Jennifer Haigh (27 page)

She reminded Gwen of the field-hockey girls she'd known at Wellesley.
Same phenotype
, her father would say.

Finally the brunette offered her card. Gwen gave it a quick glance.

It was the temporary kind all the resorts offered: for a few hundred dollars, a lifeguard took you to the pool, showed you how to connect your regulator and weight your belt, and just like that you were certified to dive.

"Amanda," said Captain Rico."You have been diving before?"

"Sort of," she said."Only, you know, in a pool."

He rubbed the dark stubble at the crown of his head."No problem," he said smoothly. He turned to face the group. "You will each choose a dive buddy whom you must keep in sight at all times. I will be Amanda's dive buddy. So she has nothing to worry about. I am an excellent buddy. The best!"

Amanda's blond friend looked pained."What about me?"

Captain Rico glanced around the circle. "Who does not have a buddy?"And, when Gwen raised her hand:"See? There is your buddy."

Gwen ignored the girl's frown. Her brother Billy was an excellent diving partner, adventurous and capable, but she didn't mind diving with strangers. She was confident in her skills.

"Any other questions?" Captain Rico asked.

"How deep is the water?" said Amanda.

"Fifty feet. Give or take."

Amanda's eyes widened."I'm not a great swimmer," she said, fiddling with her dive belt.

"Don't worry." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "I'll make sure you're okay."

Oh, brother, Gwen thought. The guy was shameless—but, she had to admit, very handsome, with his muscled shoulders, his musical voice. She noticed the sign, then, hanging at the stern: Tips Welcome.

Handsome Captain Rico made his living by charming people, women especially.

Your hair was darker then. I like it better red.

Even me, she thought.

They dropped anchor a half mile from the reef. One by one the divers slid into the water. Rico and Amanda first, followed by the Germans. Gwen lowered herself into the water, clear and shockingly warm. She took a moment to adjust to the sounds: the hollow gasp of her regulated breathing, the loud beating of her heart. She watched her dive buddy—Courtney, the field-hockey girl—plunge into the water. There was an explosion of tiny bubbles, a loud sunlit rush.

Gwen swam toward the girl. Through the dive mask her eyes were wide with terror. Gwen laid a hand on her shoulder and gave her the okay sign. Courtney nodded and signed okay in return. Gwen pointed in the direction of the reef and Courtney began flailing toward it, the classic beginner's mistake. She was a strong swimmer, but panicky.
Slow down
, Gwen wanted to tell her.
Keep your arms still.

It was one of the frustrations of diving: the desperate urge to communicate, the helplessness of being without speech. On dry land, where conversation was easy, Gwen maneuvered to avoid it. Underwater, its very impossibility made her eager to speak. That, and the practical considerations: if the girl continued her thrashing, she'd use up her air supply in twenty minutes.

Gwen swam up beside her and rapped on her own tank until the girl made eye contact. She pointed to herself, then pulled her arms in close to her sides, as though she were wearing a straitjacket. Miraculously, Courtney seemed to understand. She pulled her arms in tight and swam a little, powered only by a flutter kick.

If only life were like this, Gwen thought. Underwater, with a regulator in her mouth, she had no problem making herself understood.

Together they swam toward the reef. The water was deeper here, the white bottom more distant; Courtney's pink bikini had lost its color, washed out, like everything else, to a moody shade of green.

Fan grass waved lazily with the current. A school of bright cichlids engulfed them. Courtney turned toward Gwen, her head cocked; the regulator made it impossible to laugh or gasp or smile. Instead Courtney clapped her hands together, a languid, wavy applause.

At the edge of the reef Gwen touched Courtney's shoulder, and pointed down. The ocean floor gave way here, sloping sharply downward; from where they hovered, the drop was probably a thousand feet.

There were no words to express the shock, the sudden vertigo—and then, the profound feeling of safety. Floating above the chasm, buoyant and perfectly balanced, was as close as you could come to flying. Gwen had experienced it dozens of times, but still the feeling overwhelmed her. She was gliding like a spirit who'd escaped its container. She had no body. It was the freest feeling she had ever known.

On deck Alistair had laid a buffet of cut melon and pineapple.

Gwen peeled off her fins and unbuckled her BC, then rinsed them in the tubs of fresh water the boy had set out.

"That was awesome," Courtney told Gwen."You're an awesome diver. I had a great time." She turned to her friend Amanda, wrapped in a green Pleasures towel, teeth chattering. "We swam right into a bunch of striped fish. It freaked me out at first. I never would have done that by myself." She turned back to Gwen."Sorry I flaked out at the beginning. I don't know what happened."

"It happens to everyone," said Gwen.

"Maybe, but—I'm on the swim team? At Duke? It's not like I'm afraid of the water."

"Shut up," said Amanda.

"Oh, chill out. You know what I mean. Did you go down at all?"

"A little," said Amanda."But I got water in my mask. It was really scary. I made him bring me up."

"That sucks," said Courtney."They should definitely refund your money. It's not like you saw anything."

Gwen could have pointed out the sign at the helm—no refunds—but didn't. The girls seemed to have forgotten she was there.

On dry land, the natural order had been restored.

The sun was blazing as the
Toussainte
roared up to the pier.

"Thank you, everybody," said Captain Rico as he helped the divers, wet and sunburned, off the boat. Amanda handed him a slip of paper as she passed. He smiled but said nothing, just tucked the paper into his pocket.

Her room number, Gwen thought. Of course: it was probably a regular occurrence. How many pretty, scared divers did Rico comfort in a week, a month, a year? No wonder the man was always smiling.

She hefted her tank to her shoulder and headed for the pier.

"Wait," said Rico, touching her shoulder."Are you in a hurry?"

"Um, no," she mumbled.

"Please. Sit down a minute." He called to Alistair, who was tying the boat to the pier:"Tomorrow I come at eight o'clock sharp.
Me fais pas attendre.
This time you will be ready. Yes?"

"Yes," the boy called.

Rico turned to Gwen."I want to thank you for your help today.

I saw you with that girl. You were very patient with her."

Gwen flushed."She was just nervous. She did fine."

"The other one was barely able to swim. She had no business doing scuba." Again he rubbed the stubble on his head. It seemed to be a habitual gesture."The resorts, they are totally irresponsible. But they are very powerful on the island. They do what they want. It's surprising nobody has been killed yet. Anyway." He smiled disarmingly."You saved my skin today. Often there is one diver who needs extra help.

Normally there are not two."

"I didn't mind," Gwen said, smiling in spite of herself.

"The Blue Wall is an extraordinary dive. It isn't fair that you spent all your time looking after that poor girl. That's my job, not yours. So I owe something to you." He paused. "Have you ever been diving at night?"

"No," Gwen said.

"It's a beautiful thing. You see different fishes, langoustines, all the nocturne animals. It's like the second shift coming to work." He looked up at the sky, vivid blue, a faint, chalky moon hanging in the distance."See? The moon will be full tonight, perfect conditions. Will you come with me?"

Gwen hesitated.

"This question is an easy one. You say, Yes, Rico, I would love to come."

"Yes, Rico," said Gwen, her heart hammering. "I would love to come."

She returned to the pier at just before sunset, empty handed. No need to bring dive gear, Rico had told her; Alistair's would fit her fine.

They motored away from the pier. A stiff wind lifted her hair. Calypso music tinkled in the distance—the same musicians, probably, as the night before, in their dark trousers and white shirts. She glanced back at the shore, the resort ablaze with lights. Pleasure's own second shift—the crowded hot tubs, the swim-up blackjack—had just begun.

They traveled half a mile before Rico cut the engine. A strange current passed through her, an exhilarating terror. Alone at sea, at night, with a total stranger. It dawned on her that nobody in the world knew where she was.

They dropped anchor just before sunset. Rico raised the dive flag as Gwen got into her gear. Alistair's BC fit her snugly, but would loosen up underwater. Silently Rico lifted the air tank to her back. His silence surprised and pleased her. She had always disliked conversation before diving. Her brother Billy, sensing this, had always left her in peace.

"I'll carry the floodlight. Just stay close to me." Rico showed Gwen a smaller flashlight. "This is your marker light." He attached it to the plastic D ring on her BC, just below her breast.

They stepped off together. Gwen blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. She could discern the darting outlines of triggerfish diving downward, settling into the coral. Rico pointed to a sleeping parrot fish wrapped in its jellied blanket. In the distance a sleek shape lurked: a reef shark skirting the coral, hunting its prey.

They drifted on, passing other travelers. A jaunty seahorse floated overhead. An octopus parachuted through. Gwen watched in amazement the tiny crabs emerging from their holes.
The second shift coming to work.

Up ahead Rico waited. He had trained his light on a flat rock.

What is he doing?
Gwen wondered. A moment later a black shape swooped in out of nowhere, and her heart leaped. The manta ray was big as a barn door and quick as a bat. The floodlight had attracted plankton; now the rays were coming in to feed.

Suddenly Rico stopped short. He shone the light upward. A school of fish—an immense cone of grouper—swam toward the surface. Gwen held her breath: a spawning rise. She stayed perfectly still, feeling Rico's nearness, her own breathing, all the life surrounding them, the two of them suspended in this grainy and fertile bath.

Rico touched her shoulder. The water was speckled with dinoflagellates, tiny particles of iridescent green. Sparks flew.

Who was he? Where had he come from? On deck, wrapped head to toe in an immense beach towel, drinking wine from a plastic tumbler, Gwen asked these questions.

Rico came from the south side of the island, across the Calliope Mountains, a hundred kilometers away from the posh resorts of the north side. He was raised in a small village called Le Verdier, where his grandmother Toussainte Victoire farmed a small plot of land with her deaf son, Nestor. Her older sons had been killed fighting for the British. The men of St. Raphael, in no other sense British, were British enough to be killed in the war. Rico's mother was Toussainte's youngest, the child of her middle age. She had run away at sixteen to the city of Pointe Mathilde. "It was a rich city at that moment, and full of foreigners," Rico explained. "They came for the beau kseet."

"Beau kseet?" Gwen repeated.

"It is used to make aluminum. For years the British took our beau kseet and gave us nothing for it—one shilling per ton."

"You aren't crazy about the British," said Gwen.

"How can that be," said Rico, "when I am British myself?" His father was a Londoner; he'd stayed several months at the Victoria Hotel, where Rico's mother worked as a chambermaid. When she discovered her pregnancy, he had already gone back to England, leaving no phone number, no address. Rico's mother returned to the village to give birth.

She disappeared soon after, and it was Toussainte Victoire who'd raised Rico in her tiny house. She had been born a slave. The British had outlawed this practice, but the plantation owners paid no attention. Toussainte's father, a cane cutter, was paid nothing and was not allowed to leave."To me that is a slave," Rico said.

An act of God had won his ancestors their freedom. One Sunday morning, after belching steam for many years, Montagne-Marie blew wide open, burying the plantation in molten rock and engulfing the church of Marie des Anges, where the plantation owner and his family had gone to pray. That morning Rico's great-grandparents had gone fishing; they watched the explosion from a kilometer offshore, from the mahogany-trunk canoe his great-grandfather had made. As they watched, his wife had gone into labor. Shrouded in smoke from the
volcan
, Toussainte Victoire was born.

The plantation destroyed, Toussainte's father moved his family six kilometers inland. He grew breadfruit and yams for a man called Thibault, who let them keep enough to feed themselves.