The sleeping part’s hard. I’ve got so much to think about, so much I’d like to write about. But Sven’s right. We need sleep. I think I can hear his van driving up. The light has to be off when Theo comes in. I’ll stop now.
17
“Sweet,” Jola said, and jumped aboard.
The Aberdeen is a converted fishing cutter, nine meters long, with a small cabin, two single berths, and all-wood construction. Nineteen sixties diesel engine, seventy-five horsepower, six knots. Although it was still dark, Jola inspected the helm stand while I unloaded the steel cylinders from the van. The VW’s headlights illuminated the quay. We were the only people in sight. The Marina Rubicón was still asleep. Unlike Puerto Calero, this harbor contained no luxury yachts; instead there were little vacation vessels, family boats, small, trim cutters — a floating campground in the last minutes of nighttime peace. A narrow streak of dawn appeared behind the promontory.
“Only radar and radio?”
I handed her the bag with the portable devices: depth sounder, GPS, chartplotter. She gave a satisfied nod and started to set things up. I lugged aboard my dive suit, stage tanks, and chests with other accessories. Theo sat on a bench a little apart and dedicated himself to transpiring alcohol.
“Almost exactly four kilometers southwest of here? So about twenty-nine north, fourteen west?”
Jola was good. Very good. The wreck lay at latitude 28°50′33.8″ north, longitude 13°51′8″ west. I gave her the exact coordinates and felt myself relax. Jola was wearing jeans and a checkered shirt and moving about with great assurance, as if she sailed the Aberdeen on the Atlantic Ocean every day. I believed I could rely on her ability. Theo, staring off in another direction, lit his third cigarette.
I find that day difficult to describe. My memories aren’t like a coherent, linear film; they’re individual images, still shots, like a puzzle with half the pieces missing. At the same time, every single detail is probably important right now. Herr Fiedler, do you really think we’re interested in the horsepower of an old fishing cutter? Don’t you think we’d rather hear about the impression Frau von der Pahlen made on you on the morning of November 23, 2011? The allegations you’ve brought us are very grave, Herr Fiedler! Give us a chance to believe you! Was Frau von der Pahlen different from usual? Did she act despondent? Aggressive? Hysterical? Come, come, Herr Fiedler, you can surely offer us a few descriptive words. This cannot be so difficult!
But it is. Jola was always “different,” every day; with her, there was no “usual.” If I honestly ask myself whether anything struck me on that particular morning, whether I could have known or at least sensed what would happen in the next several hours, I must answer with a clear “No.” It’s possible I wasn’t paying sufficient attention. I might have been concentrating too hard on the upcoming dive. On going over my equipment, which I checked at least five more times. As far as I noticed, Jola acted neither despondent nor aggressive. Maybe a little too chirpy. Which, after the events on the Dorset, wouldn’t have surprised me — had it crossed my mind to give any thought to such matters. Above all, she struck me as being in a very good mood. She seemed to be looking forward to our adventure. It was obvious that the Aberdeen gave her great pleasure; it was as if she was finally in her true element. And I liked the way she looked in jeans and a work shirt. Even more, actually, than the way she’d looked in her evening dress.
As soon as she was finished installing the navigation devices, Jola jumped onto land, pulled Theo off the bench, and sang, “Sailing, sailing, over the bounding main,” in his face. He lurched into motion, grumbling, a burned-down cigarette clamped between his pale lips. The previous night, I’d needed a full hour to tear him away from his audience. He couldn’t retell the tale of Jola’s defeat often enough. How she’d spent the past weeks preparing for the role of Lotte Hass. How she’d read books, taken a diving course, even pinned a photograph of the lady in question to the wall over her bed. How she’d made her future, her happiness, and her very self dependent on being allowed to play Lotte. And now: Yvette Stadler. Theo didn’t seem to notice how embarrassing his behavior was. Or didn’t care. He told us again and again that it was the end of Jola. The end of arrogance and pride. From now on, he said, she’d be nothing but grateful if someone should volunteer to attend her slow decline. Her daily aging into insignificance. He, Theo, was prepared to perform that service. He could imagine no finer occupation than observing and documenting Frau von der Pahlen’s disintegration. Preferably over the course of decades. The slower and more excruciating, the better. In the end, Theo said, he would turn this story into the novel of the century. A thousand-page metaphor for an undignified age. Only Thomas Mann’s Buddenbrooks would be comparable to it in scope and importance. This evening was the end of Jola and the beginning of a tragic masterpiece.… Theo kept talking like a maniac. At some point, I grabbed him under the arms and pulled him off his chair. I didn’t so much support as carry him up the steep stairs. Corpses and drunks are heavy when they’re not floating in water.
Now Jola cried out, “Come on, old man! You of all people should try to enjoy our little excursion. You don’t have much time left.”
I figured this was a joking reference to his alcohol and tobacco consumption, but Theo seemed to take Jola’s words literally. “What does that mean?” he asked. “Time for what?”
They were facing each other, standing near the quay’s edge. Swaying a little on the brink of the abyss, I thought. Their favorite position.
“For taking boat trips,” said Jola. “After all, you’re flying home on Saturday.”
“And you aren’t?”
For the next few seconds, we stared at Jola as if she were an oracle about to deliver the final pronouncement on our fates. I suddenly imagined, with crystal clarity, what it would be like if she should disappear into the sky above the airport on Saturday afternoon. She’d be at my side — and a moment later she’d be gone, vanished, as if she’d never existed.
Jola raised her nose to the wind and gave her verdict: “North, eleven knots. Ideal conditions. Like sailing on a duck pond.”
She saw the looks on our faces and laughed. Then she jumped back on deck, verified that my gear was loaded on board, and started the diesel engine. A few minutes later, we reached the end of the breakwater and chugged out into the open sea. A little to the east, the first ferry to the neighboring island was getting under way. Theo sat on the bow, waiting for the invigorating effects of the north wind. Jola stood at the helm. She didn’t look as though she needed any additional tips from me. I left it up to her to hold the course and started my diving preparations. The trip out wouldn’t take more than an hour, and for starters, the urinary sheath required several minutes. Sitting on deck with my back against the wheelhouse, I rolled down my swimming trunks and slowly massaged myself until I reached the proper degree of stiffness. I dedicated the utmost care to fitting the sheath and applying the adhesive tape. If the sheath slipped off, I’d have no choice in the coming hours but to pee in my wet suit. On the other hand, I’d been in the Red Sea with an experienced diver who suffered a contusion of the ureter because he’d taped too tightly. Eighty meters down, he was seized by the most fearsome pains. A quick ascent to the surface was not an option, not at that depth. Never. Not at eighty meters, and most certainly not at a hundred. As my army diving instructor used to say, when you’re deep underwater, you’ve got a glass ceiling above your head. You solve your problems down there or not at all. I knew enough stories about people who’d died while on dives. In most cases, it wasn’t even possible to track down what had gone wrong. I preferred to go over every detail twenty times and come back up alive.