s fear. His limbs were paralyzed, but he remembered her words and stored them away for some time in the distant future, for this dark night a mile from the shore of Tulum. “Don’t worry about swimming, just lie on your back and keep still. Let the water hold you. Lie down on it like you lie on a bed, and let it hold you.”
Through an effort of will Ryan rolled onto his back to face the dark sky. Overcoming immense terror, he forced himself to stop kicking and moving his arms. He didn’t sink! Not knowing why he did this, where he got the idea, he dared to arch his back slightly, as if there was a pillow under it. In this position he found that he didn’t need to move at all. He registered the moment of complete and final surrender, and he felt giddy disbelief and awe at what he’d done. The sea was not perfectly calm; small waves rolled over his face, slapping him with gentle contempt and sending salt water down his nose. But to his surprise this didn’t frighten him at all; he spat up the water and remained lying on his back. The water was not swallowing him, and with embarrassment and dismay he realized that it never cared to. The heavy primal brine wanted nothing of him. He was suffered to lie on its surface because the sea had nowhere else to put him.
He knew that if the sea was perfectly calm he could fall asleep like this and the water would do nothing to him, would continue to let him bob like an empty plastic bottle. He held its indifference, the key to his salvation. He was overcome by a sweet wordless understanding that his life would continue to be spared if he could learn to take the next step. And why wouldn’t he? What could be easier than to swim? Our bodies, born in the ocean, were born swimming and meant for swimming. He dared to raise an arm in the air: nothing happened. He continued to float. He swept his arm backward, making an arc and placing it in the water behind his head. Slowly, carefully, so as not to anger the water and cause it to withdraw its mercy, he buried his arm in the water and used his hand as an oar, pushing at the water. The water permitted him to move; he felt it sweep past his body. This was nothing more than the laws of nature, yet nothing less than a miracle, a supreme act of grace. It was a priceless and undeserved gift, and no more than his due. In the middle of death he was in life again.
At some point he became aware that the universe had changed, but he could not say what was different about it. Presently he realized that the darkness above was now a phosphorescent blue. The cloud cover had thinned, and the moon’s melancholy glow reached the surface of the ocean in a gentle blessing. Ryan moved through the shining element, a dumb and blessed animal grateful for its life, pushing at the water with hands that had become flippers.
He lost track of how long he’d been swimming.Swimming! When he next rolled onto his belly, he was shocked to see that the solitary light on the shore was now twice as bright and clear. From fishing he knew how easy it is to misjudge distance over water. But now there was no visible shoreline to fool him, and the brightness of the light was a true measure. He’d covered more than half the distance from shore since his former life had ended overboard the little fishing boat. In that former life he’d been judged a bad man for refusing to back off his revenge, and maybe that did make him a bad man, a petty and spiteful one. Certainly he’d been careless and inattentive, and he’d been caught and punished. That was fair. He’d deserved to die then, but not because he’d done evil. He’d deserved to die because he’d been bested by the man who wanted
him dead. And now he deserved to live because he’d wanted to live badly enough to swim. Sam, the drive down the Pacific coast, the camper with its cursed pump that started it all, and whether he was a good man or a bad one—all of that seemed like a story he’d read in a book whose title he couldn’t remember. That life was over, drowned at sea together with his sandals. A new person had been born in the primal brine a mile off the shore.
The swim was over, and his legs picked up and carried the burden of his body as if for the first time. Miraculously, it seemed, he’d landed on the shore at the exact spot from which they’d launched in the little boat. His bicycle was waiting where he’d left it. Mario’s, of course, was gone together with Mario. Ryan rested on the sand and looked at the darkness that only minutes ago had been his new-found element. As he peered into it, the darkness seemed to condense, pack itself into a shape that became more and more distinct: a boat. The boat! And in it was his backpack with the telescoped fishing rod—the backpack that had been allowed to ride in the boat while Ryan hadn’t. He held the backpack in his hands, and for a moment he was hit with the horror he’d escaped. Mario must’ve pushed the boat out to sea after he landed, but he hadn’t pushed hard enough. Either that, or the current was too strong. It was the same current that had carried Ryan to shore. That was why he’d landed on the same beach they’d launched from. He laughed and laughed like a mad hyena. To have his backpack delivered to him so obligingly! The sea didn’t want anything of his, it seemed. The laughter drained him of all feeling and thought. He pulled the boat ashore and parked it behind the rock where it had been found, where it belonged.
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