Castle of Water: A Novel(36)
But the octopus salad that Sophie had savored during her treasured year studying architecture in Lisbon … that proved to be more problematic. Because while octopuses were not uncommon in that neck of the South Pacific, they were not all that easy to come by, either—at least, not without a snorkel mask and a spear gun, of which Barry had neither. What he did have, however, was a sickening certainty that were he to dive down in the murky shallows of his fishing cove, there would be at least one exceptionally large member of the cephalopod family waiting to greet him.
Balthazar.
The scourge of his island and the thief of his lines. The day had come. It was time for a reckoning.
Barry didn’t have a clear idea of its weight or dimensions, having caught only fleeting glimpses of it during its explosive ascents to pilfer his fish. But he was aware that it was large and creepy, and he was in no way enthusiastic about the idea of diving ten feet underwater, crawling headfirst into its lair, and challenging it to a death match, no matter how hungry they were and desperate for food.
But that was exactly what he intended to do. In dispatching one giant octopus with two fists, he would be killing two birds with one stone: He would be ridding the cove of a true menace and, in doing so, have one hell of a delicious birthday gift to present to Sophie. Just imagine, he thought to himself, the look on her face.…
And so it came to pass that Barry Bleecker, the ex-Manhattanite and former high-yield-bond salesman at Lehman Brothers, stood on the morn of Sophie’s birthday on the rocky ledge above an octopus’s cave. Tanned and sinewy, shaggy and bearded, clad only in a boxer-short loincloth, he bore a far closer resemblance to the Cro-Magnons that had fascinated him in his youth than the paunchy yuppie he had been not so very long before. And indeed, the whole business smacked of the primeval—he did feel something like a Polynesian Beowulf, preparing to rid his village of a many-legged Grendel. With his box-cutter knife in one hand and waterproof flashlight in the other, Barry felt, for the first time in his life, like a man. A terrified man on the verge of wetting his loincloth, but a man nevertheless. And as a man, like it or not, he knew what he had to do—their survival depended on it. He peered down into the pool, took three deep breaths, and dove headfirst into whatever fate had in store.
A flurry of bubbles, a few quick blinks, and—damnit. His contacts both popped out. Barry considered returning to the surface to regroup but realized that the odds of him working up the nerve for a second dive were low indeed. No, it was now or never, contacts or no contacts. In the cool blur of the pool’s blue depths he clicked on the flashlight, directing its beam into the mouth of the cave. He crouched down and ducked his head into it, not sure if what he was seeking was even—
Yep. It was there. Even without his contacts, he could make out its dark shape. Horrifically inert, twin eyes blazing, the octopus was less than an arm’s length away, its mottled skin expertly camouflaged to match its surroundings. But it was there all right. The very monster that had stolen untold fish from his line, robbed him of precious metal hooks, and deprived him and his companion of life-giving protein. The day had finally come; it was Barry or the beast. With exquisite slowness, with the greatest of care, he pulled back his knife hand, preparing his box cutter for its lethal new vocation, readying himself for the imminent violence of the strike.
A strike, as it were, that never came. Not from Barry—the octopus struck first. In a blast of black ink and a nightmare of tentacles it was upon him, knocking him backward into an eight-pronged headlock. His attempt at a scream was as ineffectual as his attack strategy; the thing was wrapped about his body and latched firmly to his face. The pure power of the creature became sickeningly apparent as Barry floundered and gurgled in its hydra grip. Christ, it was strong. Even the varsity wrestling squad at Saint Ignatius had never had arms like this.
Surrender. It was his only option. Short on breath, Barry knelt down to kick up from the bottom, only to discover a most unsettling fact: He was stuck. The octopus that enveloped him was still latched somehow to the rocky coral below. He thrashed and fought against it, to no avail—he was bound to the seafloor by a terrific set of cables. And as if that weren’t enough, something sharp was tearing into his face. The son of a bitch was biting him!
Lungs bursting, blood screaming, Barry fell to his knees and felt frantically for the utility knife, which he had dropped shortly after the initial attack. His first half-dozen pats yielded nothing but sand, until—yes! He had it. With his other hand he searched for the tentacle that still clung to the rock, and when he found it, he lashed at it with everything he had …
Until it snapped. He was suddenly unhinged from the rock and kicking upward, still utterly engulfed in the octopus’s embrace. Then he was back above the surface, clawing its membranous flesh away from his face, sucking back air in honey-sweet gulps—then he was over the rocks and running across sand, screaming for help, a virtually naked man, smeared in blood and ink and blind without his contacts, wearing wrapped about his body an enormous octopus—then Sophie was running toward him, frightened and confused.
“Barry, what is it, what’s—oh, mon dieu!”
And then she screamed.
“Banana-versaire, baby,” Barry managed to mutter, just before collapsing to the sand and fainting like a southern belle. And it was probably for the best that he was unable to see the look on Sophie’s face.