Castle of Water: A Novel(21)
The rest of the afternoon was devoted to conducting a survey of the island’s food sources. Of course, neither Barry nor Sophie was aware of the scientific names or natural histories of their potential foodstuffs; in some cases, they weren’t even sure that what they were looking at was edible. In a survival situation, however, primordial instincts kick in, and both began to see the world through a fresh pair of hunter-gatherer’s eyes.
First and foremost, there were the ubiquitous bananas. Stubby, green, and riddled with buckshotlike seeds, they were close enough to the familiar Chiquita to be edible but still wild enough to propagate without assistance from man—which was precisely why, unbeknownst to Barry and Sophie, the ancient mariners of the South Pacific had planted them there in the first place. They attempted a rough census of their number but quickly realized that the banana plants were bountiful beyond counting. With a shared gulp and a sigh of resignation, they both came to the realization that the green bunches that surrounded them would essentially be their daily bread.
It wasn’t all bananas, however. There was also the small grove of coconut palms on the island’s lee, with nuts rich in both milk and meat. A pass by the rocky cove revealed more maxima clams than Barry had initially estimated, not to mention a few strands of washed-up seaweed that did seem edible, if only they could find more of it. The boulder-studded mountain in the island’s middle was speckled with nests of the sooty tern, more than a few of which cradled a very edible egg. And of course, the waters around them did hold fish. Paddletail snappers out by the reef, black jacks that traveled in slow-moving schools, and even the occasional mahi-mahi. However, the only decent fishing spot on the island was the very same cove where that exceedingly large octopod—theatrically dubbed “Balthazar” by Sophie when Barry pointed the creature out to her—lurked in the shadows, ready to pilfer whatever bit on the line.
And that was pretty much it. A few coconuts to contribute some much-needed electrolytes and lipids, the occasional clam to put a little protein in their diet, a sooty tern egg now and then to bump up the calorie count, the odd fish when Balthazar might happen to be sleeping, and other than that, bushel upon bushel of bright green bananas.
Their food survey concluded, Barry and Sophie decided on a quick water break before scaling the mountain. Swatting gnats and fanning themselves with banana leaves, they made their way to the drinking pools at its base. They splashed water on the backs of their necks and faces, and they drank it in gulps from the cupped bowls of their hands. For comfort’s sake, Sophie briefly unfastened the rear clasp of her bra strap and scratched at a welt that had formed beneath it.
“So tell me something,” Barry began, politely opting to avert his eyes. “How did your English get so good?”
“I do not sink zat my English is zat good,” she answered with a mocking smile and a comically thick Maurice Chevalier accent.
“It’s a lot better than my French.”
“I could know five words, and it would still be better than your French.”
“I sing a mean ‘Frère Jacques.’”
“No, trust me, you don’t.”
“Well, I’ll sing ‘Alouette’ next if you don’t tell me how you learned English.”
“Please don’t. It was the Beatles.”
“What about them?”
“My parents loved the Beatles. I listened to Beatles songs all the time growing up. I memorized all the words. We all live in a yellow submarine. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. Eleanor Bigby.”
“It’s Eleanor Rigby. And there’s got to be more than Beatles songs.”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “I guess there was Lisbon, too.”
“In Portugal?”
“Oui. I studied architecture there for my Erasmus year through a program with my university in Montpellier.”
“But what does that have to do with English?”
“I didn’t speak Portuguese. Nobody there spoke French. English was the easiest way to communicate. All of our classes were in English, too. étienne was the only one in the city I spoke French with. That was actually when we started going out. I knew him from my university, but we weren’t together until our study abroad year in Lisbon.”
She had never specifically mentioned her husband before. Barry felt a sharp pang of regret for bringing it up and had to imagine she did, too. He waited to be certain she would not choke up again before saying what he had been meaning to for quite some time.
“I’m sorry, by the way. I can’t imagine what this must be like for you. He seemed like a very good person.”
“Merci. He was. But honestly, I really can’t handle thinking about all that right now. So let’s talk about something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like why you flew all the way to the Marquesas straight from the office to see the grave of Paul Gauguin. I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”
Barry blushed, suddenly self-conscious—he hadn’t told anyone the full story, and in hindsight it seemed utterly asinine. “It’s pretty stupid.”
“Most of the things men do are. Just tell me.”
He took a deep breath. “When I was a kid back in Cleveland, my mom took me to see a traveling exhibition of his work at the art museum. I loved it—something about it really made an impression on me, and I decided at that moment that I wanted to be an artist when I grew up.”