He sat bolt upright in bed, sweating, breathing hard, and for a split second, confused by the moonstruck walls, he believed he had awakened in the white place of his dreams. Even after he recognized his surroundings, he couldn’t escape the thought that she was in the room with him. The geometries of moonlight and shadow appeared to be describing the presence of an invisible form. He was alert to every creak, every quiver of shadow, every sigh of wind. ‘Debora?’ he whispered, and when he received no answer he lay back on the bed, tense and trembling.
‘Goddamn you!’ he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Roatán was no tropical paradise. Though the barrier reef was lovely and had once nourished more than a dozen resorts, the interior consisted of low scrub-thatched hills, and much of the coast was given over to mangrove. A dirt road ran partway around the island, connecting the shantytowns of Coxxen Hole, French Harbor, and West End, and a second road crossed from Coxxen Hole to Sandy Bay on the north coast, where the hotel was located: a curving stretch of beach that one moment could seem beautiful and the next abysmally ugly. That, Mingolla realized, was the charm of the place, that you could be walking along on a beach of filthy yellow-brown sand, stepping carefully to avoid pig and cattle droppings, and then, as if a different filter had slid in front of the sun, you suddenly noticed the hummingbirds flitting above the sea grape, the hammocks of coco palms, the reef water glowing in bands of jade and turquoise and aquamarine, according to the varying depth and bottom. Sprinkled among the palms were several dozen shanties set on pilings, their tin roofs scabbed with rust; jetties with gap-boarded outhouses erected on their seaward ends extended out over the shallows, looking at a distance to have the artful crudity of charcoal sketches by Picasso.
It was along this beach that Mingolla learned control of his power through daily lessons with Tully. The lessons were—as Izaguirre had suggested—merely the practice of those things of which he had become aware that first night in the shed, serving to augment his strength and the capacity to know the shape of his emotions; yet he believed he was learning another sort of lesson as well, a lesson in personal competence, in the shouldering of power, the acceptance of its virtues and the practical denial of its liabilities. Though Tully still unnerved him, he saw that his trainer’s arrogance and forceful approach to life were qualities essential to the wielding of power; and though he continued to dream of Debora, to think of her in terms of longing, he came to view these dreams and thoughts in a grim light, to perceive her as a target.
One morning he and Tully sat floating in a dory just inside the reef. The tide was low, and iron-black coral heads lifted from the water like the parapets of a drowned castle, its crannies populated by whelks and urchins. Beyond the reef, the sea was banded in sun-spattered streaks of slate and lavender, and there were so many small waves, the water appeared to be moving in all directions at once. ‘I hate the goddamn sea,’ said Tully, and spat over the side. He leaned back in the stern, jammed a grease-stained baseball cap lower onto his ears; his skin was agleam with bluish highlights under the sun.
‘Thought you used to be a fisherman,’ said Mingolla.
‘Best on de island, mon. But dat don’t mean I got to like de sea. Ain’t not’in’ but a motherfuckin’ graveyard! Once dat come home to me, I never set foot ’pon her again. Look dere!’ He pointed to another dory passing close to the shore, maybe fifty yards off. ‘Call de mon over, Davy.’
Mingolla tried to engage the man’s mind, but failed. ‘Can’t reach him.’
‘Keep tryin’ till you catch a hold.’ Tully propped his feet beside an oarlock, and the dory rocked. ‘Nosir! Once I seen de way of t’ings, I left de sea for good’n all.’
‘How come?’
The man in the dory shouted, waving at the shanties tucked among the palms. ‘Got silkfish, satinfish! Got reef snapper and blues!’
‘How come?’ Tully snorted. ‘’Cause I were sixteen days stranded on dat graveyard sea. Dat were on de Liberty Bell, nice little craft. Tested hull, V-8. Had us some nice fish, too. ’Leven sacks kingfish, coupla sacks grouper.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Sixteen days! And each one a longer day dan I have ever knowed. Drinkin’ fish blood, watchin’ men die crazy.’
The dory had come within twenty yards, and Mingolla made contact with its pilot, projecting amiability and curiosity into his mind. ‘Got him,’ he said as the man stopped rowing, shielded his eyes against the sun, and peered toward them.
‘Not bad,’ said Tully. ‘Don’t reckon I can do much better.’
Mingolla conveyed a sense of urgency to the man in the dory, wanting him to row faster.
‘Sixteen days,’ said Tully. ‘And by de time dat shrimper fetch us in tow, wasn’t but four of us left. The rest dey sun-killed or gone over de side.’
The man in the dory was bent over his oars, pulling hard.
‘Towed us clear to Bragman Key,’ Tully went on. ‘Dat were an upful place, Bragman. Dey lodged us in a hotel and treat our fevers. Give us fresh fruit, rum. And dere were dis little gal who gimme special comfort. ‘’Pears she just couldn’t stand to see me de way I was. We had us a time ’fore I left, me and dat gal. And I tell her I’s comin’ back for her, but I never did… I never did.’ Tully spat again. ‘I ’tended to, but when I get back to de island, everybody’s makin’ me out a hero, and I’m tellin’ my story, drinkin’. I just loose track of dat gal. I ’grets it sometimes, but it probably for de best.’
The man shipped his oars, let his dory drift near, and caught hold of the stern. ‘How you be, Tully?’ he said. He was a wiry brown man in his thirties, with glittering black eyes, the skin around them seamed and puckered. His genitals protruded from one leg of his shorts, and sweat matted the curly hairs on his chest.
‘Survivin’,’ Tully said. Davy, dis my half-brother, Donald Ebanks.’
Mingolla exchanged nods with the man.
‘What you catchin’, mon?’ asked Tully.
Donald lifted the corner of a canvas, revealing a couple of dozen fish in the bottom of the dory, some turquoise, some red, some striped yellow and black, shining like a salad of oddly shaped jewels around the centerpiece of a long fish with black sides, a white belly, and needle teeth: a barracuda.
‘How much for dat barra?’
Mingolla started to exert influence on Donald, trying for a free fish; but Tully kicked his ankle and said, ‘No, mon! Dat not how it goes.’
‘Why not?’ said Mingolla.
‘Take what you need, and give back what you can. Dat’s de only way to be in dis world.’