Castle of Water: A Novel(64)
“What? Hiccup?”
“Persinette!”
“What’s Persinette?”
“It’s from the fairy tale, you know, with the tower and the girl with the long hair and the prince.”
“You mean ‘Rapunzel’?”
“No, in English she’s called Rapunzel, in French her name is Persinette. This is just like the story. The pregnant wife craves the persil, then later the prince falls from the tower and goes blind.”
“Okay. And?”
“That’s what we’ll call our daughter. Persinette.”
“What if it’s a boy?”
“Pfff, I don’t know. Percival, maybe.”
“Percival Bartholomew Bleecker-Ducel? That’s worse than Pierre-Marie. People will think he’s a goddamn Habsburg or something.”
“Well, too bad.”
“Persinette.” Barry repeated the name, tested it out, let it linger in the air. “I could live with that. It has a nice ring to it.”
“Good. Because that’s what we’re calling her. C’est trop mignon.”
Barry laughed, and in doing so consented. He knew from experience that to do otherwise was utterly pointless.
42
In the weeks that followed, there were spellbinding sunsets, incredible twilights, and jaw-dropping dawns—none of which were seen by the half-blind Barry. Color, certainly, he saw some of that, but form and depth were suddenly strangers. Had he books, he might have been better off. Being severely nearsighted, he could still make out what was held close to his nose. But there were no books to be read on their island, and anything more than a foot or two away was beyond the reach of his feeble eyes. He cursed himself for not packing a spare set of glasses in with his contacts and damned the doctor who’d advised him against Lasik. But it didn’t matter. None of it. His ruined eyesight was a bitter pill he had no choice but to chew and swallow.
With Sophie’s help, he was able to grope his way up the rocks to the tiny cave where he painted, and that served as a relief from some of his frustration. But he could see virtually nothing of what he actually did. Sophie reminded him that Beethoven had done some of his best composing while deaf, which provoked a grim chuckle but little relief. Still, she sat with him while he dabbed at the rock wall in his clamshell whites and charcoal blacks and offered advice when the haze was too thick. When he was finished, she would take his hand and lead him carefully back down the boulders, shooing away angry mother terns as she pointed out the footholds time had carved in the stone.
As for sustenance, Sophie’s prediction proved astute. At first, she served as Barry’s eyes on the Askoy III, her pupils peeled for the shimmer of fish scales below. Using the same chum technique Barry had mastered in the deeper water beyond the reef, they were able to bring the schools up to the surface; she would point out the ripples with a gesture close to his face, and Barry would cast the net, giving it a moment to settle before yanking back the hand line and closing it like a bag. Together, they would haul the catch over the side and empty it all, flapping and thumping, into the canoe’s smooth wood bottom. After just two trips out, Sophie was able to cast the net herself. By the fourth, she had learned which fish were ideal, which were bony but still edible, and which ones were best avoided altogether. And within a week, she could already manipulate the sail and catch the wind when necessary, although her tacking technique left something to be desired. Not that it especially mattered; when all else failed, they could always use paddles.
Still, Barry insisted on going out with her. Within a short time, Sophie was more than capable of fishing and captaining the Askoy III on her own, but he wanted to be at her side. This was in part simply a result of protective, paternal urges as old as time. But it was also, though he would most likely not have admitted it, because of helplessness. Or rather, how much he hated the feeling of it. The both of them had long contributed in their own ways toward guaranteeing their mutual survival on the island, none less crucial or more dispensable than the others. But on some level, Barry had always enjoyed his role as “the provider,” as Neanderthal-ish as it might sound. With the loss of his last pair of contacts, he felt more like a childish burden, some helpless babe to be lugged about in a papoose, and he hated it. Of course, Sophie never saw it that way. He had helped her when she was at her most vulnerable, and in her eyes, she was simply doing the same in return. Barry’s masculine pride, however, was not quite so mature in its understanding, and occasionally he let that insecurity get the best of him. Sophie was initially patient with Barry’s bouts of moping and grumbling, but when he began to hover over her shoulder and criticize in snide tones the coconut-wood cradle she was sanding for their child, she finally had enough. Putain, Barry, she shot back. Find something to do! I know it’s hard, but feeling sorry for yourself and taking it out on me isn’t helping anyone.
His initial reaction was to answer with something harsh and spiteful, but halfway through, he realized she was right. He apologized begrudgingly, kicked again at the sand, and snagged the one thing he could still manipulate and enjoy without compromise before stomping out their cabana door: the shortwave radio.
Barry gave the little generator a few belligerent cranks and twirled the knob until a station came into focus. Great. Voice of Free China. And Barry snorted and closed his eyes and leaned in forced relaxation against the knobby burls of a palm trunk, feeling in reality anything but.