I sleep a lot these days. Some days when I wake up, I suffer cramps from having been too long in one position. I fear I may dent the mattress on other days. This is typical drill when I return from the ship. It takes me a week to stagger out of bed. But this time it has been longer. I watch the rain beat against the windowpane, the ocean appears as a grey smudge on the horizon. The children talk in hurried whispers around me and you can hear muffled conversations from the kitchen. I'm at sea in my house. The pied kingfisher no longer comes to visit. In thirty days I plan to kill myself.
I returned to the island at the end of summer when plans for building the second floor to the house were underway. I had given Loretta a go-ahead from the ship and Martha had called the contractor to discuss the floor plan. She refused to proceed without her son to sign the cheque. I was eagerly awaited, therefore and arrived with my suitcase filled with duty-free Chanel, Black Label and Toblerone bars.
Loretta potters about me chirpily in the bedroom. She offers me breakfast in bed, vacuums every nook of the room, keeps me up to date with all the antics of the kids. She makes an attempt to dress up. I notice: a brooch on her Sunday dress, cherry hued lips to go to the market, eyeliner when she goes to church, her hair bunched in Shirley Temple curls. She looks very different from the Loretta whom I knew: bucktoothed, unibrowed, always telling the truth. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. Now it seems like an elaborate act for the husband who has returned for a few months. I hear her hiss at Lorainne in the corridor, ‘Don’t you dare say that in front of Dada. He is tired, he works very hard. Smile and be a good girl. He is only here for a while.’ Twenty-eight days left. I look at the calendar, gifted every year by Peter & Sons. ‘Les Coquelicots’ to complement the services of the Coffin maker. I wonder what they do with bodies that are lost at sea?
John throws a fit and wants me to take him to the football match the next day. No amount of coaxing by Loretta or Martha will appease him. I put aside the blanket and walk to the kitchen to rescue him from the fuss. I wake up earlier than usual, put on a buttoned shirt, shrug off my week-old stubble and go with him. ‘Dada, will you cheer for me if I score today?’ I nod as I walk through the familiar lanes. We pass Aunty Mary’s tuck shop, Joseph’s bar and then Maria’s hairdressing shop. They are all closed. It is Sunday. Most of the folks are at the church atop the hill, atoning for their transgressions for the week. Do they hold funerals on Sundays? John skips ahead.
I see Ricky, Stanley and Roger at the ground, boys I grew up with. They stand around in the sun, shiny, potbellied, chewing gum. Stanley and Roger nod at me, Ricky walks over. ‘Where have you been, men? It's been two months you are back and I have not seen your shadow anywhere.’ I grin uneasily. ‘I'm not letting you go so fast, meet me at the bar today.’ Ricky’s brows are furrowed, I acquiesce.
We stare into the horizon, just the two of us. Like the sea, we are silent on the surface. I can smell a storm brewing. Lights twinkle where the sky meets the ocean. ‘You remember, I told you that those lights were Dubai, and you believed me,’ Ricky says, as he bursts out in a laugh, spitting out the beer. A dark brown bottle with a sparkly red label sits apologetically between our glasses. ‘Yes, I remember,’ I take a sip of my drink and wince. It’s too strong for me, but I don’t complain. ‘You are used to Scotch these days. You have come so far from that simpleton I knew in the village.’
‘Everything changes, everyone changes.’
Ricky stares into the distance. ‘Where have you been for the last few months. I thought I would catch you at church, but you were nowhere to be seen.’
‘Just been busy, you know. There are a thousand things to do, around the house,’ I scratch the ridge of my nose lightly.
‘I came around the house too and Loretta said you are sleeping all the time, I thought, God-knows-what! Is something wrong, you can tell me, men?’
‘It has just been so different since I am back this time, Ricky. I just can’t seem to care about anything, anymore,’ I take a big gulp.
‘When will you go back next?’
‘I don’t know’
‘When is the joining date?’
‘There is no job to go back to, Ricky’
‘Shit! You lost your job?’
I remember the letter from the company which arrived a month ago. I didn't tell anyone about it. I don’t quite understand why I tell Ricky now. Something about him reminds me of the boy he used to be. The one I could climb trees with. The one I could let down. The one who would pray for me none-the-less.
‘This island has had its share of shippies, George. Hell, even I was sailing once a year until a couple of years back. But I just couldn't do it, for all the money in the world. I have seen people suffer when they come back. They go down this pit of darkness and some of them don't ever come out. Do you remember Captain D’Costa? One day he just walked out of his house. They found him a week later, next to the lighthouse, entangled in seaweed, half-eaten by fish. I have seen all this with my own eyes. I am worried, men,’
I look at my watch, I have three weeks to go. I can hear the ocean wail, the waves frothing with rage and guilt.
*
If I listen intently, I can still hear the notes sung by Olga. Standing there resplendent under the shimmering light, her arms swaying to the brush on the cymbal as she lets out a low, throatful moan to mark the beginning of the evening. ‘Slightly hungover you’ she repeats over and over and over until the room settles down around her. ‘Slightly hungover you’. Behind her stands Tammy, in her black gown, head bowed, hips swaying to the beat as she joins the chorus. Her shy smile is made glossy by the make-up crew. This world doesn’t deserve a smile like yours, I think, every time the lights come on. I never tell her, of course.
The Star of the Ocean is glittering abode of 1500 rooms, floating on the Mediterranean stopping in the coastal towns only to set sail in the evening again. I have sat at bars in Civitavecchia, sucked on olives in Livorno, drunk sparkling wine out of crystal flute glass in Cannes, gone sailing on a private yacht of one of our guests, tasted Paella in Catalonia. That has been my way of life for the last eight years, every six months, playing the blues for a bunch of drunk folks, living life to the lees, coming back to the island with stories about strange lands, and stranger food.
The life on this island can’t contain me with its church pews, confession boxes and fisherman’s woes. I know the piece of earth which has been marked out for me behind the church, where I will be put to rest when I am old, bitter and heartbroken unless I put an end to this now, while I still remember. Martha will build another floor to this house, and then another, with a fresh new reason. A reason which will always have the approval of her choir of sympathisers. Two more weeks till the 1st of the month, Martha counts the boxes in the calendar, once the salary clears for the month the work can begin. ‘Bid farewell with tradition’ suggests Peter & Sons.
‘What do you mean there is no money for the next floor, Georgie? You told Loretta from the ship that I should go ahead,’ Martha says tearfully. Afternoons made for good battlegrounds. Wars were fought in the house with tears, raised fingers and weak threats of walking into the ocean. ‘Ma, I thought I would get a bonus, but they denied me at the last moment,’ I look away. ‘How can they simply deny, just like that? Don’t you have a contract?’ ‘Ma, the contract says the bonus is related to my performance. If they say I have not performed well, there is nothing you or I can do about it,’ ‘I have told everyone about the second floor, what will I tell them now? Jesus, we are in your hands now,’. Martha kneels at the altar, makes a sign of the cross, clutching her rosary, tiny droplets of sweat dotting her upper lip. I look at her and almost feel bad. Tiny little Martha, with her hair dyed jet black, her dentures that she takes out only in the very middle of the night, her face caked with powder even at the dinner table with the family. Her heart, her heart which measures everything in gold.
I peer over the ancient maps at the church. The Philippines seem so far away. The Philippines, which is home to Tammy and her son, Akira. I picture them drinking from fresh coconuts wearing sunny salakots on the beach. She was my only friend on the ship. My mates made insinuations when we passed them. I did not encourage it, but I did not deny it, either. Some days I could barely look at her, to hide from her my brimming heart. I knew her son was sick, and she was often worried about money. I had seen her cry at the office, as she tried to make calls back home. I wanted to take care of her, but what could I do? I knew I had Loretta at home, and Tammy had her son to go home to in another country, on another island, separated by too many lives and nautical miles. Most importantly, I knew that she didn't feel the same way about me. I came floating back to this island, hoping that the comforts of home would help me tide over my grieving heart. Ten more days, ten more days, ten more days.
Loretta gets a bottle of wine from the market and sends the kids away to the lower floor after their dinner. She plays blues on the record player and twists open the bottle. She smiles, an apology in magenta spilling over her lower lip. The house smells of chorizo flavoured with peppers and onions. I take a sip of the wine. It is red, sweet, trying too hard. ‘Do you remember what day it is?’ She points to the calendar. Tomorrow is the 25th of August, I have forgotten completely. ‘Happy birthday Georgie!’ She brings in a cake with a candle that flickers in the wind. ‘You thought I would forget, no? But look, here is a birthday party for you. Only for you,’
She hums while she cuts the cake into smaller pieces. She comes forward to feed me a piece and touches my face ‘My Georgie, why have you been so lost? I want to make it all better’. Her face is so close to mine, but I feel nothing. I let her kiss me, hold my hand, her fingers unbuttoning my shirt. I feel nothing, but deep sadness. She doesn’t know anything. She has been a good wife, a good mother. It's for the best. She can start her life anew, with someone who loves her, with someone who loves Jesus.
‘Dada there is a letter for you,’ Martha looks up at the calendar, it's only the 29th today. John holds an envelope while he goes running around the dining table in concentric circles. My heart skips a beat as I look up from the breakfast plate. There is no stopping John when he is this enthused, so I wait. Lorainne comes from the kitchen, swoops in and grabs the letter from his hand. He starts wailing. She looks down at it and then at me ‘Dada, it's from Phi-Lip-Eens. Dada where is Phi-lip-eens? Will you show me on the map? From the corner of my eye I see Loretta look up from her Bible. I get up and take the letter from Lorainne and touch her nose with my index finger. ‘It is an island, like ours but only much bigger, with volcanoes and dragons'' I take the letter and go into the bedroom and shut the door behind me. My heart is a boombox.
‘Dearest George,
I hope this letter reaches you in the best of health. I found your address from the office, there was no other way to reach you. You didn't even leave a number.
I cannot express in words the gratitude I feel for what you did. I frankly still don’t know how you could manage it, but I am happy to say that Akira is admitted to the Hospital in Manila and his treatment is progressing well. Doctors seem quite hopeful.
I don’t know if I will ever be able to repay you or explain what this means to me, but I will stay forever grateful to you. I can tell that your wife and your family are so lucky to have you. I will pray every single day for His blessings to be bestowed your way. Thank you, thank you, dear friend.
Love, Tammy’
I fold the letter and put it in my pocket and take a deep breath. But I can't hold it in. I burst into tears, and sob like a child, muffle it in the pillow, afraid that the others will hear me. But this feels so good, to be there for someone, to be there for my Tammy, is this what joy feels like?
During the evening walk, as I turn at the Chapel, Ricky calls out from behind. The sun filters through the palm leaves and the grass sighs in an electric shade of green. ‘George, I was just coming home to look for you. I am starting a Geography class for the kids after school. Cartography and a bit of topography. And I thought, who better to teach that class than the famous explorer of the island. So tell me, men, what do you think of holding these classes? These kids have spent their entire lives around the ocean, perhaps you can tell them some of its secrets. A few days in a week ... as you...’
‘Okay! When can I begin?’ I ask.
I realise it's Day 1 today.
*
Sudeepta Sanyal is a writer based out of Goa. Her fiction has appeared in The Bombay Review, The Bengaluru Review, Lucky Jefferson and Spark magazine. She is the co-founder of The Blueberry Trails, a holiday planning company and her travels often find their way back to her fiction. She is a Dumpukht 2019 alumni.