After a quarter of a mile, the channel opens up into a small bay. More of a cove, less than a quarter of a mile across. At the far sea-end is an island with an old lighthouse. She and Harry visited the lighthouse once during their lovin’ days. The metal staircase, the brass fittings — everything was still there, tarnished by the elements. Herons nested in the well of the old light. She’d loved their high, forlorn cry, a sound made to carry across the water. She and Harry had a picnic and snorkeled around the coral rag. She’d been light in the water, delicate and graceful and sure. Harry hadn’t noticed. He didn’t want to see her pale, rubbery thighs.
Scavengers had since come to the island and taken away the metal to sell as scrap to the Chinese ships off shore. They took it to China to be recycled into buckets and shovels. And then the buckets and shovels would be imported back to Tanzania.
Machetes, too. She’d read that somewhere. Before the genocide in Rwanda. The killers had ordered half a million machetes from China. No doubt the metal had once been sourced in Africa. One thing for sure: you can count on the brutal irony of this continent. The most ironic thing that can happen, will happen.
Here she is, for example, escorting Mr Koppler to a watery grave.
In the middle of the cove Gloria turns off the motor, drifts and drops anchor. She waits a moment, checking for other boats. Then she puts her hand on the tarp and gives it a reassuring caress.
Just yesterday she’d looked out the kitchen window and seen an overweight man in a raincoat getting out of a taxi, looking around. He had no idea where he was, like he hadn’t even clocked that he was in Tan-zanier — i.e. the heat and blazing sun and the totally goofy way of things, like the taxi had one wheel a different size from the other three; like he hadn’t even clocked he had his raincoat on at all. He looked dazed. Mental patient dazed.
‘Can I help you?’ Gloria had said.
She figured out pretty much in that instant why he was there. Not exactly why, but that it had to do with Pilgrim. She had backstory steaming off her. Husband, lover, bail bondsman — man trouble of some sort.
‘I am Ernst Koppler. Excuse me to bother you.’
‘No bother,’ Gloria said. She’d even been excited, she was about to find out something. Part II of a miniseries.
‘I am looking for an American woman.’ He spoke the words mechanically. I. Am. Looking. For.
‘Pilgrim,’ Gloria offered.
‘You know this woman?’
‘Sure. Come on in. Let me get you a drink. Take off your coat, Mr Koppler.’ He came in. The coat stayed on. He smelled like a tramp. But also, she’d recognized the particular stench of grief.
She made Mr Koppler coffee. He liked it black. He sat with the little cup and saucer perched on his knee. Awkward, he was, like her, plain and overweight. Back in the States people bumped into her all the time with their shopping carts or as they walked down the street chatting on their phones as if they didn’t see her. She and Mr Koppler, the invisibles.
‘Now, Mr Koppler, what do you want with Pilgrim?’
He said, ‘She killed my daughter.’
‘She killed your daughter,’ Gloria repeated neutrally, but she was giving herself time to take it in. She felt so much, all at once, a great noise or strobes suddenly blasting right at her. What she wanted to say was, ‘I know how you feel, I know, I know, I know. I know your heart is a hobbled beast.’ She took a sip of coffee instead.
‘She hit Sophie with the car,’ Mr Koppler went on. ‘Two other children also. All dead.’
That moment of finding out, it had been the same, surely, for Mr. Koppler. The cops at the door. ‘Mrs Maynard? May we come in? It’s about your son, James.’
I know, I know, rushed through Gloria’s head and sort of possessed her. She sat very still and attentive, her body squared and open. ‘Now that is the most terrible thing.’
He looked up at her, his dull face, cross-hatched with spider veins. He seemed to be waiting now for her. ‘It doesn’t make sense, does it?’ she continued. ‘How objects persist, they just carry on, houses, cars, beds, other people, and your child doesn’t.’
Mr Koppler started crying. He cried profusely for nearly ten minutes. Gloria let him. She didn’t try to touch him or comfort him. She knew he didn’t want this, she knew it did no good at all, the there, there. Then he said, ‘At my shop — I have a little stationery shop — yes, I look at the pens, all the different pens — rollerballs, soft tips, dry erase markers — I look at them, and I do not understand how it is that these pens are still here, these stupid pens, and my child, my child is not here.’
Gloria sat very still, very quiet. She didn’t tell him, ‘Oh, it’ll be all right. You’ll get over it. The pain will get less and less.’
It does not.
‘You closed up your shop, didn’t you, Mr Koppler? And you will never go back.’
He nodded, and looked at her. Now he saw that they were the same. It was a small relief, Gloria reflected, to find a colleague in grief.
Koppler then spoke of himself in a way Gloria knew he never had with another soul. As if — and she thinks about this in the boat with his dead body — as if he was giving a testament. He wanted one other person on the face of this lonely planet to know his story. He wanted to be heard out.
Before he killed himself.
He told Gloria how his wife died of cancer. He had loved her. And — incredibly — she’d loved him. Hamida was from Uzbekistan. She’d been his cleaner at the shop. ‘It was simple like a movie,’ Mr Koppler had said. ‘She wants a kind man and I realize I am an ugly, boring man but also kind.
‘Maybe she just wants a visa when we begin. But we’re happy. Chatting, breakfast, TV, walks. And then one day she says, “I am pregnant.” She thought it was not possible, after Uzbekistan. Torture, because of the books she’s teaching there.’ Mr Koppler beamed, suddenly, as if the sun had burst through the window with an accompaniment of violins. ‘And so Sophie. Her little hands, her feet, I would look at them, touch them. Kiss. Wunder, wunder—you know the word, the same in English?’
‘Wonder,’ Gloria nodded. Yes, wonder.
Wonder rushing out of her. The way James slept, mouth open, palms open, fingers stained with ink or paint. He was so perfect she could barely breathe for loving him. Mary — she of all people, she of the awkward squad — had made perfection. Her heart blossomed, her love fell on little James like petals, softly, softly. She kissed his forehead. She lay down next to him, sheltering his small body from the world.
These old feelings stirred, and she’d fallen back with Mr Koppler to that time right after James’s death. She lost the years in between, stepping through a door into another room. The past was that close, always, a door away, the walls paper-thin and she could see shadows of people moving on the other side. She could hear them, mumbled voices, but not quite determine their words.
Gloria was again raw and unraveled and unwise. She was Mary in the L.A. County morgue. ‘Is this your son, James Beaumont Maynard?’ She was pressing her lips against James’s rough cheek. He smelled of antiseptic. He smelled of death. She beheld the hair sprouting from his ear. The shaved head. The pimple on the side of his nose. He’d killed a cashier in a convenience store hold-up in West Hollywood, a single mother of two, an innocent. And he in turn had been killed by the cops who’d stopped in to buy corn dogs.
‘Yes, that’s my son,’ Mary had said and she threw herself on him, held on. The morgue attendant tried to pull her away from James, it was unseemly, embracing a body. She’d told him to fuck right off, he was her son and she had a right to hold him.
She’d held James for a long time. My son, my baby boy, all I ever loved. Oh, she had wept, Mary over the body of her son. Why, why did it happen? And like a hard bead of light, the answer came: you. You, Mary Maynard, you stupid bitch, are why.