Galilee (43 page)

“To make him pray, in other words.”

“That's right.”

“And if it was indeed the work of God, then it was effective work because Jerusha's father became a very religious man. He spent all his money building a cathedral right beside the river, where the creature had first been seen. It was a magnificent place. Vast. An eighth wonder. Or it would have been if it had ever been finished.”

“Why wasn't it finished?”

“Well . . . this part of the story's very strange,” Galilee warned.

“Stranger than the rest?”

“I think so.
You see it was the old man's idea that the water from the river should supply the font in the cathedral. This met with some opposition from the local bishops who insisted that the water could not be used to baptize babies because it wasn't holy water. To which Jerusha's father said . . . well, you can imagine what he said. These were already sacred waters, he told the bishops. They'd healed his Jerusha. They didn't need somebody mumbling Latin over them to make them holy. The bishops complained to Rome. The Pope said he'd look into it.

“Meanwhile, work went on laying the pipes from the river into the nave, where a beautiful font, carved in Florence, had been set.

“I should explain that this was very early spring. The snows in the mountains had been heavy that winter, and now that they were melting the river was high and white; more violent than it had been in living memory. People working on the cathedral could barely hear one another, even when they were shouting; the din was so great. All of which may explain what happened next . . .
”

“Which was what?”

“Jerusha's father was taking a tour around the cathedral, and happened to be approaching the font when somebody—perhaps misunderstanding some instruction—let the water flow through the pipes for the first time.

“There was a noise like an earthquake. The cathedral shook to its highest spire. The stone flags laid over the pipes—each one of them weighing a ton or a ton and a half—were thrown up into the air like playing cards as the waters washed down the pipe toward the font—”

Rachel could see all this quite clearly: her head was filled with noise and chaos. She felt the walls shaking, heard people screaming and praying, watched them running in all directions, hoping to escape the cataclysm. She knew they wouldn't make it; even before Galilee had said so. They were all going to die.

“—and when the water came up through the font it came with such force, such power, the font simply shattered. A thousand pieces of stone flew—”

Oh this she hadn't seen—

“—like bullets, some of them. Others big as cannonballs.”

—she'd imagined the roof collapsing on everyone, the walls caving in. But it was the font that was going to do the most damage—

“—splitting open skulls, piercing people's hearts, slicing off their arms, their legs. All in a matter of seconds.

“Jerusha's father was the closest to the font, so he. was the luckiest, because he was the first to die. A huge slab of stone, decorated with a cherub, slammed into him and carried his body out into the river. He was never found.”

“And the rest?”

“It's as you imagine.”

“They all died.”

“Every single one. Nobody working in the cathedral that day survived.”

“Where was Jerusha?”

“Back at her father's house, which had fallen into terrible disrepair since he'd begun to build the cathedral.”

“So she survived.”

“She, and a few of the servants. Including, by the way, the boy who'd swept the ashes from the hearth

“The one who'd led the riverman to her bed.”

There he stopped, much to her astonishment.

“Is that it?” she said.

“That's it,” he replied. “What more could there be?”

“I don't know . . . something more . . .” She pondered the question. “Some closure . . .”

Galilee shrugged. “I'm sorry,” he said. “If there's more to tell I don't have it.”

She felt faintly annoyed; as though he'd led her on, tempting her with clues as to what all this meant, but now that she was at the end—or at least as far as he claimed to be able to take her—it wasn't clear at all.

“It's a simple little story,” he said.

“But it hasn't got a proper ending.”

“It's as I said before: you could make it up for yourself.”

“I said I wanted you to tell me.”

“I've told all I know,” Galilee replied. He glanced toward the window. “I think it's about time I was going.”

“Where?”

“Just back to my boat. It's called
The Samarkand.
It's anchored offshore.”

She didn't ask him why he had to go, in part because of her irritation at the way he'd finished his story, in part because she didn't want him to think her needy. Still she couldn't help asking:

“Will you be coming back?”

“That depends on you,” he said. “If you want me to come back, I will.”

This was said so simply, so sweetly, that her irritation evaporated.

“Of course I want you to come back,” she said.

“Then I will,” he replied, and then he was gone. She listened for him moving away through the house, but she heard nothing—not a breath, not a footfall. She slipped out of bed and went to the window. Clouds had come in to cover the moon and stars; there was very little light on the lawn. But her eyes found him nevertheless, moving quickly down toward the beach. She watched him until he disappeared. Then she went back to her bed, and lay awake in the darkness for an hour, listening to the double rhythm of her heart and the waves, wondering idly if she'd lost her mind.

S
he woke at first light and headed straight down to the beach. She'd hoped to find
The Samarkand
moored close to the shore—perhaps even see Galilee on deck—but the bay was deserted. She scoured the horizon, looking for a sail, but there was no boat in sight. Where the hell had he gone? Just a few hours before he'd asked if she wanted him to come back, and she'd told him unequivocally that she did. Had that just been a sop to her feelings; a way to extricate himself from her presence without having to say goodbye? If so, then he was a coward.

She turned her back on the water and started up the sand toward the house. A few yards from the path she came upon the remains of the fire Galilee had made the night before: a black circle of burned timber and ash, the latter being slowly spread across the beach by the breeze. She went down on her haunches beside the pit, still quietly cursing the fire-maker for his inconstancy. A bittersweet smell rose up from the embers: the acrid smell of dead fire mingled with a hint of the fragrance she'd carried into the house with her the night before: the aroma which had set her head spinning and put such strange pictures behind her eyes.

Was it possible, she wondered, that her first instincts had been correct and Galilee had been some kind of hallucination, a waking dream induced by an inhalation of smoke?

She got to her feet, and looked out toward the empty bay. Her memory of his presence was perfect: the way he'd appeared, the sound of his voice, the intricacies of the story he'd told her: Jerusha at the water, the river god in all his glory, the beetle carrying contagion. If there was any certain proof that he'd been there in the flesh, it was the story. She hadn't invented it, she hadn't told it to herself; somebody had been there to put those images and ideas in her head.

Galilee was no figment of her imagination. He was just another unreliable male.

She brewed herself a very strong pot of coffee, which she drank sickly-sweet, showered, ate a miserable breakfast, made some more coffee, and then called Margie.

“Is this a good time to talk?” she asked.

“I've got about ten minutes,” Margie said. “Then I'm out of the house. I've got to be on time today.”

Rachel was surprised at this; punctuality wasn't Margie's strong suit. “What's the occasion?”

“You mean:
who's
the occasion?” Margie said.

“Oh . . . the Fuck Fuck Man.”

“Danny,” Margie reminded her. “He's really good for me, honey. I mean
really
good. He told me last week he wouldn't make love with me if I was drunk, so the last couple of nights I didn't drink. We fucked instead. Oh Lord, we fucked! Then I didn't
want
to drink. I just wanted to go to sleep in his arms. Oh God, listen to me.”

“It sounds wonderful, Margie.”

“It is. So wonderful it's scary. Anyway . . . I've got to dash off, so just give me the highlights. How is it all?”

“It's as you said: it's magical.” She wanted to start talking to Margie about her visitor, but with so little time to do it in, she was afraid she'd end up trivializing the event, so she said nothing. Instead she said: “When were you last here?”

“Oh . . . sixteen or seventeen years ago. I was very happy there for a little while. I was very
consoled.”
The strangeness of the word was not lost on Rachel. “It was one of those times when I saw my life clearly for once. Do you know what I mean?”

“Not really . . .”

“Well that's what happened to me. I saw my life. And instead of doing something about what I saw, I just took the path of less resistance. Oh Lord, honey, I really have to go. I don't want to leave my lover-boy waiting.”

“I understand.”

“Let's talk again tomorrow.”

“Before you go—”

“Yes?”

“—did anything really strange happen to you while you were here?”

There was a long silence.

At last Margie said: “When I've got more time we have to talk, honey. Yes, of course strange stuff happened.”

“And what did you do?”

“I told you. I took the path of least resistance. And I've always regretted it. Believe me, there'll never be another time in your life like this, hon. It comes round once, and if you're ready, then you don't look back, you don't worry about what other people are going to think, you don't even wonder what the consequences are going to be. You just go.” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “We'll all be jealous as hell, of course. We'll all curse you for doing what we didn't do, maybe what we couldn't do. But deep down we'll be happy for you.”

“Who's
we?”
Rachel said.

“The Geary women, honey,” Margie replied. “All of us sad, sorry and utterly fucked-up Geary women.”

After lunch, Rachel went walking, not along the beach this time, but inland. There'd been a light breeze in the morning, but it had dropped away completely at noon, and the air now felt hot and stale. The atmosphere suited Rachel's mood. She felt stagnated; unable to move very far from the house in case she missed Galilee's return, and unable to think of very much other than him; him or his story.

There were some sizable bugs out today. Whenever one of them rose up from the shrubbery she thought of the beetle on Jerusha's thigh; and of how Galilee had imitated its bite. That had been his only touch, hadn't it? A cruel nip at her skin. So much for tenderness. But then as he'd retreated from her she'd caught hold of his hand, and felt the hard skin of his wide fingers, and the heat of his flesh.

She would have that again, and next time they wouldn't just be holding hands. She'd make him put his mouth to the place he'd pinched; make him kiss her hurt better. Kiss her and keep kissing, lower and deeper, and deeper, until he'd made amends. He'd do it too. She knew he'd do it. The story had been a game; a way of deliciously postponing the inevitable moment when they made love.

She sat down at the side of the road, fanning herself with a plate-sized leaf she'd plucked, and thought about him, standing there in her doorway. The way his T-shirt had clung to his body; the way his eyes had glinted when he looked at her; the tentative smile that had come into his face now and then. These few details, and his name, were all she really knew about him. Why then, she asked herself, did she feel such a sense of loneliness, thinking she might never see him again? If she was so desperate for the physical comfort of a man then she could find it readily enough; either here on the island or back in New York. It wasn't about the presence of another body, it was about him, about Galilee. But that was nonsensical. Yes, he was handsome, but she'd met more beautiful men. And she knew too little about him to be enchanted by his spirit. So why was she sitting here moping over him like a lovelorn fifteen-year-old?

She cast her makeshift fan aside, and got to her feet. Whatever the reasons for her feelings, she had them, and they weren't about to evaporate just because she couldn't get to their root. She wanted Galilee; it was as simple as that. And the possibility that he'd sailed away without telling her where she could find him made her sick with sorrow.

Niolopua was sitting on the front step when she got back to the house, drinking a can of beer. There was a ladder leaning against the eaves of the house, and a great litter of pruned vines on the lawn. He'd been hard at work, for a while at least. Now he was simply sitting in the sun, drinking his beer. He made no attempt to conceal what he was doing when Rachel appeared. He didn't even stand. He simply squinted up at her, his face pouring sweat, and said:

“There you are . . .”

“Were you looking for me?”

He shook his head. “I was just surprised you'd gone, that's all.”

He set his beer can down at his side. It was not the first he'd had, she saw. There were three more empty cans sitting there. No wonder the shyness he'd evidenced at their first meeting had disappeared. “You look like you didn't sleep very well,” he said.