Marshlands (14 page)

She parted the fronds when she got to the top, isolating a small green fruit, then set about cutting it loose. She sawed the stem with hypnotic steadiness, stopping only to wipe the sweat from her brow. She was at it a long time. The other children lost interest and drifted away in twos and threes. One of the boys made off with her sandals, then thought the better of it and silently returned them.

Gus switched to a longer lens, the better to flatten the dramatic seascape behind her. This was his favorite kind of composition: a native at an unfamiliar task, framed by a suitably exotic backdrop.

The focus ring on the lens was loose. His equipment was secondhand, the best he could afford on a junior officer's salary. Resolving the girl's elegant silhouette took longer than it should have. Just as he was about to snap the picture, the blade slipped from her hand and tumbled away. A magician's rose seemed to blossom in her palm.

She cried out, but it was more a cry of disgust than pain. Gus abandoned his camera and ran down to help. She was still high in the tree when he got to her. He told her to come down, first in in his own language, and then, when she showed no sign of understanding, in the marsh tongue.

She nodded, but kept twisting the fruit with her good hand to weaken the stem, yanking at it until it finally gave.

She took her time getting down, cradling the fruit like a favorite doll. The trunk of the tree was smeared with blood, but the fruit was unstained. Why she took such care to protect it was just one of the many questions Gus wanted to ask. Instead, he focused on her wound.

May I?
he asked.

The girl nodded and extended her hand. Her shrewd brown eyes seemed to mock him, but he didn't care. Here he was, at last, treating a child of the marshes!

She needed stitches.
Come with me
, he said.

The girl hesitated. He thought she might want help carrying the fruit, but in trying to take it, he inadvertently smudged the husk with blood.

She snatched the fruit and hurled it away. Gus watched it skip down the rocks, bouncing ever higher until it burst. This was a setback. He'd been hoping to get her to talk about the fruit while he stitched her up. Instead, he resolved to ask about the charm she wore on her neck, an ancient ceramic token set in a heavy band of silver. Perhaps she'd even be persuaded to sell it.

*   *   *

A foreigner's hotel room interested the girl less than he would have imagined. She wasn't even curious about his doctor's bag, which he'd brought along for emergencies. He sat her on the bed, lined the bedside table with a clean towel, and laved the hand with bottled water. The cut was deep, but the blade had missed the tendons.

He prepared a shot of anesthetic. He was discreet about it; nevertheless, she shrank from the syringe.
This will help
, he said. Her refusal was adamant, so he gave her stitches without it.

She bore them stoically. Gus was worried that her cries might draw the wrong kind of attention, but she didn't cry out, even when the suturing needle bit deep in the flesh. At first he kept up a reassuring patter, but she didn't want it. Her face was rigid with concentration.

Afterward, she was thirsty. He poured her glass after glass of the salty drink until the pitcher was empty.

More?
he asked.

She shook her head. Then she went to the big bathtub and started filling it.

No
, he said, turning off the water. It was one thing to stitch a girl's hand in his room, but something else to let her undress there.
Your hand needs to stay dry
.

She started filling the tub again, this time warning him off with her eyes.

In the end, Gus sat outside in the hallway while she had her bath. He left the door ajar in case someone came. Every time he heard a splash he called out,
Keep it dry!
, which she mimicked back at him.

Of course, she might have been saying something else. The marsh tongue didn't really sound the way it looked in the pages of a book.

*   *   *

After the bath, she appeared at the door, her braids dripping all over the pink dress. She led him away from the room with a certain urgency, as if she were suddenly nervous about being discovered inside the hotel. And, in fact, as they crossed the lobby, the clerk rose from his wicker stool and began to berate her. She answered with an imperious toss of her chin.

When they were outside, Gus realized he'd left his camera. He turned back for it, but she grabbed his sleeve and pulled him away from the hotel. He didn't really resist. From time to time he even closed his eyes against the glare and let himself be led. He'd started the morning as a tourist, but now he was something more: a physician with his patient. Surely that conferred a kind of protection, even in the port city.

They walked down the driveway and out onto the road, where they were soon overtaken by an old hansom loaded with sacks of grain. The girl called to the driver, who climbed down from the spring board to help her in. Gus tried to squeeze in among the sacks, too, but there wasn't room. He was willing to sit up top, but the girl barked instructions, and the driver set to work heaving his bulky cargo to the side of the road. When Gus was finally settled, the poor dripping man climbed back up, touched the nag's ribs with his whip, and the carriage lurched forward.

The girl stared out her hazy window as they rode. She'd chosen the side with the view of the harbor. Gus's window, on the other hand, gave out on the cut strata of the hill. He asked where they were going, but all she said was,
You'll see
. He called up through the hatch, but the driver didn't answer.

The silence was irritating. Gus didn't like being considered superfluous, but he told himself to relax. He would have been more comfortable in uniform, but at least his eyes were open, and his wallet full.

After a while, the driver's hand appeared with two bananas. The girl gave them to Gus. He peeled one and started eating, but she stared at him until he offered to peel hers, too.

Is the pain very bad?
he asked.

The girl shrugged. It seemed she was simply used to having her fruit peeled by others.

They came to a halt at the fortified gates of a private compound. The carriage rocked as two armed men climbed aboard, one on each side of the driver. Then the gates parted, and they rolled into a dusty courtyard, where a handsome marshman with a crooked nose and a carefully trimmed beard waved the carriage to a halt. Gus noticed that the cord around his headscarf was purple. All the other cords he'd seen were black. Then again, virtually all of his exposure to marshmen had been in the form of black-and-white gravures in the pages of his father's moldering travel magazines.

The girl leaped from the carriage, flung herself into the marshman's arms, and pressed his hand to her cheek. He was very tender with her. Gus liked the way he swept back her braids as he knelt to inspect her wound.

The marshman rewrapped the bandage and dismissed the girl. Then he turned to Gus and said, “You sewed it well.”

“She was incredibly brave,” Gus said. “She wouldn't let me numb it.”

“She's always been afraid of syringes,” the marshman said, but Gus could tell he was pleased with the compliment. “You're with the fleet?”

Gus nodded.

“By the way, my daughter thinks you're a spy. She says you take too many pictures.”

“I wish I were a spy,” Gus said. “It would make me a lot more interesting.”

The marshman smiled. His teeth were full of gold. “Yes, I can see why she likes you.”

“Does she?”

“She wouldn't have brought you here if she didn't.” The marshman extended his hand. “I am the Magheed,” he said. “My daughter Thali and I are grateful for your attention. You should know that she speaks your language perfectly well. Her mother was a native of your country.”

Gus introduced himself, then bowed and said,
Let us rather be strangers than friends
.

The Magheed laughed and corrected the saying, which Gus had gotten backward. “I like this one,” he said, turning to his men. “Even if he
is
a spy.”

The other marshmen smiled uncomfortably.

“Tonight you eat with us,” the Magheed said.

“That's very kind,” Gus said, “but I have other plans. I hired a guide to show me the ruins.”

“A tour of the marshes? So late in the day?”

“My guide seems to have vanished.”

“You paid him a deposit?”

Gus nodded.

“How much?”

The Magheed winced when Gus told him the figure. “Unfortunately,” he said, “you hired a scoundrel. What did he look like?”

The Magheed called over one of his retainers and translated as Gus described the boy. “We'll find him,” the Magheed said. “Meanwhile, I'll send a man to the hotel for your things.”

*   *   *

Gus spent a pleasant afternoon exploring the Magheed's compound. Thali was never far away. She'd changed into a robe and headscarf that made her look like a classic marsh girl. She followed him, ducking behind a gnarled cedar or a whitewashed wall whenever he turned around, but never completely out of sight.

Eventually he made his way down to the beach and took off his shoes, the better to enjoy the fine pink sand. There was a promising breaker twenty meters offshore that looked perfect for surf-casting. Gus wished he had a rod and some tackle. He would have liked to present his host with a fresh fish, even if it was pulled from his own waters.

Thali watched from behind an overturned dory as he walked out on the jetty. When he reached the end of the rocks, he dangled his feet in the fabled waters of the bay. The water was full of jellyfish; the sun was unrelenting. He stayed longer than he wanted to. It seemed incumbent on him to prove that foreigners weren't weak.

She was gone when he got down from the jetty, but she'd laid out a blanket for him in the shade of the dory. There was a tray with almonds and grapes, and a darkening clay pitcher of the same strange drink he'd had at the hotel. He ate a few grapes, which were small and quite sour, then closed his eyes for a while and dozed.

*   *   *

He mistook the call to dinner for a call to prayer, and wound up being late to table, but the Magheed greeted him in high spirits. Throughout the meal, he kept hinting at a special treat.

When an enormous flatfish cooked in a sarcophagus of salt was served, to much applause, Gus was given the honor of cracking it open with a huge iron spoon. The Magheed offered him the choice portion: the cheeks.

The fish was delicious, and Gus thanked his host profusely, but the Magheed's eyes were still merry. “Just wait,” he said.

At the end of the meal, a bowl of scented water was passed around the table. Gus dipped his fingers like everyone else. The Magheed was the last to dip his fingers. People clapped when he dried them, and Gus thought the evening was concluded.

But then two marshmen came in dragging a hooded boy who was cursing and struggling. At the Magheed's signal, one of the men struck him behind the knees with the butt of a rifle. The boy fell to the floor. This happened directly in front of Gus.

The Magheed unhooded him, then turned to Gus and asked, “Is this the one?”

The boy's face was bloody and one of his eyes was swollen shut, but Gus recognized his young guide. “I'm sure there's an explanation,” he said.

The Magheed smiled ironically. “Of course there is. This little thief wanted your money.”

The boy burst into tears. The Magheed grabbed him by the hair. “You never meant to give this man a tour, did you?” he said.

The boy pleaded with Gus. He said his mother had started coughing blood during the night and begged him to stay with her. He'd tried to leave a message with the waiter at the café, but the man refused to talk to him.

“It's true!” Gus said. “The waiter at that café doesn't like the marsh tongue.”

The Magheed yanked the boy's hair. “By stealing from my guest, you have stolen from me.”

The boy began to blubber. “I didn't steal,” he cried. “I didn't.”

The Magheed showed Gus the rifle the guard had used as a bludgeon. “This is a very expensive cape gun,” he said. “I spoke with the dealer who sold it to the boy this morning.”

“Why would he go and buy a gun?”

“Why wouldn't he?” the Magheed said, handing the cape gun to Gus. “It's yours now.”

Gus didn't want to accept the gun, but the Magheed leaned it against the table next to him. “Take it,” he said. “It's custom-made. Good quality.”

Then he squatted next to the boy and spoke softly in his ear. “Tell my guest what we do to thieves.”

“I'm not a thief,” the boy whimpered.

“I like the gun,” Gus said. “Let's call it even.”

“I wish we could,” the Magheed said, replacing the boy's hood. The boy resisted, but the guards held him tight.

The Magheed unsheathed his dirk. He raised his voice and said, “A thief in the marshes forfeits his hand.”

The boy started to choke inside the hood.

Bare his arm
, the Magheed said.

One of the guards knelt by the boy, slid back his sleeve, and pinned the arm to the floor.

Gus leaped to his feet. “Please!” he cried. “No!”

The Magheed winked at Gus and held his finger to his lips. He took the iron spoon from the fish plate and raised it over the boy's wrist, then motioned to the guard. The guard silently readied a truncheon behind the boy's head.
Get ready with napkins
, the Magheed said.
There's going to be a lot of blood
.

Then, in one swift motion, he brought the spoon down on the boy's wrist. At the same instant, the guard clubbed the boy's head. He went limp.

The table erupted in laughter, but Gus felt sick. “Thank God,” he said. “Thank God. I thought you were really going to do it.”