18mm Blues (6 page)

The first thing she saw as she broke the surface was Bertin's face, avarice and anticipation in it. He was kneeling on the deck, leaning over the side, awaiting her. No doubt expecting her to hand him up an oyster or two. She chided herself mildly for the pleasure she felt from disappointing him.

She remained in the water while Michiko attached the catskin bag to the right side of her face mask strap. Two rubber tubes ran from the bag. One tube was inserted in underneath the edge of the mask; the other, the longer, went to Setsu's mouth. She blew into that second tube, thereby inflating the bag to its limit. It was a flesh-colored balloon half as large as her head. Again, she rode the weighted line all the way down.

At once she swam to the trough, continued over the edge and down into it. Wasting no time, for time was breath. Sought the bottom. Reached it at a depth of fourteen fathoms (eighty-four feet). The pressure down there was thirty-six pounds to the square inch, so it wasn't so easy for Setsu to move about. She felt the thumping of her heartbeat; the pace of it well over a hundred to the minute. Her insides were intimidated while outwardly she remained in calm, confident control.

By now the catskin bag had deflated, the air in it having been forced by the pressure through the tube and into the space of Setsu's mask. That offset somewhat the effect her eyes would have suffered because of the pressure. They would have bulged grotesquely, near to the point of popping from their sockets. There would have been searing pain as the muscles that held her eyes in normal place were strained. As it was, with the catskin bag arrangement, a makeshift ama device, what eye pain she felt was endurable.

She investigated the trough. A strange aspect of it she immediately noticed was the good visibility. At that depth it should have been murky, sombrous. However, shapes and shadows were sharp, and she could even make out the consistent texture of the sandy bottom, those same bluish grains. What wasn't to be seen were oysters. Not a one.

She followed the trough in to the base wall of the island, and not until she'd turned and looked back and up did she realize she'd passed beneath a sizeable overhang. More unexpected was the formation directly overhead: a vertical shaft made up of irregular layers of stones and the clings of various corals. It was as though she were at the bottom of a deep crudely constructed well looking up to its surface—an oblong patch of calm, which was intensifying the sunlight that struck upon it.

How long had she been down? How far to air? Her sense of fractional time was keenly developed, like a stopwatch in her head. She trusted its accuracy. It told her she'd been under a minute and a half. Two and a half was her limit. In keeping with her usual caution, she'd play it safe, allow ample margin rather than put off surfacing until the last seconds.

She was about to swim back out the trough and go up when it occurred to her that it would require less breath time and effort to go up right there, up the shaft. As well, that would be continuing on, not disappointing anyone, including herself, by surfacing empty-handed again.

She undid the lifeline from the back of her belt, tied two knots at the end of it. Her way of letting Michiko know she was all right, merely exploring someplace where the line would be a hindrance. She jerked the line sharply three times and saw it being pulled away.

A glance up to the patch of surface that she was now committed to. She flexed her knees a bit. The sand beneath her feet gave a little, then held for an upward push, much less than a full-out spring, which started her upward. That, along with the buoying air in her lungs, made rising nearly effortless for her. With respect for the decrease of pressure and the effect that could have on her, she'd go up slowly. She had plenty of breath time, she thought.

As she ascended she considered the shaft. It was about twelve to fifteen feet in diameter with the rocks of its sides stacked haphazardly, some flat and some on end, some protruding and others creating recesses. They were for the most part a dull, dunnish brown color, and it was that characteristic which, when she was about a quarter of the way up, allowed her to make out the snake so well.

It was lying on a ledge in a neat, tight serpentine arrangement. About five feet from her. Partly in soft shadow, partly in the strike of the sun. At first sight its head was only slightly extended, its chin resting on the flat of that rock, rather coylike or perhaps insouciantly waiting to see what might come along. When it caught sight of Setsu, its head, and that section of it that could be thought of as neck, alerted, stiffened abruptly and crooked up. It was bright lemon yellow, possibly the same snake that had made such a surprising appearance earlier. Was just as large.

Setsu's insides leaped. All her internal organs felt as though they were cowering against her rib cage and spine. Nevertheless she managed to keep her limbs in control, maintained her upward progress, which out of another necessity now was practically a slow float. She was close enough to see the scales of the snake, their symmetry, and to some extent, its eyes, small and black. Unreadable eyes because of their blackness, however Setsu was certain they were on her, and that she was at the mercy of those eyes, depending on what messages it was at that moment transmitting to the snake's brain, hostility, apathy or who knew what.

Within seconds she was up past that ledge and the snake. Except for her feet and lower legs. Her feet and lower legs seemed like laggards, vulnerable, inviting attack. But then they caught up and were also above the snake's immediate close range.

More snakes about halfway up.

They were all around, folded into niches, fitted into cracks, swagged over outcroppings. There were lemon-yellows but also some that were as green as an unripe apple and others a pinkish, feminine color.

Any moment Setsu expected one to shoot out at her with its lethal bite. If one did, all might. One would get them started.

From a seemingly unoccupied horizontal crevice, one did emerge. But sinuously, slowly, came right at her, directly to the space between her upper arm and her side. A pink snake. With a swift purposeful spin it wound itself three turns around her upper arm. Brought its head up so its eyes were level with hers. Stared curiously into her fright. Opened its jaws as wide as the hinges would allow, displaying its long, curved fangs.

More like a yawn, though, than a threat, the way it closed its mouth. More like a parting embrace than an antagonistic squeeze the way it tightened a degree around her arm before gracefully unwinding from it.

She continued upward, glanced down. Saw that a swarm of tiny shrimp, a translucent, pastel cloud of creatures, was directly below her. The snakes began feeding upon the shrimp, whipping up the water as they gorged. A frenzy with swift slashes of lemon-yellow, sudden bolts of brilliant green, muscular belly-up roils of pink. The snakes no longer had interest of any sort in her.

However, a lot of her breath time had been spent. She didn't know how much. The danger had disoriented her sense of time, that stopwatch in her head, and now she'd have to go by what her body told her. Especially her lungs. Already they were signaling her with some burning. At fourteen fathoms, the depth from which she'd started up, her lungs were contracted to about a third of their normal size—an involuntary reaction to the pressure. Now they were still only about half the size of what they should be. They were demanding that she hurry and let out the breath she was holding.

She couldn't. Not and survive. If she expelled her breath her buoyancy would be lost. And there'd be nothing in her with which to fight against sinking. She'd known of amas, the best of swimmers, who, for one reason or another, had given up their breath while still deep down. If someone hadn't gone down quickly and brought them up they would have drowned. But here, there was no one above to help her. She still had six or seven fathoms to go.

Her legs were also complaining, some of their strength leaving her. Better she should use them while she still had them, she thought, and did four successive propelling kicks. Made her arms help, kept her fingers tight together, her hands cupped to get all she could out of them. She knew she shouldn't go up so quickly, but the pain across her chest was intense now, the breath crowding her windpipe, some of it coming up into her mouth, swelling her cheeks. She clamped her hand over her mouth and pinched her nostrils to keep it from escaping.

Her head broke through the patch of calm surface as though shattering it, the old, used breath exploded from her and a deep fresh one relieved. She floated in place a long moment to allow the replenishment to reach all of her. She had an intense headache from having ascended too rapidly, but that was a common ailment with amas, and she knew an ama way of dealing with it. Merely dipped down, held her head underwater for a minute.

She was inside the lagoon. It was about three-quarters of a mile at its widest point, otherwise a little less.

The water there was disturbed only enough to cause geometric reflections on the sandy bottom. Not deep. At the edge Setsu could stand and walk. The deepest area was along the reef, just inside it. As much as five to six fathoms there.

Setsu swam out a ways on the surface, then dove and investigated the bottom. After only a dozen or so strokes she came upon an oyster. The same sort William had found, a
max
, with a thick shell large as a dinner plate, blue-flecked radial ridges. It shut its shell abruptly as she reached for it. She put it in her sack and searched around for others.

Came upon them.

An entire bed of them. So many she didn't try to count. Large as they were, her sack couldn't hold more than five, and after gathering that many she placed her sack down and swam over the bed, allowing the possibilities of what she'd found to register. From now on, she thought, she would be a notable ama, one whom others spoke about often and admiringly. They would, no doubt, exaggerate her exploits. Exaggeration always flavored such devotion. They would tell of the snakes and put in bizarre underwater dragons, whirlpools and masses of tiny voracious sharks. She would become the venerated name Setsu as her great-grandmother had become the name Amira, a legend to be recited. It would be told how she returned home to Hegurajima with great wealth to build her mother an elegant house, one of several she would pay to have built within a walled compound to be occupied by Yoshidas. There would be enough money for generations. Silk on their bodies, television sets and visits to foreign places for their eyes. William, in beautiful shoes, would go with her to San Francisco.

To confirm such wonderful prospects, Setsu looked for an oyster that had, so to speak, gotten out of bed, one apart from the rest. She located such a loner and approached it more stealthily, stayed close as possible to the bottom while almost imperceptibly moving toward it. The oyster was feeding, had its shells open about two inches. Setsu cocked her head and hardly disturbed a grain as she pressed her cheek to the sand within three feet of the oyster. Peered into it and saw the sphere of brilliant blue it contained.

Oh
hai
! The numbers of this day would be long remembered.

She retrieved her sack. Instead of returning the perilous way she'd come, the snake way, she swam to the reef and over it to the open sea. Swam against the wind, through the sudden drops of swells and hoisting crests, all the way around the point to finally reach the boat.

Bertin was pleased to see the oysters and elated when he'd opened them. The five yielded four pearls: two of about eighteen millimeters, two only a couple of millimeters smaller. All of remarkable perfection and all blue. Bertin invited Setsu, Michiko and William to the stern and allowed a quick pot of tea and nibbles of sweet rice cookies. Setsu related what she'd gone through. Bertin did sympathetic clucks and he made his eyes wide when he thought amazement was called for. When Setsu said where the oysters were, he was sincerely interested. She told him it would be better, easier if he moved the boat around the point and anchored close to the reef.

He agreed. The danger of being seen by a Burmese patrol still existed, however an exceptional pearler such as he had to take chances, Bertin told himself.

The boat's new position allowed both Setsu and Michiko to work the lagoon. They slid over the reef and gathered into their sacks. Swam back and handed their catches up to William, who dragged them to the stern. Bertin had repealed his territorial restriction and was also demonstrating his better nature to the boy, sharing with him the very first sight of another pearl and exaggerating disappointment when an oyster was barren. There was even some encouraging back patting and a couple of covert swigs of wine from a bottle, and William, susceptible to such camaraderie, truly enjoyed doing his part, handling the sixty-pound sacks.

As quickly as the oysters were brought aboard, Bertin opened them. The black lacquer bowl, now a more worthy repository, held only the larger pearls, those of superb quality and eighteen-millimeter dimension. Others of lesser size and of a quality that Bertin would have been overjoyed with just yesterday were relegated to a glass tumbler that hadn't been washed since Miller.

Bertin was so caught up with accumulating pearls and the certain wealth that followed that he forgot about the barometer, and when about midafternoon he went in to look at it he loathed what it indicated. His plan had been to pearl until dark, remain anchored there and pearl the entire following day. Clean out the lagoon, even if it took a week. However, the barometer had fallen one and a half degrees since he'd noticed it near a reassuring 29.50 that morning.

He sighted through the binoculars at those clouds to the south. They were definitely closer and, it appeared to him, coming on fast. What kind of storm was that? The clouds of it were huge and dark on the bottom, flat on top. All the way across the southern horizon. Now he was able to make out the way they were churning, getting worked up. He lowered his binoculars, listened intently. Heard a distant deviating rumble followed by a sharp clap. It was trying to talk to him, this storm, he thought, telling him
watch out, asshole, here I come
. And hear the wind? It had picked up, playing the part of precursor, whistling around the mast.