The Tears of Dark Water
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Quercus
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW
Copyright © 2015 Regulus Books, LLC
The moral right of Corban Addison to be identified as
the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN TPB 978 1 84866 311 4
ISBN HB 978 1 84866 310 7
ISBN EBOOK 978 1 78429 220 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations,
places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For the jewel of the Indian Ocean, may you rise again.
And for all those who bear your scars as their own.
I am in the sea and a sea is within me.
—Ahmad-e Jami
The devil flows in mankind as blood flows.
—The Prophet Muhammad
Whatever things may appear, the meaning is always deeper.
—Gaarriye
Contents
The Way of the Gun
In those days there was no king.
Everyone did what was right in his own eyes.
—The Book of Judges
Daniel
Mahé Island, Seychelles
November 7, 2011
Daniel Parker woke with a start, a line of perspiration on his brow. He looked around the darkened cabin of the sailboat, searching for her face, but she was gone. He shook his head, as if the sudden motion could shake off the anguish of the dream, but the chains of the past bound him to her, as did the vague whisper of a prayer that she was wrong. Her words were stuck in his mind, like a prophecy playing in an endless loop, the truth of half a life spoken as if from the beginning.
It won’t last.
The declaration had escaped her lips without effort, but not uncharitably. She had smiled at him when she spoke, her green eyes dancing above the dimples in her cheeks, her candlelight dress and red-brown Bissolotti violin luminous in the concert hall.
Nothing does. Why would you expect us to be different?
He looked out the porthole at the lights of Victoria harbor, sparkling in the twilight before the dawn. The sky was the color of ash, but the stars were beginning to retreat on the coattails of the night. He listened to the main halyard knocking against the mast and the gurgling sounds of cavitation as the
Renaissance
bobbed on the occasional swell.
At least we’ll have a decent wind
, he thought, throwing back the thin sheet and scooting out of his rack.
He placed his feet on the polished mahogany floorboards and took a slow breath, relishing the smoothness of the wood on his skin. He had loved the feeling of going barefoot on deck since he was a boy handling lines and trimming sails on his father’s Valiant 40. But he had paid a price for it. The soles of his feet were a patchwork of scars.
He opened the door to the saloon and slipped stealthily into the living quarters. Dim light from the harbor filtered in through the curtains covering the windows, but the saloon and galley were still shrouded in darkness. He stepped around the weak spots in the floor and took care not to wake his son, Quentin, who was sleeping on the settee berth across from the dining table.
He flipped on the accent lights in the galley. The LEDs glowed softly under the cabinet rails, illuminating the gas stove and granite countertops. He heated a pot of water and filled his French press, waiting precisely four minutes before pouring the steaming coffee into his Naval Academy mug. His father had given him the mug at the rechristening ceremony of the
Renaissance
, along with a hearty laugh and a slap on the back. It was as much a gag as a gift, for Daniel had gone to Boston College instead.
He opened the main hatch and inhaled the moist island air. Across the water sat the city of Victoria, tucked like a jeweled blanket between mountains of granite and the hem of the sea. He rummaged in the locker by the stairs and retrieved his writing chest—a genuine gift from his father, an antique from Zanzibar, in honor of their voyage. He collected the mug and went topside.
On an ordinary morning the sight of sailboats at anchor crowned by winking stars would have brought a smile to Daniel’s face. But this morning he scarcely noticed them, troubled as he was by the portents of the dream. He sat down in the cockpit and put the mug on the bench beside him, opening the carved wooden chest and laying out paper and pen on the life raft container, which he used as a writing surface. He lit a battery-powered lantern and took a sip of coffee, struggling to suppress the dread her words had inspired. They were wrong. They had to be. The smile, the dress, the violin, the concert hall—all were exactly as he remembered. But her words had carried a different meaning. They had been ironic, not tragic; a welcome, not a farewell.
His mind raced on the current of memory. New York City. April 1993. Daffodils blooming in Central Park, buds on the dogwoods and azaleas, a blaze of sunlight chasing away the early-spring chill. He had seen the handbills posted all over Columbia University—the Juilliard Orchestra performing at Carnegie Hall. He wouldn’t have given the concert a passing thought, if not for the photograph of the soloist. Her name was Vanessa Stone, and she was a student at Columbia, not Juilliard—a double major in biology and music. She was pretty but not remarkably so in New York City’s hall of mirrors. It was her expression that made him pause—then halt—his mad rush to a law school seminar to which he was already late. He took down one of the fliers and studied her more carefully. She held her violin tenderly, her bow just touching the strings, and looked at the camera almost curiously. The question in her eyes was as frank as it was astonishing:
Why are you staring at me?
Two days later, Daniel walked into the grand lobby of Carnegie Hall clutching the handbill and the face he couldn’t forget. His seat was on the parquet level of the Stern Auditorium and close to the stage. He settled into his chair and listened to the musicians tune their instruments, annoyed at the butterflies crowding his stomach. At last, she appeared with the conductor at her side. She was dressed in a diaphanous gown that complemented her auburn hair. She nodded to the audience and then placed her violin beneath her chin, waiting for her cue.