A Man Melting (17 page)

‘So you’re familiar with
On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life
?’

Olivia stared at me. Lib Drury grunted.

‘Charles Darwin emails me,’ I said. ‘I know it’s not really him, and I don’t think it’s you, Olivia, or you anymore, Lib, but it’s not in my head, either.’

‘Maybe you should take a breather, Dave,’ Lib suggested.

‘I should take a breather,’ I said, and stood up. ‘It’s not in my head, honest. Someone really wants me to … evolve.’

I spent fifteen minutes downstairs, in the small park between my building and the next. Mostly I stared at the exposed roots of a tree, species unknown. When I got back to my desk, there was another email from my pal, Charles.

‘I’m not perfect, David Leon. When I was in the Galapagos archipelago, my shipmates and I ate forty-eight tortoises (especially delicious roasted in their shells) without bothering to bring a single adult specimen back to England. We tossed the shells overboard, would you believe?

‘But those islands would remain with me. It is where I chose to return, back on the 19th of April, 1882.

‘Death, it turns out, is a lot like life: full of choices.’

In a moment of clarity, I forwarded this email to my friend Abram down in IT, asking if he could trace its origin. He replied that all they could tell me was the location of the sender’s ISP.

‘Whatever you can find,’ I told him.

Things are slowly coming around at Casa Leon. Tonight I found Maxine had beaten me home. She was sitting at the kitchen table sorting through shoeboxes full of photos.

‘Searching for a reason to forgive me?’ I asked.

‘Look at this.’ She held out a photo taken with my old Minolta: the two of us in Bali on our honeymoon.

‘That was a good wee camera,’ I said.

‘Don’t we look so young?’

‘I guess.’ I picked up another, more recent, shot. Me and Maxine at the Christmas party two years ago — dressed
as Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire — taken with my first digital camera, a Canon A70. It was one of the last photos we’d had printed. ‘The evolution of photography,’ I said.

She snatched the photo from me.

‘About the other night,’ I said. ‘About the last few days. I’m sorry.’

She waved it off. ‘Most men, it’s cars or secretaries. I’m lucky your midlife crisis only involves a bit of paranoia and a dead scientist.’

‘Midlife crisis?’

‘You’re a prime candidate, David. Your age, your job, your family status …’

She picked up the photo of Bali again and sighed.

There was an email from Abram and one from Charles Darwin waiting for me when I got to work this morning. I read Abram’s first:

‘Sorry to keep you hanging, David. Kinda crazy down here today.

‘Anyway, it seems you have a fan in the Galapagos Islands. The domain name was a hint, but our trace concurs. I didn’t know there was anything there but tortoises.’

I kicked myself for not checking this out two weeks ago — it would have saved a lot of strife at home and work. It was a stranger emailing me, I knew that now. Someone who, like Maxine, thought I was primed for a midlife crisis. But I still couldn’t figure out
why
.

I opened Charles Darwin’s email.

‘Many people still believe the Galapagos are as untouched as when I arrived the first time. Despite there being no indigenous human population, the islands are now home to over forty thousand inhabitants. Not bad for a few lumps of basalt in the middle of the Pacific. Not that I am trying to discourage you from paying a visit, far from it. But it would be remiss of me not to mention the Earth’s enforced evolution at the hands of human beings. Many would say
devolution
, but has this planet ever looked like this before? We’re still moving forwards, even if our destination is oblivion.

‘There is now a 370 mile long man-made lake in China where once there were 153 towns and 4500 villages and a landscape that inspired old po-face himself, Mao Zedong, to write a poem. Siberian crane, Yangtze River dolphin, Yangtze sturgeon, thanks for playing, remember to return your balls and leave your shoes at the desk (that’s a ten-pin bowling reference, David. I know you don’t get out much).

‘But it’s not all tidal waves and swallowed atolls.

‘Madagascar’s central highland plateau has been reduced to desert due to slash-and-burn farming. The Sahara is expanding south at a rate of 30 miles per year. In 2002, sandstorms caused by erosion buried 124 villages in Iran.

‘I could go on. I really could. What about the disappearing mountains (open-top mining)? Or genetic swamping of indigenous species?

‘The world might not end in your lifetime, David Leon, but it won’t ever be as diverse and vibrant and unique as it is right now.

‘Sad fact. Inescapable fact.

‘Can you tell I’m in one of my moods today?’

I bunked worked today. I was in my suit and tie, eating my Weet-Bix as usual. Maxine gave me a peck on the cheek and said, ‘I’ll be off then,’ as usual. I said, ‘See you this evening,’ as usual. But I didn’t fish my keys out of the bowl by the telephone and drive to work. I sat at the kitchen table, reading the back of the Weet-Bix box. Did you know Daniel Carter received a full-size set of goal posts on his eighth birthday and says practice is the secret of his success?

At nine I rang Sian.

‘I won’t be coming in to work today,’ I said.

‘Does that mean I can leave early?’

‘Enjoy the sunbed.’

I spent the day on the internet.

This morning Maxine gave me a peck on the cheek and said, ‘I’ll be off then.’

I looked up from my Weet-Bix and said, ‘I’m proud of you.’

‘I’m proud of you too, honey.’ She pulled my earlobe. ‘Now, I gotta run. See you tonight.’

‘No, Maxine. I’m not just saying it. I’m proud that you’re successful. I’m proud of the long hours you put in at work and the big pay cheque you bring home. And I’m sorry it’s harder to be proud of me. I’m sorry you have to say it without meaning it.’

‘David? What’s gotten into you?’ Her hand ruffled the
short hairs on the back of my head.

I straightened the knot of my tie. ‘No matter what happens, I want you to know I don’t resent your success. I don’t resent you in the least. I have nothing but esteem for you, Maxine. Esteem and undying love.’

She looked at the clock on her Blackberry. She smiled, as one might smile at a kitten in the window of a pet store.

‘Go,’ I told her. ‘You’ll be late.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Okay, but we’ll talk more tonight.’

‘Go,’ I said cheerfully.

Dear Maxine,

I am in Guayaquil. I didn’t know until I was checking in for my flight from Santiago (Chile) to Guayaquil (Ecuador) that the city is actually pronounced
Why-a-kill.
Sounds ominous, but don’t worry. You’ll read a lot of warnings on the internet about crime in the city, but it appears things have been cleaned up in recent years. The promenade along the river (Malecón 2000) looks like something you’d find on the Gold Coast, except with people selling exotic fruit from wooden carts. Not a knife to be seen. I haven’t even been offered cocaine yet.

Why am I in
Why-a-kill
?

Short answer: It’s the gateway to the Galapagos Islands.

Long answer: I’m sure you can piece it together. You are the perceptive one, after all.

I’m due to fly to the Galapagos tomorrow. Already seen plenty of iguanas here. I’ve seen one crawl out of a drain, another fall from a tree. They walk around like stray dogs,
though they have those too.

I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch sooner, but with all the flights and crossing the dateline and the language barrier …

I should have brought a phrase book with me. You would have insisted on bringing one.

Did you know the Panama hat actually originated in Ecuador? You probably did. I remember vaguely hearing that myself once. What surprised me was the fact the women here still wear them. Standard dress for females over forty is brightly coloured skirt over brightly coloured skirt over brightly coloured skirt (…), nondescript blouse under black shawl and white, drug baronesque Panama hat.

I needed to do this by myself. Please understand.

When I got to the airport this morning I couldn’t find the check-in desk for Aero Islas. I bought an English–Latin American Spanish phrasebook and walked around asking
¿
Donde es Aero Islas
?
People smiled blankly or brushed past me like I wasn’t there. The staff of other airlines humoured me (I suspect they understood English just fine) and pointed to corners of the terminal which turned out to be vacant.

I came across a man of light complexion wearing tan shorts, a loud floral shirt and an exasperated expression equal to mine.

‘Are you looking for Aero Islas?’ I asked.

‘It’s as if it doesn’t exist,’ he said.

‘Do you speak Spanish?’

‘No, but I understand some.’

We teamed up, and eventually found a sign for Aero Islas leaning against a shut-up office by the sales counters. I picked up the sign and we walked over to the LAN airlines desk.

‘
¿
Donde es Aero Islas?
’ I asked, shaking the sign.

The woman behind the counter shook her head. She said something in Spanish and I looked at my friend in the floral shirt.

‘She says the airline is closed.
¿Cerrado?
’ he asked the woman for confirmation.

‘
Cesado. Terminado
. No more.’

‘But we have tickets.’

She shrugged.

‘I only booked my flight on Friday,’ I said.

‘Goodness,’ my friend said. ‘Very sudden,’ he said slowly to the woman. ‘
Muy rapido
.’

‘
Esto es Ecuador.
’ This is Ecuador. A phrase I won’t forget in a hurry.

The only other airlines flying to the Galapagos are AeroGal and TAME. All their flights are full until next Tuesday. One week away. Robert, my friend in the floral shirt, booked his seat then and there.

On the plane from New Zealand all I could think about was getting to the Galapagos, finding and confronting charles. [email protected]. I’d booked a five-day tourist cruise around the islands, as it seemed a waste to go all that way and not see the wildlife. But standing in the Guayaquil airport, the cruise became the complicating factor. I decided to hold off booking another flight to Baltra until I’ve spoken to my cruise operator. It would seem an easy place to get stranded.

Esto es Ecuador.

The tour company will not refund my money, but travel insurance should reimburse me. Tried booking another cruise for next week, then found all of Tuesday’s aeroplane seats have been taken.

Walked along the Malecón again. Easier to see the grime between the paving. Seats with bolts missing. At sunset: plenty of bulbs need replacing. The west bank of the river is clogged with bright green weed. The water itself is somewhere between mud and tinted windscreens.

The food? Well, I had a nice empanada from a street vendor. Waiting for the dysentery to hit. Many English language channels on the TV in my hotel room. Not quite what I travelled around the world for.

I was robbed today. The highlight of my trip so far. It wasn’t a local but another gringo like me. He held an iguana under his arm like a sawn-off shotgun and threatened me with it.

‘These things carry dozens of diseases,’ he said. His scrappy beard was flecked with grey hairs. ‘Fancy a bout of salmonella?’

The iguana was thrust at me, its mouth slightly open. I wasn’t sure if it was yawning or snarling. The man hopped from one foot to the other. His cheeks filled with air.

I pitied him. Wondered what comedy of errors had led him to this moment. I gave him all the US dollars in my wallet. There but for the grace of God, and all that.

‘Thanks abundant,’ the thief said, bending forward in a kind of bow. The iguana dipped with him, its mouth still agape.

Having nothing of value left on my person I walked to Las Peñas to see the colonial architecture. Surprising. Fresh paint like the Malecón, but locals walking around instead of gringos. Ordered my entire lunch using the phrase book, then remembered I had no cash. The waitress smiled, told me where to find an ATM. When I returned, all three courses of my
almuerzo
were waiting for me. Popcorn is big here. They put it in their soups, eat it with ceviche. Different. Delicious. No stomach upsets as yet. I should say No
enfermo de estómago.

My wildlife cruise around the Galapagos Islands left this morning with me still on the mainland. Me still in bed, actually. Couldn’t face another trip to the airport to be disappointed. Another phone call to the tour operator. Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I will sort it all out. Only then could I get out of bed.

Walked along the Malecón, eating fried plantain chips. Who should I spy but the thief from yesterday. He was walking along the promenade looking in rubbish bins, the iguana tucked up under his arm.

I followed.

He stopped at one of the fruit vendors, fished some coins out of his pocket and bought a large, misshapen fruit with dull green skin. He sat down on a bench, placed the iguana
down beside him, removed a knife from his trouser pocket and began cutting into the fruit.

‘If you have a knife,’ I said, ‘why use the iguana?’

He bit into the white flesh of the fruit, but needed to suck and pull to free it from the skin. ‘Confusion,’ he said and licked his lips. He looked at me. ‘Everyone knows what a knife can do.’

‘What is that?’ I asked.

‘This?’ He held up the fruit. ‘
Chirimoya, guanábana
, soursop, custard apple.’

‘Which is it?’

‘Depends where you are.’

He cut a slice as you would from a watermelon and passed it to me. ‘Try it.’

‘I guess I did pay for it,’ I said.

He exposed his maize-coloured teeth, his pointed incisors. The iguana seated next to him lifted its head, closed and opened its nostrils.