by Rita Pomade
Bernard and Stefan in the Philippines
Anchored along the coast of Malaysia
Swimming with the whale shark in Sabang, Indonesia
Dede examining her new ring
Elephant orphanage in Sri Lanka
Santa Rita in Dry Dock in Galle
An Indonesian Bugi at sea, Jurong harbour
With Colleagues from the British Council
Bernard skimming the waves in Singapore
Me on the bosun chair skimming the waves
Stefan in Singapore bringing provisions
Bernard and me with Dr. Pomade in Singapore apartment
Bernard, Lola and me
The Santa Rita on the way to India
Street scene in Cochin
Visiting Sudan
Heading towards the island of Lipari, Italy
Me afloat in the Dead Sea, Israel
Bernard and I below deck in Palma de Mallorca
Chapter 18
VISITORS FROM HELL
Spring 1983: Sri Lanka
Time past and time future
What might have been and
What had been
Point to one end, which is
always present.
— T.S. ELIOT
Until the day Bernard’s mother arrived, our life had an easy rhythm. Bernard spent his time fiddling with the converted tractor engine that seemed to need constant attention. Stefan read, or helped Bernard with repairs when needed, and then spent the rest of his time with a young guy he’d met at Windsor’s who was crew on another yacht. I cooked up my usual stir fried whatever and luxuriated in showers and the smell of clean laundry.
Restaurants were so cheap it cost almost more to prepare a meal, so we often ate out. Unfortunately, Singhalese cuisine lacked imagination. Tiny platters of curried fish, curried chicken, or curried vegetable served with mounds of rice and a small side of sambal, were the daily fare. The sambal was actually an interesting condiment if you could tolerate its heat. But the dishes tasted like a textured base for curry and hot chili.
The only creative bit of culinary art was the string hoppers made from rice noodles and shaped into a kind of pancake. Bernard, Stefan and I tried them one morning, but the bland taste wasn’t enticing enough for us to want them daily. A Tamil gentleman, who worked on the docks, told us he’d been a cook on one of the big ocean liners. He tried to open a restaurant in Galle, but got vandalized by the Hindu community for not being the appropriate caste for that enterprise. It was a loss for us, though a much greater loss for him.
After dinner we usually sat on Windsor’s veranda with a handful of other yachties and shared sea stories while chugging down Sri Lanka’s fine stout. Heiko and his girlfriend were always there, as well as the two French skippers and their wives whom we’d met in Taiwan. They were the two men who’d sailed with us aboard the Santa Rita during our difficult crossing from Taiwan to Hong Kong. Obviously, they had overcome their terror of the sea though I suspected they would still be a nightmare to have as crew. Eventually another yacht arrived in the harbour, and her crew joined us on the veranda. They were a clean-cut, handsome young couple who said they had sailed from the Mediterranean.
Another foreigner who was anchored in the harbour, but didn’t join us at the Windsor’s, was Helene, a strapping, young woman we had first encountered defecating off the stern of her yacht in Singapore. She was still practicing her questionable hygiene, and had now taken to going topless while working on her yacht. It delighted Bernard. He never missed a chance to grab his binoculars when he spotted her on deck. He found it hysterically funny, but I wasn’t amused.
One day, after he’d spent hours on the engine with hardly a break except to pick up the binoculars, I’d had enough. “I guess I’ll get more attention from you if I walk around like that,” I spat out. I ripped off my t-shirt and started up the companionway. Bernard grabbed hold of me and carried me back down. He wasn’t as amused to see me topless on deck, but I was frustrated with the bloody engine taking up every spare moment of his time; that is, when he wasn’t ogling Helene, who was forever doing repairs, her pendulous breasts flapping in the breeze as she bent over one project after another.
As I write this story, I’m back there in every detail — the t-shirt I was wearing, its feel on my skin, the tug of tearing it off, the heat of the morning sun and the light spilling down the companionway — memory and sensation so closely intertwined. From early childhood, many memories, both good and bad, come to me fully experienced once conjured up, complete with sound, smell, and tactile sensation. Memory must live in every cell of our body, not merely stored as dusty files in some hidden chamber of the brain.
Revisiting the past opens the possibility of reinterpreting it with the wisdom of the present. Today, I’m aware Bernard’s fixation on the engine was a form of meditation. It shut out the voices in his head that told him he was ill-prepared for the journey, that I couldn’t survive if anything happened to him, and that danger is always a hair’s breadth away. I didn’t focus on these issues. I believed blindly in Bernard’s strengths and capabilities. The only anxiety I felt was the imminent arrival of Dedé.
Bernard’s mother, Dedé, arrived with her usual flourish and saccharine niceties. I greeted her with as much civility as I could muster. Geneviève, an attractive dark-haired woman in her late thirties, came as her travel companion. The unlikely alliance of the older and younger woman was cemented by their passion for Monsieur B, an old gangster who had made a lot of money in questionable dealings and finally died to the relief of many. Geneviève was the last of his mistresses. Dedé was a kind of groupie, enthralled with the rich and powerful regardless of their morals. She had adored Monsieur B.
Throughout his childhood, Dedé had bombarded Bernard with stories of Monsieur B. “Monsieur B has beautiful gardens and greenhouses that he tends himself. Monsieur B flies his own small plane. Monsieur B sent us to the Canary Islands on vacation at his own expense. Monsieur B always has beautiful women.”
Bernard’s father was a country doctor. Monsieur B had been his patient. In place of payment for medical treatment, Monsieur B sent the family on paid vacations. “Le docteur,” Dedé would say about her husband, “is an idiot.” It irritated me that she refused to call her husband by his given name. So arrogant, I thought, and so snide. “He treats patients for a chicken and a handful of eggs.”
She couldn’t forget that he tended the poor during and after the Second World War for next to nothing. Or that he gave up a chateau that they had rented during the war to build his own home. Or that he had put the fireplace where she had asked him not to. Dedé had a long memory, and I was subjected to these stories whenever I visited France. Now she was here with Monsieur B’s last mistress. It didn’t augur well, but the Santa Rita was my home, my turf, and I felt I could weather whatever was to come.
Bernard settled the two women into the hotel he had found near the harbour. While he was there, Heiko dropped by to say that he was preparing a spread for us late afternoon. When Bernard returned from the hotel, I conveyed the invitation from Heiko. He nodded to acknowledge he’d heard me, and then set to work dissembling and greasing some of the winches. He stayed at it for hours. Around 4 in the afternoon, I reminded him of Heiko’s offer and suggested he pick up his mother and Geneviève.
“Go on ahead,” he said. “I’ll just finish up and we’ll meet you there.”
Heiko and his girlfriend had outdone themselves in preparing a smorgasbord of delectable treats — enough to constitute an evening meal. They had decorated the living room with crepe paper and had bottles and wine glasses set out on a buffet. “They’ll be by shortly,” I said. “Bernard has to finish putting some winches together, and then he’ll pick up his mother and Geneviève.”
We waited for over an hour, and finally had some wine and then some of the goodies to temper the wine. The rest of our time was spent clock-gazing. My embarrassment grew with each passing minute. Finally, I couldn’t bear wait
ing any longer.
“Something must have come up. I’ll look for them,” I said. I raced out of Heiko’s apartment and towards the port. On the way I heard voices speaking in French on Windsor’s veranda. I shifted direction towards the Windsor house and found Bernard and the two women seated at a small table sipping beer and chatting.
“You were supposed to be at Heiko’s two hours ago,” I blurted out.
Dedé looked in my direction. “Bernard told us Heiko’s an alcoholic. I don’t like that sort of company.” I was taken aback at her remark. Bernard was far closer to being an alcoholic than Heiko.
The three went on chatting in French. I looked on, shaking from anger, my skin burning from humiliation. I knew that if I expressed my outrage, Dedé would use it against me. This is what she was hoping would happen, so that she could show Bernard how unstable I was. Dedé was a manipulative woman, and I wasn’t going to fall into her trap. I took my anger with me and returned to the yacht. This visit was going to be a nightmare, and I had to figure out how to deal with it. I had one thought that saved me. There’s not enough room on the yacht for them to stay with us.
The following morning Dedé showed up at the pier, suitcases in hand and Geneviève at her side. “I’m not comfortable in the hotel,” she said. “We’ve decided to stay with you.”
Stefan gave his berth with its private head in the fore cabin to Dedé. He camped on deck for the duration of their stay. Geneviève’s berth was the long settee in the salon opposite the table where we ate. The rest of the salon was taken up with their suitcases.
It’s only two weeks I told myself. I’ll manage.
The next morning I found Dedé going through our laundry. “What are you doing?” I asked.
In one hand she held a pair of Bernard’s skivvies. The other hand was buried somewhere in the dirty clothes. She continued rummaging while chastising me for being an inadequate sailor. “People, who live on boats, do their own laundry. They don’t use washing machines.” She snatched a few more pairs of Bernard’s underpants, and a couple of his sleeveless undershirts.
“Windsor has a wash basin,” she continued. “I’ll be washing Bernard’s things there.”
“Suit yourself,” I said.
When Dedé returned from Windsor’s with her precious cargo of wrung-out undies, she told me she had met the lovely young couple who had sailed in from the Med. “They’re such a charming pair. And that young girl, that’s a real sailor. Someone like her is more suited for this adventure.”
Screw you, I thought.
“Think so?” I said, smiling. I was determined to make it through their visit with no show of agitation.
That afternoon we went for lunch in one of Galle’s dreary holein-the-wall restaurants. Serving portions in Singhalese restaurants are minute, and the clients bulk up on rice. After everyone had ordered, I asked for a large bowl of fried rice for a few extra cents so that there would be sufficient food to abate hunger.
“Wouldn’t you know it,” Bernard commented, looking straight at his mother. “She would order the most expensive dish.”
The two women nodded as though they knew I was a horrible spend thrift. My determination to hold my tongue for the two weeks was starting to weaken, but I was still resisting. It was clear that Bernard was picking up on his mother’s hostile energy. I couldn’t stand that she had such a strong hold on him, and that he was so unaware. He slipped into another skin when he was around her.
After lunch Bernard was feeling good. He led the group of us through the old section pointing out to the women the various historical sites. We stopped in front of the shop where he had bought me the moonstone jewellery.
A short while later we emerged from the store with Dedé sporting a sapphire and moonstone ring that Bernard had generously purchased for her with our dwindling funds. Moonstones were cheap, but sapphires were a whole other story. I was livid. I separated from the group and stomped furiously ahead though no one appeared to notice. Shortly after, while preparing dinner, I slammed the cabinet doors as I pulled out various ingredients for the meal, and banged the pan hard on the stove before throwing in a shot of cooking oil.
That evening, after waxing ecstatically over my stir fried dish, Dedé turned to Bernard and inquired in that falsetto voice she uses when she comes in for a kill: “Rita seems unhappy. Is there a problem?”
“There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s just jealous because I bought you the ring.”
I wanted to curl up and die. I couldn’t understand why Bernard wasn’t able to see what his mother was doing. It seemed as though this visit had propelled him back to some earlier relationship they had together. I totally disappeared from his radar. If this wasn’t happening in my life, I would have found it an interesting pathological study.
The next morning Bernard decided we would take a bus to Unawatuna, a well-known beach not far from Galle. I was thrilled that Bernard was willing to leave the yacht for a few hours. Stefan, as usual, would stay behind to watch the Santa Rita.
Through the window of the bus I spied the stilt fishermen sitting motionless on poles six feet above the water, each with one hand on a fishing rod and the other on the pole to stay balanced. From a distance the scene looked ethereal, and the men made me think of flamingos scattered randomly along the edge of a great body of water. But the reality was very different. These men sat for hours with nothing but rags on their heads and sarongs around their waists to protect them from the brutal sun, hoping for a meagre catch to bring home or to the market. I couldn’t think of a more uncomfortable way to eke out a living.
Unawatuna was a visual delight. Coral reefs protected this portion of the bay from the greater ocean so only gentle waves in shallow water lapped the beach. The emerald sea glistened in the sun. Thick groves of coconut and palm trees rimmed the edge of the beach that curved around the ocean in a long arch. A dozen or so kids splashed about in the water while their parents, in bathing suits, lay on thin blankets oblivious to the elephants strolling about. Here and there mounds of elephant dung shared the otherwise pristine beach with the sunbathers. The thought of lying almost naked while those giant hooves walked about me was terrifying. Geneviève and Dedé must have felt the same since they also showed no enthusiasm for sunbathing.
In lieu of sitting on the beach, we decided to walk its length and explore the area. Bernard and Dède walked in front holding hands, while Geneviève and I followed behind like a pair of chaperones. Every once in a while Bernard stopped and picked up a shell to show his mother.
When I first envisioned Bernard and I together on this journey, I pictured an idyllic scene like this for us — not the mishaps, tension and periods of silent withdrawal. I put in the work. Now, I felt Dedé was getting the dream. My only thought was to get back to the Santa Rita. The day had been ruined for me.
“How about our sailing to Colombo tomorrow?” Bernard suggested when we returned to the yacht that evening.
That cheered me up. I never said no to a new experience, and I wasn’t going to let my unpleasant guests spoil my love of discovery.
On the sail to Colombo, the ocean was rough and the yacht bounced around erratically, but Dedé took it well. I had to admit that impressed me. I saw where Bernard got his grit. As for Geneviève, it was hard to tell how she felt about anything. She was like Dedé’s shadow. When I spoke to her, she’d look at Dedé before answering, and then with as few words as possible. Before we’d sit down to one of my meals, she’d look at Dède and wait for her to approve the dish before she ate. Dedé always expressed nice but surprised comments about my cooking. The implication was what a surprise that an American could actually turn out something edible. Dède was an extraordinary cook.
Geneviève, with her knock-out body, had taken to running about our cramped quarters in tiny bikini bottoms. She also started offering bits of food from her plate to Bernard, as she had seen me do. She made no eye contact with me, but went out of her way to serve him. I wondered if Dedé had broug
ht Geneviève as a possible replacement. As the days went on, I became sure of it. Dedé was the ultimate mother-in-law from hell.
Colombo was a huge unattractive industrial port with gigantic freighters and cargo ships. We dropped anchor in the harbour instead of tying up at the pier in order to avoid any possibility of collision. Shortly after, the harbour master came aboard to inspect. Bernard mentioned in friendly conversation that I read palms.
“I’d like a reading,” he said.
I was terrified. I read palms, but only for western clients, not for a person where palm reading was part of the culture. What I knew, I had learned from books purchased at second-hand book stores. I was worried he’d think I was a fraud. I explained it was only character that I did, not predictions. He seemed happy with that and I proceeded to tell him what I believed the lines, texture of his skin, and shape of his hands revealed.
“You are very good,” he said. “I will send you clients.”
I felt good that I had impressed this man with my skill, but more than that, we had made an ally with a government official, which was always good when sailing in a foreign country.
Among the big freighters in the harbour was an old wreck carrying a Polish flag. It was in the hands of a captain by the name of Kujinsky. I think the harbour master must have spoken to him about my palm reading skills because we were soon visited by Captain Kujinsky, who invited us to come aboard his ship.
The ship was falling apart. There was very little equipment and what existed was dated and would never have passed inspection in the West. He explained that they had little money and were never sure when they’d be paid. There was unrest in Poland, he told us, and they never knew whether the government would hold or not until they returned. The crew and Captain Kujinsky hoped to stay afloat long enough to see the fall of the communist regime.