The Reef (31 page)

Yana Speaking

On these pages I feel the need to write everything down in some fancy prose, but I think the bare facts say more than a false style ever can in this instance. Besides, I know that if I exaggerate, I’ll lose the essence of this island. I’ll loose the sense of place.

So, in simple, clear words then:

I am lying on my front, my cheek touching the white sand. Before me, the sea stretches. I am at Mnebu Bay, and everything is bright. Each drop of water sparkles. It’s simply too hot to move. Maybe it’s my current health, or maybe it’s the island, but everything is so sensual.

I think it’s the island.

It’s mid morning and the wind is enough to stop me from sweating. My skin still tingles from the heat. I can see little fishing boats coming in. The men are silhouettes, and there are at least four shades of blue that merge with one another. And there is every wave spilling up the beach, receding then being overtaken again.

Repeat and fade, I could stay here forever.

We’ve been here a few days and everything has gone wrong. I did not anticipate returning to Escha with a child. I did not anticipate returning to Escha a single woman, either, but both ideas appeal now I come to think about it. I like the idea of having a child. I can’t pretend that I’ve never wanted one. Santiago thinks I’ve been lucky to escape so far. He’s not overly fond of children, poor Becq. All my friends and family have had them. I remember my sister, Yvena, telling me, when she first had Estella, the little thing cried all through the night. She cried so loud that Yvena couldn’t sleep. When Estella stopped crying, Yvena had said, the silence was so blissfully intense. I want that, I want that very much. I’m putting on weight and I love it. I look down at my stomach and know that I’m creating something, and that I love him or her very much.

Of course, telling Manolin will be something altogether more difficult. I still can’t tell him and I’m not sure what he’s going to say. I’ll also have to let Becq know, too. She’s not going to like the fact that the ‘untouchable’ :tYIanolin succumbed to this old woman’s charms. She’ll be clinging on to her doll for a little while longer. Santiago insists I tell him and everyone as soon as I can. He’s cornered me several times. I can’t see why he’d want me to ruin Manolin’s life though. It seems strange that someone who has helped another so much would want to cause them such a problem like this.

Manolin has been freed from the city since we’ve arrived. Quite right, too, as he’s had a lot to deal with. The island has turned him into something of a free spirit, unlikely to be claimed by anyone, let alone Becq. She’d be no good to him anyway, and he’ll never want her. He’s

one of those men will only stay in a masochistic relationship, like his last one. He’s the sort that does not like the responsibility of making a decision. I remember days like that.

I’ve learned more about people, but look at the idiot I ended up with: Jefry. Of course, I’ll get the negative spin from it. He’s so kind and so gentle. ‘How could you do that to him?’ Thing was, he never got me
ex&ited.
At least Manolin, for the brief moment it was (not his fault, he claimed), made me feel like a
woman.
J efry has always been so predictable. I wanted to feel a surge of something, of simply anything, race through me. Is it a crime to be bored by things? Should a marriage just turn to being distant acquaintances; saying good mornings at the breakfast table does not constitute love and affection.

He stayed the night in a hut on the north of the island. The doctor thought he needed time to think. Perhaps I am being too harsh, but sometimes you have to be. He joined us again in the morning and acted as if little has happened. He even spoke to Manolin, although I could see the look in J ef’s eyes. I could see it clearly, because I’ve never seen it before.

I hate to say it, but I think him being a rumel affects me greatly, the older I get. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. It’s not the sort of thing to be said these days. Initially there was this excitement of him being non human. And I know my mother never approved, which gave our nights a certain zest. He was never a great lover, not that these things matter in the long run, but it was certainly different: feeling his tough skin upon mine; feeling that tail wrap me up. But I guess no one likes to hear the same song endlessly.

I’m confident it’s over. I feel, quite simply, nothing but sympathy for Jefry. This baby provides me with the ultimate escape. I don’t want a relationship with Manolin, either. Wouldn’t want to lumber him with an old thing like me anyway! I can do this on my own. He’d run a mile anyway. No, this child is simply mine.

It’s a gift.

I’m bored with geology. I don’t care what constitutes the sedimentary layers here. I don’t care where there are geological faults. I should’ve given this up a long time ago. Santiago bores me. Jefry bores me. Everything is so frightfully dulL If it weren’t for my beloved lump I’d probably run off with one of these native men. They’re so awfully generous and so sensuaL

Sensual: I think that is most definitely the word to describe the island. This is all getting more like one of those ghastly diary entries now. And how self-aware can one get? I’ll continue sensibly.

One forgets about the city and remembers what it is to touch and feel and smell and taste and hear. I was talking to Mghuno, one of the village

men this morning. He was hauling his boat on to the beach and took a bundle of fish to his family. He was manly and brown, too. He did everything so slowly, as if he had forever to do it in, and I watched him for some time. He is so gende and strong. He speaks to me as if I’m a deity. Perhaps these sun-kissed men think that of a pale woman such as myself-I’m the exotic to them, after alL

There are so many things I could write about: the colours, the smells, the weather, the people, the forest, the reef. The ichthyocentaur: now they
are
an interesting lot. So peacefuL I can’t understand why anyone wants them dead. They are killed so brutally, too. Such a ghasdy vision. I know Santiago is planning something. He is an observant man. I think he’s been frightfully nice about everything-the baby and my situation. He wants to use one as bait, to flush out the beasdy things that are doing the killing. I’m not sure what I make of it. In essence it is does the job, but think of the poor creature being dangled out, waiting to be killed with just our weapons to protect it.
It
is so risky. I don’t want any of them to come to harm. They’re quite loveable, and just simply remarkable. It’s insane to think that these creatures were thought extinct, and that we’re here, with them, touching them.

And Santiago wants to play with their life? I’m really not so sure. That’s just my opinion. I don’t want to get into politics.

Anyway, I shouldn’t write of frightening things like that, I should stay here, with my book and my pencil, and concentrate about what really matters because it’s all here for me to see. Or, failing that, I’ll turn over and let my back get a litde browner.

I can do both.

I woke up sunburnt. There is a crab that has just crawled out of a shallow pool; I am redder than the damn thing. Sometimes I think I might be too harsh on Jefry. I guess over the years I’ve just become bitter, progressively.
It
happens. Some people are shocked when suddenly they wake up one morning, look across at their partner and suffer a stab of regret. The partner has given up; lost their charm. They no longer make any effort. Is it intentional, or do they simply forget? That’s when people have long affairs; flings with someone who can provide comfort, a welcoming touch.

I remember when I met Jefry I felt a surge of excitement, and I knew it would of course one day go away, but I had hoped it would develop into something else. That was back in the days when it really was frowned upon for a human and a rumeL Legal, yes, but there was an unspoken essence in the city, the kind of talk that happens only behind backs. It’s not wrong, in my opinion, for that to provide excitement. We are all attracted to things that are different. When a man with another accent walks into a foreign community, he is viewed with suspicion, but he is surrounded by an allure. It happens everywhere. But for that man to be of a different physiology, well, that certainly had people talking.

He used to be so nice to me. I’m not someone who accepts grand gestures because, quite frankly, that is too predictable. It’s the most warming feeling to have someone ask how my day went, or to have him run a bath for me. It made me feel secure. And that is important, despite what anyone says. For me, I need security. Or I once did, at least.

Sometimes I think that being on this island is not all good. It is alarmingly dislocating. Home equals comfort; and it is amazing how that makes me feel. Being here where I’m not in my own bed, where I’m not eating the comfort foods I’m used to, where I can’t chat to my friends or family; it makes me crave someone’s attention so badly. I feel like a small girl again, who is restless when she is not back at home.

I’m not sure ifJefry can make me feel happy anymore. I know that in reality one should not rely upon anyone else for happiness, but it’s easily forgotten. It’s a basic human desire. I suppose being rational won’t help anything. I suspect making lists of good and bad points will do little to help. I should see if that unspoken
thing
is there, whatever it’s meant to be. None of this makes sense. Looking back over these words, all I can see is that I’m really confused. Nothing makes sense, nothing seems structured. I’d rather hoped that writing everything down would be beneficial, but all I’ve done is worked myself into paranoia.

Nineteen

Three days passed and no more ichthyocentaurs were killed. The doctor had agreed to Santiago’s plan. That night they would use one of the creatures as bait. Forb spent the morning talking to some of the elder ichthyocentaurs. They had agreed, and were cautious, but Forb had described the extent of the weapons at their disposal.

The team continued their studies. Manolin and Becq focussed on the ichthyocentaurs. Yana and Santiago, with Jefry’s help, had built up a geological and physiological profile. Jefry had sampled soils from various points of the island. Scientifically, they were coming to the conclusion that they were on paradise.

Yana was continually silent. For hours at a time she did not speak at all to Jefry. Manolin could tell something was wrong, but he was enjoying the island too much. He dined with Forb, Myranda and Lewys as often as he could. Manolin had great trouble hiding his feelings for the doctor’s wife. He felt it odd that the doctor and Myranda must have both known about it, too. He sat with Myranda whilst Forb went for his morning surf. They talked about nothing that mattered. Manolin had his suspicions that the doctor, on seeing this, had extended his surfing each morning. Manolin and Myranda talked for longer each day. They would sit, on some remote part of the beach. She would perch on a rock, her hands in her lap and she would look down and smile when he asked about her past. She said there was nothing to tell. To Manolin that was beautiful.

She would walk slowly. Everything she did was mindful. She had no desire to understand Manolin’s scientific rigour, but she always listened. She did not ask about his past, and it seemed to him that there was no need to discuss the past in their culture. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the present moment. Manolin appreciated this fact: his ex-wife had extracted, with precision and strain, every detail of his life. When he came to think of it, all his girlfriends had. They wanted to know who he had had dinner with, whom he had kissed. They would bleed out the details, hurting themselves and, he despaired, they would make him feel bad for it.

On Arya, none of that seemed to matter. Life was a totally different creature here.

Santiago, after a few days’ exploration, became well acquainted with Arya. With the help of some of the villagers, he began to collect specimens. There were a few good butterllies, and countless beetles of which he had no record. Nets were held under trees in the middle of the forest while he threw up a little gas bomb, which exploded, then the plume knocked out hundreds of insects. They fell stunted to the nets. Santiago marvelled as he recognised none of them, clasping his hands together in an exclamation. The villagers would carry his samples back to the ship every evening.

He kept a close eye on Calyban and Soul. He did not trust them, wondered why they were even on the island. He would follow them on their daily constitutional to the north of the island, where for a brief section, the beach encroached a rocky shore. There, water gurgled in crevices, and the island had a different tone. He watched them as they sat on the rocks scanning the horizon with their telescope. Occasionally they would stop and converse with a few of the islanders, then, when the conversation had finished, they would take notes. The two of them always walked together.

The doctor found Santiago slouched in a hammock on the edge of the village, nestled between to palm trees, his right hand hanging down to a bamboo cup of water. His top hat was pushed over his eyes.