The Gulf (45 page)

He said, “How deep is it here?”

“How deep? It is deep. Nine, ten meters, I think.”

Twenty-seven, thirty feet. Not shallow, but not that hard for a man in good shape. He looked at the fishermen again. Their faces were blank with shock and fear.

He began peeling off his sports shirt. “Sir!” he shouted down to the old man. “You got a rope down there?”

The Kenyans looked startled. One said something angry; the others hissed at him, a sign, perhaps, to be quiet. There was some scattered coughing. The young one—the one who'd spoken English before—furrowed his brow at Gordon's bare chest, his black-taped dog tags. “You can get it for us?” he said.

“Might be able to. I'm a diver.”

There was a rapid exchange of questions and opinions between the men on the pier and the old man. Finally, the young one hesitated, then bowed. He said, “If you can, we can be very happy. Very happy. Yes.”

“Let's give it a try.” The old father scrambled forward as Gordon squatted on the stone, then jumped down. The smack reeled violently; it was less stable than he'd expected. He grabbed a stay before he pitched overboard headfirst.

The old man spoke no English, but with his son translating, he produced a ballast stone and a rope. The others—brothers?—looked on in somber silence. Gordon lowered the stone at the position fixed by six pointing fingers. The old man tied the line off on a hand-carved cleat.

He took off his slacks and had his fingers under his shorts when the men gasped. He hesitated, then left them on. He asked for a second line, got a bowline around his waist, and tossed the end up. “You—”

“Tom.”

“Tom, you tend me, all right? If I give you three pulls, I'm in trouble, you haul me up right away.”

“I understand.”

He slipped over the side. The water was warm and smelled like an open sewer. It was too late to back out now, though, not with those anxious faces looking down at him, hope in their eyes. And he'd had all those shots.…

He took a few deep breaths, flushing his lungs, and surface-dived.

The water was so murky he kept his eyes sealed as he pulled himself down the line. The pressure leaned on his ears and he cleared them. Hand over hand, deeper. Something soft brushed by. He had no idea what it was.

He cleared twice more and fought off an attack by an old fishing net. He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of this whole idea. Just then, his outstretched fingers found the stone. It had buried itself in muck. He held the line with one hand and frog-kicked around it.

Almost at once, his fingers touched something hard. He slipped the bowline off, fitted it around the shaft and throttle, and made for the surface. Now he wanted air. He blew out in a thin stream, imagining a straw in his mouth. Probably a minute and a half, maybe two so far … where was the surface?

His head popped up into an excited chatter. He grabbed an extended hand. His heart dilated in relief and he sucked in the cool sea air, blinking in the dusk. Finally he gasped out, “Tom, tell 'em they can haul her in. Careful, don't let it swing into the quay wall.”

There was a wild ululation of victory and joy when the Suzuki emerged, spewing water from every orifice. The sons, grunting and coughing, pulled it up the quay and laid it carefully in the litter. He started to tell them to get the plugs out, then thought, They know motors as well as you do, Gordon.

The youngest son helped him up on the quay. “That was wonderful. Wonderful, sir. We saved for two years for that motor. We could not buy another one.”

“It's okay.” He was embarrassed at their gratitude. They were carrying on as if he'd saved their lives.

“You swim like a fish, sir. How can you do that?”

“Told you, I'm a diver.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“John.”

“Where are you from, John?”

“Vermont.”

“Where?”

“The United States. America.”

The old geezer had made shore now. He primed Gordon's hand twenty or thirty times, speaking rapidly the while. His son had fallen back, but now he said, grinning like a searchlight, “My father is very happy. He insists you come and have food with us.”

“Oh, I don't know.”

“You must come. We have nothing else to give you. We are Giryama, we make our lives fishing. You must let us give you food, be our guest. It is the custom.”

Gordon shrugged, buttoning his shirt. They shouted again when he nodded. The sound was chilling, unless you were looking at their faces. It sounded like a war cry. Four of them picked up the litter, the others quickly shouldered the fish, and they went off down the quay. Then, after a couple of blocks, they struck back off down a side alley, still whooping and shouting to passersby, who grinned at them and then, their faces closing a little, at Gordon.

The quay had been unlighted save by the windows of the bars and in the night the alleys were absolutely black. The pavement stopped, and though he couldn't see, he could smell what he was walking in. The brochure had warned against going into slum areas alone. He was making his mind up to turn back when the party turned in to a bare yard, lit by a hissing Coleman, and set down the motor with relieved grunts.

Three minutes later he was sitting on plastic tatami mats, drinking a beer and dipping up a savory dish of yams and chick-peas with his fingers. “The fish is being cooked, come out later,” said Tom. “You like our food?”

“It's very good,” he said, and meant it.

When he finished the first dish, the old man offered him what looked like a handmade cigar. Gordon refused with a smile. They tried to converse, but it was impossible. So he motioned toward the engine, the old man nodded, and he began stripping it down.

He'd just gotten the plugs out when Tom came back from somewhere in the house. “Forget that, we do that,” he said, and pointed to a door. “You go back in there. There is something for you.”

“What?”

“Just go in, you will see.”

They were all watching him, giggling. He had another moment of doubt, then thought, They've treated me all right so far. Moslems were supposed to be hospitable.

He stood in the darkness of the hut for a long time, smelling unfamiliar smells, before he saw her eyes shining in the half-light. She was standing right in front of him.

“My name is Leah. Tommie says you need company.”

He couldn't see them in the darkness, but when she put his hands on her breasts, he could feel them, loose and slick with sweat.

“That's very nice, but I don't think—”

He tried to take his hands off her, but she held his wrists tight, holding his palms to her. “Listen. You don't have to pay. I live here. They feed me when the ships aren't in. Then I pay them back. Tommie wants you to have me.”

He couldn't see her well, but she was tall. Firelight came through seams in the tin. It gleamed off bracelets and necklaces. Her breath smelled of beer and chick-peas.

“You are afraid,” she said. “Are you afraid? I have a green card. You can see it if you like. That is Kenya government health card.”

“I believe you. But I'm married.”

She didn't speak, silent as darkness, and he was afraid he'd said something wrong, that she would scream and the brothers would swarm in. But when she spoke again, her voice had changed.

“You love her, you mean. That is good, you love somebody.… You are right to fear me. Shall I tell the truth? The green card means nothing. They cannot afford to test us; they only look at us and stamp it and laugh.”

“It can't be—” He'd been about to say, It can't be that bad; but the words sank back halfway.

“It was not like that before. I worked at a guest ranch when I was small. We were happy. We made money from the German tourists. Now all the girls are dying. They say it came from here, from Africa. That is a lie. You brought it. The American sailors.”

“Who told you that?”

“Well, that is what they say in the bazaar. Myself, I think it is a punishment from Jesus. I know I sinned. I deserve to die. So for me, it doesn't matter. Only now it is so many, men and women and little babies. Have we all sinned so bad? Are we so evil we have to die, and God send a new people to start again?”

He tried again to take his hands off her chest. This time she let him. He was too filled with horror to think. Sounds filled his empty brain. Laughter and coughing outside, the clink of bottles and spoons on tin plates, the sigh as she turned away in the darkness. On impulse, he fumbled in his pocket. “Wait! Leah. I think you're beautiful. I'll always remember you. Will you tell Tommie and the others I did it with you?”

“I told you, no money.”

“It's not money. It's perfume.”

He heard the cap come off and then a jingle as she lifted it. “But this is very nice,” she said. “I love perfume. What kind is it? Is it expensive?”

“It's rare. Only one place in the world makes it.”

“Thank you. You are a good man, to help Tommie's family. Without the boat, they would all starve. I'll tell them you made love with me. That will make them happy. I don't think they know why they are all so sick. Jesus bless you, John.”

“You're Christian?”

“Yes. I went to the mission school. I was going to be a teacher. Now I'm going to die. We're all going to, no one can help us, and it is not our fault.”

Through the horror and disgust, the recoil too instantaneous and deep to be anything but instinctive, he stood motionless. Then, when he'd been able to think about it, he reached out. Her shoulders were smooth and slick. He wanted to say something consoling but there was nothing in all the world he could think of. All he could do was hold her, sharing for a moment her anger and her fear.

Outside, in the yard, a brushwood fire blazed and crackled, lighting a ring of jolly faces. The motor, cover off and plugs lying beside it, was propped up facing the flames. Tom moved over to let him sit down, and an old woman brought steaming fillets and another beer. He looked at the faces across from him. Now he understood their thinness, their drawn, wasted look.

He drank the beer and ate the hot fish. When he decided to go, they all walked back with him, holding his hands to guide him in the darkness of the slum, under the cloud-sealed sky.

*   *   *

He passed the last morning in the bazaar, but bought only a native pot he thought might interest Ola. That finished his cash. At noon, he was checked out and sitting at the Castle bar, where he'd told them to meet for the trip back.

Everett and Terger were already there. The banker had a heap of bags and taped-up boxes three feet high around his stool. The chemistry teacher swung around, saw him, and patted the seat beside him. Gordon asked him what he'd done with his liberty.

“Went out to Amboseli.”

“See any elephants?”

“Bet your ass. Rhinos, lions, about six different kinds of cats—hell, I had to look them up just to know what I was looking at.” Terger tapped his camera. “Lucky I wasn't carrying a rifle, I'd of run out of ammo the first day. The lodge I was in, you looked right out at Kilimanjaro when you woke up.”

Burgee and Maudit came in. They were sunburned and peeling, with circles under their eyes and bruises on their necks. Their hands shook as they set down their overnight bags. “You look like you been TAD in hell,” said Terger, looking them over.

“Yeah. We were. But thanks for that perfume, man. Wish I'd had a gallon; it didn't last long in the field.”

“Want a beer before we hit the road?” asked Gordon.

Maudit flinched.
“Merde, pas de bibine, j'ai une super casquette plombee.”

“No alcohol,” said Burgee, closing his eyes. “Please. No more beach. No more women. And no more liberty. You can have one if you want. Just don't let me see it.”

Terger bolted a last one, then they whistled down a yellow stripe. They were well out of town, and the airport tower was lifting above the plain, when Gordon bent forward and tapped the driver's shoulder.

“Sir?”

“Pull over.” He pointed to the side of the road.

The taxi's brakes locked and it skidded the last three yards to a halt, raising a cloud of red dust so thick it choked him when he swung the door open.

The boy was intent on his work, his wire-thin, scarred legs thrust up on either side of his hands as he squatted. A black cloud circled him, buzzing ferociously, and the flies crawled over his close-cropped head and over the red bristly hide and the calm slow liquid eyes that blinked slowly at him as Gordon hesitated, then stepped over the ditch and up the other side and stood beside the child and the cow.

“Excuse me.”

The boy glanced up, his eyes white as the moon on a dark night. Gordon made the motions with his hands and held out a shilling. The cow boy grinned and held out a pale palm. Then he got up and began patting the beast's neck, gentling it in Swahili.

It was awkward to kneel, but everything else was the same. Gordon turned his head till his cheek rested against the warm flank. The good smell filled his head, foreign and at the same time homely, and his fingers found the teats.

“Senior Chief! Damn it, come on, we got to make this plane!”

He closed his eyes and ignored them. She was a little hard, but as his fingers remembered, she let down. Milk hissed into the jug. The tail stung his face. The flies droned in the solid, manure-smelling, dusty heat. He did not shake them away, only squeezed his eyes tighter, till the tears stopped trying to come.

24

Al Hadd, Bahrain

THE sun was a thousand times hotter than he remembered it ever getting in New Mexico. And there was nothing back home like the sand fleas. He felt as if he was melting, dissolving into the gritty black sand that smelled like the floor of a gas station.

Exotic Bahrain, my ass, Phelan thought bitterly. He'd been smoking a butt on
Van Zandt
's fantail when the officers went ashore. That was their liberty: hotels, parties, diplomatic shit. But for the enlisted, the guys who'd just torn the guts out of the Iranians? A stinking patch of waste waterfront and a couple cases of year-old beer. That was good enough for them.