Castle of Water: A Novel(70)
Bartholomew Bleecker chose the latter.
The preparations took the better part of the day but passed like a strange and floating dream. It was as if he were outside of himself, watching these events unfold despite his imperfect vision. He watched as he inflated the life raft, his aching lungs bringing the craft to life. He looked on as he loaded it with bananas and bags of freshwater—except the one bag he filled with coconut milk, knowing an infant could not survive upon it, but hoping it might keep his child alive just a little bit longer. He gazed with bleary eyes as this other, more certain version of himself placed his sleeping daughter, bundled in a threadbare Charles Tyrwhitt dress shirt, beneath the small survival blanket tent he had made for her in the Askoy III. And he stood silent witness as this man hitched the supply-laden raft to the back of the canoe with a six-foot length of salvaged nylon rope.
All that remained was to say good-bye. Barry had no flowers to leave for Sophie and their stillborn child, buried together in the same shallow grave; he brought bananas instead, the freshest, greenest bunch he could find. He spoke to them quietly for some time, his tears leaving a cluster of wet dimples in the upturned sand. He told them how much he loved them, how much he already missed them, and he begged their forgiveness for having to leave them. But he had made his decision—and he knew that Sophie would understand. When he was finished, he laid the kindest of kisses on the driftwood cross, wiped his eyes, and rose to his feet. But before he left, he made two promises:
That he would take care of their living daughter until his dying breath, no matter when that day came, and that one day, god(s) willing, he would come back for them both and take them home.
Ready at last, Barry stumbled and tripped his way back to the beach. It was time. He did one final scan of the radio to search for nearby transmissions, and just as he had expected, there were none to be found. There were no more ships, there were no more flares, and there was no turning back. He had to go all the way. He would make it to the islands or he would die trying. There was no other option. They were leaving for good.
Barry peered inside the canoe’s foil blanket tent to check on his daughter, kissing her gently and whispering in her ear. He prayed quickly and calmly, hoping but not certain that a compassionate deity might be in earshot. And finally, although it was nothing to him at that moment but a blur, he took one last, lingering look at the island he had once cursed but now knew had saved them: the frayed hedge of palms, the silent skirt of sand, the inscrutable stone core that rose from the waters like a castle—
One in a million.
And then he pushed off.
48
What began on the chilly side has turned into a lovely spring day—the man decides to walk home from the cemetery instead of hailing a taxi. He takes slow, deliberate steps, soaking it all in, still enraptured by the city that surrounds him. The cars whirring by, the old men feeding pigeons, the sanitation fellows with their green plastic brooms—he passes through them with the amazed expression of a tourist, despite having lived here for more than a decade. The streets and their contents are still as brimming with wonder as the day he arrived, and he suspects they will stay that way for some time to come. He hopes so, anyway.
He’s very nearly home when he gets caught in a rain shower, of the type seldom encountered in New York but endemic to Paris—the short stacks of cloud that drift in from the Channel, darkening the pavement with their brief, black bloom. He ducks under an awning beside the Saint-Denis arch, where he is quickly joined by others seeking refuge from the rain. There is an elderly woman draped in fine furs, a café waiter on cigarette break, three Chinese prostitutes in smart-looking pantsuits, and a nun walking a dachshund called Dijon—all joined together in that small island of dryness. The waiter offers him a cigarette, but the man politely declines, telling him in French that he quit years ago; the nun, on the other hand, accepts his proposal, and she leans over in her habit to bum a light. The woman in the furs checks her lipstick in a compact mirror, while the three prostitutes share a joke in Mandarin, or perhaps Cantonese, the man doesn’t know which. They wait patiently for the shower to pass and then disperse when it finally does, back to their own respective callings. Surely an unremarkable moment for most, but for the man, it is a parting tinged with a tender sadness—he has noticed over the years that even the briefest and most incidental interactions can, with the appreciation of time, take on far richer shades of meaning. It is a realization for which he is eternally grateful.
From there, it’s just a few short blocks to rue du Chateau d’Eau, a few flights of stairs, and he’s home. He closes the door as quietly as possible, thinking that she might still be sleeping. The muffled strains of French pop music leaking from her bedroom assure him that this is not the case. He sets his keys on the counter and takes out his phone, seeing that at some point during his walk he acquired a message. He lifts an apple to his teeth and the phone to his ear, both at the same time.
It’s his art dealer in New York. He wants him to call back, so he does. About time you called, the dealer chides him playfully. Are you ready for some good news? The man swallows his bite of apple for the sake of politeness. Certainly, he says. I’m always up for good news. Well, he says, the museum wants to know if they can keep one of the pieces for the permanent collection. They’re opening a new wing, and they really want a Bartholomew Bleecker. The man takes another bite of apple, realizes his faux pas, and swallows quickly. Wow. Tell them thank you, and that I’d be honored. They can have any one they want. You sure? asks the art dealer. The man thinks about it for a moment. Except one, he says. Let me guess, the dealer replies. Yes, that’s the one, says the man. But any other painting is fine. Perfect, says the dealer. And what about the canoe? I just got another call from the Explorers Club about it—they’re persistent, I’ll give them that. But they promised to take good care of it, and they said it can be on loan if you prefer. The man sighs bittersweetly, his mouth full of apple. His gaze passes over the yellowed newspaper clipping still tacked to the refrigerator, of that wild-eyed man with the baby in his arms, standing halfway between the graves of Jacques Brel and Paul Gauguin. I’ll talk to my daughter, he finally replies. I know she mentioned taking it down to Portugal again this summer. But if she’s okay with it, then so am I—although I probably should take all those fishhooks off first.