Canal Dreams Page 7

  'You don't believe that? she said.

  Broekman spat the stub of the cigar down to the waters of the lake, and watched it drift slowly under the stern. 'Ah, it all sounds very plausible… more plausible than what we saw, perhaps… but it wasn't what we saw. It all started at once, and I didn't hear any jets. The PAF wouldn't get everything that coordinated anyway; God help us, they'd probably have bombed us if they had been around.

  'I thought that was why we keep all our lights on.

  'Yes, good theory, isn't it? Broekman laughed, clasped his hands over the rail. 'Never convinced me. He spat into the water, as if aiming for the cigar stub. 'First time any terrs take to the water at night, and the Guard call up air support… we'll get clobbered. You watch. Excitable bastards; just as well the Yanks don't let them fly at night.

  The last two days had been peaceful. The only unusual activity they'd noticed had been a couple of National Guard patrol boats, venturing out from Gatún and Frijoles to disturb the peace with their droning outboards. Broekman had watched the inflatables with binoculars, claiming he half-expected them to be towing water-skiers.

  Hisako had ventured out on deck after lunch. Her cello practice took up about two hours each day, but that was what she thought of as her 'tick-over' rate; it would take the prospect of a proper master class or a concert in the near future for her to summon up the enthusiasm to practise more thoroughly. She did some keep-fit in her cabin; her own mixture of Canadian Air Force exercises and aikido movements.. But that could only hold her interest for about an hour, so she still had a lot of time left to fill each day, and got bored watching television in the passengers' lounge or the officers' mess. Mr Mandamus's appetite for interminable games of chess and gin rummy seemed undiminished, but she could only take so much. That was why she'd been teaching him go. To her surprise, there wasn't a go set on any of the ships, so she'd made one, drawing the grid on the back of an outdated chart and scrounging three hundred washers from the ship's stores; half brass, half steel.

  Philippe had radioed again that morning; they could go diving tonight if there were no further excitements. She'd agreed.

  'Well, she said. 'It all seems peaceful enough.

  'Mmm. Broekman sounded unconvinced.

  'Though Panama seemed peaceful, until that explosion, she admitted, trying to imagine what he was thinking. 'And the canal seemed peaceful, until they blew up the lock… and sank that ship in Limón Bay. She shrugged. "Third time lucky", she quoted. 'Don't they say that?

  Broekman nodded. 'They say that. But then there's the third light off the one match, too. Broekman snorted. 'They also say look before you leap, and he who hesitates is lost… so take your pick.

  'Three is unlucky? I thought it was thirteen.

  'Three if you're lighting cigarettes. Thirteen for voyages.

  'In Japan, four is an unlucky number.

  'Hnn, Broekman said. 'Just as well we don't have another ship here then.

  'I wonder if the Panamanians have an unlucky number, she said, still watching the hills. 'I liked Panama. The city, I mean.

  'It was all right, Broekman agreed. He inspected his thick, blunt fingernails. 'Very… cosmopolitan. He was silent for a while longer, then added, 'We might have had something like that where I come from. Hnn. He pushed himself away from the rail and clapped his hands together. 'Well; no rest for the wicked. He winked at her enquiring expression. 'They say that, too.

  She went back to her book.

  She'd taught him the rudiments of cello playing. He took to it quickly, though he would never be very good, she thought, even if he wanted to be; his hands were the wrong shape and probably not supple enough (but she got to touch those hands). He began teaching her to dive. He was experienced, qualified to tutor others in diving, which made it all even more correct and proper, and pleased her. They swam and dived, and she was adolescently, roguishly delighted by the slim, muscled body he revealed. They swam beneath the boats, inspected the buoys they were moored to, investigated the floor of the lake, with its felled, drowned forests and traces of roads and trails, and swam round some of the islets near by, circling the summits of the mostly drowned hills under the quicksilver carpet of waves.

  He talked, in a self-mocking but still fascinated way, about how some day he'd like to dive in the harbour of Portobelo, on the Atlantic coast of Panama; the body of the English sailor Francis Drake had been buried there in a lead coffin. Imagine finding that!

  She thought that it must happen, then that it never would. She went through brief storms of despair and elation, never trusting herself to believe fully that she really wanted it to happen, never able entirely to stop thinking about him. She discovered he was married; depression. But they were unofficially separated, both thinking about it; elation. She found that Marie Boulard, the junior officer on Le Cercle, didn't interest him, even annoyed him a little; elation. But then that they had had a brief liaison; depression (and dismay that she was depressed and a little jealous). She started to wonder if really he was gay; depression. Then she told herself it was good to have a friend, and if he was gay it would probably just make them even more relaxed together and they might become close friends; pretended joy, faked resignation.

  He likes me because he spends so much time with me. He only pretends because there's nothing else to do. He's humouring me; I'm old and pathetic and he won't even have thought about it and if I made a move he'd be revolted, feel it was like his mother making a pass at him. No, he really does like me and he doesn't want to say or do anything because he feels he'll lose me as a friend, and I ought to flirt more obviously to encourage him. But if I do he might think me ridiculous; I might be ashamed, and this is a small community; not Tokyo, not Sapporo, not a university… more like the size of an orchestra. An orchestra on tour, living in the same hotels; that was probably closest. Settle for a friend, then…

  And so she went round in circles, on the trapped ship.

  She moved his fingers over the neck of the cello, bending her head and neck near him. She stood behind him; he sat on a chair in her cabin. Another lesson. More delicious frustration.

  'Hmm; that perfume?

  'Kantule, she told him, frowning as she tried to form his fingers into the right shape. 'I bought it in Panama, remember?

  'Ah yes. He paused, and they both watched her place his fingers just so on the neck of the instrument, trapping the strings at the appropriate points. 'When I was in Japan, he said, 'few women wear the perfume.

  She smiled, finally satisfied with the shape of his hand. She shifted, taking up his hand holding the bow. 'Oh, we wear it, though perhaps not very much, she said. 'But then I'm very Westernised.

  She smiled, turned to look at him.

  Very close. She felt the smile falter.

  'Kantule, he nodded, shaping the word just as she had. 'It is very nice I think. She found herself watching his mouth. He sniffed, frowned minutely. 'No, it is gone again.

  Her heart thudded. He was looking into her eyes. Her heart! He must hear it, must feel it, through her breast, her blouse, his shirt and shoulder; he must!

  She leant forward a little over his shoulder, so that she looked down the length of the cello. She raised her hand the hand that had held his fingers to the cello neck — to her own neck. She moved her hair aside to reveal her ear, then with one finger flexed it forward slightly. Ici, she said, quietly.

  They found the wrecked boat when the line was almost fully paid out. Philippe had been swinging his lights from side to side and, at the extremity of one sweep, they both saw something white flash against the darkness, on the lake floor. When the beam returned, it showed a straight white line; an edge of some sort. It looked artificial, something shaped by humanity. Philippe pointed, looking back. She nodded. The orange line made a perfect curve as they swooped towards the white triangle.

  The boat was six or seven metres long; open, with no sign of a mast or rigging. It was fibreglass, and it lay, without any obvious sign of damage, flat upo
n the floor of the lake. There was a layer of mud inside it, perhaps a quarter of a metre deep. She wondered how long ago it had foundered, and how accurately you could date its sinking from the depth of mud inside. It had, probably, been a fishing boat; a few pieces of string or line moved like tendrils in the mud within its bows, and some netting protruded from its centre-line, waving in the water like odd, graphed weeds. Philippe moved to the boat's stern, and found its outboard motor, missed initially because it was black and comparatively small. He pointed enthusiastically.

  Then, like the sound of a ghost, she heard an outboard. She stiffened, felt her eyes go wide. A brief panic seized her and she struggled for breath. She breathed, listened. Philippe still didn't seem to have noticed; he was inspecting the drowned engine.

  Whirr; a shrill, distinctive noise, burbling in her ears. She shook her head but it was still there. It was a relief when she saw Philippe look up, his face behind the mask looking surprised, even shocked. She nodded and pointed from her ear to the surface, then at the outboard he still held.

  The noise came closer. She thought she could hear not one high-revving propeller, but several. Philippe gestured hurriedly at her, fiddled with his lights, gesticulating at them. They blinked out. She realised immediately, and switched hers off.

  The darkness was absolute. The moon was only a sliver, and the clouds had moved over in late afternoon, blanketing the skies above the lake. The ships were a kilometre or more away. She was blind. The water moved round her limbs, the lights felt weightless in her hand. She let go of them, just to feel the slight tug on her wrist as the lanyard tightened, gently trying to pull her to the surface. Then she pulled the lamps back again. The prop noise swelled, like something angry. and vindictive; a drowning whine.

  A dark force seemed to gather in her throat, as though a sea snake had wrapped itself round her neck. She fought it, struggling to breathe again, trying to concentrate on the high, gargling sound of the approaching boats, but the feeling increased, blocking her air passage, making her gorge rise. She brought her hands up to her mask, to her neck. Nothing there; nothing round her neck.

  Hisako went limp, relaxing, giving in to whatever it was.

  She hung there, arms limp, one hand hanging at her side, the other hand raised over her head by the slightly positive buoyancy of the lights, her legs dangling and her head down, on her chest, her eyes closed.

  Slowly, the asphyxia started to loosen its hold on her.

  She wondered if she was sinking or rising.

  tic tic tic.

  Ah.

  The noise of the boats peaked and passed. Her flippers met the soft mud of the lake bottom, and she kept on going down, her legs buckling slowly, knees folding. She felt the cool mud waft up around her thighs. She stopped like that, in equilibrium.

  There. She tested herself, taking a few deep breaths. No problem. Hisako opened her eyes, looked around at nothing but darkness. She brought her watch up, to make sure she could still see as well as to check the time. The luminous face glowed dimly at her. They'd only been down ten minutes; lots of air left.

  The sound of the outboards cut suddenly. She brought her lights down so that she could grasp them again.

  She tried to remember which way the foundered boat might be. Perhaps she ought to search for it, try to find Philippe. But she might get it wrong; head off in the wrong. direction. She could try going in ever-increasing circles, until she found the line that led back to the boat… if she didn't swim under or above it.

  She could kick to the surface; it was calm and she would be able to orient herself by the moored ships and find the Gemini. But whoever was in the boats that had gone overhead and then stopped might see her.

  She would wait here for a while; for ten minutes. Or until she saw Philippe's lights again, or heard the boats move off. She undid the pop-fastener on the big diver's knife hanging at her hip, as much to reassure herself she was doing everything she could do in the circumstances as to ready herself for a fight.

  She knelt in the soft mud, submerged in darkness, breathing slowly, looking around every now and again.

  The high whine came again after seven minutes; one outboard, then two… perhaps one more. She turned her head in the direction the noises seemed to come from. She'd wait till they disappeared entirely, then give it another minute before turning on her lights.

  A light! It was far away, twinkling like a tiny drowned star, but it was real; blanked out by her hand, and disappearing when she blinked. She kicked once out of the mud, then again to free herself from its slack grip. She swam towards the light. It disappeared, wobbling and dimming then extinguishing, but she kept towards it. It reappeared, a little stronger this time, and started to resolve into two lights, not one. It dimmed, all but disappeared. And then came back; definitely two lights. She swam on, brought her own lamps in front of her.

  She was about to put them on when she thought, What if it isn't him? She hesitated, kicking less powerfully, though still. heading for the twinned, distant glow. Finally she brought the knife out of its sheath and held it alongside the lights in front of her.

  She switched them on.

  The lights in the distance started to dim again, then jerked back, wobbled up and down. She did the same. It had to be Philippe. She kept the knife where it was.

  Philippe turned the lights on his own face when she was about three metres away; Flooded with the relief, she copied that too.

  She swam straight into him, ramming him, hugging him, lights floating, knife clenched awkwardly in her fist, trying to keep it away from his back and his air hoses.

  'I don't know, he said, when they'd kicked to the surface. She could just make out the white smudge of his face. 'But they had no… navigation lights? I think military. I… she thought he was going to say something more, but he didn't.

  They bobbed in the water, directly above where they'd met. She sheathed her knife, looked towards the trio of distant ships. She listened for the noise of outboard engines, but couldn't hear anything.

  'Where were you? Where did you go? she asked.

  'I swam up; towards them, he told her. 'I heard them talking, but it was… espagnol.

  'What now? She spat some water out, looked round for their Gemini.

  'Back to the ship. He looked round too.

  'I lost the line, he said. He nodded in the direction she was looking. 'You think that way to the Gemini?

  'I think so.

  'Me too.

  They set off keeping the ships to their right. She was waiting for an explosion; a sudden flare of light, a livid mushroom cloud from Le Cercle, or a burst of gunfire, the water leaping around them, a sudden sledge-hammer blow to the exposed back of her skull… but they swam on, the noise of their own progress through the water the only sound.

  A glint in the distance, a little to the left. She squinted. There; again. 'Philippe-chan, she whispered. 'Over there. She moved to him and pointed, lining his face up with her arm. The tiny glint again; perhaps the ships' lights reflecting on the glistening hull of the inflatable.

  'Magnifique. And I thought all japonais are wearing… les lunettes, no? She saw him make circles in front of his eyes with his fingers.

  She giggled in spite of herself.

  They climbed into the Gemini, sat breathing hard for a while. Philippe shook his head. 'Should have brought a radio. He looked at the outboard. 'Well, sometime we have to start it.

  They both kept down as they headed back to the ships. The Gemini bumped against the pontoon; he left her to moor the boat while he sprinted up to the deck.

  She met him there a few minutes later, as she arrived at the top of the steps carrying both sets of scuba gear. He laughed when he saw her, took both of them from her. 'Hisako; I'm sorry. You did not have to lift mine too.

  'It's all right, she panted. 'Everything all right?

  'Certainly, he nodded, looking briefly at the gauge on his air tank, then stopping, frowning at it. 'Everything is all right, he continued.
'I radioed; no one has seen any boats.

  'Something wrong? she tried to look at the air gauge too.

  'Is stuck. I go down to engineering; you have shower.

  She went up to his cabin, showered and dressed, then wondered why she had dressed, and considered whether she ought to undress again. She was looking out of one of the portholes, wondering if she'd heard a motor, when he came back. 'I try with new cylinder; the… point thing… he gestured, frowning.

  She smiled. "Point thing?"

  'Oui. Sur le cadran. He mimed a circle with a pointer inside it.

  'The needle, she said, laughing at his clumsy miming.

  'Yes; the needle is stuck, is all. I fix tomorrow. He skinned off his damp T-shirt. The intercom buzzer sounded. 'Merde, he breathed, lifting the phone. 'Oui? He listened. Moment. He hung up, grabbed a dry towel from the rail in the shower room and wriggled out of his pants, moving to the wardrobe. 'Is Endo, over on launch. Wants to talk.

  She watched him dry himself roughly and haul on trousers and a shirt. He flicked his hair into a semblance of order, dragged a comb through it once. She lay on the bed, still watching him, smiling to herself. He went to the door, looked back at her. 'Why you dress? he asked, looking surprised.

  She shrugged slowly. 'Forgot. She rolled over and undid a button at the wrist of her blouse, 'Don't be too long.

  So she did undress, and slid between the crisp white sheets, and cuddled herself for a moment, a thrill running through her, and she moved herself in the tightly made bed, just to feel the cool sheets on her skin. She put the main cabin light out, leaving the bedside lamp on.

  The intercom buzzed, making her jump. She left it. It sounded again, twice, and she got up out of the bed. Merde, she muttered.