Castle of Water: A Novel(16)
13
“No planes or ships during the night?”
Barry massaged the sleep out of his eyes, easing his feet over the hammock with a groan and a wince—his sunburn had worsened considerably overnight. “The French navy pulled up briefly, we had coffee and croissants, and they said they’d send for help.”
“You’re an imbécile,” murmured Sophie, less than amused with his attempt at a joke.
“How did you sleep?”
“Fine,” she lied. “And you?”
“Pretty well,” he lied back. “Christ, I would kill for a toothbrush.”
“Maybe you can buy one on your way to get some water.” She tossed him one of the plastic water bags—it bounced off his chest and fell to the sand.
“Maybe you can get it yourself.”
“Do you want breakfast or not?”
“Breakfast? What…” And then he sniffed. Eggs. Somehow, she was cooking eggs. He squinted down over her shoulder and noticed the little omelet she was prodding atop a small driftwood fire, using one of their stainless-steel drinking cups as a pan.
“Whoa! Where did you get that?”
“I found two eggs in a bird’s nest by the rocks.”
Barry felt a slight inkling of appreciation, perhaps even admiration, but was at a loss for how best to express it. “I’ll go get some water” was all he said, putting in his contacts from the case and gathering up the water bag.
“Bon. And try to get some more eggs, too, while you’re at it.”
“I don’t know about the eggs, but I can definitely bring back some more bananas.”
He plodded off across the sand toward the island’s interior, shaking his head. It was the infuriating insouciance with which she said it—she might as well have been asking him to grab a baguette on his way home from work. God, these ridiculous French.
Barry did have to admit, though, the interior of the island was growing on him. It was a nice respite from all that sea and sand, and although certainly different in terms of its foliage, it was not entirely unlike a midwestern forest. The undergrowth was tough on the soles of his feet, and the insects there were more of a nuisance, but it was peaceful, a silence tended to by the comforting rustle of trees rather than the disconcerting roll of the surf. In fact, it was almost pleasant. He wrested a bunch of green bananas from a shaggy tree and slung it over his sunburned shoulder, gaining in doing so the courage—audacity, even—to whistle, with the insouciance of someone grabbing a six-pack of beer at a bodega after work. God, these ridiculous Americans, he snickered to himself.
And the water was spectacular. Barry hadn’t realized how parched he was. At the two freshwater pools in the mountain’s rocky base, he quenched his thirst with wild abandon, drinking it down in tremendous gulps. Once adequately hydrated, he dunked the water bag under, let it fill, and sealed the top. He gazed up past the rock ledges, at the pillar of seabirds that circled above, their cries that morning unduly harsh—maybe they were upset about the missing eggs. He didn’t see any nests with eggs nearby, but he did notice a single white feather on one of the rocks, and something about it appealed to him. He picked it up and decided to take it back for Sophie. Who knows? Maybe she’d like it.
Barry returned to the beach along the same path, stepping carefully over the prickly undergrowth, whistling all the while. He emerged from the palms to the low burble of the shortwave radio—Sophie must have found another station. He saw her crouched next to it, listening intently, and the signal was strong, probably local. And it was in French.
“Hey, what’s—”
“Shhh!” It was a hiss, really, almost violent in its intensity.
Barry set down the water and the bananas and stood beside her. The broadcast sounded like a news bulletin; he recognized not the words, but the calm, informative inflection of the voice.
Then, abruptly, the broadcast cut to Polynesian music. Guitars and singing. Distant drums. Sophie looked stunned. She covered her face with her hands and released a moan unlike anything Barry had heard before.
“What is it?” Barry repeated. He knelt at her side.
“They’ve called off the search.” She turned to him, her lips quivering, eyes bleeding tears. “We are presumed dead. Ils pensent que nous sommes morts.”
Right then and there, the trapdoor on both their lives clicked and fell out from under them. A brief, sinking sensation, and then the cold thump of reality. No one was looking for them. Not one boat, not one soul.
The restraint on Sophie’s sorrow finally snapped. Unable to bear any more, she fell into Barry’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably. He held her tightly and stared straight ahead, too stunned to cry, too shocked to move. The white feather fell to the sand, trembled there for a moment, and was blown away with the wind. The omelet was burning. And the waves, at that moment the only reliable, constant thing in either of their lives, kept up their rhythm, kept rolling in.
14
What could a part-time techno DJ from London and an aging war veteran from Japan possibly have to do with the story at hand? On first perusal of their biographies, the answer is not much at all. But with a closer look, it becomes more than one might think. For although exceedingly disparate in age group and origin, the techno DJ in question—Nigel Braddock, aka DJ Dirty Dolphin—and the Japanese war veteran of interest—Takehiko Ishigaki, former crewman of the I-25 submarine in the Imperial Japanese Navy—do have one terribly relevant thing in common: They were the only two living human beings, besides Barry and Sophie, of course, who were even aware of the island’s existence.