“But, Bernie, why won’t—”
The conversation was interrupted, because Bernie had hung up. I tried to call him back, but he didn’t answer. I went up the last steps to the deck, stood next to the mast, and stared into space. In front of this space was a section of the ship’s rail. Jola was leaning against it, looking at me. She too had a telephone in her hand, and she held out the illuminated screen so I could see it. For a moment I imagined Bernie had also called her to cancel the expedition.
“Text message from my father,” Jola said. “Bittmann’s right. Stadler got the part.”
So much for that, I thought. Weeks of preparation, all for nothing. I had no chance of finding people to replace Dave and Bernie on such short notice. And December would bring the winter currents, which would make it impossible to reach the wreck. At a stroke, my whole project was dead. Deferred until some future date that, try though I might, I couldn’t imagine would ever come. I didn’t even know what the following days would bring. The following week. I felt my life disintegrating into its component parts. For months I’d envisioned celebrating my fortieth birthday, my personal farewell to the first half of my existence, at a depth of one hundred meters. Having to abandon that plan undermined everything else. I didn’t have the slightest idea why Bernie had canceled at the last minute like that. All I knew was I couldn’t rely on anything anymore.
Jola put her cell phone away. Side by side, we leaned on the rail and looked out at the massive breakwater formed by the lower edge of the night sky. A cold wind snatched at us from all sides. I wanted to put my jacket around Jola’s shoulders and discovered I wasn’t wearing one; at some point in the course of the evening, I must have taken the coat off and hung it on the back of my chair. Everything struck me as unreal. The Dorset wasn’t a normal ship; she was a seafaring piece of Germany. And that was the way I felt: German. Overburdened, disoriented, disgusted by the world.
“Is something wrong?” Jola asked.
I told her about Bernie’s call, and she laughed sardonically. “So we’ve both had the ground under our feet yanked away. Me a little more than you, maybe. But I’m not so sure about that.”
There weren’t many people who could recognize another’s misery alongside their own. For a while we were silent, gazing out to sea. Then the five minutes began, the five minutes I’ve gone over in my mind again and again during the past several weeks. Never before have I regretted such a short span of time for so long. Jola seized my arm, looked me in the face, and said, “We’ll do it tomorrow.”
I didn’t grasp what she meant at first, though I felt the effect of her smile. It crossed my mind that I’d come up on the deck to comfort her. To help her gather up the shards of her life and build a new life out of them. I took her in my arms. From that moment on, my body made all the decisions itself. Instead of patting her consolingly, I pressed her against me and kissed her throat. She shoved me away so that she could keep looking at me. “You’re diving down to your wreck,” she said. “Theo and I will sail the Aberdeen.”
My arms took hold of her again. Now my body was asserting its claim. My fingers slid over the sheer fabric of her nearly nonexistent dress. Her scent was a spinning whirlpool, drawing me downward. I wondered fleetingly whether I’d ever mentioned to her that Dave’s cutter was called the Aberdeen.
“Such a load of shit.” Jola turned but didn’t pull away. “With the old man as master of ceremonies. The devil.” She gave a cooing laugh. “A devil. That’s what he is. Nothing more and nothing less.”
I’d lost the thread and no longer knew what she was talking about. Which didn’t bother me. While those seconds were passing, there were a great many things I had no interest in. Things that no longer existed for me. The night. The boat. The wind. Past and future. As though they’d all been obliterated. I had Jola’s dress hiked up around her hips, and she, half shoving, half carrying me, maneuvered us onto the foredeck, where two large chests stood.
“What time does it start?”
I paused. She’d stiffened her back. Obviously, she was waiting for an answer to her question. I said, “What?”
“The expedition.”
“Fuck the expedition,” I said.
“No!” Jola shook her head so hard that a strand of her artfully braided hair came loose. “The expedition is still on! Lotte Hass is all over for me, nothing can be done about that. But your diving expedition, that’s really going to happen. Now more than ever. Do you understand?” She was getting louder. “I’m … we’re not giving up!”
Very slowly, it was becoming clear to me that she was serious. “I don’t have a crew for tomorrow,” I said.
“Theo and I will be your crew.”
I lowered my hands. “That won’t work, Jola. You need experience for such a thing.”
“I was steering ships before I could walk. Do you really think a cockleshell like that’s going to be a problem for me?”
“The wreck’s several kilometers offshore. In that kind of expedition, I’m putting my life in the hands of my crew.”
“And you’d rather trust the asshole who just left you high and dry? Rather than me?”
Jola twisted her fingers into my hair. Despite the wind, her hands were surprisingly warm. Her face came nearer. Eyes, nose, lips, all in close-up. Like a flash, I had the feeling I’d gone through that scene once already.
“The crew has to watch the surface of the water every second,” I said. “They have to read the wind. Interpret the current.”
Her skirt still up around her waist, Jola sat down on the lid of one of the chests. She leaned back a little; her knees shot out and clamped my hips right and left. Her panties had a silvery sheen. I slipped two fingers under them and watched myself lift up the fabric.
“Child’s play,” Jola said.
She was dry. I thought nothing of it at the time. I pulled the silvery material completely to one side, went down on one knee, and separated the folds of skin with my tongue. She laid her hands on my ears. Now it would happen. It had to happen. It was why Antje had left me. It was why the whole island looked at me funny. It was something that fate had long since made a supposition, so attributing it retroactively to fate seemed imperative. Everyone has a right to logic. Jola’s hands pressed against my head as though she intended to crush my skull.
“Will you take us with you, Sven?”
I stood up and kissed her. I wanted her to taste herself.
“Sven! The expedition!”
She wasn’t wearing a bra. My lips effortlessly found her nipples under the fabric of her dress. I braced her tailbone with one hand and with the other unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans.
“We’ll get it done tomorrow, the three of us together?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Seriously, Sven!”
“Yes, dammit.”
“Do you promise? Do you swear?”
“Yes.”
There was nothing behind her for me to lean her against. I would have to hold her good and tight to keep from knocking her off the chest. By the time I’d concluded that train of thought, she was already standing two meters away. Her dress hung smoothly, right down to her ankles. She looked perfect. Except for the loosened strand of hair and the two wet spots on her breast.
“Come here,” I said fatuously.
She observed my cock, which was poking out of my open pants. “We should get some rest,” she said.
“Please.”
“Look at your watch.”
I was so confused, I obeyed her. Ten after twelve.
“Happy birthday, Sven.”
She stepped close to me again and kissed me. I briefly felt her fingers on my stomach.