The Island of Last Truth (7 page)

“Listen, Nelson, we could try building something with the trunk of a fallen tree: there are lots of them and some merchant ship could pick us up miles from here if we head east.”

Nelson shook his head from side to side.

“You don't understand. These people aren't like us. If they hear that a couple of shipwrecks have been rescued and they will hear, believe me, they'll find me.”

“Do they have some motive for wanting to annihilate you?”

“The simple fact of having escaped. I know their contacts, their routes, the names of the big fish.”

To be honest with you, dear Phoebe, I had the feeling Nelson was exaggerating, like I was watching a film. I was about to ask him another question when he said: “I was preparing for some time to escape from the
Solimán.
I came to it involuntarily. I'm from Lisbon. I've always liked traveling. Five years ago I went to Saint Helena to see where Napoleon was buried. It had always seemed strange that an island would become a prison . . . it doesn't surprise me anymore.

It was clear by this stage that this man and I had things in common. He sat on the ground and went on, while I sat opposite him.

“There I met Cecilia, a beautiful waitress who worked at a bar in the port. I fell in love with her as I never had before and I decided to stay. You know how the threads of life are, you understand them only when they're already wrapped around you.

I thought it was a good sign that Nelson was capable of doing something for love. I don't know why, people capable of falling in love awaken my trust. It's the opposite of what happens to me with people who can't get drunk.

Nelson was ready to tell me his past right up to the end. It's something common in sailors, it's hard for them to talk, but the day they do, it's as if they have made a decision and they act accordingly.

“Cecilia had a brother. In Saint Helena there are few young men. As soon as they become adults, they escape from a place with no future and less work every day. They needed seamen on the
Solimán.
Through Cecilia's brother, who was a member of the crew and recommended me, they offered me a job. I needed it. I've always made my living from jobs that have come to me. I've been a sailor, a longshoreman, a dog walker, a mechanic . . . but, of course, nobody told me what kind of boat it was. Neither did Cecilia. I don't know if she knew; we never discussed the subject. When I understood, it was already too late, I was in up to my neck.”

How often this happens in life, right, Dr. Westore? When you understand, it's already too late. There's no turning back.

“First, I let myself be dazzled by the easy money, I admit that, but soon I realized I was going towards disaster. Five years of renouncing my life, my way of understanding it, my dreams, everything. Five years being a beast at the orders of other beasts.”

“Why did you put up with it for so long?” I wanted to know.

How many people live in a skin they don't feel to be their own, right, doctor? It's a great mystery, how we don't dare act according to our desires or convictions and prefer those of others.

“It didn't take long for me to be thinking of a way to escape, but they are mafia, I assure you. I was waiting a long time for the moment to do it. Death seemed the only way to escape. Your shot was my salvation. I'd been ready for so long! And suddenly an impulse, a flash, the moment, I don't know. I almost didn't think. Your shot and the water. I knew of the existence of the island. The old cook on the
Solimán,
Gerardo, the only friend I had among them, certainly because he was also from Lisbon and we could speak in our language without anyone understanding, had spoken to me of this place. I didn't think. I preferred to die rather than continue that life.”

Was I supposed to believe him, Phoebe? Did it matter, the truth?

“And Cecilia?” I asked.

“What about Cecilia? Cecilia nothing. She too has to think I'm dead. If one day we get out of here, of course I won't go back to look for her. First and foremost, Cecilia is her brother's sister. Haven't you heard of the bonds instilled by blood?”

My father came into my head. I nodded. I felt overwhelmed. Years! Years on this island? Goaded perhaps by distress, perhaps by Souza's confession, I told him part of my history. Baltimore, New York, Mary, my mother's death, the expectation of my father's death in Texas. My always insatiable desire to sail, the sabbatical year, the preparations for the journey on which I'd lost everything, including my only friends. Souza listened to me, interested, without interrupting, while he drew and wiped away lines in the sand with a stick.

He saw me lose heart, I suppose. And maybe because of that, or who knows why, he gave in.

“Alright, I'll wait for you every Tuesday, in the afternoon. I'll come to read beside this tree.”

Understanding that he expected to spend years on that island had disturbed me, but him saying that he would wait for me while reading finished me. Reading? Reading what? He had books? What else did he have?

“Reading?” I asked. “Reading what?”

“I have a couple of books,” he said. “I like to read.”

“Lots of us sailors like to read,” I said. “And write,” I added. “Do you have pencil and paper as well?”

He didn't answer, as if I'd violated his privacy.

“Would you be able to lend me one of your books? A little paper?”

“I'll wait at the border, every Tuesday. In the afternoon.”

After uttering these words as he might have thrown a stone, he began to move away.

It was clear to me, at that precise instant, that I would invade his territory, dear Phoebe. I would become an invader. And, if I could, I'd rob his loot, whatever it was. And that would amount to a declaration of war, because there'd be no doubt about who had taken it.

Suddenly, I wanted all his belongings. The binoculars, for example. He could see if any ships passed, although they might be distant. He could monitor the frequency of their passing, their flags, the chances of getting their attention. And I wanted the books. He must have things I couldn't even suspect. If the
Solimán's
cook had landed on the island, perhaps he'd left some useful objects.

From that day on, my only thought was to find a way to evade his surveillance. I didn't want to confront him. I wanted to see his shelter when he wasn't there or when he was sleeping. I had to come up with a strategy. Surprise him. Outwit him.

However, we should never underestimate an enemy. Confrontation is like a game of chess: while you are scheming, your opponent is too. The point is seeing which of the rivals is able to think of the biggest number of moves and guess the other's plans.

Tuesday after Tuesday we kept our appointment, checked that we were still alive, both still on the island, and separated again, almost without saying anything. And Tuesday after Tuesday, on seeing him, I would think that I had to come up with some plan. I figured that the best time to attack his territory was on a Tuesday. Swimming in the other direction, far from the place where he waited for me. As a general rule, he arrived first. And there I would see him, sitting near his apron of sand, on a small mound. Binoculars hanging around his neck and, in effect, a book which he left on a rock before approaching me when he saw me appear. There was a lot at stake. I could only attack him once, that was clear. From that moment, it would be war. He would search for me to kill me. Was it worth it, for a book? For the curiosity of seeing what things he had and was hiding from me? Perhaps I could even steal a weapon—at this stage I'd already seen he had more than one. It was unlikely.

On the fifth or sixth Tuesday, I figure towards the end of November, I told him I would trade my watch for his book. Not the knife, I needed my knife and he already had one. No way: he wouldn't agree to any kind of barter.

“What are you reading?”

“A book in Portuguese.”

I'd believed he was from Lisbon only because he'd told me so, but in fact he didn't have a foreign accent at all. An armed man is very convincing; or maybe there was just no point in questioning what he said. When all is said and done, Phoebe, the only lies that matter are those that have the power of transforming life, don't you think?

“What book?”

“Are you familiar with Portuguese literature?” His tone was arrogant. Superior.

“Not particularly.”

“Then me talking to you about the author of the book is pointless.”

“And the other book, is that Portuguese as well?”

“No.”

“English, then?”

“Yes, English. Conrad.”

“Which? I've read them all.”

“Well then one of the ones you've read. I don't know the title. The cover is missing.”

“Tell me what it's about. I'll know which one it is.”

He began to speak and I recognized the plot of
The Secret Agent
, one of my favorites. The story of two men helping one another. Remember, doctor? We read it together a while ago.

“And you can't lend it to me?”

“I can lend it to you for a week, if you catch me twelve good fishes.”

“Twelve? That's madness. You know how hard it is to catch them.”

“Do you want the book?”

Of course I wanted it, Phoebe. I'd never wanted a book as much as I did then. I would be able to do something that animals couldn't do, I'd feel like a man and not a beast. I remembered the typical question, what book would you take to a desert island? Now my answer would be­–any book at all. Whichever, Dr. Westore. Even the book in Portuguese, written in a language I don't understand in the least, would have kept me company.

“All right. In two weeks I'll bring the fish. Next week don't expect me.”

Why did he want to get out of working? For what did Nelson Souza want time? Fishing was perhaps one of the most entertaining activities, one of the things that made you feel better, at least it did me.

He seemed upset. Perhaps these encounters had become a comfortable way for him to check up on me.

“A dozen will be worth a week's loan,” he said before leaving. “It's the rainy season,” he warned. “Try to find a better place than the one you have.”

I was grateful for the information. Days before I'd found an almost invisible inlet between some rocks. A type of cave I'd only approached by night, when Nelson couldn't see me. I'd sought it when faced with the threat of heavy rain, yes, but also in case one day I needed to hide from him. Some nights I slept there. But I emerged before the first rays of sunlight, in case he was watching me.

I brought him the dozen fish he'd requested. Nelson had a net to collect them. A net he couldn't have sewn with the materials on the island. A net, therefore, that was already there, one of his belongings I didn't know about. A great tool. I pretended not to notice it. Of course, he also had the book for me. It wasn't only the cover that was missing. Some pages at the beginning were missing. The already short novel was now scarcely a few pages. When he handed it to me, I immediately put it under my T-shirt, as if it were the greatest of treasures.

“I want it here next Tuesday.”

“We'll be here.” I spoke in the plural about the book and myself. A telling plural, I thought. If there'd been a mammal on the island, I surely would have made it into a pet. I needed to talk and not only talk. There were days when I felt I was on the verge of going mad, when I doubted my existence, or more than doubted, I became aware of its insignificance. Living for the sake of living, living so as not to die. Nobody, except Nelson, knew I was alive; it was like not living. In some moments I wished I were dead. Not to die, no. To be dead, yes, to have done it. And on the contrary, I was incapable of killing another or killing myself. Hippocratic oath?
I will not give a lethal drug to anyone if I am asked, nor will I advise such a plan.

But the following Tuesday we didn't go back. Or the next. I went four weeks without showing up at the appointment, hidden every Tuesday in my secret, or what I considered secret, cave. I imagined Nelson waiting for me. I imagined him becoming furious, evaluating the possibility of coming in search of what belonged to him, hating me, shouting at me, watching with his binoculars in vain. I also thought, other days, that he would appear at any moment and without any ado he would kill me. I had trouble sleeping and I lived in a constant state of alert. My defiance was puerile, I know, but in those circumstances, my darling, in those circumstances the brain doesn't function normally. One's values, priorities, and emotions get disrupted. One clutches at straws. For me the book became a bridge, a kind of visa, a symbol of return. It was my victory.

In fact, my attitude was not the same as before. I went back to marking time, trying to stay clean, hiding to do my bodily needs and burying them, reclaiming part of the civilization from whence I came. With an inexact calculation, I even had a kind of solitary New Year's Eve celebration. I was feeling strong and optimistic.

On the fifth Tuesday I went alone, without Conrad. I'd decided to tell him a lie. I'd decided to tell him I'd lost it. However far-fetched my argument seemed, it was my word against his. Against his word and his weapons, yes, but was he going to kill me over a book? I weighed up the risk. It was impossible to kill a man over a book.

But it wasn't about a book. It was about the order of things. Discipline. Power. You know the value of symbols, my darling.

When Dr. Prendel returns to the border after having missed four Tuesdays, Souza isn't there. Nor any trace of him. The silence seems terrifying. He realizes that he has assessed his situation badly. He regrets not having come to the previous appointments. He regrets being there without the book. He fears for his life.

He calls Souza. Until dusk. Even after night has fallen. Nothing. Nothing at all. He will have to wait until the following Tuesday.