Too Close to the Wind

by Richard Attree

  “You mentioned a contract ... do I have to deliver it back to you when it’s been signed?”

  A pause while he left me dangling. Then, suddenly, he removed the mirrored shades. I instinctively recoiled. He leaned towards me, looked me in the eyes and spoke softly, like a hypnotist:

  “No, Nick. When you have delivered the package you have fulfilled your debt to me—the debt for saving your life. But only you can decide if you have fulfilled your mission and ultimately your potential or ... (another hypnotic pause) ... whether we still have unfinished business.”

  I waited for him to explain what this “unfinished business” might be but he replaced his sunglasses and moved on to more practical matters:

  “So, the target for my package lives in Cabarete but I don’t know their address. However, it’s a small community and this person will certainly be well known there. Just ask around when you arrive.”

  I nodded. The fish had been landed and the deal had somehow been done. I offered him my hand and he gave me a firm handshake. Then he clicked his fingers and Carlos appeared. The Master spoke to him in Spanish and then to me:

  “We should celebrate our collaboration, Nick ...”

  Carlos returned with two glasses of Champagne and we sipped them in the sunshine. Eventually, he broke the silence to give me further details of my mission:

  “When, and I stress: only when you arrive in Cabarete, you will open the package. Inside you’ll find a letter with the target’s name on it and a second package. It’s crucial that you’re not tempted to open either the letter or this other package. Do you understand me, Nick? I need a solemn undertaking on this. Your word. Otherwise, I should send Carlos.”

  I agreed, although I found his language somewhat unsettling. We shook hands again and he continued briefing me:

  “You will give both the letter and the package to the person named and they will make you welcome for as long as you decide to stay. You will receive half of the fee now and the other half from the target. I hope this is all acceptable to you, Nick?”

  I nodded. His use of “target” was rather disconcerting but I put it down to English not being his first language.

  “Of course you will need your passport. I could send Carlos to El Médano to collect it, along with any other belongings you require, or if you prefer I have an alternative suggestion ...”

  I shrugged. There was nothing in the apartment I couldn’t happily leave there. The only possession I cared about was my trusty wave-board and I had her with me. But he was right: I would need my passport, so I waited to hear his ‘alternative suggestion’.

  “I have contacts here in Santa Cruz—people who can arrange a new passport. Indeed, create a new identity for you if that’s of interest?”

  Of course it was. A new identity, with the correct documentation, was exactly what I needed. It would allow me to travel without leaving a trace of Nick Kelly.

  He smiled and announced that he would contact “his people” but I must be patient—it might take a while to arrange. In the meantime, I was his guest.

  “You’ll need a new wardrobe to go with your new identity” he added, giving me an amused look. “It might arouse suspicion if you turn up at the airport wearing only one of our bathrobes, or your wetsuit.”

  I grinned and agreed that neither would be an appropriate disguise.

  “So, I’ll send Carlos into town to buy some clothes and tomorrow we’ll take a photograph of you in your new outfit for your new identity.”

  He stood up, nodded to me and with that our meeting was over.

  I returned to my cabin to find yet another bathrobe waiting for me and a pile of books on the bedside table. I hoped I wouldn’t have time to read them all, but I glanced at the titles, trying to decipher his motives for the selection …

  Of course, there was some Nietzsche: ‘Beyond Good and Evil’ and ‘The Birth of Tragedy’. Then there was an English translation of ‘The Magic Mountain’ by Thomas Mann. Beneath it was a copy of ‘Dr Faustus’, the Elizabethan tragedy by Christopher Marlowe, along with Goethe’s version.

  I’d read Mann’s great novel in mister Big Fish’s library and I could understand its relevance to the Master’s ideas, but I was more than a little worried by ‘Dr Faustus’. All I knew of the Faust legend was that it involved the protagonist being ‘groomed’ and then selling his soul to the Devil. The parallels with my situation were worrying.

  Two other titles were contemporary, perhaps included as lighter reading: ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’ by Robert Pirsig and ‘The Dice Man’ by Luke Rhinehart. I knew the first of these was a philosophical inquiry into values, including Nietzsche’s Dionysian/Apollonian dichotomy, but I hadn’t come across the second. Glancing at the cover I saw that it bore the confident claim: ‘Few novels can change your life. This one will!’ The blurb described how the narrator uses the roll of a dice to transcend morality and move beyond Good and Evil, developing into a sort of ‘Superman’ and attracting a cult around him. I could see why the Master had given it to me.

  There was also a copy of the ‘I Ching’. I picked it up and flicked through it. Something caught my eye—a graphic symbol—six black lines, two broken, four unbroken:

  I looked up from the page and found myself staring at the same symbol. It was everywhere: on my bathrobe, towels, the crew’s uniforms, the lifebelts ...

  Of course! Now I understood why I’d found the Master’s logo familiar. Robo had introduced me to the ‘I Ching’ and we’d dabbled with it occasionally—throwing coins to arrive at a hexagram and arguing over what it meant. I’d even consulted the oracle the night before I ran off with his wife, reading into it what I wanted it to say, and using it to justify my betrayal.

  I wondered what its significance was in the Master’s story.

  He clearly appreciated visual art as well as literature. There were paintings dotted all over the boat and I examined them closely, looking for further clues.

  One was a portrait of a young woman, painted with bright colours and a lightness of touch. Her beauty and strength radiated from the canvas. Next to it was a painting of a middle-aged man holding a baby. The style was similar but the mood was in complete contrast. It was painted in oil, with heavy brushstrokes—thick layers of grey and dark brown. The man was glaring at the viewer and gripping the baby protectively, as if he was about to be swallowed by the darkness that surrounded them.

  The signature on these two paintings was the same: Caitlin O’Connor. The first was titled: ‘Self Portrait, Zurich, 1932’ and the second: ‘Ludwig and Martyn, Bavaria, 1940: The Waves of Hatred Gather’.

  I turned my attention to a third, very different canvas. Painted in acrylic in a modern style, it was a portrait of a man surrounded by various objects, set against a tropical backdrop: deserted beach, palm trees, turquoise water and a luxury yacht. The man was dressed in black, looking out of the picture from behind mirrored sunglasses. He looked younger but it was clearly this Master bloke. The objects seemed to be floating or flying around him and the composition had the dreamlike quality of Surrealism or perhaps Magical Realism. The title was: ‘Le Maître de ma Mer’ and the artist had signed it: Nicole Jean-Baptiste Beauvais.

  I spent the rest of the day on deck studying the books, in preparation for our next conversation. Sitting there in the sunshine, dressed in my luxurious bathrobe, sipping a cocktail, doing my homework for our next game of philosophical chess, I reminded myself that I’d had worse days—drifting around the Atlantic dying of thirst for example. The marina was a constant distraction though—a reminder of what was waiting for me on terra firma.

  Wednesday, 22:00. Dinner was over (yet another superb meal). We’d finished our coffee and liqueurs and were working our way through a second bottle of the Master’s excellent Rioja. He was more relaxed with me now and didn’t need much prompting to continue his life story …

  “After my father’s funeral, I remained in Buenos Aires while I settled his affairs and read
his journal. Then, once I’d made the decision to continue his work, I signed the papers giving me control of his estate. It included several properties and a collection of paintings my father had brought out of Germany. They had been languishing in a vault and some of them had become extremely valuable. I sold most of them, but I kept a few that had special significance for him.”

  “And those are the paintings hanging in my cabin, by an artist called Caitlin O’Connor?”

  He nodded.

  “Did she have ‘special significance’ for him?”

  Again he nodded.

  “One of her paintings has the title: ‘Ludwig and Martyn, Bavaria, 1940’. Your father’s name was Ludwig, so Martyn must be their child—your brother?”

  “My half-brother” he replied, dismissively.

  “So, what happened to him?”

  “—” Clearly the least said about him the better, so I moved on:

  “The other part of the title is: ‘The Waves of Hatred Gather’. I presume that’s a reference to the rise of the Nazis?”

  He nodded.

  “You said that your father escaped after the war but what about Caitlin?”

  A dark cloud passed over his face.

  “The Nazis arrested Caitlin and she died in Dachau.”

  He paused and the moment filled with sadness.

  “My father escaped with Martyn and left him with Caitlin’s family in Ireland. It’s quite a story …” he added, looking at me intently. I allowed him to continue without interruption.

  “As well as being a gifted artist, Caitlin was a leading light in the Irish Republican struggle against the British and her son inherited her politics. As I said, Ireland is a special place for me, a magical place, but it’s seen its fair share of troubles and Martyn has had a hand in some of them.”

  Again I sensed anger when he mentioned his half-brother.

  “The full story is revealed in my father’s journal. Perhaps one day you will read it, Nick, and then you’ll understand everything.”

  I shrugged. Perhaps, and perhaps it would complete the jigsaw-puzzle. Right now there were plenty of missing pieces.

  “What about the other painting by the artist with a French name: Nicole ... (I tried, but couldn’t remember her other names) ... it’s a painting of you, no?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. You are most observant, Nick.”

  “And does the artist have ‘special significance’ for you?”

  “—” I waited for his reply. When it didn’t come I changed the subject:

  “Did your father’s estate also include the Abyss?”

  He smiled, clearly much happier to talk about his boat:

  “No Nick, it was my own idea to build her. My group of fellow travellers are dispersed all over the planet. I realised I could be a citizen of the world rather than tied to any one location. With modern communication technology, we don’t need to be physically located in the same place.”

  I nodded. During Carlos’ tour of the Abyss I’d noticed how sophisticated the onboard technology was and Pablo had proudly pointed out the various systems installed on his bridge.

  “Like you, Nick, I have always been drawn to the ocean. A life on the ocean waves, as a citizen of the world of ideas, was my dream. So once I had access to my father’s estate I designed my ultimate floating home and had her built by skilled craftsmen in the UK.”

  Finally, something I could understand! I was still unsure about his ideas and unimpressed by someone born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but his yacht was special. I congratulated him for putting his inherited wealth to such good use and told him I envied his “life on the ocean waves”.

  There was something else, besides the name, that intrigued me about the Abyss:

  “Tell me about your logo. When I first saw it, on the lifebelt and then on the side of your yacht, I had the strangest feeling of déjà vu. I knew I’d seen symbols like it before. Then this morning I realised it’s one of the graphics from the I Ching.”

  A hint of a smile from him.

  “Correct. It is indeed one of the hexagrams from the ancient Chinese ‘Book of Changes’—number sixty-one, to be precise.”

  I nodded. “So, why that one?”

  His lip curled in amusement.

  “Good question, Nick.”

  I blushed, flattered, but again wary of being groomed.

  “Each of the sixty-four hexagrams has two constituent trigrams, which are the Kangxi radicals to be found in Taoist cosmology. I’m sure I don’t need to explain this to you?”

  My cheeks reddened further. I had no idea what he was talking about. Ignoring my embarrassment, he continued his lecture:

  “So, one of the trigrams that make up our hexagram is ‘ Xùn’. It means: ‘wind’—something that means a lot to you, no?”

  I nodded. “Yes, it does. The wind and my board have been my only real friends lately.”

  He gave me one of his probing stares.

  “I think perhaps you have been sailing too close to the wind, Nick, just like Icarus was tempted to fly too close to the sun. You suffered the tragic consequences of over-reaching yourself.”

  I scratched my head and nodded, reluctantly.

  “When you get too close to the wind it ceases to be your friend. If you sail straight into the eye of the wind you come to a dead stop. Isn’t that true, Nick?”

  I shrugged, but I knew he was right.

  “You need the balance provided by the other trigram: ‘Duì’, meaning ‘swamp’. When you put the two trigrams together you get our hexagram, number sixty-one. It’s sometimes labelled: ‘Centre Returning’ but I prefer the variation: ‘Inner Truth’. You’ll find it all around you ...”

  He pointed to the nearest lifebelt. At its centre was the graphic symbol—six black lines, two broken, four unbroken.

  “It was ‘Inner Truth’ that kept you afloat before we plucked you out of the water” he said, smiling at me.

  “Yes, I suppose it was” I replied, remembering how the aliens in their white uniforms had thrown me a lifebelt with this logo on it.

  The Master and I discussed the ‘Ching’ for a while longer but the lingering after-effects of my ordeal, as well as several glasses of his fine wines, had taken their toll. I was physically exhausted and mentally drained. He apologised for tiring me and thanked me for my excellent company. I made my way gratefully back to my cabin, into bed, and deep dreamless sleep.

  When Carlos woke me the next morning he announced that he had a new outfit for el señor to wear for my passport photograph. I got dressed, tied back my dreadlocks and made myself as presentable as a hardcore surfer-dude could. The clothes fitted perfectly. I guess you’d call them: ‘smart casual’—well-cut jeans and plain teeshirts—ideal for travelling. At last I was dressed in something other than a white bathrobe. I felt less like a prisoner, but I still had no money, and it took a few more days for my new passport to arrive.

  I spent the time studying the books, discussing ideas with the Master and enjoying Carlos’ fine cuisine. I was caught in a strange limbo, wonderfully well looked after, but restless to leave and increasingly depressed by our conversations. They became ever darker and more disturbing.

  We’d moved on from Nietzsche to become bogged down with themes of disease and death. The Master was obsessed with the struggle of ideas in Thomas Mann’s ‘The Magic Mountain’ as played out between the two main characters: the radical Jesuit Naphta and the enlightened humanist Settembrini. In their dialogues they discuss life and death from a metaphysical perspective and we seemed to be acting out their roles.

  He hinted that like Mann’s characters in their mountaintop sanatorium, he was suffering from an incurable illness and didn’t have much time left to complete his father’s work. He wasn’t afraid of death (“I’ve been gazing into that abyss for a while now”) but he was worried about losing his mind and concerned about what would happen to his father’s work and his wealth.

  Apparently, Ludwig had suf
fered from severe depression, terminal dementia, perhaps even insanity. It seemed probable that he’d taken his own life, although the Master never stated it explicitly. Alejandro’s great fear was that he’d inherited his father’s unstable mind along with his wealth. This was the black hole he was staring into, his abyss, his monster.

  Friday, October 30. I longed to escape from this claustrophobic world and rejoin the society of mere mortals, rather than ‘Supermen’. I felt trapped in a state of limbo, weighed down by the bleak seriousness of our discussions and increasingly unable to contribute. Even the cloying luxury was becoming tedious. I wanted normality and terra firma beneath me. I was paranoid that I was being groomed for some unknown, unwanted role but I’d committed to the Master’s mission and given him my word that I’d fulfil my side of the deal. I’d had my fill of betrayal, for the moment anyway.

  Although suspicious of his motives, I was flattered by his faith in me. I’d always been an outsider—never had a proper family, never really belonged anywhere. He was offering me membership of some kind of exclusive club and it was tempting. Besides, my freedom depended on the money and the new identity he was providing.

  So I bided my time: eating, drinking, reading, thinking, discussing interminably, and forever gazing out at the open ocean to our starboard and the bustling city to our port—marooned in this luxury limbo between them.

  Saturday, October 31, 06:30. Carlos woke me early because after five days and nights aboard the Abyss I was finally escaping its confines. I had my new identity and I was ready to fulfil the Master’s mission. As I prepared to reacquaint myself with terra firma I told him that I owed him my life and thanked him for looking after me so well.

  “No, Nick, you owe me nothing” he replied, warmly. “If there was a debt it has certainly been repaid with the pleasure of your company. I wish you luck and remember: you survived because of your inner strength. Now you must realise your full potential. I hope that you achieve this goal and that our paths cross again one day, in happier circumstances.”