Текст книги "Winedark"

Автор книги: Ray Aldridg

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Ray Aldridge
Winedark

I like best the wine drunk at the cost of others.

– Diogenes the Cynic, 380 BC

I WISH I were a cynic, too.

I'm sailing my tired old boat back to Mykonos by myself; the crew quit in Santorin. The cook was already gone. Fortunately, it's the end of the charter season.

The crew was a college boy from Indiana. A degree in animal husbandry, he told me. Took a year off to see the world, before he returns to get his degree in advanced cow-kicking.

Anyway, he said he couldn't take it anymore. I asked him what «it» was, exactly.

«You’re not lovable, Bradley,» he told me, with a look of unbecoming relish on his healthy young face. «You think you’re better than you are. Maybe you were worth a shit, a long time ago, before you drank yourself into the vegetable kingdom – though I never heard of those books you claim to have written. But now you're just a fat old drunk, playing Cap'n Bligh.» He shook his head. «The drunker you get, the meaner you get – you know that? And I've never seen you without a glass to hand, have I?»

I set my glass carefully on the cockpit table, but I didn't get up. I could see in his eyes that he wanted me to, and he was a big, strong cow-kicker.

«Just pay me off,» he said.

I laughed – with an effort, I'll admit. But then his hand twitched toward a winch handle that lay on the table, and I got scared. It's hard to be a principled coward, though a man should try.

So I paid him off, and in the twilight he went away down the jetty, without a backward glance. Beyond him the wall of the caldera rose up, in a thousand corroded colors. Up to the ghost-haunted heights of Thera. Where Byron probably st ill parties down every night, dancing in the Yellow Donkey with the tourists. In disguise.

I'm sorry. I can't help seeing things in this stupid, melodramatic way; I'm a trained observer. It's a cross to bear.

Anyway, I don't believe I’m such a tyrant. It's important to maintain discipline aboard a sailing vessel. One Captain under God, and all th at Boat's can't be democratic. Kids don’t understand; out on the sea, the cavalry won't come. It's up to you to save your own butt.

No, No. I think the boy found one of those smoky young Swedish girls, up the hill at the Atlantis Hotel. I can't say I blame him, if so. Those girls… they're as much a part of the islands as the ruined temples and the gullied hills; everywhere their bright heads shine in the Greek dazzle. Slim brown legs, taut northern breasts, good cheekbones, wide blue eyes. Astonishingly gullible – or maybe they just don't care if you lie to them, because they're going home next week. Hard to resist, when you're young and dumb.

Hell, I was a lot older and smarter than the cow-kicker when I ran out of charm and had to give them up.

So I'm sailing Olympias back by myself. She's a sweet old witch, though, and no trouble. Right now we're jogging along under staysail and mizzen, the main lowered and lashed down.

The night wind is booming over the starboard quarter, fine for going home. So I shouldn't complain. . but the wind worries me a little. The Piraeus weather broadcast said nothing about such a frisky breeze down here tonight. Well, they guess wrong, most of the time. Little squirrelly depressions swirl up out of nothing, and crash through the rocks and islets, completely unpredictable. Gone the next day, vanished into the white Aegean sunshine. Meterological pinball.

Sometimes these ghost winds can be evil; ask Odysseus.

Anyway, I'm somewhat concerned. Time for another ouzo, then. I fish the bottle out of the rack under the cockpit table and pour a half-tumbler out. If I sip frugally, and the boat's motion gets no worse, the drink will last me to midnight.

I love this table; it was one of my cleverest ideas. The cheap Greek wines are often drinkable, but shake them around a little, and they turn to vinegar overnight. The original table was gimballed, with a box full of lead for a counterweight. I took out the lead and built pigeonholes for a dozen bottles, and now my wine lasts long enough for me to drink it. That's what matters.

Achilles the wind vane steers us, doing a better job than I could, even if I were sober. I call the contraption Achilles because I replaced the vane's original white sail with a garishly tie-dyed pink-and-yellow fabric. I got it in Crete from an ancient beached hippie. Achilles was a bit of a transvestite. I always explain this little joke to the charterers, and they always smile tentatively and then laugh in that way people laugh when they're humoring a geek. Maybe I don't tell jokes very well; maybe humor isn't my forte. Sometimes I tell them how my ex-wife used to call me Achilles because, she said, I was a vulnerable heel. I want them to disagree, but they don't, usually.

Well, who cares? Not me. This wind. . it's picking up a little. Now I can occasionally hear the sibilant whisper of breaking crests. The darkness is too thick to see much, which is just as well, I suppose. If I could see the waves, I might be scared.

Olympias jolts, hit by an unexpected cross sea, and I spill my drink. I curse, unheard by anyone but the ghosts, and start to pour another one.

But then some remnant of caution stays me, and I settle for a glass of retsina. I've never really liked the paint-thinner taste of retsina, so that's what I drink whenever I don't want to get too drunk too fast. When I still had friends, they would laugh at the logic of this tactic, but what’s wrong with it?

Whatever works; that's my motto.

My friends, the better ones, sometimes talked to me about the drinking. They seemed to think there was such a thing as «quitting.» I don't understand that. Sure, I'm a drunk. I know it. But the glory of humanity is its adaptability. I've adapted to the passage of the poisonous molecules over my brain – it would kill me to stop, a s surely as it would kill me to reenter the ancestral sea and try to breathe water. I've made an irreversible adaptation. Maybe it's true that the stuff is slowly killing me, but I can't tell. Somewhere I have a little collection of articles clipped from American magazines. The articles are about folks with large pieces of their brains missing, excised after a bullet or a steering wheel or a cancer had violated their skulls.

And they've recovered; they're leading normal lives. No one knows unless they tell. I used to show these to my friends and laugh and fill another glass.

I haven't had occasion to display the clippings in some time, but I'm sure they're still aboard, somewhere.

Spray is beginning to wet the decks. I can taste the salt on my lips. The crests are starting to thunder, an ugly sound. I still think this is just a little crippled sirocco, blowing dust and ghosts up from North Africa.

I don't know why I'm always nattering on about ghosts. I don't believe in the poor, sad creatures at all… but I can't help thinking about them. This is such a haunted part of the world. So many generations have struggled to die here, but I don't think that's the cause. Not the antiquity alone, not just the unimaginable quantities of bones that layer the islands and the sea bottom. No, there've been so many atrocities, massacres, betrayals. So much agony– the sort of thing that breeds ghosts from the ordinarily serene release of death. Or so believers tell me.

For some reason, lurching through the noisy darkness, I remember a little story told me by a Greek caique captain, some years ago. I was waiting in Corfu for a party of young German charterers – the worst possible fate for a Med charter yacht, short of shipwreck or seizure, let me assure you – and struck up an acquaintance with Demetrios, who was a Cretan smuggler.

We were sitting in the waist of his caique, over the remnants of his lamb and my ouzo. He was cleaning his revolver, a huge, ancient Webley. He smuggled whatever was profitable: hashish, antiquities. White slaves, for all I knew. I can't imagine what he was doing in Corfu. It never occurred to me to ask, though I was curious.

«So you don't believe in ghosts, eh?» Demetrios squinted through the barrel of the Webley, holding it aloft to catch the light of the westering sun. The Greeks all look as though they've been hired by a brilliant casting director. Demetrios was no exception. Bearded black curls under a black cap, white teeth, weather-darkened skin, a barrel chest, surprisingly beautiful eyes.

«No,» I said.

«Perhaps it is as well, so,» he said. «Perhaps your skepticism protects you. Who can say?» But I thought I heard a tincture of pity in his words, which annoyed me a little.

«And you? Do you believer?»

He laughed. «I am Greek.»

«Is there a better reason?» My annoyance caused me to speak in a slightly jeering tone, which I instantly regretted, for Demetrios scowled and snapped the Webley closed.

«Many reasons, yes,» he said darkly, giving me a suddenly unfriendly glance.

I was more than a little afraid; to cover my confusion, I refilled our glasses with the last of the ouzo. It's surprising how many of life's difficulties, small and large, can be managed in this fashion.

It worked yet again. In Greece, you must toast the man who gives you a drink. To do otherwise would be unforgiveably rude, and though Demetrios was a bloody-handed criminal, his manners were flawless. He raised his glass to me, and said, «Would you like to hear about the time I met the sea nymph?»

«Yes, please,» I said, with no trace of condescension now. Writers should never miss an opportunity to gather material, and so I never do, though it hasn't brought me any notable success.

«All right, then.» He settled back against the bulwark and put his revolver aside.

«A FEW YEARS ago it was,» he said. «Where I had been, what I had done. . these things don't matter. This much I tell you: blood still stained my boat's hull. She looked as rusty as your old tub – but it was the blood of men, not the blood of steel.»

I was somewhat offended by this criticism of Olympias, but he went on, already lost in vivid memory, beyond paying any attention to me.

«I was alone, the only survivor. Unfitting, unfitting; a capain who loses his men and keeps his own life must have great shame. Great shame. It was night, and the mistral screamed in my ears, a killing wind. It wrenched at my boat's bones, so that she was never the same again, and I had to give her to the shipbreakers.» He looked sad, perhaps more genuinely so than at the memory of his lost crew.

«My despair then was as deep as the sea. I think that's important; I think that she comes only to men who feel no hope; I think that she offers a kind of redemption, a final grace.»

«'She?»

«The ghost, the sea nymph. Or goddess. Or demon. Who knows? Still, this is my theory: she comes only to those who despair. Other men have seen her, men who claim not to have despaired, but men lie. Who knows what cankers can lie in the stranger's heart?

I was a mad man, for the space of a few hours. I cried; I screamed; I raved – I called out the names of my friends, as if they could hear, rotting in the ditch where the Turk dumped them.

She came when I was almost blind with tears and the salty knives of the spray, when the boat had become almost unmanageable, when we were a heartbeat away from broaching and rolling under.»

«I was as good as dead.»

«But in the blackness came a light, a soft golden light, as strange as sunlight at midnight. And the waves slowed. . and then grew still. The sea looked like one of those bad paintings the English tourists love to buy, The Tempest or The Shipwreck, with the waves rearing up like frozen taffy, soaked through with a green glow.»

He looked at me angrily, as if he expected me to be insultingly skeptical, but I wore my Observer face, a bland, attentive mask. «I thought I was mad for certain then; I thought perhaps we had already gone deep, and th is was some death dream, filling my brain in the crevice between living and dying. Maybe we were drifting downward through the quiet, all done.

„Then she came, as though she had stepped from a door in the sea. She stood there on one of those frozen waves, as close to me as I am to you.“

„You called her a goddess,“ I said. '„Was she beautiful?“

He gave me a look of cool amusement. „Tell me,“ he said. „Do you find our islands beautiful?“ And he made a sweeping, eloquent gesture that somehow indicated the summer sea, with its crop of lovely, sterile rock piles.

„Yes, of course,“ I answered.

„Then she was beautiful.“ He leaned toward me and dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. „She looked at me with eyes so crazy that I gave up my pretext of madness, ashamed again. And then she spoke, in a voice like a lost child. Do you know what she said?“

I shook my head.

„She said, „Where is Alexander the Great? Where is he?“ She spoke with all the confusion of an old person who has forgotten his name, or a baby who has yet to learn his.“

„What did you do?“

His shoulders slumped slightly. „I discovered that my despair was not so deep as I had imagined. . so I answered as one who fears to die must. I said, Great Alexander lives and rules.“

A silence fell, and the sun sank into waves beyond the harbor mole.

Finally I spoke. „And if you had not answered so?“

„Then she would have given me the swift, painless death I thought I craved.“

„And then? What happened next?“

His face seemed oddly naked, for such a hard, secretive man. „She smiled at me, as sweetly as an infant. Then she went away, like a blown-out candle. The sea regained its strength, but only for a few minutes. The mistral eased, and I lived. . to tell you this tale.“

I know that I envied Demetrios his memory – for it was clear he believed his story, that it had for him a significance deeper than any I can imagine. I envy everyone who does not live the synthetic life I live, always removed from the intensity of the moment by my crippled writer's observance. Always I wonder how best to record what I see, what I feel, what I do – and neglect to see, to feel, to do.

My affair with the sea is a failure of a different sort. When I was very young, I read about the sea with the same starry-eyed fervor that other children read about cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers. As a young man, I continued this long-distance romance; I lived in an inland city, far from any reality that might injure my illusions. I read all the great sailing chronicles: Voss, Slocum, Gerbault, the Smeetons, the Hiscocks, Robinson, Chichester, Barton, Allcard, Villiers. . the names roll off the tongue sweetly, and they all mean freedom, the excitement of faraway lands and people, self-reliance, adventure, the crunch of the bow wave, the spicy smell of the island. All good things, of course. I don't deny it, even now.

Anyway, tonight, plunging through the sea in a strengthening gale, I think particularly of Bernard Moitessier, that magnificent eccentric. The sea is Moitessier's religion, and his books are full of overwrought spiritual mania, though they are far more readable than the books of other French seamen, who seem for the most part to be so afflicted with hysterical Gallic chauvinism as to become caricatures of men, walking, talking tricolors.

However, Moitessier's devotion to the sea now seems to me utterly irrational. He sailed in the first single-handed, round-the-world, nonstop race. His steel ketch Joshua was the fastest boat in the race, and he was well ahead of the others, almost to the finish line, when he decided that all the months he had already spent alone at sea were not enough. He dipped back down in to the high southern latitudes and rounded th e Cape of Good Hope again, sailed through the Indian Ocean and in to the Pacific, and didn't drop anchor until he reached Tahiti.

And then, to compound this strangeness, he wrote a book about the voyage and donated the royalties to the pope. To save the earth.

Anyway, when I think of Moitessier's rapturous descriptions, and how he wrote of joyously sailing through the storms, I can't decide whether to laugh or cry.

When I sold my first book, my publisher, guilty perhaps of wishful thinking, paid a foolishly optimistic advance.

I took the money to Annapolis, where I bought my first boat. Before that, the only sailing I had done was in friends' boats on the lake. Gentle breezes, placid water.

I can still remember how shocked I was when, for the first time, I took my sailboat out into the Atlantic. How frightened.

The air was light when we left the jetty, but it soon freshened, and by midafternoon, it was blowing twenty knots across six-foot seas. Nothing, really, just a fresh breeze. It's blowing twice as hard tonight. But I realized, with a certainty that has never left me, just how mindlessly malevolent the sea is, how much it craves the lives of the puny air-breathers who venture out on it.

When we came back in, I tied the boat to the dock and didn't move her again for six weeks. By that time I had convinced myself that my initial reaction was just an aberration, that I would soon get over my fright and begin to see the same beauty and feel the same joy that my heroes wrote of.

But I never have.

Why do I keep trying? Because. . because sailing is the only real thing I've ever done. No matter how frightened I am – and I'm sick with fear and ouzo right now – I can stilt define myself as a seaman. As an adventurer, a voyager, a striver against the elements. Otherwise I'm just an aging, failed writer, a drunk, alone.

What would I do, if I could ever find some fool to buy Olympius? When I try to imagine, I see myself, even older and fatter and more decayed, vegetating at some Podunk junior college, resting on my meager laurels, teaching pimply-faced adolescents to write brainless essays, fucking the occasional presentable coed.

I may, of course, be assuming too much, to think that even junior-college coeds would be stupid enough to be dazzled by my small frame and worn-out charm.

Or perhaps I might get a job writing guidebooks.

I WASN'T ALWAYS so pitiful. I remember, a long time ago, a wharf at Piraeus.

That was the day I met my ex-wife.

I was still young enough to believe that I would one day become a good writer, despite the poor sales and the unkindness of the critics. And I had learned to pretend fearlessness, sometimes so well that I fooled myself. I drank for joy, not for anesthesia. . or at least that was the theory.

I was splicing a bucket lanyard, sitting on the side deck, legs dangling, a cup of new red wine beside me.

I put a whipping around the rope end, separated the strands, concentrated on the work – but I gradually became aware of a pair of strong, bare legs on the wharf. My attention traveled up, to round hips in tight white shorts, to a smooth, bare belly, to small, perfect breasts in a translucent halter top.

She had a narrow, pretty face, noteworthy mainly for the clarity and directness of her gaze. Shiny brown hair. A long, graceful neck. She seemed a little older than the usual dock bunny; a few interesting laugh lines framed those luminous eyes. She was a beautiful woman, not a pretty one. „So what are you doing?“ she asked, in pleasant Midwest English.

„Making an eye splice,“ I said. I was holding one of the strands in the flame of a lighter, melting the end so it wouldn't unravel. I clicked off the lighter, dipped my fingers into the wine, and then rolled the melted nylon into a point between my wet fingers, It hissed and stuck to my skin, burning me.

I shook my hand and muttered a curse. She laughed, without any meanness. ''What happened?»

«A minor wound,» I said, noticing what a nice smile she had. «Usually I just spit on my fingers. But I didn't want to be indelicate.»

She stopped smiling and looked at me with that always-recognizable intensity, that sweet, flesh-calling-to-flesh energy. «Go on,» she said, licking her lips with a pointed pink tongue. «Use spit; I won't mind.»

We had a good run, Lissa and I. We did. Finally she left me, after eight wonderful and awful years. For a rich Dutchman with a big Swan, a beautiful boat indeed. But I'll never believe it was because he had a better boat than mine, or more money, or that he was still strong, while I… I had already earned this bloated drunkard's face, that now so perfectly masks what I once thought myself to be.

No. She was too fine a person, a woman of grace and compassion. Far too good for me.

No, I think she could not bear to see me sink. She never said as much; I think she wanted to hide her pity from me, a last act of kindness.

I haven't seen her for years. She and the Dutchman swallowed the anchor and moved back to his big tulip farm. It's funny. For months at a time, I avoid thinking about her, and then something will happen. Just last week, someone who knew us in the good days told me that she has a little boy now, just three years old.

I don't know why that bit of irrelevant information affected me so; I was almost in tears. I don't know why. Yes, I do.

I think maybe I didn't switch to the retsina soon enough. I should be trying to do something to ease Olympias, but here I sit in her weatherbeaten cockpit, blubbering over my decayed memories. We jolt into huge black waves, the sea so angry, so loud that I no longer hear the boat's voice – the commonplace, reassuring creaks and grinds and clatters of an old steel boat. Spray bursts high to windward, hanging in the green glow of the sidelight, and solid water courses along the lee decks. I'm soaked and shivering; it's too bad I was too drunk to get my oilskins early enough to do any good.

The masts are whipping like trees in the gale; she's carrying far too much canvas for this weight of wind.

I should be terrified; in fact, I should be even more terrified that I'm not as afraid as any rational person would be, but I continue to wrap myself in old hurts, safe in my regrets.

What the hell. Time for some terminal anesthesia. I throw away the retsina that remains in my glass, and grope for the ouzo bottle. It's no easy business – the gimballed table is snap-rolling in the violent seaway, and I risk a broken wrist.

Long practice sees me through, however, and I get the bottle out. Then tragedy strikes, and I lose the bottle; it slips through my wet hand and shatters on the cockpit floor.

I think that was my last bottle of ouzo, and it's not the sort of night that wine will serve. I don't know what to do.

While I still sit here, stunned by my loss, a big wave breaks onboard. The staysail catches the top of it and rips from luff to leech, a sound l ike a pistol shot. In a moment the sail dissolves into whipping tatters, and suddenly Achilles can no longer cope with the unbalanced rig. Olympias slews off downwind, and I clutch at the wheel.

The contact with Olympias restores a little of my perspective, though I'm still miraculously unafraid. The wheel throbs in my hands, as if Olympias were shuddering at some fearful thing only she could see. Abruptly, I remember the jagged rocks that line the leeward edge of this channel.

«Perfect,» I say, though the wind whips away the word before it can travel the tiny distance between my mouth and my ear.

I can feel Oiympias sliding across the sea, wallowing in the troughs, balanced precariously on the crests, moving toward her grave among the sharp rocks. When it occurs to me that it will be my grave also, I feel nothing but a great surprise.

Did I see her then, the goddess or demon, the lost one who moans in bewilderment for Great Alexander? Did she come to me, drawn by my numbness and defeat?

Did I see her ravaged face, with the black skin peeling back from the bone, a dead, dry thing in dusty rags, standing in a grotto of motionless, jagged water? Did I hear her pitiful question, in the sudden silence?

I don't know; I don't know. I'm afraid to know. But I do know that I answered her, shrieking as if the wind still raged.

Olympias threaded he r way through the rocks, miraculously. Was that the doing of the lost one? Because I gave her the right answer?

I don't know. And today, as I work in the autumnal sun, chipping rust from my boat, I ply the iron in a frenzy, like a man chipping rust from his own soul.

I think this: there are worse fates than mine, even if I never become more than a fat old drunk who writes guidebooks.