Pescador's Wake (22 page)

Kind regards,

Margie Bates

Julia is again confronted but warmed by the concern from the other side of the world. It's more than her best friend, also on
the other side of the world, has offered. Perhaps there
is
something Margie Bates can do. She sends an email back, pleased that she made an effort with English classes at university:

Dear Margie,

Thank you for your kind letter. My son, although born thirteen weeks early, is now doing well. It has been a daily struggle for us, but we are surviving.

The greatest gift at the moment would be to have my husband home. According to the authorities here, there is no record of his boat fishing in Australian waters. I do not know what influence you have, but if there is any chance of convincing the Australian authorities to try my husband here in Uruguay, that would be the best help you could give.

Regards,

Julia Pereira de Sánchez

Julia presses the send button and watches the message disappear from the screen. When she looks up, she sees her mother in front of her, the uneaten
chivito
on a plate in her hand.

‘It's cold. After all the trouble I went to to make it.'

‘Sorry,
Mamá.
I'll have it now.' Julia gives her mother an apologetic hug and sits down at the table to eat.

María migrates up from the floor to sit beside her, walking the Barbies around on the table top as if it was a catwalk. ‘Has our baby got a name yet?'

‘
Si
.' Julia kisses María on the forehead, leaving behind a smudge of cold bacon grease. ‘I meant to tell you. It's Eduardo.'

‘Like Uncle Eduardo?'

‘Just like that,
si
.' Julia says, reaching over to wipe her daughter's face clean.

I dream sometimes that I am an albatross, surveying the world's largest ocean from the air. Albatross sighted this trip: southern royal albatross, wandering albatross, white-capped albatross, white-capped mollymawk, black-browed mollymawk, grey-headed mollymawk, light-mantled albatross and sooty albatross. These most admirable, most noble of birds can live for up to fifty years, spending the majority of this time at sea. They sail with grace through the most treacherous turbulence life can deal them, and when they return home it is to their lifelong partners.

Carlos's sleep is fitful—a pitching, diving struggle between competing worlds: conscious and unconscious. He is like a seabird caught on a fishing line and trying to surface. Each time he breaks through, unseen nocturnal waves pull him back under. He dreams of his newborn child, too sick to be kept alive with the ventilator. The machine is switched off. Long tubes that had pumped air into his tiny lungs are extracted slowly. The baby is handed to his father and attempts to breathe on his own, but he can't. He's too small, too immature. Carlos feels the baby's tiny legs struggle against him briefly. Has his baby died? Surely he would have felt some change. Some small weight—his son's soul—would have shifted and left. He is offered a swaddling blanket and asks permission to take the infant outside the hospital and into the light for the first time. A nurse agrees.

Outside, the tiny form is shown a world he will never see. The wind ruffles his fine, short hair. Carlos wishes he could breathe for his child who is so blue now that he must surely be dead. But he refuses to believe it. He promises God he will exhale warm life-giving air into the baby's empty lungs forever if necessary. But he knows there's no use. He thinks he sees his
son's spirit fly from his body, soaring higher and higher into the sky, like an albatross.

The hospital doctor had asked Carlos to return with the dead infant when he was ready. A funeral will need to be arranged. But he's not ready to let go—not yet. He takes the tightly wrapped form down the street, hiding his blue face and lips from passers-by. He walks the whole way like this to the Puerto de Montevideo, to his father's old fishing boat. He unties the weathered ropes and starts the engine. Julia is beside him now. She had heard this is where he had gone with their child. María, safe with Julia's parents, waves from the shore.

The seas build and Julia asks where they are heading.

‘I just want him to see the ocean,' Carlos answers.

Carlos doesn't have a destination in mind and simply motors out to sea. Cut adrift. A day passes, then two. Carlos knows the hospital staff will be wondering where they have gone. Julia says they should return, but Carlos keeps going. He puts the baby in the cold hold to preserve the body, deciding never to go back. The three of them will remain at sea. Until the pain stops. Julia weeps and grows thin. He has forgotten to provide for his wife. He has failed her. He holds out his arms but she pushes him away.

Carlos sets a fishing line, but there are no fish. Something large takes hold of his hook, and he reels it in. It's Eduardo. The first mate climbs up the line. He seems fine. The Eduardo
of old—handsome and happy. He says he has been looking after the fish.

‘I tried to save you,' Carlos tells him, relieved to have the chance to explain. ‘What happened? Did the harness break?'

‘I unclipped myself. I thought the boat would turn. But when it didn't, it was okay. It's not your fault, Carlos,' Eduardo answers. ‘I shouldn't have been out there alone. I should have warned you about Dmitri. But I'd made that promise to you and Julia.'

Carlos dreams then that Julia is on deck too, holding their dead child. She runs to Eduardo and lets him comfort her.

Carlos wakes in stages, but each time the dream pulls him back down under its liquid skin.

Finally he wakes completely, shaken and confused. Has his baby really died? Was this some kind of premonition? He needs to call Julia and groggily makes his way up to the wheelhouse where the most senior of the South African naval officers on board is talking to Harry Perdman at the helm.

‘I need to use the phone,' Carlos pleads, his face awash with tears. A thick rope of mucus extrudes from his nose, before falling to the floor. ‘My wife. I need to call her. Please.'

‘We need to get permission from Customs for you to use the phone,' Harry tells him. ‘Now that I've taken over as master, I'm under strict instructions—'

‘Please,' Carlos begs. ‘I need to know if my son is all right.'

He watches the South African mime, for Harry's benefit, the action of putting a stitch in his lips.

‘Okay. But I know nothing about it,' Harry says as he points to the phone.

‘
Gracias
,' Carlos whispers. ‘
Muchísimas gracias.
'

Julia answers from their apartment.

‘Julia, sweetheart.
Que tal
? Is our baby all right?'

‘
Si.
Well…' She falters and Carlos holds his breath. ‘He has given us a few scares, but he's stable now. He's through the worst. He's a week old today.'

Carlos is without words for a few moments. ‘When did you last speak with the hospital?'

‘This morning. I was in there. Taking up some breastmilk. Why?'

Carlos knows better than to tell his wife about the nightmare. She is superstitious enough already.

‘I just needed to hear he's all right.
Lo siento, lo siento
,' he apologises. ‘It's all my fault, all of this. I miss you so much and wish I could be there with you.
For
you.'

Julia pauses. ‘So do I.'

‘How's María doing?'

‘Fine. She's my strength.' Julia's voice trails away and, in that small space of silence, Carlos imagines his beautiful daughter smiling. It almost breaks his heart. ‘Carlos, I've named our baby Eduardo. I hope that's all right. It was what you wanted last time we spoke about it.'

A maelstrom of emotion whips up inside Carlos. ‘
Si.
But…' He remembers that Julia still doesn't know of their
friend's death. ‘Julia, about Eduardo…' Carlos's voice breaks and he is aware of the deathly quiet on the other end of the phone.

‘Julia?'

‘
Si
.'

‘Eduardo was lost at sea a week ago. I couldn't tell you the other day. Not on top of everything else.'

Again, silence. Louder, if that is possible, this time.

‘Julia?'

‘
Si
.' Her voice is constricted, choked. Barely audible.

‘I'm so sorry to have to tell you over the phone. But I didn't want you to hear from Francisco or Cecilia.'

Carlos presses the phone hard to his ear, but hears only the static of the line. Quietly, he begins to cry. ‘We'll be together again soon, my love. Our little Eduardo will be fine. He has a very special godfather protecting him now. I've phoned Virginia already with the news, but can you tell her again how sorry I am? And, if you get a chance, can you email a photo of our little boy to the ship…'

‘I'll try.
Hasta luego,
Carlos.'

Carlos is still holding the satellite phone after Julia hangs up. He thanks Harry, who goes to speak but stops short. What is there to say?

Carlos walks numbly back towards the bunk that used to belong to Roberto but has now become his own. He passes Eduardo's cabin, which is filled with the personal effects of
the
Pescador
's new Australian master. No one will ever fill the void left by his friend, Carlos realises. Every time he calls his son's name he will be reminded of the vacated cabin of the boy's godfather. He descends another flight of stairs and keeps his eyes low as he passes his crew in their bunks. At least the less senior Australians and South Africans have opted to camp out in the mess, he thinks.

He mentally replays the sound of Julia's voice over the telephone. He has never heard her like this before. So detached. He lowers himself onto his bunk and hauls the sea blanket over his legs. He thinks of his son, still alive. He should be happy, but it's as though someone has dimmed the lights and everything is now overcast and muted. Perhaps he'll never feel happy again? He takes the photograph of Julia off the wall beside him and holds it to his chest.

Leaning into the light, Carlos examines the peeling paint on the wall beside his bed. With the Australians now in control of the ship, he has barely left this spot. He studies the now familiar dark shapes that the absent paint has left behind. The longer he stares at the patterns, the more disturbing are the creatures his imagination conjures: there are grimacing faces and twisted bodies, crashing waves and frightened animals running. He takes the silver stud from his earlobe and uses the sharp post at the back to scratch letters into the white paint: E.D.U.A.R.D.O. He writes the name almost subconsciously.

He studies the photograph in his hand, the picture of Julia in what appears to be a boatshed. Using the crisp light through the porthole, he delves deeply, for the first time, into the background. He makes out the blurred shape of a dinghy and recognises it as belonging to Eduardo's father. Eduardo had been restoring it. The boatshed too, Carlos realises, is theirs. He remembers Julia taking a day trip to La Paloma and arriving home in that red-flowered dress. She must have paid them a visit. Perhaps this picture was taken then. He turns the photograph over. In a flowing hand is written: ‘For Julia'. He had seen the writing before this but had thought little of it. He takes his earring again and, for reasons he doesn't understand, scratches out Eduardo's name from the paintwork, leaving behind an empty square of black metal.

Margie Bates closes the email, and checks her address book for Roger Wentworth's phone number at the Australian Customs Service.

He answers promptly. ‘Oh, Mrs Bates. I thought it was going to be another media call. We're being flooded with them.'

‘Sorry, only little old me,' Margie says, annoyed by his patronising tone.

‘No, you're fine, Mrs Bates. I'm glad you've phoned. Your husband should be congratulated for his handling of events over the last few weeks.'

Margie takes a deep breath, in no mood for platitudes. ‘On the matter of the trial…' she begins. ‘You'd be aware that the Uruguayan master's wife has delivered a baby very prematurely and that there's still every chance the child might not survive.'

‘Yes. Dave told you that, did he?' Wentworth's voice is brittle and escalates unnaturally in pitch.

‘No,
I've
been in contact with her.' Margie proceeds quickly. ‘Is there any way that Carlos Sánchez could be tried in Uruguay? Are you even the right person to be asking?'

‘I can't see it happening myself. And yes, you should be talking to me—for starters at least. My understanding is that there has to be a preliminary hearing to determine if we've got the grounds for a full-blown trial.'

‘Are you saying all this could have been for nothing?'

‘Well, if Dave hadn't lost sight of the boat…'

‘Yes, I know what you're about to say.' Margie inhales the breeze through the open window, focusing on the cooling scent of eucalypts. ‘But what do I tell Julia Sánchez?'

‘You shouldn't be discussing this with her at all. She needs to be talking to the lawyers who'll be handling the illegal boat's case, but, to be honest, I can't see there's any chance that her husband will be allowed to return home at this stage. This is an important test case for us.'

Margie sniffs sharply. ‘Perhaps I should contact the media myself and let them know that no one actually saw the
Pescador
bringing in fish.'

Roger Wentworth says nothing.

‘David told me,' Margie adds, declaring her hand.

‘That probably wasn't appropriate.'

‘Appropriate? I wonder how appropriate it was to spend taxpayers' money chasing a ship halfway around the world when it wasn't even seen illegally fishing! And Dave's unarmed crew were never in a position to board. You're just lucky they chanced upon that naval boat. And what about the hundreds of thousands of dollars that'll be spent on the legal
case? And they could still get off the hook. If you'll excuse the pun. The papers will have a field day.'

‘Mrs Bates, if I may say, your level of concern for this woman seems unusual. Her husband certainly wasn't thinking about you or David when he fled south and provoked this chase.'

‘I'm not saying Carlos Sánchez shouldn't be held to account. He certainly should. As should all the others who are illegally fishing out there right now while we argue about this one boat. I'm simply saying that there are some things – like a father meeting his critically ill child—that are bigger than all this.'

Margie hangs up the phone, proud of her assertiveness, even if it is largely bluff. It won't hurt Roger Wentworth to sweat a bit. She puts the kettle on for a cup of tea and watches the goldfish swimming in their bowl. Around and around they go. Blub, bloody blub. All this for some stupid fish, Margie thinks. Bonnie wanders over to a patch of sun on the kitchen floor and rolls over to expose her soft underbelly. Margie uses her foot to stroke Bonnie's smooth stomach and waits for the water to boil. How happy Sam's dog had been to see her after the hike, she thinks. As she pulled into the driveway, Bonnie had swung her tail in such rapid, excited circles that Margie was sure the dog would take off, propelled upwards, back legs first. She hopes it didn't give Bonnie a false sense of hope that Sam would one day appear up the driveway again.

Dave once told her that when he was a boy, the family dog, a labrador, had been lost off the back of his father's yacht during a storm. The conditions had been too rough to attempt a rescue, his father had said. Margie knows it's why Dave never let Sam take Bonnie with them on the roughy trawler. Sam had insisted that she would be fine on the boat, but Dave was never prepared to put himself in the position of having to make a decision like the one his father had made all those years ago. Margie is pleased now that Dave spared their son that potential loss. After Sascha left him, Bonnie was Sam's whole world.

The kettle reaches its familiar crescendo and Margie pours the boiling water into a mug containing a Darjeeling teabag. She made the ceramic mug during an adult education course some months after Sam died. Margie inspects her design of black swans swimming around the perimeter. Like most of her art at the time, it used only black—the absence of colour – and white. Recently her paintings have again embraced blues, greens, reds and even a splash of yellow, and she welcomes this as a kind of progress. A rediscovery of colour in her art and in her life.

Margie takes her steaming cup of tea into Sam's bedroom, which she has kept largely as he left it, although she does come in here to paint and sew. It keeps the room alive.

Today she peruses his bookshelf, almost without realising she's doing it. Books on hiking in Tasmania, travel and
rockclimbing are stacked neatly beside university biology texts and a small collection of novels. She puts down her tea and opens a backpacker's guide to Uruguay, Paraguay and Argentina, and finds several pages bookmarked with scrap paper. They are pages on Uruguay, with sections underlined in pencil. Her son was clearly some way along the path towards organising a trip there. Margie feels the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

A black-and-white photograph of Bonnie devouring a bone stares at her from Sam's noticeboard. Beside the picture, Sam has written: ‘Life's short, suck the marrow.' He was right, her philosopher son. When all this is over, and Dave is back on
terra firma,
she'll take a leaf out of Sam's book and organise her own trip to South America. She thinks back to her hike with Joan and how rejuvenating it was. By embracing Sam's life and the things he loved, she has found a way of dealing with his death.

She takes a long sip of tea and carries the travel guide into the lounge room. Through the windows, silvery green eucalypts wave their long, thin flags above the velvet water. The afternoon light strikes two kayakers as they paddle at the base of the cliffs in front of her house. Each dip of the paddle flicks a tiny beam of light her way, a flashing morse code. She can see why people get addicted to adventure. It brings them back to life—makes them focus on the here and now.

There's a knock at the door and Margie heads down the hallway, guidebook still in hand. Through the glass panelling she recognises the outline of Sascha, Sam's ex-girlfriend. Beside her is another figure—a small child. Margie takes a step back. Perhaps she could pretend she's not at home. She feels her heart quicken. How can Sascha just turn up without warning, her child in tow, after not saying a word since Sam's death? Just when I was starting to get my life back together, Margie thinks. She curses under her breath and shakes her hands at her sides, attempting to flick away her annoyance and the underlying fear of facing Sascha again. She sees Bonnie race up the front steps to greet Sam's one and only true love. Bonnie is all over the child too, turning circles on the front veranda like she used to when Sam arrived home. Margie had forgotten those excited, welcoming turns until now.

‘Hello, Bonnie,' Margie can hear Sascha saying, her voice frail with emotion. ‘How are you, old girl?' Sascha crouches down and gives the dog a hug. ‘This is little Scotty.'

Margie wipes her sweaty palms on her trousers and opens the door. Sascha looks up and Margie sees that her face is streaked with tears. The little boy seems confused by Bonnie's affection, and is using his hands to bat away her licks.

‘Hello, Margie,' Sascha says, filling the void. ‘I'm sorry I've taken so long to come and see you. It's taken me two years to build up the courage.' She is crying now and buries her face in Bonnie's fur. ‘You must hate me.'

Margie feels the tears on her own face. She thinks of Sam and how much he loved this girl. But it's as if her feet are planted in concrete. She can't move towards Sascha or even away, and simply stares at the young woman distraught on the doorstep. Sascha's clothes—a white linen shirt and jeans – are fitted and fashionable, just as she had always worn, and her hair is still long, but, as she stands up, Margie notices small lines around her eyes and a loss of fullness in her cheeks. Sam would want me to give her a hug, Margie thinks, finally extending her arms.

Margie draws Sascha towards her. She smells her familiar summery perfume and realises that she never saw Sascha alone, without Sam. They were a pair: soulmates. Margie feels a gaping pain in her chest, as if she has taken a wound to the heart. She ends the embrace and tries to collect herself, but the hole in the universe beside Sascha where Sam should still be is almost unbearable. ‘How could I hate you when Sam loved you so much. You were a part of our family, like a daughter.'

Sascha wipes the tears from her face with the back of her hand and reaches down to pick up her child.

‘I did wonder though why you never visited after—'

‘Margie, I'd like you to meet my son, Scotty,' Sascha says, brushing a red-blond wisp of hair from his forehead.

Margie leans forward and strokes the boy's hair. ‘Hello, little man. You're a sweet little fellow, aren't you?'

Bonnie reaches up and licks Scotty's leg.

‘Bonnie likes you too,' Margie says.

Face to face with Sascha's young son, Margie can't begin to imagine the pain Sam would have felt upon such an encounter. It was enough that he found out Sascha had left him for someone else. Unsure what to say next, she keeps her attention on the little boy. She places the travel book down on the Huon pine dresser by the front door and uses both hands to tickle the toddler's tummy. He giggles, and Margie is struck anew by the intoxicating laughter of childhood.

She lifts her damp eyes back to Sascha who is biting her top lip, as if trying to stop herself from crying again. Sascha is focused on the travel book. ‘We were planning on going to South America together, before I screwed things up.'

‘Oh, I'd forgotten that. What a time we've all had.' Margie gives her another hug, with Scotty squirming in between. ‘Anyway, what are we all doing on the front doorstep. Come inside. Here, I'll take the little lad for you.' Margie lifts him onto her hip. ‘You go ahead, Sascha, into the lounge room and we can have a cup of tea. The kettle's still warm.'

Sascha walks obediently down the hall, her blue eyes darting into the open doorway of Sam's old room. Margie watches her in profile as she turn quickly away, focusing instead on the rest of the house. It occurs to Margie that little has changed since Sascha was last here. The black leather lounge suite is still in the corner, and there are the same
photos of Sam as a boy in silver frames. Sascha picks up one of the pictures and studies it closely.

Margie puts Scotty on the lounge-room floor and opens a cupboard, reaching up high for a box. ‘I thought I still had them,' she says, putting some of Sam's old toys in front of Scotty, whose eyes light up.

Sascha smiles. ‘Thanks.' She pauses. ‘I'm sorry to land on you like this. After all this time.' She chews at her fingernails, then closes her eyes and blows her nose hard into an already wet tissue.

‘Well, you're here now.' Margie walks into the kitchen and re-boils the kettle. As she makes the tea, she can see Sascha handing Scotty Sam's toys in the lounge room. ‘Are your mum and dad well?'

‘They're all right.'

‘They're very lucky to have such a lovely grandson.
Very
lucky.' Margie puts Sascha's tea onto the table beside her.

‘You don't see it, do you? I thought you'd pick it straight away.'

‘What do you mean?' Margie takes a sip of her tea before placing it alongside Sascha's so she can get down and sort through the toys with two hands. Her heart feels like it will burst with sadness at seeing all the things that Sam used to play with.

‘He's
your
grandson too.'

Margie hears the words just as she hands Scotty a wooden
train. She freezes for several seconds, before letting go of the toy. Her legs weaken beneath her and she sits on the floor beside him. He gazes up at her face.

‘Ohhh,' Margie gasps, lifting the boy onto her lap. It's as if the universe has been created anew right in front of her, as if all the elements have been thrown up into the air and have landed in a different order. The shock is as great as somebody telling her that Sam is, in fact, still alive. She holds the small child close and cries over his shoulder. The smell of his hair brings back a flood of memories. Overwhelmed by the attention, Scotty struggles out of her arms and Margie tries to hide her tears from his worried eyes.

‘Are you sure?' Margie asks, but she knows it is true.

Sascha nods twice. A small nervous smile has formed on her face. Apprehensive, but hopeful. Her tears, Margie can tell, are again just below the surface.

‘Sam's boy.' Margie says the words out loud to cement them in her brain. Looking at him now, his blue eyes and reddish-blond hair, Margie can't believe she didn't see it immediately. But she had always assumed that Sascha had fallen pregnant to the young man she had left Sam for. ‘I hadn't even considered it. Not for a minute.'

‘I found out I was pregnant after Sam and I broke up. And then he died…' Sascha is crying openly now. Margie puts out an arm and Sascha joins her on the floor, welcoming Margie's
arms around her. Bonnie trots through the back door and, seeing the commotion, joins in.