Ship’s a day away from Cuba. Almost two years after the revolution there. Carries lots of medical supplies originally bound for America, guns, launchers, plane and truck parts it hadn’t registered in England. Len tells Alex he’ll see he gets a good job and apartment and a fine-looking wife if he stays. “If you want, of course, fly back to New York day after we dock in Havana. Or Habana. Might as well get it right from the start. But why go back? You’ll live much better there than in the States and for a quarter of the money. Good food, cheap rum, great cafés, unbeatable natural scenery. Gorgeous, excitable, intelligent people, weather couldn’t be better, and soon free bread. Stay put. Write up a storm for fifteen years, then let the world see it. Most of the modern writers I’ve read rushed, rushed, rushed and were eaten up. Or twenty years, twenty-five. You’ll be the rare writer with a self-imposed postapprenticeship like that. And you’ll be right smack in the heart of a historical hot time, one the whole world’s noticing, but who the hell cares about that, right?” Alex likes most of the idea. Sees many women, marries, children, after awhile only speaks Spanish. His wife’s a doctor, professor. He builds houses, writes mornings, nights, days off. Misses his parents, brothers, sister. Periodically he wants to write them, call. Things get worse between the two countries, invasion, blockade, harder times. He’s told if he wants to leave, do it now, but without his family. He may also write to the States, but phone connections are finished. By now his parents must think he’s dead. Gotten over it. His whole family. Or maybe they haven’t, but he just doesn’t want to have anything to do with the life he had there. Is that it? Misses them all, but no one and nothing else. He wasn’t too happy there, he was also something of an adventurer, and now kind of likes it that everyone thinks the ship sank and he’s dead. Years. His father’s probably dead. Sick before, he couldn’t have lasted that much longer. If his mother’s also dead he’s sure he helped her go faster than she would have. For that he’s very sorry. There’s more. Knows the pain he caused but didn’t want to go back or let anyone know he was alive. Why? The first is easy to explain. In addition to what he’s said, he’d never go back without his family. But the other thing… probably because he wanted a new life, or a much different one then, with as little past as possible, a new name, even, though doesn’t quite know why. Why? Maybe it comes as close as possible to starting completely over and being someone else, with almost no past — but he’s said all that — no family scrutinizing what he’s doing, thinking they have the license to comment about and possibly try to change his actions, but that’s all. Is that it then? No. Not quite. Maybe doesn’t even come close. He just — how can he say this without repeating himself, with something that really gets it? He doesn’t know why he did it, and if he does know, why he continued doing it. He’s talking about not letting them know he was alive. Maybe he never really loved them that much. Never thought of that. But after about fifteen years he hardly thought of them anymore. After twenty-five years he maybe thought of two or three of them for a half-minute or so once or twice a year. They’d flash in, he’d think “I know you,” “I recognize her,” “That was Howard when he was a scrawny kid,” “Vera before she got sick,” “My father with one of his big cigars,” they’d flash out. About once every five years or so he got a little heartsick thinking of them, feeling awful about what he’d done, knowing that the ones still alive must think of him more often and much longer than he does them…. No, ship’s going down. Alarms, sirens, gail wind sounds, maybe hurricane winds. Worse than hurricane winds if there is anything like that. Lightning, thunder, violent rain. Never been in such a storm, heard of one. Can’t find a lifeboat or anyone on board. Moves around the ship best he can, holding on all the time so he won’t be thrown along a passageway, down a stairway, off the ship. Everyone seems gone. All the boats either smashed by the storm or in the water, some with men in them probably, though he didn’t see any of the boats go over and he can’t see them now and nobody answers his shouts. He didn’t understand the alarm system. It’s been explained to him and they even had a quick drill, but when he heard the different bells and sirens going he couldn’t tell which meant what. Asked some of the men below what the alarms meant and what he should do, where he should go, but they just shouted in Spanish at him or acted hysterically and pointed their battery lamps several different ways, one of them down, though they were on the lowest deck. Maybe the man meant the ship was going down, but he couldn’t speak a word of English or was unable to then and Alex couldn’t make himself understood in Spanish to him. He tried following two of them but lost them going through the ship. Couldn’t find Len. Went to his cabin; empty. Ship’s tipping up. He has to hold on to the railing or fall off the ship. Waves his flashlight and yells out to the water “Help, it’s Alex, the American, Americano, Captain Len’s friend, there’s no one here, I have to get on a lifeboat right away.” If he jumps he’ll die almost the second he hits the water. “If you’re lucky, that is,” Len had said. “If you’re unlucky it might take two minutes of the worst pain and dread imaginable, two to three, longer for the well-insulated or very fat guy. The shock of the frigid water and because you won’t be able to keep your neck above even with a lifejacket on. Or the greatest ecstasy, maybe, but that won’t last long.” Ship tips up again. He keeps yelling for help, waving the flashlight. Ship points straight up. He’s practically standing perpendicular to the deck, holding on tight as he can, flashlight falls to the water, when a wave smacks him, another one and another and he loses his grip and falls. Doesn’t want to survive the fall. He’s underwater, comes up. Water so cold he’s screaming in pain, then yells “Help, hombre here, in water,
agua, agua, save me, drowning.” Sick in the stomach, throws up. Takes in a mouthful of water when he does. Goes under a little, comes up. Spikes in his head, legs feel chopped off. It’s all lost, he thinks. I can’t take it. Hands so numb he can’t unstrap his jacket. Straps loosen enough and he slips out of it, blows out his breath and lets himself go down. For a few seconds, while he’s going down, his mind whirls around, stops on a picture of his parents. It’s from an old photo.