Bite (3 page)

This is a long and dreadful night. The Land Rover broke down this afternoon while we were driving along a shallow stream bed, which is apparently the only road around here. The moment we emerged, clouds of tiny stingless Trigona bees swarmed all over us to drink our sweat. They crawled into our clothes, armpits, ears, the corners of our eyes, our nostrils and mouths. In five minutes they had almost driven us mad, so we waited up the hill until dark, then came back to fix the vehicle. We spent an hour pushing it out of the stream, then more hours being eaten alive by mosquitoes, while Georg lay underneath swearing in Hungarian at the broken clutch and trying to find some important screw that he had dropped. To pass the time I watched Tomas. He was holding the inspection lamp for Georg, and a blizzard of moths were dancing around his head like a halo. I imagined they were snowflakes, and what it would be like to be cold, not dissolving in the African heat.

I watched Amy down by the river this evening, shaving her legs. Apparently she does it every day. Says it is to do with self respect. I think that is a little strange. No-one gives a damn and those little nicks seem the perfect way to get infections.

Tomas is smiling again! I don't know how he does it. He found three leeches on his ankle today, broke a filling on a mango stone and dropped his laptop computer in the stream. I got in a temper when I only had one leech – still it was on my neck! Ugh.

Ah. Is that the sound of the engine? It looks like we are off, at least as far as a decent camping spot. I do hope the woman at Zizunga is hanging on for us okay. I dread to think what kind of horrible disease we might catch from spending two days cooped up in a Land Rover with her. These are the kind of selfish thoughts I cannot let Amy know.

(Erica's Diary 1992)

Bob Mazzio was in Heaven. The place was called Hemel in Dutch and cost the earth, but from his point of view, on a round satin bed with a naked woman feverishly riding him, the translation was exact. Above her slim flexing back and swaying long dark hair, was a pastel rococo ceiling, a cupola of pegasi and cherubs, cavorting around a circular mirror in which his carnal crucifixion was the reflected centrepiece.

The girl rested her small, pointed breasts on him and mouthed earthy East European words into his ear as she sensed his approaching detonation. Her hips rotated slower and slower, controlling and delaying, drip-feeding him bliss a juicy millimetre at a time. As the moment arrived he felt an urge to roar this freckled angel's name out of sheer appreciation, but it was too late to ask again what it was: Olga or Luger, Natasha or Katyusha, Stasi or Sputnik; the words orbited his head until he came back to earth, gasping.

He had paid to be bathed afterwards, but now he just wanted out, guilt snapping at his heels as it always did. Out in the darkened streets, still checking buttons and tie, he drew his first real relaxed breath. The heat in his ears pounded still, but his body felt the chill of the evening air. He hurried off to his rendezvous with Quiggan in the hotel bar, ready to relive the encounter for jock posterity; ready to bask in the chief financial officer's admiration for him, a new member of the self-styled Pharmstar wife cheaters' association.

Five minutes late he stopped on a narrow and deserted footbridge, head pounding like a nail was being hammered into it. An aching cold had seeped into his joints and his vision was blurred. He didn't recognise where he was, and he felt sick. The canal shimmered invitingly beneath. He clasped the chill rail, thrust his chest over the side and threw up into the water. On the final agonising heave his spectacles fell. They vanished through the spreading galaxy of his distress with barely a ripple.

A group of young revellers stepped around him. He heard their tongues click in distaste for this cursing drunk with his puke-spattered suit. He told them to go to Hell. It was some time later when Bob Mazzio, so recently in Heaven, tumbled unseen and unheard into the dark, cold water.

Max had three heavenly days in Amsterdam. He and Erica walked miles along quaint streets, tramped around museums, gaped at the women in the windows of the Red Light District and visited the canal house where Anne Frank hid from the Nazis. They kissed in bars, held hands in intimate candle-lit restaurants and promised each other slow pleasures. Each evening they rushed back to their room at the Erwin Hotel, a grand old canal house with carved ceilings, a magnificently curving teak-banistered staircase and only fourteen bedrooms.

Each night they climbed the steep stairs arm-in-arm. Breathlessly they giggled at the disapproving glare of a 17
^th
century merchant whose portrait hung at the top of the stairs. They made love under crisp sheets on a squeaky bed. Afterwards they would open the window to hear the chimes of the Westerkerk and the grind and squeal of passing trams.

It was 3.17 a.m. on Sunday.

The start of a nightmare.

Max awoke on the bed, dressed but dishevelled, slightly hungover and bloated from the Indonesian meal they had shared the evening before. The bedside light was on. Erica was not beside him. He sat up. The bathroom door was shut. No light came from under the door. He called out for her, waited, then went in. Flicked on the cold, dazzling light. His soft brown eyes squinted back from the mirror. He rubbed his thick curly hair and felt his dark stubble. He splashed cold water on his face and towelled it dry, trying to remember the final hour of the evening.

They had got back to the hotel at about ten forty-five. Max felt like doing nothing more demanding than watching TV. Erica had lain on the bed next to him while he surfed the channels. At one point she had slid her hands down his jeans, but he had shaken his head and puffed his cheeks out. Not tonight. Not after this afternoon and twice this morning. She had laughed and kissed him, blaming him for eating too much.

She had cuddled up to him for a while, and then got up and opened her briefcase, mentioning something about e-mails. A few minutes later, while he was dozing and the TV was off he heard her typing on the laptop. The last thing he'd heard her say was that she was going out for a ‘quick breath of air'. So English, he had thought, and turned over.

That was hours ago. She must have returned, but where was she now? Erica wasn't a good sleeper. All that nerve energy. Probably talking to the night porter or pacing the corridor.

Max picked up the phone and dialled zero. The night porter told him Erica had left at eleven thirty and had not returned. The outside door was locked at one and any returning guest would have to ring the bell. There was no chance he could have missed her. He rang her mobile and left a message, the first of many that night. Erica was still out there in the city. Max dressed. It was time to go look for her.

The canalside boulevard was quiet. The water glistened under the street lights and the air felt cool and damp under the horse chestnut trees which lined the waterside. There was no-one about. He walked left to the two nearest bars. They were both shut, their plastic chairs and tables stacked and chained on the terraces. Then he retraced his steps, past the front of the hotel to where he had parked their rental car. The green VW Polo was still there. Max shrugged and wandered around in the darkened streets for half an hour, seeing only the occasional giggling couple or a cyclist. Finally, he leaned on the railings of a canal bridge, staring into the impenetrably dark water, deferring the moment when he had to return. He mumbled a sarcastic happy birthday to himself and turned back to the hotel. He knew he would not sleep any more that night.

We found a mother at the side of the road an hour ago. She said her husband had died yesterday and she walked all day without food or water to get medicine for her sick baby. Exhaustion and desperation dripped from her, but as she lifted her tiny bundle her face glowed with hope. Georg gave her water while Amy held the little boy. His entire torso fitted into the crook of her arm, his wrists no wider than a thumb. Only his head, almost dry despite the heat, was of normal size.

The general opinion was that he had malaria, but the nearest microscope to prove it was probably in Zizunga. While Amy inserted a thermometer I tried to distract him, by resting my little finger in his hand. He didn't grip, but his enormous brown eyes turned in brief fearful focus and he lay slack as string.

The mother asked something of Georg and smiled, a huge carious grin that almost broke my heart under the weight of trust. The only word I could catch was ‘medicine'.

All we could offer was a little food for her, some clean water and hydrolite solution to relieve the child's dehydration. After that it would be up to his system. I asked Amy about sharing the anti-malarial tablets we were taking. She replied that the formulation we had was useless once infection was established. And what if it wasn't malaria, but something else?

The only option was to squeeze them in with us. Georg didn't think the nuns at Zizunga would have any better supplies, but at least a diagnosis was possible. But when he opened the door the woman refused to get in.

Then she turned to me and thrust her sick child into my arms. ‘Medicine, Zizunga' she said to me. Georg remonstrated with her, and tears started freely down her face. She wouldn't come with us because she had to return to bury her husband, but Georg refused to take the baby alone, despite Amy's protestations.

‘Amy, we can't turn up at Zizunga, dump a dying child with Sister Margaret and then drive off to the airstrip. And we'll never find the mother again even if the child survives. You know the MFA rules, ‘never create an orphan'. Both mother and baby or neither.'

Amy bit her lip as she watched Georg gently take the boy from me and return him to the woman. The mother nodded, and turned away. She gathered the child in her arms, and walked away, until the dusk swallowed her.

(Erica's Diary 1992)

‘I know you must be concerned, but you should not worry after just one night. I am sure she will return.' The young Dutch policeman reached across his untidy desk for a stained and chipped coffee mug, and took a gulp.

‘But where could she be? She doesn't know anyone here,' Max said.

The policeman shrugged. ‘Of course, I cannot answer your questions. Amsterdam is a big city, with lots of distractions. You know why people come here. They like to go to a coffee shop, have a little smoke, maybe have too much. They find new friends, go to a club. Maybe drink too much. It is not so strange. It is not even 7 a.m. yet. Someone missing eight hours is not yet for us a missing person case.'

‘What about an accident?'

‘It is possible of course. I will check later, if she hasn't turned up. There were no road fatalities in the city last night. If she was injured the hospital would have contacted your hotel by now.'

Max sighed. ‘I guess so.'

‘Did you and your friend have an argument?'

‘No.'

The policeman's head remained cocked, his eyebrows arched as if he had not heard the answer.

‘No, really. Everything was wonderful between us.'

The policeman nodded sympathetically. Perhaps he sensed a jilted lover clutching at straws. So far he had noted nothing but their names and the hotel.

‘Did she take her passport?'

‘Maybe. I haven't seen it, but I've got the return air tickets. The rental car's still there and she didn't take her luggage. Why wouldn't she take her luggage if she was leaving?'

The policeman shrugged and looked at Max above steepled hands. ‘Perhaps if she has not arrived by Monday morning…'

Max rubbed his tired eyes. ‘She is presenting a paper at a conference this afternoon. Five o'clock. There will be thousands of people there, waiting to hear what she has to say. No way she would miss that.'

‘Then I'm sure she will be there.' The policeman stared at Max for a long while. ‘Mr Carver, may I ask you a question?'

‘Sure.'

‘How long have you and Ms Stroud-Jones been together?'

‘Just a few months.'

‘How long, precisely?'

‘I guess three months.'

The cop leaned back in the chair, arms behind his head. He spoke softly. ‘This is not a long time. It is not enough time to really know someone, is it?'

It was eight when Max got back from the police station. He rushed up to the room, hoping. Still she had not returned. Max tried to work out if she had taken anything apart from her purse and shoulder bag. One of Erica's suitcases lay open on the coffee table, the other was on the floor. Her raincoat was still hanging up in the closet. Max walked down to breakfast. There was no-one else there, so he helped himself to the buffet of cheese and cold meats. A plump blonde waitress brought coffee. She had served them yesterday lunchtime.

‘Your wife is coming soon? Breakfast is finished in five minutes.'

‘She's not well. It's just me this morning.'

‘Ah, too much wine last night,' the waitress nodded.

Max looked up, unsure whether this was the famous Dutch directness or something more. ‘Excuse me?'

‘I said she maybe drank too much.' The waitress started clearing plates from another table on to a tray.

‘I know that's what you said. Are you saying you saw her last night?'

‘Of course. In the little café here on the corner. Did you not know?'

‘No, I didn't. What time was this?'

‘My husband and I arrived about midnight and she was already there, with a bottle of wine half empty. My husband wondered why such a lovely
meisje
should be drinking alone.'

‘Alone.' Max sighed the word with relief.

‘For a while yes. A man came and sat with her.'

‘Someone picked her up?'

‘Nee, no. They knew each other. They kiss on the cheek and he held both her hands.' The waitress looked at Max then added hurriedly: ‘Just old friends, I think. Did she not say?'

Max shook his head.

‘I hope I'm not making trouble for her,' the waitress said.

‘No, you are helping me to save her from trouble. She isn't ill. She just didn't come home. Not yet, anyhow.'

‘Ah.' The waitress appraised him thoughtfully, wiped her hands on a napkin and sat. ‘So I suppose you want to know all about the man?'

‘Well, I guess I better.'

‘He was middle age, middle size, spectacles. Nothing to look at,' she reached out and tapped Max's hand. ‘Nothing special at all.'

Max wasn't sure whether that was a comfort or not. The tang of jealousy soured his mouth. ‘Do you think he was Dutch?'

‘No. They spoke English together, and his accent was not Dutch. Perhaps foreign.'

‘Ah. Did he have a limp, or short cropped hair? Are you sure he wasn't old?' Professor Friederikson's powerful presence was etched into Max's memory.

‘No. Not old, less than fifty years. I didn't notice a limp.'

‘Did they leave together?'

‘I didn't notice them go, but when I next looked they were gone.'

‘I see.' Max tapped the table thoughtfully.

‘She will be back soon, I'm sure of it. Then you can ask her yourself all these details. I am sure they were not lovers.'

‘Thanks for your insight,' Max said dubiously. He returned to the room, sat down on the bed and tried to think straight.

Max flung her two suitcases onto the bed and unzipped them. Carefully, he lifted up the corners of blouses and suits, looking for something, anything that would remove the pain of not knowing. He imagined a stack of old love letters or perhaps a note of an innocent meeting with an old colleague. In the zip compartments in the suitcase lids he found back-up discs, a stack of scientific articles and magazines, her own printed out notes and her passport. Nowhere had he seen her laptop computer. Could she have taken it with her? Or was it still in the car?

In the second suitcase Max found three thick desk diaries, their hard backs softened, stained and dog-eared with age. It was a densely written journal, in a sloping script and numerous different inks dating back to 1985. Max flicked through, past newspaper cuttings, postcards from friends and dried flowers. A complete life recorded in detail. Even the handwriting had changed over the years. Letters became smaller and neater. She stopped dotting the letter ‘i' with a circle about 1987. In recent weeks the entries had become terse notes and finally stopped a couple of weeks ago. Curious, he flicked back to June, just a few weeks after they had met and found a larger entry.

I saw Max in his workshop today. He was working on a piece of sheet copper bigger than a double bed. The copper had holes punched through it all around the edges and he was fixing a steel cable diagonally between the two farthest holes. After an hour he had laced the whole sheet like a metallic corset. He used a spanner on the fat bolts holding the cables in at one end and began to tighten them, each a quarter turn at a time. The metal shivered and curled as the two opposed corners lifted off the floor. Soon it was bent almost double, trembling with so much constrained force that I was scared to go near it in case it shattered. Max tapped one of the cables with his spanner and the room hummed with an eerie resonance. He tapped another and there was a different sound.

‘The notes vary depending on how I set the holes and the gauge of the wire, the tone depends on the thickness of the metal sheet and whether it is steel or copper, aluminium or brass, tin or lead. I am thinking of ways to burn or chill the metal to get some change in the tones.'

I realised his sculptures describe the character of the physical world more eloquently than any chemist or physicist. He said it best: ‘You torture the metal to get it to show you its soul.'

It was at that moment that I realised I had fallen in love with him.

Max didn't know how long he had been staring up at the ceiling when he saw the mosquito. It sat motionless on the plaster rose above the light fitting. Its hunchbacked shape was shadowed on the white paint. Max took his International Herald Tribune, carefully rolled it up and stood in his socks on the centre of the bed. A noisy moment later the mosquito was just a red smear beneath the wildly jiggling light bulb. And Max's breath was coming in raw gasps as he hit at the smear again and again and again.