by Will Adams
‘You never told me what the verdict was,’ said Lucia.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Your science presentation. Did the Chinese discover America?’
He gave her a sideways glance; she must have been aware of all the rancour and commotion on the Maritsa last night. Maybe this was her way of angling for the story. ‘I’m never quite sure what people mean by that,’ he answered carefully. ‘It’s always struck me as a little arrogant to say the New World was discovered by Columbus or the Chinese or whoever. What about the tribes-people who crossed the Bering Strait sixteen thousand years ago? Don’t they count? Or the Norsemen of the Vinland sagas? Or the men of Bristol, who fished off the American coast long before Columbus. Discovery’s just a euphemism. What people really mean is conquest. And, no, the Chinese didn’t conquer America.’
‘Nice sidestep,’ she smiled.
Knox laughed and nodded across the fire at Alphonse and Thierry, helping themselves to more mounds of rice. ‘Did you know that these guys sometimes sail their pirogues all the way across this channel to Mozambique? Two hundred miles of treacherous open sea in a fifteenfoot canoe, armed only with food, fresh water and a pack of cigarettes. People do extraordinary things in boats, and they don’t always leave evidence behind. Frankly, I’d be amazed if no Chinese had ever made it to America before Columbus.’
‘Really?’
‘Look at a map sometime. Sail north from China, you can have land to your left all the way around Kamchatka to the Bering Sea, then down Alaska to British Columbia and the western United States. Or, if you don’t fancy the cold, you could always island-hop via the Kurils and the Aleutians. Did no fisherman or merchant ever make it there, not even by accident?’
‘Reaching somewhere isn’t the point,’ observed Lucia. ‘It only counts if you report it back.’
‘And maybe they did,’ said Knox. ‘The Chinese certainly believed in a place called Fusang, ten thousand kilometres to their east, pretty much exactly where California is. The third-century emperor Shi Huang despatched a group of settlers there; by all accounts they settled happily enough. A Buddhist monk called Hui Shen followed with a party of missionaries.’ Bizarrely, Hui Shen had had an almostexact Irish counterpart, a sixth-century abbot called Brendan, who’d led a crew of monks west in search of a promised land filled with fruit and meadows and all good things, encountering talking birds and mysterious floating crystal towers on his way. Brendan had existed for sure, and his transatlantic odyssey was certainly plausible. When the Vikings had reached Iceland, they’d found it already settled by Irish Christians. And while Norse longboats had been nothing like as sophisticated as Chinese treasure ships, Leif Eriksson had still managed to sight the North American coast from one, while others had established a settlement in L’Anse aux Meadows in Newfoundland, the only indisputable evidence of Europeans reaching the New World before Columbus.
Lucia nodded. ‘So Zheng He and his admirals would have expected to find land where America was?’
‘They certainly wouldn’t have been surprised by it. Though that doesn’t mean they got there, of course. Or anywhere close.’ They’d finished their food by now, so they took their plates down to the shallows, rinsed them clean. ‘But you have to remember that Chinese ships were absolute pigs to steer. They could hardly sail into the wind at all, and so were utterly dependent upon the monsoon and the other trade winds.’ He gestured out into the Mozambique Channel. ‘If they’d come this far south, and missed their window, their choice would have been to wait out another whole year or risk sailing wherever the wind blew them.’
‘And if it had blown them to Fusang…?’
‘Exactly,’ smiled Knox.
FOURTEEN
I
Rebecca drove the Mitsubishi down to the beach to wash off the blood and put on clean clothes before continuing on to Pierre’s house. It was dark and deserted when she pulled up, and there was no sign of his car. No great shock, frankly, for it was a full day’s drive back from Antananarivo; but she was surprised not to see any of his wives or children.
Pierre had built himself the kind of throwback colonial life that was only still on offer in places like Madagascar. His father had been in the French army, stationed out here before Independence. Convinced it would be the next tourist paradise, he’d bought this whole stretch of coast and forest, including the Eden Reserve. But nothing had come of it, and he and his wife had been killed in a car accident. Pierre, their sole heir, had flown out intending to sell up; but he’d never left. He’d realised that, by living prudently, he’d never have to work again. And the women here were so beautiful.
Mating strategies fascinated Rebecca. Every living creature was the product of an almost infinite regression of successful reproductions: yet each itself had only a limited chance of leaving offspring. To an evolutionary biologist, therefore, sex was war; children victory. It was a battle Pierre had set out to win. He’d started by building guest cabins, even though no tourists had ever come here back then, and had recruited a string of young Malagasy women, ostensibly as staff, but in reality to share his bed and bear his children. Even that hadn’t been enough for him, however. After he’d sold her father a good chunk of his land on which to set up the Eden Reserve, more and more zoologists and other intrepid travellers had started making the trek up here.
A Dutch marine biologist called Cees had arrived for a week with his fiancee Ardine, an otherworldly young woman with crinkled red hair, freckled soft white skin and long, bony witch’s fingers that had glittered with silver rings and semiprecious stones. When Adam had taken Cees diving one day, Pierre had pressed Ardine to let him show her a sacred grotto in the spiny forest. Rebecca had been perhaps ten years old at the time. Without being quite sure why, she’d found herself deliciously titillated by this, and so had followed. The forest trails were difficult if you weren’t used to them. Pierre had kept catching Ardine when she stumbled, plucking thorns from her clothes. The climb down to the grotto itself was narrow and awkward. Pierre went first, then reached back up for Ardine, letting her hips slide through his hands so that her top had rumpled up and his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts.
Rebecca had stretched out on the rocks above the pool to watch Pierre strip naked then dive into the water. Ardine had been wearing bikini bottoms beneath her trousers. She’d paddled in the shallows. There was a natural stone bench in the water. Pierre had teased her until she’d sat beside him. He’d taken her hand and talked passionately; she’d blushed and looked away. He’d put a hand behind her head to hold her as he’d kissed her. She’d flapped and struggled, but not for very long. There was something about Pierre that women seemed unable to deny.
Afterwards, Rebecca had often watched Pierre go to work on their female guests. He was powerful, handsome and capable of immense charm. And he had absolutely no shame. Rebecca had learned from him how often people simply defer to strength of purpose. It didn’t much matter what that purpose was, only how fiercely it was held. Some male mosquitoes loiter above salt-water hatcheries, pouncing on females as they struggled from their shells, impregnating them before they could defend themselves. Male Heliconius butterflies punched holes in chrysalises to force themselves upon the females inside. Pierre had something of that ruthlessness. Vulnerability thrilled him. To cuckold gave him joy.
Her father had known all this, but when you were the only two Europeans within a day’s travel, friendship was the only sane option. Besides, Pierre had proved useful. Running a reserve here meant endless bureaucratic meetings in Antananarivo, the constant greasing of palms. Her father had hated that side of Madagascar, but Pierre relished it. He enjoyed, too, delivering papers written by her father at Antananarivo’s never-ending cycle of wildlife conferences, like the one he’d just been at this past week, so that he could then use his tales of life on the frontline to seduce any impressionable young delegates.
‘Becca! Becca!’ Rebecca turned to see a Malagasy woman in pale clothes approach over
a grass-topped dune, an infant in one arm, another in a sling around her neck. ‘Becca!’ she screeched again, waving exuberantly.
Rebecca squinted through the darkness. ‘Therese?’
Of course Therese! Had Rebecca forgotten her old friend so quickly? Had she aged that much? For all her scolding, Therese radiated such joy to see her that Rebecca couldn’t help but be warmed. As far back as she could remember, Therese had been part of her life, for she’d developed such a passion for medicine and nursing as a young girl that she’d spent her free time helping Rebecca’s mother out in Eden’s clinic. In fact, she was now running it herself the two mornings a week it was open, as well as in emergencies.
‘Michel?’ asked Rebecca, indicating the child in Therese’s arm.
Therese shook her head shyly. ‘She mine. Xandra Yvette. Xandra for Pierre’s grandmother. Yvette for your mother. She so kind to me.’
‘She’s beautiful.’
‘Yes,’ beamed Therese proudly. She opened the flap of her shawl. ‘This is Michel,’ she said. ‘Your nep’ew.’
Rebecca took him in one arm. He was smaller than she’d expected, yet heavier. He had tight purple slivers of lips, dark upturned nostrils and clenched eyes. He looked so like Emilia that Rebecca’s chest fluttered. She touched his cheek. His eyelids sprang open, revealing the shiny conkers within. He grasped her finger and pulled it towards his mouth.
‘He like you bery much,’ beamed Therese.
Rebecca couldn’t tear her eyes from him. From nowhere, she had a sudden, wild vision of taking him back with her to England, rebuilding her life around him. But she stamped down on the treacherous thought. She was here to rescue Emilia, not bury her.
‘You hab news?’ asked Therese.
‘Nothing,’ said Rebecca.
Therese pulled an anguished face. ‘Your bu’ful sister, so kind, so young. Your won’ful father.’
Rebecca’s heart tightened. ‘We’ll find them. We’ll get them back.’
‘Yes.’ Therese brushed her cheeks with the heel of her hand, then smiled radiantly again, sunshine after a squall. ‘Sure! We get them both back, now you are here. But tomorrow, yes. Tonight you eat. Not go Eden. No food at Eden. All dark and empty and nasty. Yes. First eat, then sleep, ebryt’ing better in morning. Okay! Yes!’ She crooked a finger at Zanahary, standing by the Mitsubishi. ‘And you too, li’l boy. Come eat. Come. Come.’
They walked down the dunes to a blazing fire, three of Pierre’s women and nine of his children eating and laughing together. Therese heaped a plate high with boiled white rice and fish stew for her. It was hot, spicy, delicious and filling. Tiredness quickly overwhelmed her; she fought a yawn.
‘Bed for you,’ said Therese, noticing. ‘I show you now.’ She carried the two infants with her. Michel began to squirm and bawl, setting Xandra off. Therese peeled back her shirt, gave them a nipple each. ‘I miss Emilia so much,’ she said sadly. ‘We hab our babies together. We share ebryt’ing. Ebryt’ing.’
The way she said it, it was like she was trying to communicate something. ‘Everything?’ asked Rebecca.
‘Ebryt’ing,’ confirmed Therese. ‘It much easier when you hab good friend.’ Rebecca watched fascinated as the infants suckled; she couldn’t tear her eyes away. ‘You be good mother,’ said Therese suddenly. ‘Why you not hab children yet?’
‘My life isn’t right,’ said Rebecca, who’d forgotten how direct Malagasy women could be. ‘Maybe one day.’
‘One day!’ snorted Therese. ‘Yes’day one day. Today one day. You get busy, girl, or one day soon be gone.’
II
Boris took a table in the hotel’s large but completely empty restaurant, ordered a beer then spread out his map of the coast, wondering where Knox was headed in his pirogue.
‘What news from home?’ asked Davit, coming to join him.
‘I saw Knox earlier.’
‘You what? Where?’
Boris nodded seawards, to avoid explanations. ‘He sailed off with some fishermen,’ he said. ‘They headed south.’
‘And you’re sure it was him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you talk to him?’
Boris laughed. Truly, Davit was an idiot. ‘He blames us for the death of his girlfriend. How do you think he’ll react when he sees us?’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes. Oh.’ He lit a cigarette, blew smoke at Davit’s face, though just enough to the side that he wouldn’t be sure it was an insult. ‘We need to get him on his own before we can explain what we’re doing.’
‘Makes sense,’ agreed Davit.
‘Glad you think so. Trouble is, we don’t know where he’s gone.’
‘I could ask Claudia. I’ll bet she knows the guys he went off with. Or maybe she could ask around for us.’
‘Discreetly, though,’ said Boris. ‘We don’t want Knox hearing about it.’
‘She’ll need something to go on,’ said Davit. ‘What did the fishermen look like?’
Boris thought back. ‘Their sail had a great big Western Union logo on it,’ he said.
‘Great,’ said Davit, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll go ask her now.’
III
Thierry and Alphonse shared a cigarette while Lucia asked them pointed questions about getting to Tulear in time for her flight. It depended on the wind, they told her; but it certainly wouldn’t help her cause if she stopped off at Eden on the way. She turned apologetically to Knox, told him that she’d need to press on. The three of them called it a night shortly afterwards, but Knox wasn’t yet tired. He sat on the sand and stared out over the sea, listening to its rhythms. Once, he caught a glimpse of something pale, though he couldn’t be sure whether it was mist, a sail or just imagination. But it made him think again of the man in the black shirt, the possibility that the Nergadzes had finally discovered his new identity.
While lying in hospital, recovering from burns and the grief of losing Gaille, one of the ways he’d kept himself going had been with daydreams of revenge upon the Nergadzes. Knowing that time had a habit of diminishing grief and thus the need for vendetta, he’d made a vow not to let that happen. Since taking his job at MGS Salvage, he’d worked to honour that vow, learning everything he could about Ilya and Sandro and their summers on the Black Sea, devising the plan for a survey along that stretch of coast, clearing it with Frank and Miles and raising the funds himself, tapping up MGS’s contact list and others with an interest in the Black Sea’s secrets-which had been easier than he’d expected, for the place exerted a powerful pull on the imaginations of underwater archaeologists. Once you reached around two hundred metres beneath the surface, the water was so bereft of oxygen that almost nothing could survive in it, not even worms or bacteria, meaning that-almost uniquely in the world-there was every chance of finding ancient wrecks in perfect condition.
The closer the expedition had drawn, however, the more he’d recognised the essential contradiction of his private mission. He’d loved Gaille for her gentleness and compassion; she would have wanted him to mourn her and then move on, not waste his life on vengeance. But when anger was all you had left of someone you loved, it was hard to let it go.
A gibbous moon had risen low behind him, its light bright enough to stretch shadows on the pale sand. He frowned at it, as though it was trying to tell him something. He gave a little laugh when he realised what. With the moon up, he surely had enough light to walk by. He opened the flap of the tent, woke Thierry to tell him his intent. He paid him and his brother off and said goodbye to Lucia, then he hoisted his dive-bag to his shoulders, picked up his overnight case, and set off south along the beach.
FIFTEEN
I
Rebecca was too tired to do anything but undress and collapse into bed. She dozed off, only to be woken by a shutter banging on the breeze and the sound of singing. Most likely Therese and the others just playing the radio, but it got to her all the same. Whenever someone beloved died along this coast, the Malagasy would dance and d
rink until dawn, sometimes for nights on end. She couldn’t help but think that these songs were for Adam and Emilia.
As a child, not understanding death, Rebecca had been enchanted by the distant music of these wakes, not least because they left the fishermen too exhausted to go out the following day, and so her father, an ardent carnivore, would use it as an excuse to butcher some meat. He’d always insisted you had to be prepared to kill what you ate, however, so Rebecca had long feared that her turn would come. That hadn’t made it easy when the time finally arrived. The chickens were her friends; she’d personified them and given them names. He’d folded his arms implacably, however, so she’d chased them halfheartedly around the clearing. One chicken hadn’t fled as fast as the others. She’d held it upside down until it had gone to sleep, then laid its neck upon the chopping block, picked up the axe. That was when it started to wake.
People talk about free will. If it exists at all, it’s in such moments, when you choose your path. Rebecca had suffered nightmares for weeks afterwards; the moment of impact; the chicken running, its head held on by a flap of skin, blood spurting in gouts. Yet she’d been glad she’d gone through with it. The courage to inflict pain was invaluable in this world. Emilia had lacked that toughness. She’d turned vegetarian rather than kill, except for fish, of course. Fish were easy. You just threw them on to the beach where they thrashed around helplessly until – Eleven years. How could you have stayed away eleven years?
– I’m here now.
– It’s too late. You know it’s too late.