Eye of the Whale (8 page)

Several young boys were swimming in the bloodstained water around the carcass, eager to get as close as they could to the enormous monster. Numerous yachts carrying wealthy Americans, Canadians, and Europeans looked for anchorages in the rough shallows. Their countries had abandoned the hunt for the leviathan and now condemned it, but these foreign families could not hide their fascination.

The crew was working hard, and much of the blubber had already been flensed into three-foot-long white strips. These were being boiled down in cast-iron coppers, and the air was thick with the sticky smoke of cooking fat. Teo felt it on his skin and in his nose and lungs.

He glanced at the official from the Japanese government, standing on the bloodied slab in his suit and smiling as if he owned the place. He gave Teo a thumbs-up. Behind the man, Teo could see the
enormous Japanese factory fishing boat in the distance. Some said it had received permission to fish these waters in exchange for development money. Teo’s lip curled as he swallowed his distaste for the islanders’ newest “investors.” The old whaling station was good enough. They hadn’t needed this new one or the devil’s bargain that had been made to get it.

K
AZUMI LOOKED AT
the carcasses of the whales with pride, knowing the role he had played in the success of the hunt. The cultural celebration reminded him of the traditions he had witnessed during the dolphin hunt in Taiji, and as he looked into the faces of the young children, he knew they were dreaming of someday being on the whale crew. Traditions were important to hold on to; they were so quickly slipping away all around the world.

He had brought joy to the island and would soon bring prosperity. The large budget of the Japanese Fisheries Development Department allowed him to be a benefactor for many. He took special pride in knowing that these children would be studying at the new school he was instrumental in helping to fund. The department also supported individuals and institutions that were essential to its goals—including Elizabeth McKay’s university.

R
AFEE HELD OUT
a part of the calf they had cut off, smiling wide. “Here your trophy, Cap.”

Before Teo could respond, Uree shouted, “Cap, Noble say come quick.” There was worry in his voice.

Teo hurried over to Noble, followed by Uree and Rafee.

“Cap, somethin wrong with the calf.”

Teo looked at where the butcher had split open the calf and was shocked to find oozing sores and lumps like nothing he’d ever seen.
He winced at the strange odor coming from the whale’s carcass. “Dump the calf. Take the motorboat and dump it.”

“Whole whale?” Rafee asked.

“We eat the cow,” Teo said.

“Cap, is a whale we wasting.”

“I say dump it.
That final.
” His tone did not invite further comment.

Teo walked away from the crowd buzzing around the carcasses. Rafee was still looking after him, holding the whale part, incomprehension on his face. The whalermen were talking about how they were going to drag the calf back into the sea, but no one’s heart was in it.

K
AZUMI SAW THE WHALE PART
that Rafee held, its pink flesh draped over his hands like a sacred offering.

“I’d be interested in buying that from you, sir. Name a price,” Kazumi said.

“Sorry, this not for sale. This the captain’s trophy. He’ll be wanting it when he back in his right mind.”

Kazumi noticed something strange about it, something that confirmed his worst fears about the whales. “Five hundred dollars, U.S.”

“Happy to take your money, but is not mine to sell.”

T
EO LOOKED OUT
from the cay into Friendship Bay. The bright blue, gray, and red roofs spread across the lush slope of the island. He had handed the shotgun to Rafee and told him to keep watch. Teo had had enough. The pleasure had gone out of it after he learned they were Liza’s whales. And now he knew something was wrong, really wrong, with the calf.

The whaleboat would need to wait on the cay until the men were
ready to sail it home. He looked down with pride at the planks of hand-hewn spruce and the ribs of white cedar. His father had made the boat, using only the horizon as a level. The boat had withstood much, even being dragged down to the depths by a bull whale. Teo’s foot had gotten caught in the rope, and if it hadn’t been for his filleting knife, he surely would have drowned.

Teo saw something shiny sticking out from under one of the wooden boards and reached for it. It was Liza’s tape recorder. She had jumped into one of the motorboats and rushed to the ferry. It wasn’t like Liza to forget her equipment, but she didn’t seem herself after the hunt.

He rewound the tape and heard the sounds of the cow just before her end. On the slab, all that remained of her carcass was the spine and rib bones, stripped of meat and blubber. Next to his foot, a chunk of blubber had fallen out of one of the wooden tubs being carried to the coppers. The white cube was almost completely covered with tiny black ants trying to make sense of their prize.

EIGHT

1:00
P.M.
Next day
Monday
Davis, California

A
NTS HAD DISCOVERED
the half bag of sugar. Elizabeth pulled it out with two fingers and threw it in the garbage with a shudder. The baking shelf was empty except for a box of birthday candles and an unopened bag of flour, both of which she set on the counter.

Elizabeth’s eyes were so tired she had a hard time keeping them open. Her attempt to save Sliver and her calf had caused her to miss the early ferry. The later ferry had gotten her to St. Vincent in time to talk her way onto another flight to Barbados and then from Barbados to Miami, but there were no more flights from Miami that night. She had to spend the five overnight hours in the airport, waiting for the first departure. A screaming baby had prevented her from sleeping on the plane and turned her exhaustion into near delirium.

Frank had not received her message. His old cell phone had probably run out of charge, as it often did. He was not wearing his pager, and when Elizabeth finally spoke to Dorothy, she told Elizabeth that Frank had gone to the airport to get her.

Elizabeth looked at the beautiful bouquet of red roses on the round butcher-block table. She felt a wave of guilt, imagining him waiting at the airport. Red roses were the choice of the unrequited or the uncertain. Ordinarily, Frank bought her simple field flowers, her
favorite. There was a note scribbled in his nearly indecipherable doctor scrawl.
Sorry I missed you at the airport. Looking forward to seeing you tonight.
Was she imagining resignation and hopelessness in the note?

She wanted to be awake for tonight. A nap would have been a good idea, but there was Frank’s birthday cake to make, and she needed to check the WhaleNet discussion board. She had to know if anyone else had heard the song changes, and she wanted to post her audio files as soon as possible. What she had discovered would shock her colleagues, but if others could corroborate her findings, she would be part of one of the most significant discoveries in marine biology of the last decade or more.

Elizabeth found the recipe box that her mother-in-law had given her as an engagement present. Inside were all the recipes that Frank’s mother had cooked for him as he was growing up, arranged alphabetically. The name of each dish was written in proud Italian capitals. Her mother-in-law rightly assumed that without an ounce of Sicilian blood, Elizabeth would know nothing about CANNOLI CON RICOTTA or PASTA CON LA SARDA or SPEDINI. She flipped through the stiff white cards, feeling another, even greater wave of guilt. Frank’s parents owned an Italian restaurant in Waterbury, Connecticut, and she knew that for his family, love and food were synonymous. After her dissertation was finished, she again promised herself, she’d learn how to cook.

While cooking was an art that escaped Elizabeth, baking was a science that she at least understood. She kept flipping through the box looking for the recipe. At last she found the one card she had used before. The title for Italian cream cake was written in English, and the ingredients and directions were written out in red ink. Red meant that this was one of Frank’s favorite recipes, and the three exclamation marks in the upper-right-hand corner indicated that it was his favorite food of all. Frank’s mother had made this cake on every
birthday since he was born. Baby Frank had probably gone directly from breast milk to Italian cream cake.

Elizabeth pulled the card and then knelt at her yellow Pelican case, which was lying by the front door. Holding the recipe card in her teeth, she used both hands to open the clasps. As she opened the cover, her heart started racing.

Where’s the DAT recorder?
In a flash of dread, she realized she must have left it on Teo’s boat. She had been in such a hurry that she had grabbed her Pelican case and hadn’t double-checked to make sure all her equipment was in place. She had not been in her right mind, but she was annoyed at her carelessness. She picked up the tape from the whale rescue that she had carefully removed and labeled that morning. Thank God, she still had the recordings from just before and after the song had changed. But now she would need to go into the office to turn the recordings into digital files and post them to WhaleNet.

There was still plenty of time before the guests—really just Tom and Jenny—arrived. Frank was coming home early to start cooking. He loved to cook, having learned it at his mother’s side, although she thought it was somehow a character flaw that her son should enjoy it so much. Elizabeth wrote out a note to Frank and tucked the recipe into the Pelican case to take to the store.

F
RANK PUT DOWN
the two full bags of groceries and looked at the note that Elizabeth had written on the flip side of his note to her. The straight letters were efficient and well formed:
Don’t let the party begin without me! Off to the office. Home around 1600.
He tossed the card on the table, disappointed that she had gone to the office before he even had a chance to see her.
What can’t wait until tomorrow?

He decided to change his mood with some music. There was no cooking without music, loud music, so he hit his “Italian cooking”
playlist. He had not had time to cook a proper meal since medical school, and he looked at the kitchen like a long-absent lover. He took out a bottle of Riserva Barolo to let it breathe—and to taste it. He held the cool glass and ran his finger across the label. How long had it been since he had drunk a good bottle of wine and celebrated with friends? He recalled the life of joy and laughter he had known in Boston before residency and fellowship, before a blanket of numbness and exhaustion had enveloped him. The deep red wine stung his mouth, its blend of oak, black cherry, and plum awakening his tongue.

Flavor, his mother would always say, could not be added; it must be the foundation for everything, and so all Italian cooking began with soffritto. Frank chopped the onions and the parsley, then stirred the translucent heap as it cooked in the extra-virgin olive oil. Many made the mistake of cooking the garlic first, but if the garlic cooked too long, it would turn bitter. In Frank’s opinion, one could never have enough garlic—he crushed a dozen cloves with the flat of his knife. Once the skin was removed, he chopped them finely to bring out their full flavor. Billy Joel’s “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” began to play. Holding down the tip of the blade with his left hand, Frank sliced the plump cloves along with the increasing tempo of the song.

He used the back of the knife to scrape the garlic into the pan. The oil welcomed the garlic as it sizzled and began to glow like edible gold. The aroma made him smile as he was transported back into his mother’s kitchen, the heat of the stove against his skin, the steam of the boiling water in his nostrils, the smells that would embrace you with a love of life.

From the bag he pulled the package of black squid ink pasta. His stomach growled.
Pasta con frutti di mare con salsa fra diavolo.
He could practically taste the shellfish and the spicy garlic and tomato sauce. Frank opened the refrigerator. He stared at the barren cavern. In his mother’s groaning refrigerator, you had to spend five minutes rearranging food to find space to fit an olive.

N
O ONE HAD POSTED ANYTHING
about the whale song changing on the discussion board. A chill crawled up Elizabeth’s spine in her sparsely furnished office. There were no personal effects on her laminate desk, no pictures of family, just piles of paper. Elizabeth drummed her fingers on one stack.
What if I’m wrong?
She could not imagine any errors she might have made in her recording or her deciphering, but she had been warned not to be a maverick, and challenging decades of research findings certainly would qualify her as one.

Dr. Skilling, her dissertation adviser, had often told her that academia was a shark tank. She thought about the whale birth and how she had escaped the tiger shark.
I am willing to take my chances,
she decided, and posted her audio recordings. After packing up quickly to go home, she reached for the door handle. It started to turn.

“Elizabeth!” It was Dr. Skilling. She was surprised to see him wearing a brown tweed coat with a maroon turtleneck and wire-framed reading glasses. He was usually dressed for fieldwork, but whether wearing jeans and a T-shirt or his academic uniform, he always looked effortlessly handsome. His light brown hair, strong jaw, and emerald-green eyes made him the object of endless gossip among both the students and the faculty. His celebrity status stoked the flames of fascination.

Dr. Skilling was the chair of the evolutionary biology department and head of the small Institute for Toxicology and Environmental Health. He was one of the world’s leading experts on pelagic species and was conducting a major research study on apex predators—white sharks and killer whales—at the Farallon Islands. But most people knew him as “Dr. Shark,” the host of numerous television documentaries.