Far Tortuga Page 11

  Raib remains standing at the rail, feet wide apart.

  He can’t come to de rail? Copm ANDREW! (pause) Can’t hear me, den?

  Yah, mon. He hearin you good. Settin right dere. But he ain’t talkin.

  Goddom it—

  Hurt his heart, jumpin out de catboat. Rough weather, y’know, and de rails is high. Must be he shamed of hurtin hisself, cause he won’t talk no more.

  Raib swings onto the deck of the Davy Jones.

  Andrew Avers, dressed in clean, sun-worn khakis and high black shoes and a round-topped thatch hat, is seated in a rough chair knocked together out of boards which stick up behind his head. In his lap is a sun-whitened conch shell, cupped ceremonially in both spotted hands.

  Under the clear gaze of his father, Raib starts to speak, then stops, and makes no move toward him.

  Catboat? Goddom it, to bring a man dat is eighty years of age—DESMOND!

  Ain’t aboard, Copm Raib. Desmond spend de night dere on de cay with dem Jamaicans. (winks) Dey got rum and pussy over dere, but Desmond say he go dere to talk business.

  Raib points at Will.

  Throw dat boat overboard! I goin ashore!

  Bobel.

  Speedy and Buddy stand beside the boat.

  In a ruined copse on the high ground of the cay, a litter of tin and broken glass gives off a weak reflection of the distant fire. Here and there on the spears and stumps a sea bird poises, wings held high over its back; the shrieking birds lift away on the dawn wind which blows through the broken sea wood unimpeded. Striking the first sun rays, overhead, the sharp wings turn from gray to white: the terns beat forward, stroking hard against the wind to remain above the head of the intruder.

  The dry smell of bird guano floats lightly on a pall of human excrement. Placing his bare feet carefully, Raib spits out his breath in bursts. The smooth track of a hawksbill turtle leads up above the tide line, where the turtle has pushed aside torn purslane and trash to dig her nest.

  The sand spit on the north end of the cay: a dead fire, and flimsy wind breaks built from the killed trees. Here dark forms lie in a ragged pile.

  On the open beach, two figures copulate and a third sits hunched up like a fetus. His ragged shorts are tangled at his knees, and his hands are bloody; he is cradling his stomach. He croons slowly in bewilderment. Noticing Raib, he blinks, then scowls, but the scowl gives way to a yip of pain. In an effort to spit toward the copulating man he fails; the weak spit bubbles.

  Boog son-bitch cut me. Oh, I dyin now, mon. Oh, I dyin.

  The copulating man and the man dying wear small street hats.

  On hands and knees a black, thick-bodied girl stares at the sand. Her ragged shift is up around her waist. Because of her big belly, the man has mounted her from behind; except for his street hat and a pair of ragged shorts hung on one ankle, he is naked. A knife glints by his hand. His ear is pressed to the girl’s back, as if he were listening for the life in her. One hand clutches her right breast, the other a bottle of aguardiente that is stuck into the sand at her left side. Heavily he fucks her, stops a while, then fucks again.

  The girl lowers her right arm to the sand while keeping her buttocks high. With her left hand, she reaches back and wrenches at the bottle and drags it forward, but before she can drink, she loses interest. Slowly the bottle falls.

  The fluid leaks onto the sand.

  Raib rights the bottle. The girl raises her hand as if to brush sand from her eyes but does not complete the gesture; the hand falls back. She lowers both forearms to the sand and rests her cheek upon her hands, her mouth forced into odd disfigurement.

  On the lee side, in stained shallows, wavelets lift melted labels, floating feces, a pale plastic bottle. In the offal is the bobbing head of a green turtle; its shell and guts are scattered on the sand. Another turtle lies upright on the beach, facing inland. Its flippers are bound, and its great weight, unsupported, slowly smothers it. When Raib turns it on its back, it blinks, gasping its ancient sea sound, and sand grains falling from its lids stick in the fluids from its eye.

  Leaves and twigs on the broken bushes do not bend downwind, but twist and fly in tumult. The dawn sky is swelling with the light, but at the horizon the sun is hidden by a squall line of black clouds moving fast toward the south. The squalls emerge from a dark place in a towering mass of gray. With rising light, the bird shriek mounts, piercing the sea boom to the eastward.

  In the new sea, a sliver of light flips back and forth over a round green leaf of sea grape. The playing fish arcs out of the water, flashing its silver side, its eye a bright black spot.

  Raib stands transfixed. On a coral rock protruding from the sand, a bleeding-tooth snail budges, and a ghost crab, half hidden, extends dry eyes on stalks.

  White feather, blowing.

  In the beach vine, illuminated leaves spin, dark and pale and dark. Leaf shadows turn in the early light. A floret of purple morning-glory, blowing.

  The sea, breathing. The fish leaps into the air.

  the fish leaps into the air

  the fish leaps into the air

  the fish leaps into the air

  On the corner of the beach a man sits alone, facing the east. Raib’s bare feet are silent on the sand.

  The man’s legs are crossed, and a cigarette hangs from the center of his mouth. The big head bent over the rum bottle is balding and the neck is scarred and tight whorls of sweated hair mat the swart back. Heavy legs are stuck into black rubber boots splashed with red paint, and from ragged shorts a penis hangs out in a tatter.

  The black clouds are afire; at the spine of the beach the broken bushes glow and blacken. On the windward shore, the ocean pours across a wave-washed bench of coral, lashing the islet with white dragon tails.

  Desmond!

  In silhouette against the sun Raib stands motionless, wind curling the frayed edges of his hat.

  Desmond Eden nods a little, struggles to rise, sits back again, off balance. He grins, shaking his head; he offers rum to Raib’s silhouette, shielding his black glasses from the sun.

  Raib does not move. By his feet, a ghost crab glides away on knife toes, stalked eyes taut, making delicate thin curved slashes in the sand.

  Slowly Desmond removes his glasses. His gritty face is poor in color, not bearded but unshaven, with broken eyebrows and a heavy mouth. His left eye seems to protrude; he looks lopsided. He gazes at Raib, bloodshot, then returns the dark glasses to his face.

  Oh, dat sun wild, mon.

  Raib is silent.

  Oh, dat sun wild, mon. Hurt my eye.

  The men aboard ship watch the two figures on the beach. Will clears his throat.

  You fellas seen Conwell anyplace?

  A boy with kinky red hair and pale freckled skin steps from the cabin door of the Davy Jones.

  What you wantin with me?

  Why you hidin? Cause you left my catboat rottin at Half Moon Cay? Cause you walked off de job?

  Call dat a job? Rangin? You livin in de back time, Papa!

  Will runs into the deckhouse and returns with Conwell’s packet. He shies the packet toward his son, but the wind catches it; it hangs a moment like a kite, then skitters down into the water. Cigarette packs bob, and spreading comic books in leaking colors.

  Don’t come home no more, Conwell!

  Cursing, the boy strips his shirt and dives over the side. He grabs at the packs and papers, which shred in his hands. Treading water, he holds the remnants in the air.

  You fucked me good, old mon! I need dem smokes!

  Noon.

  Raib and Desmond face each other at the rails.

  A cigarette butt stirs, shifts, blows across the deck, coming to rest against the shoe of the old man in the chair.

  Desmond points.

  Byrum Watler standin dere dat heard de talk dat mornin in West Bay, right under dem big grape trees by de church.

  Dass right. I was—

  Goddom it, I talkin to you, not Byrum—

  Well, b
est let Byrum tell it, Copm Raib, so’s you believe it.

  Well, we was settin on de boats under de grape trees, lookin out over de West Bay beach and down toward de sout’ward. And Desmond were settin sail dat mornin time, bound for de Cays. And Copm Andrew look kind of sorrowful dere, and he say to us, Dommit, boys, every day I settin idle is costin me ten years off my life! So den I told him dat he was lookin very well in his appearance, and dat prob’ly he could sail again as pilot, bein dat he was so well instructed about de sets. And Copm Andrew noddin away dere.

  Goddom it, Byrum, you just de mon to stir de pot!

  Byrum ignores him.

  Well, Copm Andrew say, Dey many things dat I have learned dat now has left me, but not what I learned out dere in de Miskita Cays. In de fifty-five years dat I was at it, my memory is just as fresh on dat today. Says, I can still do what people knew dat I was capable of doin, cause I can lay down dere in my daughter’s house at any moment dat I want and picture dose sets just as natural as if I had used dem yesterday, and all de courses, too, and if I went out at it today, I would be no stranger.

  Desmond winks at Byrum.

  Dass it! De very words! And den he say, I couldn’t be as active in de boat as what I was!

  Pity he didn’t think of dat before he sailed!

  Copm Raib, he were willin to go for nothin, but I signed him up for a half-share. He needed to go, and I needed a pilot—

  Raib spins in a complete circle, stamping a foot hard on the deck.

  Half-share! Copm Andrew Avers! Dat be your little way! Wait till I gone away down to Honduras, and den to sneak in dere—God DOMN it! NEVER HEARD ABOUT A STROKE? (points at the chair) MAYBE YOU GOT HIM CRIPPLED UP FOR GOOD! MAYBE NOW HE SOME KIND OF A IDIOT!

  Panting, he stops short. The men stare at the still figure in the chair, who seems to smile.

  No, mon! Copm Andrew say, I ain’t dyin in no hospital, I gone die here on de turtle banks. And dem were de last words dat he spoke.

  Thin tern cries over wind and water. To the east, in the white haze of the horizon, squall shadows towarding.

  You got no business with him, Desmond.

  Licking his teeth, Desmond spreads his hands and gazes at soiled fingernails. He checks the wind, the sky; he sighs.

  Maybe you right dere, Copm Raib. I think you best take Copm Andrew on de Eden, so he be with his rightful son.

  He grins ferociously at Athens, who suppresses a hoot. When Desmond speaks again, his voice is hard.

  Rig dat chair to de block and fall and swing it over.

  Desmond’s men rig a sling under the chair seat and hook it to a pulley. They remove the old man’s palm hat and tuck it beneath the old white conch. The chair is hoisted high over their heads, and Andrew Avers, swung outboard by the boom, rides back and forth between the vessels. Over his head, the blue sky fades in a film of white, with tints of green.

  Raib makes a thick ugly sound, stops, clears his throat and speaks.

  So dass de way you sneakin out of what you done, and knowin we just commenced dis turtle voyage, with no bunk for dat poor old fella, and no stores sufficient—

  Raib stops speaking. Desmond’s hand has stayed the boom. Over their heads, the old man sways with the rise and fall.

  Don’t want your doddy, Copm Raib? Dat what you sayin?

  The ships lurch and the chair spins and unwinds again on the rope bridle. Captain Andrew, hands upon his conch, turns west, south, and north. In the wind, old white shank glistens between faded cuffs and a pair of high black shoes warped upward at the toes. As its arc increases, the chair gains momentum; the white hair flies. Unblinking, the old man circles on the clouds that are moving up behind black skeins of rigging.

  Raib grabs for the whirling chair but cannot hold it; he is dragged against the rail. Desmond takes the guy line from a crewman and eases the chair down to the Eden’s deck.

  Raib is panting. Desmond laughs.

  Keep de chair, den, Copm Raib! No charge for dat!

  We settle dis motter another day, Desmond!

  I be waitin on your convenience, Copm Raib!

  BROWN! START DEM ENGINES!

  Desmond winks at Byrum.

  Where you bound for, Desmond?

  Can’t go turtlin without a pilot, Byrum. Get a few shark maybe, some salt fish. Bird eggs. Maybe I pick up some dese Jamaica boys (points toward beach) down around de cays, corry dem over to de land of opportunity.

  You still in dat game, huh?

  Know something better? (shrugs) I guess I be goin on dis way forever so.

  HOW ABOUT HIS GEAR? HIS KNIFE DERE? AND HIS SHARE OF DE CATCH? YOU KEEPIN DAT?

  I like to, Copm Raib, but you too smart for me.

  An old duffel is slung down to the Eden, and three turtle are transferred. Desmond tosses a big old-fashioned knife to Raib, blade first; Raib dodges it, and the heavy blade gouges the deck.

  CAST OFF DERE, WILL!

  You kind to speak us, Copm Raib! Bye, Copm Andrew! Hear me dere? Goodbye, old mon!

  DUE SOUTH AND STEADY!

  STEAD-DAY!

  LASH DAT DOMN CHAIR TO DE MAST, FORE HE ROLL OVER!

  The Eden falls off toward the south. As Bobel sinks astern, two long dark skiffs appear, bursting free of broad sheets of spray, then vanishing in the smoky chop. Though they look too small for the open sea, the boats are driven at full speed, banging across the wind in white explosions.

  Now they veer toward the Eden.

  Dere some of Desmond’s pan-heads!

  Reapin bird eggs! It dat time of year

  de crazy way dey go!

  de way dey go! I venture dey spoilt de turtlin ground all de way south to Dead Man Cay!

  Three silhouettes in each skiff are standing. On the green sea the figures rise and fall; black arms gesticulate.

  We gone to speak dem?

  Speak Jamaicans? NO!

  Slowly the skiffs gain on the Eden; they slam violently into the seas, flanking her wake. In the skiff to starboard, a naked figure in street hat and dark glasses sways and careens as he points at his mouth, points at his belly; he brandishes a bottle, points at it, then at the Eden.

  Must be dey hungry, mon! Want to give us rum!

  Smell dat rum, Vemon? Dey know you here!

  The skiff comes grinding alongside, sliding and skidding in the wash. A line is tossed, and Speedy grabs it. Snatching the line from Speedy, Raib slings it free.

  PAN-HEAD NIGGERS! GET DE HELL AWAY!

  The black man in the street hat shouts: his violent mouth looks square. When he slams his hat into the bilges, his hair shoots out in spikes all over his head.

  RAS CLOT!

  A hurled bottle smashes on the Eden’s hull. The figure in street hat and dark glasses, upright, shrieking, slashes at the sky with a machete. The others make obscene signs; they screech. Over the motors of the Eden, in the cross wind, torn voices rise and are blown away.

  BUMBO!

  BUMBO CLOT!

  AI-EE KANAKEE TUTTLE-FUCKAHS

  The skiff to starboard falls astern, and the other comes up beside it, tossing in the wake. The six figures gaze after the Eden, burnt black on the white sky.

  They rise and fall.

  Due south and steady.

  From the chair lashed to the mast, the old man can observe his son’s approach.

  Raib whispers.

  Copm Andrew? Can’t talk to me, Papa? (pause) Can’t ye hondle yourself, den?

  Beneath the thatch hat, the eyes in the brown skull are round and bright, and the mouth is firm. The old man is not absent and not present; he seems intent on a voice in the far distance.

  You had too much ambition, Papa. To sail with dat domn mongrel fella—

  The old hands twitch on the white conch.

  You waitin to hear me say I never burned her? You waitin to hear dat?

  Raib falls silent. He turns his back upon his father, gazing all around the empty sky.

  Wodie sits on the galley roof, picking his feet. Hanging fr
om his fingertips in the galley door, Speedy stares astern.

  Don’t like dose Jamaica fellas, den.

  Well, out to East End, we don’t bother so much about dem, cause mostly dey hangs around in de big towns. Georgetown. Jamaicans come as poor as what de old people call Job’s turkey dat only has one feather, but when dey gets around with de girls and what not, dey gets high-minded: dey finds dereselves better den what is in Cayman. Den you hear de Caymanian call de Jamaican pan-head sonofabitch, something like dat. (laughs) And dey calls us kanakees, cause we not s’posed to be so civilized as on dat island.

  You blacker den dem or what?

  No, mon! We ain’t so black as dey are!

  Speedy wipes Wodie’s black ankle with one finger, then inspects the fingertip.

  Color don’t matter in Caymans! No, mon! We a democracy!

  Well, dass very fine. Only how come you de one dat sleepin in de sail locker stead of de deckhouse?