The Memory of Eva Ryker (7 page)

He opened the file on the counter and picked through the pages as if they were delicate lace panties. “Ordinarily our records are not open to public scrutiny but, seeing how Mr. Proctor called and explained …” His voice trailed into a reverent cough.

My fingers pattered on the counter top as his bifocals scanned through the neatly typed papers. Peter Wainwright was his name. Forty-plus and painfully sincere. Every consonant and vowel precisely pronounced through clenched teeth. A pale, pigeon-breasted type the English seem to patent.

“Yes, indeed,” he was saying. “John McFarland did work for us. From twenty-three through forty-seven, actually. First on the
Mauretania
and then the
Queen Mary
.” Wainwright's lips moved like a poor ventriloquist as he read further. Then his head rose from the page. “How did you know that Mr. McFarland was a Cunard employee?”

“Process of elimination,” I said unhelpfully, “and some guesswork.”

“Oh.” The glasses nodded. “Yes. Yes, I see. Well, Mr. Hall, your Mr. McFarland volunteered for special service aboard the
Mary
in nineteen forty-two, when she was converted to transporting troops. After the war, he served on the
Elizabeth
until nineteen forty-seven, when he retired.” Wainwright squinted at the page. “According to our records, Mr. McFarland planned to invest his small pension in an opal mining operation. He told his crew mates that he had already bought property in Coober Pedy, South Australia.”

“How's that again?”

“Coober Pedy. A very small outback town.”

I twisted my head to see the name. “It looks like a typo to me.”

The glasses stared in icy astonishment. “I'm afraid that's just not … possible, sir.”

Wainwright wasn't mistaken. Coober Pedy was for real.

“God, what a hellhole!” said Horace Smedly, the pilot of my chartered Cessna, as he taxied onto runway Twenty-two of Adelaide airport. “And you've picked about the worst time of the year to go there, seeing as how it's the middle of summer. One hundred twenty degrees at least.”

The Cessna roared down the runway. My fingers dug into the seats in a sphincter-loosening reflex as the ground dropped beneath the plane.

Smedly aimed us north, over the eastern shore of Gulf St. Vincent. I raised my voice above the clatter of the engine.

“How about John McFarland? Have you ever met him?”

“Afraid not.” He bucked an updraft as we passed over the giant stacks of Port Pirie's lead-smelting works. “Mainly I just go there to drop people and supplies. It's not a place to linger in. The folks at Coober Pedy pretty much keep to themselves.”

After clearing Port Augusta, the ground beneath the Cessna quickly lost its savanna-brown richness. Within an hour we were flying over jagged foothills resembling immense bleeding gums.

The radio crackled abruptly. “This is Woomera Base. You are entering prohibited airspace. Please identify yourself.”

Smedly grabbed the microphone and stuck it into his toothbrush mustache. “This is Cessna A2038 from Adelaide, heading for Coober Pedy. We've been cleared through the base.”

“Roger. We have your clearance here.” A pause. “We have a report from Alice Springs of a sandstorm headed south. Winds to sixty miles per hour.”

“Roger. Thanks for the warning.” He stashed the mike.

“What was that all about?”

“Just routine. Woomera is a weapons-testing range. Artillery and whatnot. There's also a NASA tracking station out here.”

“I was referring to the sandstorm.”

“Oh that! Nothing to worry about.” He pointed out to the horizon. “Alice Springs is a good five, six hundred miles north. A storm could blow itself out over all that distance. Or it could switch course and veer off toward Queensland, New South Wales—any which way.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “How long do you plan to stay in Coober Pedy, Mr. Hall?”

“Just overnight. We can leave tomorrow morning.”

“Well, if worst comes to worst, the storm might shut the landing strip down for a day or two.”

“Then let's hope the worst doesn't come.”

The Cessna flew on for another hour, the sun rising higher over the bleached limestone arroyos. My eyes ached from the garish Kodachrome blue sky.

Suddenly the boulders and rolling hills vanished as we skimmed over a featureless salt pan which looked like an unimaginably huge sandbox.

“Lake Cadibarrawirracanna.” He relished each syllable. “Been dry for years.”

“So I gathered.”

“Won't be long now.” Smedly lifted the plane for a climb over the Stuart Range. I gazed down at the anonymous scrub clinging to the slopes. Then the engine dropped an octave and the Cessna drooped low over the desert, like a bloodhound on the scent.

Something sparkled in the sand. Another flash of light. And another.

“That's the place,” Smedly pointed. “Those tin roofs make almost as good a beacon as any radio.” He gently eased the nose down. “This Mr. McFarland of yours. How long's he been here?”

“About fifteen years, I guess.”

He shivered at the thought. “Jesus. It takes all kinds. Basically, I've found two types of people in places like Coober Pedy. One is a young man with a wife and kids, full of hope, staking his claim to strike it quick in the mines and get out. Some do hit the money. The ones who miss leave anyway. Adelaide, Perth, Melbourne. Anywhere but here.

“Then there're the type who take root. It's not the promise of money. It's something about this damn desert. It'll dry you out like a smoked ham. People get out here and sit and wait for the world to leave them behind. People who desperately want to escape.”

“Escape from what?”

Smedly tugged at the wheel, bringing the nose up as the dusty landing strip raced to us. Bump, bump, and we were down. He taxied to a waiting Land Rover on the edge of the strip.

“Well, see what John McFarland has to say. Maybe he'll give you the answer.”

John McFarland was definitely type number two.

“Old Johnny?” The driver of the Land Rover yelled in my ear as we bounced between potholes, heading for town. “Yeah, I know him. Been out here as long as I can remember.” His teeth flashed white beneath wraparound sunglasses and a khaki-covered safari hat.

“Has he had much luck in his mines?”

“Guess so. He doesn't talk much about things like that.”

“What about women?” I wiped sweat off my forehead. “Has he lived alone all these years?”

“Just about. John may have done some chippy chasing in his time, but he kept it discreet like. Nothing permanent, anyway.”

I kept quiet as we passed tiny stucco houses and prefab crackerboxes. The road detoured around mobile trailers and low tin-roofed shanties huddled in a clump.

“Downtown,” Horace Smedly said, deadpan.

The Land Rover growled into low as we went over a rise. Then a jog to the right and we idled in front of slanting aluminum doors leading down to a burrow carved from the sandstone. It could almost pass as the entrance to a storm cellar.

“John's place,” the driver said.

“Thanks.” I grabbed my notebook and camera and jumped to the ground, slapping dust from my pants.

“I'll be with Jack.” Smedly gestured at the driver. “They've got a couple of cots ready for us. Anyway, come on over when you're through.”

“Where is it?”

“Not far. Just walk back to town and ask anyone the way.”

Smedly grinned and waved, and the Land Rover was off. I squinted dubiously up at the sun. A sweat river flowed from the middle of my back down to my coccyx. While the dust still settled, John McFarland rose up through the double doors. He was a brown and weathered old redwood. Dressed only in sandals, white shorts, and a dark green baseball cap, he stepped spryly forward, one hand outstretched.

“You must be Norman Hall.” His palm was dry and blistered. “A good guess.”

Blue eyes crinkled. “Only an outsider or a crazy man walks around Coober Pedy in trousers and a sports coat.”

“It was air-conditioned in the plane.”

“Here, too.” He pointed inside. “Come on down and I'll fix you a drink. Then we can talk.”

I went in first, placing each foot carefully as McFarland made mind-your-head motions behind me. Five steps down and I was standing in a neat little living room filled with an old but spotless sofa and chair that would have looked comfortable in the lobby of a postwar Hilton. The ceiling barely scraped the top of my head, making me slouch. Around the corner I saw a tiny kitchen and bedroom. Every cranny gleamed with fanatic care.

McFarland latched the door behind me and climbed down the stairs. “Cozy, isn't it?”

“That I'll admit.”

“It gives some people the creeps,” he laughed. “Claustrophobia and all. But the underground design is pretty efficient for heating and air conditioning. Out here you can't afford to waste power.” Heading for the kitchen, he glanced over his shoulder. “Something to drink? Gin? Scotch? I've got some Hennessey Four-Star that makes pretty good mouthwash.”

“Sold. With ice, please, if you have it.”

McFarland winced. “You Americans and your ice. How many decent bottles of whiskey have been bastardized by that dreadful combination?” As he went around the corner to rattle through his refrigerator, I took the opportunity to check out the room. No paintings or photos. An old Phillips table radio but no
TV.
The room mirrored the guarded facade of its owner.

John McFarland was about five-nine. Neither thin nor fat. A round face with small watchful eyes. White hair clipped short to fuzzy-dandelion length. He could pass for a young seventy. Or an old fifty-five, for that matter. His nonfeatures were already fading from my mind, like the images on an uncoated Polaroid print.

He came around the corner, ice cubes tinkling brightly from one of the two glasses. “Here we are. Take a seat.” He handed me the glass, then raised his own.

“Mr. Hall, I've heard a great deal about you. All that time in the Pacific during the war. And the stories about those goddam island paradises.”

“I believe you're thinking of Michener.”

“Oh.” He took another slug of scotch.

“I wouldn't worry, Mr. McFarland. It's you I want to talk about.”

“You can call me John. Assuming I can call you Norman. Then we'll both save a great deal of tongue twisting.”

“That's fine by me. What I want to know about …”

“I can guess, Norm.” He pointed at the radio. “Once in a while I keep in touch with the outside. And now that radio keeps yammering
‘Titanic, Titanic, Titanic.'
As if one sinking wasn't enough. That goddam bloody Ryker is bringing it up for air.”

“Well, not quite. More like a treasure hunt.”

“Really?” His eyes narrowed. “What's he hope to find?”

“No one really knows.”

McFarland snorted. “No one's really
saying
, you mean.”

“Maybe so. But I'd like to know something about your background on the
Titanic
.”

“What background? We only completed three fourths of a voyage.”

“You must recall something about the ship.”

“Oh, sure. After all, it's my claim to fame.” He smiled ironically. “Staying afloat on the morning of April fifteenth was the most important thing I ever did in my life.”

“What do you remember most?”

“She was beautiful. Elegant.” He raised his hands helplessly. “Not very articulate, am I?”

I didn't answer, hoping my silence would draw out the words.

“It wasn't simply a matter of luxury,” he finally said. “Both of the Queens were posh enough, much like a well-heeled men's club. But the
Titanic
served a very special clientele. English lords. Krupps and Rothschilds. Second-cousin Hapsburgs and Hohenzollerns; an incestuous pack of stuttering bleeders. American robber barons. Astors and Vanderbilts and Whitneys. The White Star Lines planned to build three sister ships to transport the rich in a style even
they
weren't accustomed to. Heavy mahogany furniture. An indoor swimming pool. Carpeting everywhere, growing thick like beige grass. An imitation Parisian cafe, The first was the
Olympic
. Then the
Titanic
. The third ship, the
Britannic
, was sunk during World War One.”

“You don't sound exactly unhappy about what happened.”

“Do you believe in a Divine Plan?”

“No. Not that my belief or disbelief would matter in the long run.”

“Well, I do. The
Titanic
is too beautiful a symbol to be explained any way else. The ship ‘God Himself couldn't sink.' Only He did. Taking all the rich and privileged down with her. A sneak preview of the future, I would say. The friends and relatives of the victims would all go down in her wake once the war broke out.”

“An interesting theory, John. When you have proof let me know.”

“Fortunately, such things are beyond proof,” he said amiably. “What else do you want to know? My daring escape from the sinking ship? It worked, as you can see.”

“Not right yet. I'm interested to know why you came here.”

“No water. Dry land from horizon to horizon.”

“I'd prefer something a little less facile. Like an explanation of what you did from nineteen twelve, after the sinking, to nineteen twenty-three, when you joined Cunard.”

“You've been spying on me.”

“Just looking at your personnel records.”

“The fourteen to eighteen war, mainly. I joined the Navy and served on the
Evan-Thomas
during Jutland. Nearly got my arse torpedoed from under me more times than I can count.”

“What about after the war?”

“My father died and left me some money. I took a few years to run through that.”

“What did he do?”