Canal Dreams

1: Fantasia del Mer

tic tic tic tic… Tiny noises of compression, sounding through her skull.

She'd been alarmed, the first time she'd heard them, over the noise of her breathing and the tinny wheezes of the scuba gear which sat on her back, wrapping its plastic limbs round her and jamming rubber and metal into her mouth. Now she just listened to the ticking noises, imagining they were the signature of some erratic internal metronome; the unsteady beats of a tiny, bony heart.

The noises were her skull's reaction to the increasing weight of water above her as she dived, descending from the unsteady mirror of the surface, through the warm waters of the lake, to the muddy floor and the stumps of the long-dead trees.

She had held a skull once, and seen the minute fissures marking its surface; tiny hairline cracks stretching from side to side and end to end, jagged valleys on an ivory planet. They were called sutures. Plates of bone grew and met while the baby was still in the womb. The bones jammed together and locked, but left one area free so that the infant's head could pass through its mother's pelvis, producing the spot on a baby's head which remained soft and vulnerable until the bones had clasped there too, and the brain was safe, locked in behind its wall.

When she'd first heard the noises in her head, she'd thought it was caused by those bone-plates in her skull pressing harder in against each other, and the noise travelling through those bones to her ears… but then Philippe had disillusioned her; it was the sinuses which produced the faint, irregular clicking sounds.

It came again, like some slow abacus. tic tic tic…

She pinched her nose and blew, equalising the pressure on either side of her eardrums.

Deeper; she followed Philippe down, keeping his slowly stroking flippers a couple of metres in front of her, conscious of her rhythm matching his, her legs moving through the water in time to Philippe's. His white legs looked like stocky, strangely graceful worms; she laughed into the mouthpiece. The mask pressed harder into her face as they continued down. tic tic…

Philippe began to level out. She could see the lake floor clearly now; a crumpled, grey landscape fading slowly away into the gloom. The old tree stumps poked up through the mud, flat eruptions of drowned life. Philippe looked round briefly at her, and she waved, then levelled out too, to follow him along the water-buried surface of the land, over the sliced trunks and the slow bursts of mud produced by his flippers. tic.

The pressures equalised, the column of water above her and the fluids and gases of her body achieving a temporary equilibrium. The warm water moved against her skin in silky folds, and her hair ruffled behind her in the slipstream of her body, stroking the nape of her neck.

Settled into the pace of swimming, balanced and lulled, flying slowly over the slow settlement of a near-century, following the just-tangible turbulence of the man's wake, she let her mind wander.

She felt — as she always did, down here — untied from the commonality of breath that was the air above. Here, however briefly, she was free. It was a freedom with its own many and precise rules — of times and depths, atmospheres and experience, maintained equipment and weights of air and it was a freedom purchased through surrender to the technology that was strapped to her back (clicking and hissing and burbling) but it was freedom. The air in the mouthpiece tasted of it.

Under the waves, with the skull adjusted. Headlong through the warm waters, like an easy and continual birth. Swimming like flying; the one buoyant image of her fear she could accept.

This had been rainforest; the trees had grown in the wind and the sunlight, and trawled the air for clouds and mist. Now they were gone, long turned to planks and rafters and ribs and seats. Perhaps some of the great trees were pulped, and became paper; perhaps some were turned into sleepers for the railways that helped the canal be built; perhaps some formed the buildings in the Zone, and perhaps some became small ships; boats that had plied the lakes. Sunk, their waterlogged timbers would nestle in these shaded depths, rejoined. Maybe some became musical instruments; a cello, even! She laughed to herself again.

She listened for more tics, but heard none.

She followed the man. In a few strokes and kicks, she knew, she could pass and out-distance him. She was stronger than he knew, perhaps she was even stronger than he was… but he was younger; he was a man, and proud. So she let him lead.

In a few minutes, hypnotically over the drowned forest, they came to what had once been a road. Philippe stopped briefly, treading water over the muddied track, raising clouds of soft grime beneath him while he studied the plastic-wrapped map. She drifted nearby, watching his bubbles wobble their way to the surface. His breath.

He put the map back under his T-shirt, nodded down the road and set off. She kept pace. She knew the gesture he'd just made, and knew the sort of grunt that accompanied it; she imagined she'd heard it translated through the water. She followed him, thinking dreamily of whale songs.

Before they found the village, they heard the noise of an engine. She heard it first, and hardly thought about it, though some part of her was trying to analyse the noise, put a name and a key to it. She realised it was engine noise just as Philippe stopped in front of her, looking around and up, and holding his breath. He gestured to his ears, looking at her; she nodded. They stared up.

The shadow of the boat's hull went past, not overhead but a few tens of metres to their right; a long dark shape dragging a twisted thread of bubbles after it. The noise of its passing grew, peaked, then fell away. She looked at Philippe once the boat had passed, and he shrugged; he pointed down the road again. She hesitated, then nodded.

She followed Philippe, but the mood was different now. Something in her wanted to go back to the Gemini. The inflatable they'd set out from was moored a hundred metres away, in roughly the direction the boat had been heading. She had wondered if the noise of the boat would alter after they'd passed, telling her it had slowed and stopped at the Gemini after all, it might look as though it had been abandoned — but the boat seemed to have continued on beyond that, heading for the middle of the lake and the ships anchored there.

She wanted to go back, to return to the Gemini and then to the ships; to find out what that boat was doing, and who was on it.

She didn't know why she felt so nervous, so suddenly full of a low, nagging dread. But the feeling was there. The war might be coming to touch them at last.

The drowned road dipped, and they followed it. tic tic she heard, diving deeper. tic tic, as they swam towards the ruins.

When Hisako Onoda was six her mother took her to a concert in Sapporo; the NHK Orchestra playing works by Haydn and Handel. Hisako Onoda was a restless, occasionally recalcitrant child and her weary mother suspected she'd have to remove the squirming, wriggling, and quietly but insistently complaining child before the end of the first piece, but she didn't. Hisako Onoda sat still, looked straight ahead at the stage, didn't rustle her bag of taka rabukoro, and — instead, incredibly — listened.

When the concert was over she didn't clap with everybody else, but started eating the deep-fried tofu in the bag instead. Meanwhile her mother stood up with everybody else, clapping brightly and happily with small, fast movements of her hands, blinking furiously and gesturing to Hisako to stand and applaud too. The child did not stand, but sat looking around at the politely enthusiastic adults towering everywhere about her with an expression somewhere between mystification and annoyance. When the applause faded at last, Hisako Onoda pointed to the stage and told her mother, 'I would like one, please.

Her mother thought — for one confused moment — that her seemingly gifted but undeniably troublesome and disobedient daughter wanted a Western symphony orchestra of her own. It was some time before she was able, through patient questioning, to discover that what the child wanted was a cello.

The drowned village was wrapped in weeds and mud, like tendrils of some solid, cloying mist. The roofs had all collapsed, caved in on their timbers, tiles lying scattered and ruffled-looking under the wrapping of grey mud. She thought the houses looked small and pathetic. Floating over a broken street, she was reminded of a row of rotten teeth.

The church was the largest building. Its roof seemed to have been removed; there was no wreckage inside the shell. Philippe swam down into it, and trod water above the flat stone table that had been the altar, raising lazy clouds of dust about him like slow smoke. She swam through a narrow window and rubbed one of the walls, wondering if there were any paintings under the film of mud. The wall was dull white, though, unmarked.

She watched Philippe investigate the niches in the wall behind the altar, and tried to imagine the church full of people. The sunlight must have shone on its roof and through the windows, and the people in their Sunday best must have trooped in here, and sung, and listened to the priest, and filed out again, and the place must have been cool in the summer heat, and white and clean. But it was difficult to imagine. The thickness of the underwater light, the monotonous ubiquity of the grey mud, the enfolding quietness of the place, somehow denied the past that had brought the village and the church into existence; it was as though it had always been like this, was always meant to be like this, and the chatter and light of the village — when only the wind had flowed down these streets and around these walls — had been a dream; a brief, breezy, immature little life, before the burying permanence of the water extinguished it.

The noise of an engine drilled through her thoughts. The sound was far away, just audible, and soon faded. She imagined the faint grumble echoing off the muddy walls of the drowned church's shell, the only vestige of music left to the place.

Philippe swam over to her and gestured at his watch; they both struck up for the surface, flippers waving down at the wrecked church beneath them, as though saying goodbye.

The Gemini bounced across Gatún Lake beneath a bright overcast sky, heading for the moored ships. She sat in the bows, slowly drying her hair, watching the three vessels coming closer.

'Perhaps it was the National Guard. She turned round to look at Philippe. 'But it sounded bigger than a Gemini.

'Perhaps. Philippe nodded slowly. 'But it did not come from the direction of Gatún. Frijoles, perhaps.

'The Fantasia? She smiled back at him, watching his brown tanned face, looking at the small lines around his eyes which made him look older than he was.

A frown crossed the man's face. 'I think it is not to come until tomorrow. He shrugged.

She smiled again. 'We'll know soon, when we get to the ships.

He nodded, but the frown resurfaced briefly. He was gazing past her, watching their course. There were old logs floating in the lake, almost waterlogged, that could turn a Gemini over or break its outboard prop. Hisako Onoda studied the man's face for a while, and found herself thinking she ought to write again to her mother; perhaps that evening. Maybe she would mention Philippe this time, but maybe not. She felt a little warmth rise to her face, and then felt foolish.

I am forty-four years old, she told herself, and still feel embarrassed to tell my mother I have a lover. Dear Mother, Here I am in Panama in the middle of the war. I dive, we have parties, we see artillery battles and missile streaks, and planes scream over us sometimes. Food good, weather warm mostly. Love, Hisako. PS. I have a boyfriend.

A French boyfriend. A married French boyfriend who was younger than she was. Ah well.

She looked at her fingertips, crinkled from the water as though after a long bath. Maybe I should have flown, she thought, rubbing at the corrugated flesh.

'Hisako, Hisako, it's only a few hours!

'To Europe?

Mr Moriya looked exasperated. He waved his pudgy fingers around. 'Not much more. What am I? An airport information place? He heaved himself out of his chair and went over to the window, where a repairman was kneeling, fixing the office air-conditioning unit. Moriya wiped his brow with a white handkerchief, and stood watching the young engineer as he stripped the faulty unit and laid the pieces on a white sheet spread over the fawn carpet.

Hisako folded her hands on her lap and said nothing.

'It will mean weeks at sea.

'Yes, she said. She used the word Hai , which was almost like saying, 'Yes, sir!

Mr Moriya shook his head, stuffed the sweaty handkerchief away in the breast pocket of his short-sleeved jacket. 'Your cello! He looked suddenly pleased with himself.

'Yes?

'Won't it… warp, or something? All that sea air; the salt.

'Moriya-san, I did not mean to go… "steerage".

'What?

'I think the ship will have ventilation; air-conditioning.

'Air-conditioning breaks down! Mr Moriya said victoriously, pointing at the dismantled unit spread out on the white sheet like some dead machine being prepared for interment. The young engineer glanced up for a moment.

Hisako looked dutifully at the defunct unit. She could see the glittering towers of downtown Tokyo through the gap under the window where the unit normally sat. She shrugged.

'Don't they? Mr Moriya was talking to the engineer now. He had to repeat his question before the young man realised he was being addressed. When he did he jumped up.

'Hai?

'Air-conditioning machines break down, don't they? Mr Moriya asked him. Hisako thought it would be a tricky question to answer in the negative, given that the young man was standing surrounded by bits of a machine that had done just that.

'Yes, sir, sometimes. The engineer was practically standing at attention, gaze fixed at a point over Mr Moriya's head.

'Thank you, Mr Moriya said, nodding. 'What can I do? he said loudly, gesturing widely with his arms and walking past the engineer to look out of the window. The young man's gaze followed him; he seemed to be uncertain whether this was a rhetorical question or not. 'Eh? Mr Moriya said. He tapped the young man on the shoulder, then pointed at Hisako. 'What would you do? This lady is one of the finest cellists in the world. The world! Finally, after years…. decades almost of invitations, she decides to go to Europe; do concerts, give classes… but she won't fly.

The young engineer was looking embarrassed, smiling.

'Planes crash, Hisako said.

'Ships sink, retorted Mr Moriya.

'They have lifeboats.

'Well, planes have parachutes! Moriya spluttered.

'I don't think so, Moriya-san.

Mr Moriya turned to the engineer. 'I'm sorry; forgive me; go back to your work.

The young man looked grateful, and knelt down again. 'Perhaps the situation in Russia will change, Mr Moriya said, shaking his head. 'They might open up the railway again. He wiped his neck with the handkerchief.

'Perhaps.

'Soviets, ha! Mr Moriya said, angrily, shaking his head at the Tokyo cityscape.

Hisako raised one hand to her brow, traced the line of a bead of perspiration. She put her hands back on her lap. 'There will be storms around the Cape! Mr Moriya said, trying to sound knowledgeable.

'There is a canal through Panama, I believe, Hisako said, tiring of the argument.

'Is that still working?

'It is.

'There's a war there!

'Not officially.

'What? Officially? What is to be official about in a war? Mr Moriya sounded incredulous.

'It has not been declared, she told him. 'It is a local dispute; bandits in the hills. A police operation.

'And all those American Marines at… at… last year, at-

'Limón.

Mr Moriya looked confused. 'I thought it was Cosa… Costal…

'Costa Rica, Hisako told him. She pronounced the 'r' sound in the gaijin manner, even exaggerated it a little.

'That was police?

'No, a rescue mission. Hisako smiled faintly. The air conditioning engineer was scratching the back of his head. He sucked air through his clenched teeth and looked up at Mr Moriya, who wasn't noticing him.

'Hisako; if it looks like a war, sounds like a war-

'The Americans will keep the canal safe.

'Like this Rimón place?

'Moriya-san, Hisako said, looking up at him. 'I would like to fly, but I cannot. I go by ship or I do not go. I could go to California and then by train to New York and another ship, or through Suez, which I would also like to see, but I would prefer to come back that way.

Mr Moriya sighed and sat down heavily in his seat, behind his desk, 'Couldn't you do what I do? he suggested. 'Get very drunk the night before the flight — beer, sake, whisky and young Australian red wine always works, I find — so that you have such a bad hangover you feel death would come as a welcome release?

'No.

'Yes? Mr Moriya said to the young engineer.

'Sir; may I use your phone? I will order a replacement unit.

'Yes, yes, of course. Mr Moriya waved the man to the phone. 'Hisako… He leant his smooth, bulky forearms on the desktop. The engineer chattered down the phone to his office. 'Couldn't you try? Take some sedatives…?

'I did, Moriya-san. I went out to Narita last week with a. friend whose brother is a senior pilot for JAL, but I could not even sit on the plane with the doors closed. She shook her head. 'It must be by ship. She tried to look reassuring.

Mr Moriya sat back disconsolately in his seat and gently slapped his forehead with one palm. 'I give in, he sighed.

'It will only be a few weeks, she told him. 'Then I will be in Europe, in London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, Madrid, Stockholm; all the places we have agreed.

'And Prague, and Edinburgh, Mr Moriya said, sounding sad but looking a little more hopeful.

'It will be worth the time. I will practise on the journey.

'And Florence and Venice.

'I need a break from so many recitals and classes, anyway.

'Not to mention Barcelona, and I think Bern want you, too. Mr Moriya watched the young engineer, who was still talking to his office. 'And Athens, and Amsterdam.

'I'll arrive refreshed. So much sea air; it will be good for me.

'It must be your choice, Mr Moriya said, glancing at his watch. 'I'm just your agent; I just want to see you use your talent to the full. You don't have to listen to me.

'I always do, Moriya-san. But I cannot fly. A few weeks; that's all it will take.

Mr Moriya looked glum again. The young engineer put the phone down and said a new unit was on its way. He packed his tools away and then started wrapping up the pieces of the broken air-conditioner in the large white sheet.

Now it was more than two months later, and half those dates had been cancelled or postponed; her visits to those magically named cities — cities she had never seen before, and only ever dreamed about — had become casualties of an undeclared war, the list of their names growing every few days, like a slow. accretion of the dead.

'Là, Philippe said. 'The Fantasia.

She followed his gaze, and just beyond the stem of the ship they were heading for — Philippe's ship, the tanker Le Cercle — she could see the small white shape of the Fantasia del Mer, heading for Gatún Port, pushing away from the three ships anchored in the centre of the lake.

'So it was her, she said. 'Must have gone to Frijoles first, then. She looked back to him. 'Perhaps we'll get some mail now.

'Some real beer, even. Philippe grinned.

'You be rucky, she laughed, putting on a thick Japanese accent. He laughed too, and she felt, as she always did at such moments, about a third of her real age.

The warm, humid air blew about her as she turned to face the bows again, still trying to dry her hair.

The line of hills on the far side of the broad lake, beyond the trapped ships, looked like a towering dark wave somehow frozen against the steel-grey sky.

'Calvados! Rémy Martin! Fresh bananas! And two sides of meat! And Metaxa seven star! Lekkas, the cook on Le Cercle, shouted down to Hisako and Philippe as they moored the Gemini to the small pontoon at the foot of the companionway and started up the steps, scuba gear hoisted over their shoulders. The Fantasia del Mer had delivered the first supplies for two weeks. 'I have olives! Lekkas shouted, waving his arms about in circles. 'Flour for pitta! Bulgar! Feta! Tonight I make you meze! We'll have Greek meal! Much garlic! He reached down and took Hisako's cylinders from her as she reached deck level. 'Ms Onoda; sounds good, yes?

'Yes, she said. 'Any mail?

'No mail, Lekkas said.

'Any news, George? Philippe asked.

'Nothing on the radio, sir. Two editions of Colón News come with the supplies; Channel 8… well, is just as usual.

Philippe glanced at his watch. 'News in a few minutes anyway. He clapped the cook on the shoulder. 'Greek tonight, eh?

The three of them started walking along the deck; Hisako went to take her own gear, but Lekkas lifted it as he nodded to Philippe. 'And I have a bottle of ouzo and some of retsina I been saving. We have one good meal.

They put the scuba gear in a storeroom on the main deck level; Lekkas went to the galley while Hisako and Philippe went up to the officers' quarters, aft of the bridge. Philippe's cabin was a smaller version of the captain's, across the corridor; a modest stateroom, a double-bed cabin with three portholes facing astern, a closet and a shower room. Philippe switched the TV on as soon as they got in. Hisako decided to take a shower. She could hear some game show on the TV over the noise of the water.

When she came out, Philippe was lying naked on a towel on the bed, watching Channel 8 news. A uniformed woman of the US Southern Command read out the latest releases from the Pentagon, Cuba, Panama City, San José, Bogotá and Managua, then detailed guerrilla and government losses in Costa Rica, western and eastern Panama, and Columbia. Hisako lay down on the bed beside him, stroking one hand through the black hair on his chest. Philippe took her hand and held it, still watching the screen.

'… for the peace conference in Salinas, Ecuador next week. Representative Buckman, spokesman for the congressional group, said they hoped to overfly Gatún Lake, in the Panama Canal, where three ships are at present trapped by the conflict.

'South Africa; and the increasingly beleaguered white regime in Johannesburg has again threatened to use- Philippe clicked the set to standby and rolled over to take her in his arms.

'So we can wave to the yanquis when they fly over us, eh? We should be grateful, yes?

She smiled and said nothing, but put one fingertip on the end of his nose, wiggling it, feeling the cartilage under the l6 skin. He moved his head up, softly biting her finger. He kissed her, moved against her, then looked at his watch again. He took it off.

'Ah, we have enough time then, she said, conspiratorially. She knew he was due to talk over the radio to the shipping line's agent in Caracas soon.

'Just about; they'll wait.

'What if they replace you? she whispered, sliding one arm under his body. 'What would I do then?

Philippe shrugged. 'If they can replace me, they can get you out too.

It wasn't what she meant, and she wondered if he knew that. But he moved his arms down her spine — making her shiver — to the small of her back, and she didn't feel inclined to pursue the point.

She walked down the muddy highway. She wondered where all the traffic had gone. The highway looked broad enough for enormous trucks and vehicles, like the scrapers you saw constructing new roads, or the huge dump trucks in open-cast mines. She looked behind her, shivering, but saw nothing. The sky was dark but the ground was bright; corn swept back and forth on either side of her, like weeds in a stream. The corn was grey, like the sky and the ground and the road. Her feet raised slow clouds of dust from the road, and the clouds. floated in the sky behind her. The road wound round the sides of low grey hills, twisting this way and that through the silent landscape. Away in the distance, through the slow-swaying weeds, men fought, swinging sparkling swords at each other. She had to jump up and down to see the faraway figures; the weeds were crowding in around her.

Once, when she jumped up to see the warriors, she couldn't see them at all but instead, over the field of swaying grey crops, glimpsed another landscape entirely, far below and far away, with a great dark stretch of water lying among mountains; but when she jumped after that all she saw were the samurai again, swords striking sparks off each other, while the sky beyond boiled blackly, like smoke.

The track entered a dark forest where the bright leaves fluttered against the starless sky. Finally the path became twisty and narrow and she had to force her way through the wet foliage to the city.

The city was deserted, and she was surprised and angry that her footsteps made no sound; they ought to echo off the tall sides of the great buildings. Her boots were clean now, but when she looked back she saw that she was leaving a line of silvery footprints along the street; they glittered and wobbled where they lay on the paving stones, as though they were alive. It was growing darker in the town, and the alley had no lights; she was frightened of tripping on something. At last she came to the temple.

The temple was long and thin and tall; buttresses and the ribs of its roof made lines against the dull, orange-black sky. She heard something at last; metal ringing, and raised voices, so she started looking for a way into the temple. She couldn't find any doors, and began to hit the stone walls, then she noticed a great window, set low down in the wall, with no glass in it. She climbed through.

Inside it was like a factory, but the machines sat on the grass. At the far end of the building, on a stage raised a little off the grass, the samurai were fighting. She went up to tell them to stop, and saw that the two warriors weren't fighting each other; they were both fighting Philippe. She cried out to him, and he heard, and stopped to wave, putting his sword down.

One of the samurai pulled his sword arm back behind him, and then swung forward and down; the thin, slightly curved sword bit into Philippe's white dress uniform at the neck, and cut him in half, coming out at his waist. Philippe looked surprised; she tried to scream but no sound came out. The samurai bowed slowly, and put his sword back carefully into its scabbard; his left arm jutted out like a triangle from his side, and his thumb slid up the blunt side of the sword as it went back into its sheath; she saw a little bead of blood wiped off the edge of metal; it collected on the warrior's thumb.

Then the sword burst out of the scabbard again and started jumping about the altar like a firecracker, jumping and unravelling and making a noise like a flexible metal tape measure as it leapt and expanded and unfolded over Philippe's white and red body.

Philippe was weeping and so was the warrior, and so was she.

Philippe woke her, pulling her to his side. Her jerking legs had kicked him, and he'd heard her breathing oddly. She wasn't crying when she woke up, but she sighed deeply when she realised none of it had been real.

She buried her face in his shoulder and clung to him like some terrified monkey to its mother, while he gently stroked her hair and she fell gradually back to sleep again, and relaxed once more, breath slackening and slowing and shallowing.

2: Bridge of the World

She was promised a cello for her birthday, but she was impatient, so she made her own. Pocket money bought an old violin from a junk shop, and she discovered a large nail on a building site. She glued the nail on to the bottom of the violin to make the spike. 'Don't ever forget it's not a violin, her mother told her, amused. 'You'll stab yourself in the neck! She made a bow from a piece of wood salvaged from a broken screen an aunt in Tomakomai was throwing out, and some elastic bought in a Sapporo market.

The stretched elastic broke the wooden bow before she even had a chance to play the violin/cello, so she made another from a branch she found in the woods. She thought you were supposed to put chalk on the bow, so the violin/cello ended up covered in white each time she played. it, as did her hands. She shook the chalk dust out of the holes in the instrument afterwards. Hisako and her mother lived in a tiny flat in the Susukino district, and the sound Hisako made was so terrible her mother raided her savings and bought the child a real cello in October, three months before Hisako's birthday.

Hisako had to wrestle with the huge instrument (and, much to her consternation, throwaway a great deal of assiduously ground-up chalk begged from school), but finally succeeded in producing tunes her mother could recognise, and by her birthday the following January was clamouring for lessons. Mrs Onoda discovered — only a little to her dismay — that there was a gentleman in Sapporo able and willing to give cello lessons; a lecturer in the university music department who championed Western music in general and the string quartet in particular. Mrs Onoda made another resigned trip to the bank and paid for a six-month course of lessons with Mr Kawamitsu.

Panamá Puente del Monde said the taxi's number plate.

'Bridge of the world! Mr Mandamus translated, though Hisako had guessed what it meant. This was one of the names they called the country. The other was 'The Heart of the Universe'.

'Ah, she said, politely.

It was eight o'clock in the evening on Pier 18 in Balboa on the day the Nakado had docked after its Pacific crossing. They were taking a taxi into Panama City, which was lighting up the overcast sky beyond the orange-necklaced dark bulk of Balboa Heights.

'Oh, get in here, Mandamus, I'm hungry, Broekman said from inside the cab. It had taken them longer than they'd expected to clear Customs.

'Puente del Monde! Mandamus said, and with a clumsy flourish opened the passenger's door for Hisako, narrowly avoided jamming her ankle in the door as he closed it again, and got into the back seat beside Broekman.

'Panama City, por favor! Mandamus shouted at the driver, a young man in a vest.

'Panama, the driver said, shaking his head. 'Yeah, OK. Any particular bit?

'Via Brasil, Mandamus told him.

Hisako laughed, covering her mouth with her hand.

'Via Brasil, the driver nodded. He stuffed the copy of Newsweek he'd been reading between the dash and the windscreen and put the auto into drive. The cab bumped over the rail tracks sunk into the rough concrete of the dock.

There was a brightly lit checkpoint where they left the Canal Area at the junction of Avenida A and Avenida de los Martires. The driver cursed and spat out of the window as they approached the short line of cars and light trucks, though they were soon waved through by the US and Panamanian troops. The queue of vehicles waiting on the far side of the barrier was much longer.

They drove through the city, through the stink of traffic fumes and sudden oases of flower-scent. 'Frangipani, Mr Mandamus said, sniffing deeply, and nodding.

Hisako rolled her window down, letting the hairdryer-hot moist air spill round her as they sped and lurched their way down the crowded avenues. The city was just waking up; it was bright and busy and full of cars with their windows down and their music turned up. Even the troop-filled jeeps they encountered usually had a ghetto-blaster perched on the rear or taped to the T-bar, beside the machine-gun. The population made the biggest impression, though. The streets swarmed with riotously different people; every colour and race she thought she'd ever heard of.

She had gone ashore in Honolulu for a day, while changing ships, and been surprised at how odd it felt to be surrounded by so many gaijin (though the Hawaiian natives hadn't looked all that unusual to her). Then, on the Nakodo, due to take her from Honolulu to Rotterdam via Panama and New Orleans, she'd been surrounded mostly by foreigners; the Korean crew; Broekman, the second engineer; and Mr Mandamus, the one other passenger. Only the three senior officers on the ship, and the steward, were Japanese. So she thought she'd adjusted, but the extravagance of the racial mix, and the sheer numbers of people in Panama, amazed her.

She wondered how Broekman felt. A South African, he professed, and seemed, to despise the white state, but he'd been brought up in it, and she thought Panama must still come as something of a shock to the system.

They drove to the Juji, on the Via Brasil. It was a Japanese restaurant; Mr Mandamus's idea of a surprise. She had wanted to eat local cuisine, but didn't let her disappointment show. The restaurant had a Japanese chef, a skiing fan from Niigata who knew Sapporo well, and they talked for a while ('Only water skiing in Panama! ). The shabu-shabu was good, and the tempura. Broekman grumbled about steaks, but seemed content enough after that. Mr Mandamus, having checked with Hisako that slurping was still quite in order, proceeded enthusiastically to slurp his way through every dish presented, even the dry ones, half-gargling with Kirin beer. On the other side of a screen a noisy group of Japanese bankers easily outdid Mandamus in volume and spent most of the time making elaborate toasts to each other and ordering more sake. She felt she might almost as well be at home.

When they left, the city was still waking up; the nightclubs. and casinos opening for trade. They went to a couple of bars on Avenue Robeno Duran; Mr Mandamus didn't like the look of the first one because most of the men were GIs. 'I have nothing against our American cousins, he explained to Hisako as they walked away. She thought he wasn't going to say anything else, but then he leant close and hissed, 'Danger of bombs! and ducked into another bar. Broekman shook his head.

In the Marriott Casino they gambled, strolling among the green-felt tables and the stunning local women and the men in their white tuxedos. She felt small and dowdy in comparison, like a raggedly dressed child, but with a child's delight at the glitter and buzz of the place, too. The roulette wheels clicked, dice clattered across the baize, cards flicked from manicured hands. Guards the size of sumo wrestlers tried to lumber inconspicuously between the white jackets and long dresses, or stood impassively against the walls, hands behind their backs, displaying tailored bulges under their jackets, only their eyes moving.

Mr. Mandamus lost little and often on the tranganiquel, stuffing quarters into the flashing machines and claiming he had an infallible system. Broekman won two hundred dollars at vingt-et-un and ordered champagne for Hisako, who gambled without much enthusiasm or luck at dado.

They took a taxi back into the centre and walked along the Avenue Balboa, by the side of the bay, where the Pacific broke whitely and patrol boats grumbled in the distance, then finished up in Bacchus II, where Mandamus found ('Ah! Surprise! ) the karaoke room and spent an embarrassingly long time singing along with the Japanese backing tracks, trying to get Hisako to join in, and making noisy friends with the same group of bankers they'd encountered in the Juji.

She was falling asleep in the taxi back to Pier 18.

'… virgins at the shrine would take mouthfuls of rice, and chew it to a pulp and then spit it into the casks, and-

'You're making this up, you crazy man!

'No, no, really; that is how the fermentation was started. An ensign in their saliva-

'A what?

'An ensign in their saliva; their spit.

'I know- Broekman broke off. Hisako jerked her chin off her chest. She yawned. Her head hurt. 'Did you hear that? Broekman said.

'What? Mandamus said. 'Hear what?

'Explosion.

The driver — fat, silver-haired, watching a tiny colour Watchman stuck to the dash when he wasn't overtaking — turned and said something in Spanish. Hisako wondered if Broekman had really said 'explosion'.

She wasn't exactly sure how long afterwards the taxi stopped somewhere on Balboa Heights, the Puente de las Americas to their left, straddling the canal entrance and ablaze with lights. Mandamus helped her from the car, and the three of them and the driver stood at the roadside and looked back down into the bay-cupping city, where a huge fire near the centre was surrounded by a hundred flashing blue and red lights, and a thick column of smoke, like a black cauliflower, climbed towards the orange-smudged clouds.

The crackling of small-arms fire sounded like logs sparking in a grate.

Shaped like an S lying on its side, it was the only place on earth where the sun could rise over the Pacific and set over the Atlantic. One day in 1513 a Spaniard from the province of Extremadura called Vasco Nunez de Balboa — who'd started out as a stowaway on somebody else's expedition, then taken over in a mutiny — climbed a hill in Darien and saw what no European had ever seen before; the Pacific.

Then, they called it the Southern Ocean.

Balboa made friends with the people who already lived in that stretch of land, and an enemy of the man who governed most of the isthmus, which the Spanish called the Castilla del Oro. The governor took his anger out on Balboa's own isthmus; he had him beheaded. The fact that Balboa had become his son-in-law did not stay the blade.

The governor, called Pedrarias the Cruel by history, founded a town on the Pacific coast, near a little fishing village called Panamá. In the local language, panamá meant 'lots of fish'. The Spanish called the trail between it and the Caribbean the Camino Real; the Royal Road. Down that road the looted wealth of the Inca empire went by slave and donkey. The slaves were brought in from Africa to replace the locals, who'd been slaughtered. The donkeys were better treated, and so the slaves escaped into the jungle whenever they could. They were called cimarrones. They formed their own settlements and raised their own armed forces, and sometimes went in league with the English, French and Dutch pirates attracted to the area by the intense concentration of vast wealth; looting the looters.

In 1573 Francis Drake and his gang of licensed pirates attacked the Spanish gold galleons and the town called Nombre de Dios. They captured the town of Cruces and burned it to the ground. Ninety-eight years later, the Welshman Henry Morgan captured Panamá itself; he set fire to it. The treasure required 195 mules. The Spanish rebuilt the city along the coast with bigger walls. Fifty-eight years after that, when Britain and Spain were at war, Admiral Vernon captured Portobelo on the Caribbean coast, plus the. fort of San Lorenzo.

A few years later, in 1746, the Spanish gave up and started sailing their treasure ships round Cape Horn instead. Panama was neglected, though not allowed to trade freely with the rest of Europe. In 1821 the Panamanians declared themselves independent… and joined Bolivar's Greater Columbia.

Which neglected them. There were revolutions.

Before the Spanish came to Panama there were over sixty native tribes living in the area. Afterwards, three.

Then somebody found more gold. Far to the north this time, in California. The plains of North America, still under invasion, were far more dangerous than a sea trip from New York or New Orleans to the Río Chagres, a short paddle and a quick mule ride to the Pacific and another voyage from there to San Francisco: Panama was back in business. The short paddle and quick mule ride was so much fun the forty-niners called it the Road to Hell. They died in droves, mostly from disease.

Some already rich Americans formed the Panama Railroad Company. Somehow persuaded of their righteousness, the Columbian government granted them a monopoly.

It made money.

The track ran from Colón to Panamá, over one of the old Spanish gold trails. Then a golden spike was driven into its heart, thousands of miles to the north-west, in the United States of America: the first rail route from sea to shining sea was in operation.

So people began to neglect Panama again.

Ferdinand, Vicomte de Lesseps, builder of the fabulous sealevel, distance-reducing, desert-crossing, Empire-linking, all-singing, all-operatic Suez Canal, a cousin of the French Empress, winner of the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour, recipient of an English Knighthood, member of the Academy, began work on his world-stunning scheme to build a sea-level canal through the isthmus of Panama in 1881.

Gauguin worked on it, artist among the artisans.

Twenty-two thousand people died on it.

And in 1893 it was over; the company — La Compagnie Universelle du Canal Interoceanique, shunned by governments and banks, worshipped by the small investor, disseminator of bribes to press and politicians — crashed, and five directors were condemned. Eiffel, constructor of the soaring Tower, was laid low. De Lesseps was sentenced to five years in prison.

He died next year, heart excavated.

The United States of America was the major regional power now. It was determined to have a canal. First choice became the route through Nicaragua, but the manager of what remained of the French company sent all members of Congress a Nicaraguan postage stamp showing a volcanic eruption. He also made the point that Panama was outside the volcano belt; it didn't have earthquakes. Was there not an arch still standing (the famous Arco Chato, or Flat Arch, part of the church of San Domingo) which had stood intact for three centuries, in Panama City?

Congress was convinced. The word went out that it would be a good idea if Columbia let La Compagnie Universelle sell all its rights to the US. The Columbian Congress disagreed, and wouldn't ratify, no matter what President Roosevelt wanted. Incredibly, an uprising in Panama City played right into the US's hands, and when Columbian troops were sent to squash it, Congress sent a gunboat. Washington recognised the independent republic almost before it was proclaimed. It was 1903.

The new government of independent Panama thought it was a neat idea to cede partial sovereignty over a strip eight kilometres wide on either side of the canal route to the United States 'in perpetuity' for ten million dollars down and a quarter million a year (the latter eventually raised to close on two mill, when it got embarrassing).

The diseases were vanquished, despite everything. The problems of geography and topography were conquered by brains, brawn and lashings of cash. The temporary rail system built to help construct the canal was the greatest railway network in the world at the time. Mountains were moved, rivers dammed, forests drowned, islands created. The Zone became an island of clipped lawns in an ocean of jungle.

In August 1914, while the Great War in Europe was still beginning, the first ship passed through the new canal.

In 1921 the US paid $25 million to Columbia, to compensate for the loss of the isthmus called Panama. Cut to:

1978:Jimmy Carter agreed a new treaty. In 2000, it would all be given back to the locals.

(The Panamanians never had liked that 'in perpetuity' clause.) The Zone became the Area, but most people still called it the Zone. Pineapple Face spoiled things a little, but not so you'd notice. Things went on. The second millennium crept closer. And that was as far as Hisako's guidebooks took her.

The rain was warm and the air smelled of the land's own heat; vegetable and intense, like something that had willed itself into being through a chemical spell, without the intercession of the sun. Six o'clock and it was already dark, and the rain fell steadily, glowing in the lights of the Nakodo, swinging about her mooring in the gentlest of evening breezes. The waters of the lake looked dull and flat and oily, covered with the ever-changing patterns of the big raindrops, ephemeral dots and dashes on the slowly moving surface. The air was so thick and humid it was hard to believe the rain could fall through it so fast.

'Ms Onoda! Hisako! You'll get soaked!

She turned from the rail to see Mandamus waddle up, coming from his cabin on the main deck level. Hisako brushed a few droplets from her fringe of dark hair; the rain was falling almost straight down, and the deck above had sheltered her. But Mandamus liked to fuss.

Mr Mandamus, the Alexandrian, portly and effusive, with greyly olive skin and dyedly grey hair, a friend of mankind, peripatetic expert in multitudinous fields and reputedly holder of degrees from universities on three continents, took Hisako Onoda 's hand in his and kissed it precisely: Hisako smiled as she always did, bowing a little.

Mr Mandamus offered his arm and she took it. They walked along the deck, heading forward.

'And where have you been today? I was a little late for lunch, but you ate in your cabin, I believe.

'I was playing, she told him. The deck was dry near the superstructure, spattered with dark drops near the rails.

'Ah, practising.

Hisako studied the deck, wondering who'd decided the pattern of tiny diamond shapes on the metal was the best one for providing grip. 'I worry about becoming out of touch; rusty.

'Rust is best left to the vessels, Ms Onoda, Mandamus told her, gesturing. They arrived at the forward limit of the Nakodo's superstructure, looking out over the rain-battered hatches — bright under the masthead lights — to the forecastle. To starboard, the lights of Le Cercle and the Nadia burned through the night and the warm rain, floating islands of light. in the darkness. She wondered what Philippe was doing. When they'd made love the evening before, after the swim through the ruins, before the nightmare, Philippe had held her shoulders, his arms through her armpits, clutching at her shoulders from underneath, arching her. She'd had the dizzying sensation of still wearing the scuba gear, the straps pressing into her skin. She'd remembered the silky warmth of the water, and the sight of his long, tanned body sliding through it, wave lights rippling from the surface like grid lines across the sweet geography of his back and legs.

'… Hisako? Are you all right?

'Oh! She laughed, and let go of Mandamus's arm, which she'd been gripping too hard. She clasped her hands at the small of her back and walked quickly on, desperately trying to recall what Mandamus's last words had been. 'I'm sorry, she said. I am acting like a schoolgirl, she told herself. Mr Mandamus caught her up, offering his arm again as they walked, so that it stuck out between them like a podgy guardrail. It had been something about rain and mud (how romantic!). 'Yes, yes it's terrible. But they are fixing this, no?

'Too late, I fear, Mandamus said, dropping his arm. They turned the corner, walked towards the stern. The companionway leading up to the level of the dining room lay straight ahead. The deck was quite dry: 'So many trees have been cut down, so much topsoil washed into the lake, the situation was quite serious even before the war. The canal has been deteriorating for years, Gatún Lake itself- Mr Mandamus gestured around them, - is shallower and smaller than it used to be, as are the dams feeding it. Before too long you and that dashing French officier will be able to go paddling rather than diving!

They ascended the stairs. Hisako took another look back at the lights of Le Cercle, a kilometre or so distant across the lake, before being ushered through the doorway into the cool brilliance of the superstructure.

She had settled into shipboard life very quickly. The Gassam Maru carried her to Honolulu, over the empty blue Pacific. She watched the contrails of jets, eleven kilometres above, with a smile, and no regret. Within a couple of days of leaving Yokohama she felt comfortable and at home. Her place in the hierarchy of the ballasted tanker was that of honoured guest, with the privileges of an officer without the responsibilities; in rank she seemed to be just beneath the captain, equal with the first officer and the chief engineer.

The crew ignored her with extreme politeness, turning back down stairs if she appeared at the top, to let her descend (but averting their eyes), and looking confused if she thanked them. The junior officers were only a little more assertive, while the senior ones treated her as one of their own, apparently according her the respect they felt she was due as an expert in her field, which they regarded as no less complex and worthy than their own. Captain Ishizawa was cold and formal towards her, but then he was cold and formal with his officers too, so she did not feel his lack of warmth as an insult.

After the frenetic bustle of the last month she'd spent in Tokyo — finishing courses, making final arrangements for other people to continue her tutorials and classes, having several send-off parties, visiting various friends, trying to calm Mr Moriya, going to be hypnotised at his begging, being dragged out to Narita to board a plane, and still getting panicky and weak the moment she boarded and almost hysterical (much to her shame) when they were about to close the door — life aboard ship seemed simple and easy; The set structure, the regular watches and rhythms, the adhered-to rules and definite lines of command, all appealed to the orderly side of her nature. There was the ship, and the rest of the world. All nice and definite and unarguable. The ship ploughed the ocean, affected by tides and wind, in touch via radio signals and satellites, but it was basically a unit, separated by its mobility.

The wide sea, the vast skies, the soothing consistency of the view — reliable in its simple outline, but ever various within its elemental parameters — made the voyage an escape, an experience of freedom of a type and duration she'd never encountered before; something sublime, like a raked garden or a perfectly proportioned room, like Fuji on a clear day, rising beyond Tokyo like a great tent being drawn up towards heaven.

And the Stradivari violoncello, circa 1730, rebridged and reend-pointed Beijing 1890, survived. She had taken a device which recorded temperature and humidity in her cabin, and a back-up air-conditioning machine which could work off the ship's electricity supply or use its own batteries for up to forty-eight hours. All this seemed a little excessive to her, but it kept Mr Moriya if not quiet, then at an acceptable volume of terrified hysteria.

She practised in her cabin, sheets taped (folded neatly) over one blank wall to get the acoustics right. Practised for hours, eyes closed, hugging the warm wood of the instrument, lost in it, so that sometimes she would start playing in the afternoon and when she opened her eyes it would be dark outside the cabin portholes, and she would sit there in the darkness, blinking and feeling foolish, back and arms sore with that rewarding ache of something worthwhile bought at the expense of effort. The steward must have mentioned the sheets taped to the wall, because the deck officer told her they had found some cork tiles in a store; could they fix those to the offending bulkhead? Uncertain whether they would be insulted if she said no, she let them. It was done in a day; she asked them not to varnish the cork. The cello sounded better indeed, the last harshness of the cabin gone. She tried to listen to herself in a way she hadn't since her earliest days, with Mr Kawamitsu, and recorded her practice sessions on her old DAT Walkman, and thought — though she would never have admitted it to anybody — that she had never played better.

She was sad to leave the Gassam Maru, but had made no special friends, so would not miss anybody particularly. The voyage had been enjoyable in itself, and its ending was as much a part of it as any other, so the sadness was not deep, and almost satisfying. She boarded the Nakodo, another Yotsubashi Line vessel, though this time a car transporter chartered to carry Nissan limos destined for the North American market. She found the Nakodo busier, more cosmopolitan and more interesting than the Gassam; she settled in there quickly as well. Her cabin was larger and woodlined, and the cello sounded good in its warmth.

She stood at the bows of the ship sometimes, a little self-conscious that they'd be watching her from the bridge, but she stood there all the same, like Garbo in Queen Christina but with her hair blowing in the right direction, and looked out — into the creamy blue emptiness of the western Pacific, heading east-south-east for the isthmus of Panama, and smiled into the tropic wind.

Like Philippe's ship, the Nakodo was under the command of its mate. First Officer Endo sat at the head of the table, Hisako to his right, Mr Mandamus across from her. Broekman would sit beside the Egyptian, Second Officer Hoashi on Hisako's other side. Next to him was Steve Orrick, a student from Cal Tech who'd begged a lift on the Nadia in Panama City; he'd been trying to get out of the city for weeks and the Nadia's American captain had taken pity on him, after radioing for permission from the ship's owners. When it became clear the ships were going to be staying in Gatún lake for some time, Orrick had offered to pay for his keep by helping out with whatever he could; at the moment he was on loan to the Nakodo, helping to paint her. He was tall, fair-haired, awkward, and built like an Olympic swimmer. Hisako found the young American a strain to talk to.

It was a Western cuisine night; knives and forks graced the brilliant white starched tablecloth. The predictable rotation of meals had become one of the most intense of the rituals practised on the three trapped ships; each vessel had its own rhythm, and each played host to the officers and guests of the other two ships on a regular basis, sometimes with the addition of people from Gatún; shipping agents, canal officials, occasionally somebody from the consulates in Rainbow City or Colón. Tomorrow night they would all troop over to the Nadia for a dance and a native feast, eating local for a change. Last night on Le Cercle, with Lekkas's Greek banquet, had been a break in the cycle, which she and Philippe had appreciated, but still the pattern of meals, drinks parties, dances and other social occasions helped to fill the time, while they waited for the war to run its course. Stagnant in the stalemate, only this ritualised consumption seemed to make much sense or offer a tangible link to the outside world. Hisako wondered if she still smelled of garlic.

The talk turned from the riots in Hong Kong to the US peace mission to Ecuador.

'Perhaps, we are free to go, before long, said Endo, in carefully navigated English.

You be rucky, Hisako thought, toying with her heavy soup spoon.

'Well, yeah, Orrick said, looking up and down the table. 'Could be. You get these guys talking and they can fix this thing up. Hell, all they got to do is get the Panamanians to let the Marines back into the Zone and get them F17s flying point and the old venceristas'll have to head back into the hills. Park a battleship or two off PC; that'll get to them; practically fire shells right over the goddamn country. He made a trajectoral motion over the white tablecloth with one broad, blond-haired hand.

'Our young friend is one of the old guard, Mr Mandamus said to those at the end of the table.

Orrick shook his head, 'The old National Guard ain't gonna get rid of the reds; only way we're gonna get the ships out of here is get the Marines and GIs out of that Southern Command base and back into the rest of the Zone with the hand-helds and the microbursts.

'Panamanians lose face to do that, Endo shook his head.

'I guess they might, sir, but they lost the canal right now; heck, they're losing the whole country, and they can't even guarantee the safety of American citizens in their major cities. How much longer are we supposed to wait? These guys have had their chance.

'Perhaps the congressmen will succeed in their mission, Hisako said. 'We'll just have to-

'Perhaps the reds'll see the light and join the Boy Scouts, Orrick said to her.

'Perhaps I have an idea, Mr Mandamus announced, holding up one finger. 'Why don't we open a book?

They looked at him in puzzlement. Hisako wondered what Mr Mandamus could be talking about, then if he was showing signs of converting to some religion; opening the Bible at random for inspiration and guidance was popular with certain Christians, she'd heard, and Muslims did the same thing with the Koran. The steward — an old man near retirement called Sawai — came in with a tray full of soup bowls and a basket of bread.

'Wager, Mr Mandamus explained. 'I shall be bookmaker; we can bet on what day the canal is finally reopened, or on what day the first ship completes its journey; whichever. What do you say?

Officer Hoashi asked Hisako what the man was talking about. She translated, and thanked Sawai as he placed a bowl in front of her

'I do not bet, Endo said. 'But… He spread his hands.

'I'll bet that when they open the canal it'll be Yankees doing the opening, Orrick said, and launched into his soup.

'I might be prepared to cover that wager, Mandamus said, unenthusiastically.

'What are we betting on? Broekman strode in and took his place at the table, nodding to Endo.

'When the ships are released. Mandamus told him.

'Which decade? Which year? Broekman snapped his napkin and twirled his spoon, waiting for Sawai to serve him. The engineer smelled of soap and cologne.

'A little sooner than that, we think, Mandamus said, laughing heartily.

'Do you? Well, I won't be betting.

'Mr Orrick want to send in Marines, Endo said, slurping daintily at his soup and making a game attempt at the American's name.

'Standard US behaviour, Broekman nodded.

'Yeah; it works.

'Not in Beirut it didn't, Broekman told the younger man. Orrick looked puzzled. Broekman waved one hand impatiently. 'Before your time, maybe.

' "Send a gunship!" Mandamus said loudly, as though quoting.

'Well anyway, this isn't Beirut, Orrick took a piece of bread from the basket, broke it in half and ate.

'Isn't Saigon, either, but so what? Broekman looked suddenly annoyed, and scowled at the bowl the old steward put in front of him. 'Ach; it isn't up to us. It'll sort itself out one way or the other. We aren't even pawns in this.

'The congressmen will see the ships though, Hisako said. 'And we were mentioned on the news again last night.

'Channel 8? Broekman said. 'That's because we're local for them. And a lot these congressmen will see from seven miles up, anyway… if it's a clear day.

Hisako looked down, sipped at her soup.

'We're a symbol, man, Orrick told Broekman. 'We matter. That's why the reds haven't attacked us or blown away the dams.

'They took out that lock at Gatún easily enough, Broekman said.

'Yeah, but just one, like to prove they could do it.

'And the tanker lying at the bottom of Limón Bay?

'It was US registered, like you keep telling me, Mr Broekman, Orrick said. 'And it hadn't gotten famous; it wasn't mentioned in the news till it was blown away. But the reds aren't gonna attack us. It's too public a situation; we mean something. That's why that plane's coming to look-see. We'll be centre-stage, numero uno.

'You reckon, Broekman said, dipping into his soup. 'Well who am I to argue?

'I will hazard, Mandamus said, with slow deliberation and narrowed eyes, 'that if negotiations go well, the ships will be released before the end of the month.

Broekman laughed, coughed into his soup, dabbed at his mouth with the napkin. Orrick nodded his young blond head slowly. 'Only if the guys come in. If the guys come in; then you'll see some action.

'In what guise, though? Mandamus said, as though to himself.

'Yeah; you wait, Orrick said, tearing another piece of bread apart. 'You'll see.

3: The Universal Company

'Hello? Hello? Hisako? Ms Onoda?

'I am here.

'Ah! How are you?

'Well. Very well. And you?

'Hisako, what are you doing? Why are you still on that ship? I've put the dates starting in Den Haag back by exactly one month except for Bern. Not always the same venues, but we can sort that out later. But you have to get out of there!.. Are you listening? Hello?

'It's not easy to get out, Mr Moriya. Helicopters are shot down, small boats are attacked… sometimes near the coast of the lake; Panama airport is closed-

'They must have more than one!

'- and because the… no, the city only has one civilian airport. Colón is shut down for-

'I meant in the country!

'And the Pan American is mined.

'What? The airline? Mined?

'No, the highway. Also, the rebels have taken hostages in Panama and Colón.

'But you're Japanese, not American! I mean, why-

'They've kidnapped… they've kidnapped Japanese, Americans, Europeans, Brazilians… many different people. One of the captains of the ships was taken hostage in Cristóbal; Captain Herval… I might get through, but I might not. At least here we are fairly safe.

'Can't they get those ships out? Can't they move them?

'The rebels have missiles. Also, they could blow up the locks, or the Madden Dam, or the Mindi Dyke. The canal is… delicate, even though it is big.

'Hisako, are these real names? No; never mind. Isn't there some way out? Somehow? There's more interest than ever because it's been on the news you're there, but the Europeans won't wait for ever, and you aren't — forgive me — but you aren't getting any younger, Hisako. Oh, I'm sorry. Say you forgive me; I'm not sleeping well, and I'm on the phone to Europe half the night, and I'm snapping at people and… I'm sorry I said that. Do say I'm excused…

'That's all right. You are correct, of course. But I have talked to the consulate in Panama; they say it is safest to sit tight. They expect there will be peace soon, or that the Americans will take over the Zone again.

'But when?

'Who knows? Watch the news.

'I watch the news! I can't take my eyes off the news! When I'm not running up a phone bill to Europe the size of the US national debt, I'm stuck to CNN Nippon! But watching the. news does not get you to Europe to play the cello!

'I'm sorry, Mr Moriya. But I can't think of anything I can do.

'Oh… oh, me neither. But… but… oh, it's all just so frustrating! Ha! Why didn't I stay with the NHK like my mother said? Never mind! Are you practising? How is the instrument?

'I am practising. The instrument and I are both fine. I didn't know you were in the NHK.

'What? Yes; many years ago. Trumpet. I left because I was making more money doing bookings for other people. Also, playing it hurt my eardrums.

'You are what they call "dark horse", Mr Moriya.

'I am what they call broke agent, Hisako. And more broke the longer this call goes on. You keep practising.

'Hai. Thank you for calling. Goodbye.

'Sayonara, Hisako.

The Nakodo stayed at Pier 18 for a week; there was a problem with the ship's propeller, which had stuck at one pitch. After two days of rioting and curfews the city had been declared safe again. Hisako went back in with Mandamus, Broekman, and first officer Endo, while the divers tried to fix the prop. Captain Yashiro paced impatiently up and down the bridge watching a succession of ships sail under the Puente de las Americas, past Pier 18, and on towards the locks at Miraflores. Helicopters filled the skies, clattering between the Southern Command base at Fort Clayton and US aircraft carriers and troop ships stationed in the Gulf of Panama. The venceristas were said to be moving down from the Cordillera Central and the Serrania de San Bias. Cuba had warned the US not to intervene, and offered help to the Republic. The US reinforced its base at Guantánamo, on Cuba. The Soviet ambassador visited the White House to deliver a note to the President, the text of which was not released.

Mr Mandamus stirred his mint tea and looked out on to the Avenida Central, where the clogged traffic honked and hooted furiously, and outrageously decorated buses full of brightly dressed people contrasted with the matt camouflage of the Guards' jeeps and trucks.

They had started at the Santa Ana Plaza, where Mr Mandamus, guidebook in hand, led them down Calle after having his shoes polished twice. Hisako, Mr Mandamus said, was the only Japanese person he'd ever encountered who didn't own — indeed had never owned — a camera. She agreed it was unusual. Officer Endo took photographs of everything, in a manner Mr Mandamus obviously considered a much more satisfyingly traditional Japanese fashion.

Hisako spent much time and money on Calle 13. The street was packed with shops and shoppers. She bought Kantule Perfume from the San Blas archipelago, a chaquira necklace made by the Guaymí Indians, a ring with a small Columbian emerald set in it, a chácara bag, a circular pollera dress, a montuna shirt and several molas; a small pillow, a bedspread, and three blouses. Mandamus bought a hat. Broekman stocked up on Cuban cigars. Endo bought a mola for his wife and two extra diskettes for his camera. The men helped her carry all her shopping. Broekman thought some of the natives looked shifty, and said it was probably just as well they were all together, especially as Hisako had collected enough loot on her shopping expedition to make a conquistadore jealous.

They trooped down to the docks and through the fish market, then got lost in a maze of small, crowded, noisy streets. Mr Mandamus was delighted; the area was called 'Sal si puedes', which meant 'Get out if you can', and it was traditional to get lost in it.

'You mean you knew we'd get lost? Broekman said, once they were lost. He waved away a variety of people trying to sell him things.

'Well, I thought we would, Mandamus said thoughtfully.

'You thought we would, you crazy man?

'Of course, Mr Mandamus said, glowing with airy satisfaction, while a lottery ticket salesman and the owner of a Chinese restaurant studied the map of the city Mandamus had produced. (They were arguing.) 'They keep changing the street names, you see, Mr Mandamus explained. 'The maps have the new names but the people call the streets after their old names. It's quite simple, really.

'But what do you want to get us lost for? Broekman said, almost shouting. 'This city's bandit country these days! We need to know what we're doing! We need to know where we are!

'Don't worry, Mandamus said, wiping his brow with a white handkerchief. He pointed to Endo, who was filming the arm movements of the two arguing Panamanians. 'Mr Endo is a navigating officer!

Hisako looked round, clutching her shopping bags to her because Broekman had said she ought to, but despite the heat, and the crowds, and the fact they were lost — feeling happy. Not because she'd bought so much, but because here she was, finally in a completely different place. It was dangerous, sometimes frightening, quite lawless compared to Japan, but just so different. She felt alive. She tried to think of what music it would be good to play now, what composition she could take this mood to, so that the notes would sing and speak and take on resonances she hadn't heard in them before.

They got out eventually. They continued walking, admiring the old Spanish villas, the cathedral, Plaza Bolivar, and the brilliantly white presidential palace with its flamingos. 'I take it the anti-aircraft missiles on the roof are a recent addition, Broekman said, looking over Mandamus's shoulder at the guidebook.

'So one would imagine.

They went down to the sea, to the Plaza de Francia, and looked out from the old walls to the islands in the bay; the Pacific was green and blue and violet, shimmering under a cloudless sky. Seabirds wheeled in the baking air.

They strolled back up the Avenida Central until they came to a café called the International, run by a huge black man called MacPherson who spoke with an accent that combined Jamaican and English public school. They took tea. Mint for Mandamus. Chinese for the rest.

'Oh! Mandamus said suddenly, still reading the guidebook. 'Listen: "The lower part of the ramparts, near the law courts, contains vaulted cells in which condemned prisoners were chained at low tide." Mandamus looked up, eyes bright. 'You see? And then, when the tide came in, the Pacific drowned them… the moon drowned them! We should go back and see these cells. What do you say?

Her classmates made fun of her because she looked like a hairy Ainu. The Ainu were the natives of Japan; its abos, its Injuns. After the eighth century they'd been pushed further and further north by the Yamato Japanese moving in from the Asian mainland until they clung on only on Hokkaldo, the most northern island. Stereotypically the Ainu were tall, thick-built and hairy, and Hisako — though of average build — had deep black hair, and bushy eyebrows which almost joined up with the hair at the side of her scalp. Her eyes were deepset, which added to the Ainu look. So the children in her school taunted her and offered to tattoo her lips and wrists, the way real Ainu were marked.

In school she was poor at almost everything except English, and the other girls told her she'd never get to university — not even a two-year one — because she was stupid, and never get a husband because she was an ugly hairy Ainu, and she'd grow up a poor widowed office lady like her mother.

She ignored them, tried to read fairy stories in English, and practised her cello playing. Once, in the middle of winter, four girls caught her in a school cloakroom and held her hands down on a near-boiling-hot radiator; she cried, screamed, struggled, while her hands blazed with pain, and the girls laughed and imitated her cries. Finally, roaring with the agony and the unfairness of it all, she pulled her head free of their grip — leaving one of the girls with a handful of bloody, thick, black hair and sank her teeth in the wrist of the biggest girl. She bit as hard as she could, and heard the screams go on around her though her mouth was closed and her hands still burned.

She woke up on the floor. There was blood in her mouth and her head ached. Her hands were seared and red and tight, and she sat there, legs crossed, rocking back and forward with her hands in her lap, weeping quietly to herself and wishing that life was like a fairy story, so that her falling tears would heal her hands where the drops fell on the raw red skin.

Her mother seemed to accept her story about pulling an iron rod out of a bonfire on the way back from school: Mrs Onoda said nothing about the patch of missing hair, or the bruise on the side of her daughter's face, and Hisako thought her mother stupid and easily fooled for a while, until she heard the stifled sobs coming from her mother's room that night. Hisako let her hands be bandaged. She would lie in her mother's arms, being read to, or rest her English books in her lap, turning the pages with her nose, or just sit with her cello, looking at it and rubbing her cheek against it. Whenever she started to cry she buried her face in the crook of her elbow, in case her tears stained the cello's varnished surface.

Mr Kawamitsu had been delighted by the progress she'd made. She was exceptionally gifted, he told her mother (who sighed when she heard this, because it meant it would cost money). Mr Kawamitsu was very excited; he had written to the Tokyo Music Academy, and they had agreed to listen to the child, to see if she was as good as he said. If she was, she would be given a bursary. Of course, this meant travelling to Tokyo… Mrs Onoda went to the bank.

It was too soon after her hands had been burned, but the date had been set and Mrs Onoda was terrified of upsetting the Academy. They were both sick on the ferry. She still felt terrible when she was taken into the room in the old building near Yoyogi Park, to sit in front of a dozen stern-looking men.

She played; they listened. They looked just as stern when she'd finished, and she knew she had played badly, that she had thrown away her chance and Mr Kawamitsu would be made to look stupid and her mother would weep behind the screen again.

She was right; she didn't get the bursary. They did offer her a place, but Mrs Onoda couldn't afford the money. Mr Kawamitsu looked sad rather than angry, and said she must still play, because she could do something very few people could do, and such a gift was not just hers, but belonged to everybody, and she owed it to everyone else to practise diligently. She found that difficult, and her playing became mechanical and without lustre.

The Academy sent for her again a month after their offer of a place had been rejected; another chance, for the last bursary place. But Mrs Onoda had little money left. Hisako thought about it, and came solemnly to her mother one evening holding the cello like an offering at a shrine, suggesting they sell the instrument to raise the money for the fare; she could borrow one. If she had a chance to practise she might be able to adapt to a new cello… Her mother ruffled her hair, and went to the bank the next morning to take out a loan.

The ferry journey was smooth and for a long time she watched the wake the ship left stretching back to the dark island of her birth.

In the forbidding room in the old building near Yoyogi Park she played again; again the stern-looking men listened. Because her hands had healed, she could use them to tell the judges how much it had hurt when they were forced on to the rough metal of the radiator; how much she had been hurt; how much her mother had been hurt; how much everything hurt. They still looked stern but they gave her the bursary.

She wore the pollera and one of the mola blouses to the party on the Nadia, the third ship stranded in the lake. The Nadia was a general cargo vessel, registered in Panama itself, but Japanese-owned. Like the Nakodo, it had been crossing from Pacific to Atlantic when the canal was closed.

The Nadia's parties were held under an awning on an upper deck. It was a clear night for a change, and on the way over in the Nakodo's launch, heading for the bright patch of light and the sound of Latin music, she watched the stars, fabulous and strewn, arching across the sky above the darkness of the lake.

Philippe was already there, looking tall and fine and. tanned in his white dress uniform. She felt the way she always did when she saw him like this; afraid and embarrassed. Afraid that he would look at her one day and, instead of smiling (as he did now, coming forward, taking her hand, kissing it), scowling. She would know what that scowl meant; it would mean that he no longer wanted her, that he was wondering what he'd ever seen in her, what had possessed him to take this older woman, this small-breasted, unglamorous Japanese woman to his bed; that he was thinking how foolish, how blind he must have looked to everybody else, and how he could gracefully disengage from the association. So she searched his face for that look at almost every meeting, knowing the expression might be fleeting, knowing it might be almost invisibly brief, but sure she would recognise it when it came.

Her embarrassment was caused simply by the thought; what was she doing with this handsome young man?

'You are very ethnic tonight, Philippe said to her, looking her up and down as they went to the drinks table.

She made a flouncing movement with the pollera. 'And you look most dashing.

'But I expand, he patted his jacket over his belly. 'Too much of this. He nodded at the food and drink displayed on the tables under the awning.

She squeezed his hand. 'More exercise, she told him, then said hello to the steward at the drinks table, and asked for a Pernod.

'Do you want to dive tomorrow? Philippe asked her. 'We can dive at night, perhaps? The lights are ready. Philippe had wanted to dive in the lake at night for weeks, but didn't have any underwater lights apart from a couple of small torches. Viglain, the engineer on Le Cercle, had agreed to make some lights for them.

She nodded. 'Yes, let's do that. She raised her glass to his. Santé.

Santé.

Nobody had braved the journey from Frijoles, a few kilometres away down the canal towards the Pacific coast, or Gatún, about the same distance away in the direction of the Atlantic. Hisako spent a great deal of time dancing; the only other women there were the wife of Captain Bleveans — the Nadia's skipper — and Marie Boulard, Le Cercle's junior deck officer.

They sat down to eat; ceviche de corvina, tamales, carimañolas, lobsters and prawns. She passed on the chicharrones, small pieces of fried pork crackling.

She talked to Captain Bleveans; he'd been the only one of the people on the ships who'd known anything about her and her career before they met, though a few of the rest had at least heard of her. Bleveans had some of her more recent recordings, and she'd let him tape the two recitals she'd given since the ships were trapped.

On the other side of the table, Orrick and Broekman were arguing. Mandamus seemed to be reading Mrs Bleveans's hand. Philippe was talking to one of the Nadia's engineers; Endo was doing his best to converse with his opposite number on the ship.

She tried not to keep looking at Philippe all the time.

They'd first met at a similar party on his ship, Le Cercle. It had been less than a week since the closure of the canal. Captain Herval, the Nadia's captain, had suggested that the officers of the three ships have an informal gathering; passengers were invited too.

She'd been talking to Mrs Bleveans. The wife of the Nadia's captain was a tall, thin woman who always dressed well and. never appeared without subtle but obviously carefully applied make-up, but whose face, Hisako thought, looked faintly — if tastefully — dismayed, as though you were forever telling her something she really did not want to hear, but was not prepared to stoop to arguing about.

'Excuse me, Madame Bleveans.

Hisako turned to see the tall, dark-haired Frenchman looking first at Mrs Bleveans, then at her, smiling slightly. They'd been introduced; his name was Philippe Ligny. He nodded to the American woman and to her. 'Mademoiselle Onoda?

'Yes? Hisako said.

'There is a radio call for you. It is from Tokyo. A Mr… Morieur?

'Moriya, she said, amused at his accent.

'He says it is urgent. He waits. I can take you to the radio, yes?

'Yes, thank you, she said. 'My agent, she explained to Mrs Bleveans.

'Mr ten percent, huh? Well, give him hell, honey.

Hisako followed the young Frenchman through the ship, admiring his back, imagining the feel of those shoulders under her hands, and telling herself she might have had too much wine. 'Ah, an elevator! she said. Philippe motioned her to enter the small lift first.

'We are very… decadent on ships todays, he told her, following her in and pressing the top button. She smiled at the 'todays', then told herself his English was ten times better than her French. They had to stand with arms touching. She felt awkward, standing so close to him. He smelled of an aftershave or cologne she could not identify. The lift hummed around them, sending vibrations up her legs. She cleared her throat, wanting something to say, but couldn't think of anything.

'The radio; is just like a téléphone. He held out the handset for her while she sat in the chair just vacated by the radio operator. The wall ahead of her was packed with small screens, lights, dials and buttons; there were another couple of telephone-type handsets, plus two other microphones.

'Thank you.

'I will be forward, on the bridge? He pointed; she nodded. 'When you finish, you hang the… the piece here.

She nodded again. She could already hear the squeaky voice of Mr Moriya coming from the receiver in her hand. Philippe Ligny closed the door behind him, and she sighed, wondering what Mr Moriya thought important enough to track her down here.

'Hisako?

'Yes, Mr Moriya?

'Look, I've had an idea; supposing I hired a helicopter…

Mr Moriya retired defeated after about ten minutes, mollified by the information that the canal authorities hoped to have the canal operating within a few days. She left the radio room (it smelled of… electronics, she thought to herself) and went down a short corridor to the red-lit bridge, where more tiny lights winked.

The bridge was very long (or wide, she supposed), and full of even more complicated equipment than the radio room; multifarious surfaces, levers, buttons and screens glinted in the strange ruby glow coming from the overhead lamps. The bridge's sloped windows looked out over the dark lake to the lights of the Nakodo, a kilometre away, and beyond that she could make out what must be the lights of Gatún, normally obscured by the various small islands between the town and the buoy-field where the ships lay moored.

She went to the ship's wheel; it was small; about the size of a sport's car's. She touched it.

'Not bad news, no?

She jumped a little (and thought at least her blush would go unnoticed in this ruby light), and turned to Ligny, who'd come from another red-lit room just off the bridge.

She shook her head. 'No. My agent is worried; I am due to play in Europe in two weeks, and- she spread her hands - well, I will be late, I suppose.

'Ah. He nodded slowly, looking down at her. His face was smooth-looking and somehow theatrical under the red lights. She expected the usual questions — Why hadn't she flown? Would she be going to his country? — and so on, but he just looked slowly away. She noticed he was holding a clipboard. He glanced at it. 'Excuse me, he said. 'I will call one of the men to take you back; I stay… it is my watch.

'I can find my own way back, she said.

'Bien.

'I was just… she looked around, at the banks of controls and screens, … admiring all this machinery. So complicated.

He shrugged. She watched his shoulders move. 'It is… more simple than it looks. The ship is… like an instrument. I think a violoncelle is more difficult perhaps.

She found herself shrugging too, realising halfway through the action she was unconsciously imitating him. 'But there are only four strings on a violoncelle, she said. 'And one person can work it, not… twenty or thirty.

'But… one person can work the ship, he said. He motioned at the expanse of controls. 'We control the engine from here direct; this is the wheel; there is radar, echo sounder… the ah… machine for the anchor; we have computers and satellite location as well as paper charts… of course, in reality- (He said realité; she decided she could listen to his accent for hours; days.) "- you need many more people… for maintenance… so on.

She wanted to extend the moment, so moved along the edge of the controls sloped beneath the windows. 'But there's so much; so many controls. She felt a little guilty at acting the ignorant female, but then although Officer Endo had shown her round the bridge of the Nakodo, she hadn't paid all that much attention. She ran her hand over one set of blank screens. 'What does this do, say?

'Those are monitors; televisions. So that we can see the bows, stern, so on.

'Ah. And these? Was she being too obvious, running her fingers along the levers? This was silly, really. There was a very attractive young woman officer on this ship, much better looking than her. But what was wrong with flirting? She wasn't even really flirting, anyway. Probably he hadn't noticed; she was being over-sensitive.

'Pumps; to pump the cargo; the oil. And here… controls for fighting fire. Foam; water sprays.

'Ah ha. So, you carry… crude oil? She folded her arms.

'Yes. From Venezuela. We take it to Manzanillo, in Mexico… on the Pacific coast.

'Ah yes. You were going in the other direction.

He smiled. 'And so we meet.

'Indeed, she smiled back. He kept looking at her. She wondered how long she could keep up this eye contact.

'When I was young, he said slowly.

'Yes? She leant back a little, backside against the lip of the control deck.

'I was… I had to play the violon… violin. I tried the… how do you say violoncelle?

'Cello.

'Cello, he said, smiling. 'I tried the cello, but I was not very good. I was just a little boy, you know?

She tried to imagine him as a little boy.

'Your cello is Stradivari? he said. He looked a little more boyish when he frowned. She nodded. Just keep speaking, you beautiful man, she thought. And: What am I doing? This is absurd. What age am I supposed to be?

'I thi — I thought he made violons only.

'No, cellos too. Him, and his sons.

'It is very good… cello, then.

'Well, I like the sound it makes. That's the most important thing. Inspiration! 'Would you like to… she gulped. 'Would you like to… to play it?

He looked shocked. 'Oh no; I could not. I might hurt… I might damage it.

She laughed. 'Oh, it's not so easily damaged. It looks delicate but really… it's strong.

'Ah.

'If you would like to play it… if you can remember. Please do. I'd like you to. I could give you lessons, if you like.

He looked almost bashful. She thought she could see him as a little boy, just perhaps. He looked down at the deck. 'I would be… is too kind of you.

'No; I'm going to Europe to play, but also to teach. I must practise to teach as well as to play.

He was still looking bashful. The tiny frown was there too. She wondered if she was being too obvious. 'Well… he said. 'Perhaps… could I pay you?

'No! She laughed, and bent at the waist, bringing her head briefly near him. She shook her head quite hard, knowing it made her collar-length hair flare out. What am I doing? Oh please don't let me make a fool of myself 'I know, she said. She. looked down the length of the bridge. 'We'll trade. You could teach me how to work the ship.

It was his turn to laugh. He waved the clipboard in the same direction she'd looked. 'Is… not really so much, not moored here. If you like, I show you but…

'Is there anything else you could teach me? As soon as she'd said it she wanted to close her eyes and run away. She heard herself suck air in through her teeth.

'Have you ever… dived? With the… ah, aqualung?

'Dived? No.

'I could perhaps teach you that. I have a… a système, yes? And there is another, for the ship. I can ask Capitaine Herval; I think he would let you use that. Is a good trade? His smile showed perfect teeth.

She nodded, put out her right hand, suddenly bold. 'Yes. A good trade.

They shook on it. His hand was large and strong and cool, and he looked surprised when she met his grip with one just as firm and sure.

'That's complete crap.

'Perhaps, Mandamus agreed generously with Orrick. 'But it's an idea, if not a new one. Saying "that's complete crap" isn't even an idea. It's just an opinion. What is your idea?

'I just can't believe you can be so pessimistic and… and still be alive. Jeez, if I felt that way I think I'd kill myself.

'It's not pessimism, Mandamus said. 'It's what I call the Bleak View, but it isn't pessimism. If it's right it's right. Truth is truth; I am old-fashioned in that regard. But I believe as I say; we are like a cancer. To be like a cancer in one way may be no bad thing; we live and grow. The question is how much we resemble cancer in any other way. If-

'Just because we're smart? Is that what you're saying? Just being smart makes us bad? That's crazy.

'You don't listen; the smartness-

'I'm listening, I just don't believe what I'm hearing.

'You must have heard of Gaia; the planet as organism. Well, we are the cancer in its body. Do you understand that? We were like an ordinary organ, once; part of the whole. We lived and died, we behaved ourselves like cells, existing and being replaced, just another species, preying on some species, preyed on by others… whether we lived or died as a species made little difference. Then; phut! Intelligence. Mr Mandamus snapped his fingers. The younger man shook his head, drank from his beer bottle. The others were keeping quiet; even Broekman, who was sitting back in his chair looking tired and smoking a cigar, his collar undone.

Hisako glanced at Philippe, who winked at her.

'And with that, Mandamus said. 'everything changes. We invent ways to blow up the world, but before that we start destroying other species; the other organs of the Gaia body. And we change her body. Oh, shake your head, Steven, but come with me to Alexandria; come to Venice. Alexandria becomes Venice, Venice Atlantis. The waters are rising; the ice is melting and the waters are rising. What we do means everything now. Whether we survive or not matters not just to us but to all the other species we take down with us if we go under. Because we have the drives of any species; to live, to breed, to spread. But we have this extra thing, this consciousness nothing else has.

'Yeah, what about whales?

'Fah; if they were so smart they wouldn't let us kill them so easily. They'd post look-outs, they'd avoid all ships, or ships smaller than a certain size, or ships that turn towards them, or —

'Maybe they are. Maybe some of them are but we just can't —

'No; they can't hide from satellites, Mandamus said quickly; and made a motion as though brushing this aside. 'But there we are; whales are intelligent, for animals; they are big, they are impressive and beautiful… but we kill them, we make them extinct because there is money in it, because we've made it easy; because we can. So we spread ourselves, and kill everything else. Only our intelligence lets us do this; it is what takes us beyond the «stop» message all other species have; they are limited by their specialisation, by the adaptation they have made to fit their niche. We take our niche with us; even into space. Thus we threaten to metastasise.

'So we're just doing what we're supposed to do', Orrick said. 'And if we kill off other species maybe they should have been smarter. It's the smart survive; it isn't our fault if we're too smart for anybody else.

Mandamus made a spluttering noise, and drained the rum he'd been drinking, shaking his head and wiping his mouth. 'Young man-

'Christ, said Broekman.

They looked at him. He came tipping forward on his seat, its front legs thudding into the deck. Those on that side of the table were following his gaze. Hisako turned with the others. The sky to the west was flickering with silent blue-white bursts of light. Silhouetted against the unsteady flarings were the hills on the west side of the lake. The underbellies of the clouds snapped in and out of view with the fierce strobing of the light, like folds of cloth hung in some vast hall. Half the horizon glittered and danced. Gatún Lake reflected it all, a distorted mirror held up to the edge of the sky gone crazy. The outline of Le Cercle sat upon the livid image like a toy.

'What the fuck is that? Orrick breathed.

'L — language, Mr Mandamus said, absently but shakily. 'Is it just… lightning?

Points of flame appeared beneath the clouds; they blossomed and spread like vast slow fireworks, rubbing an unnatural sunlight on to the sagging undersurfaces of the clouds, then falling in a thousand curved yellow streaks towards the ground. Arcing coruscations flicked to and fro across the sky, winking out or disappearing in the clouds like red and silver sparks.

The first cracks and rumbles broke over them.

'That isn't lightning, Broekman said.

The noises increased in volume and became more various, scattering into bizarre whizzes and screams against a background of sharp bangs and muffled crumping sounds. Captain Bleveans stood up. 'I guess we better get inside. Mr Janney, he turned to one of the Nadia's junior officers, 'see what we're getting over the radio. Get Harrison to try the low-tech military bands; even if we can't unscramble it we can get an idea of the traffic. Ladies, gentlemen…?

'I think I go back to my ship, Philippe said, rising with the rest. People began to follow Janney, who'd almost run through the nearest door into the ship.

'I too, Endo said. He looked at Mandamus, Orrick and Hisako. 'You may be best to stay here.

'I- Hisako began. She didn't know what to do; stay, go back to the Nakodo, go with Philippe?

'Inside, first, please, Bleveans said. They were ushered into the ship.

The horizon was a billowed cliff of light and darkness split with fissures of fire.

It stopped after a few minutes. A dull glow was left in a few places, as the rumbles faded away from distant hills. The officers had waited a few minutes to find out what could be heard on the Nadia's radio. It was silent. Whatever had happened, whatever sort of action or bombardment had taken place, it had done so without the accompaniment of any signals the ship's civilian communications gear was capable of picking up.

They used the VHF to contact a sleepy policeman in the office at Frijoles; he'd thought it was thunder. At Gatún the guards officer they talked to said he'd seen and heard it but didn't know what it was; they were awaiting orders from Panama and would probably send out a patrol in the morning.

They gave it a half-hour or so, crowding into the officers' mess and drinking some more. Hisako listened to them all, and to herself, and heard the sounds people make when they don't know whether to be frightened or not. The talk was light, jittery, inconsequential. Mandamus and Orrick did not return to their argument.

'Hisako-chan, you are not afraid? Philippe asked her.

'No. She held his hand. She'd stood in a corner, watching the rest. Standing close, he almost blotted out the rest of the crowded room for her.

'And now we must go.

'Can I come back with you?

That tiny frown, drawing in his black eyebrows. 'I think it isn't so good idea. We are closer to the combat and also… a tanker. He squeezed her hand. 'I have to worry for the ship. To worry for you too…

'That's all right. She stood on tip-toes and kissed him. 'Take care.

They went down to the water, down the long ladder at the side of the ship. The sky was milky in places, coming and going like some soft aurora. The boat hadn't arrived, but they could hear it coming through the fogbank.

She knelt down at the edge of the pontoon and looked at the water. The people behind her were still. She couldn't see their faces.

Whatever was wrong with the water? It was slopping and splashing very oddly and slowly; it looked wrong.

She drew back the arm of the kimono, reached down.

The water was warm and thick. The trees on the nearby islands looked very green. They floated above the creamy fog. The black prow of the first boat was appearing through the swirling mist.

The water felt slippy and too hot. She could smell it now; something of iron… for a moment she thought she couldn't withdraw her hand, but it did come out, though it seemed to resist, sucking at her hand, wrist, forearm. Her fingers were stuck together.

The sun came out, flooding everything in light. She looked at the blood dripping from her hand, wondering how she'd cut herself.

The blood dribbled down her arm to her elbow, and dripped from there and from her blood-glued fingers, falling in slow, ruby droplets down to the lake. But it was blood too. The whole lake. She lifted her gaze, from the red lapping tide at her feet, out across the calm, smooth surface, to the islands and the black boats. In the distance, a woman came up through the red surface, making a strange, plaintive hooting noise, and holding something tiny but bright between thumb and forefinger of one hand. Hisako felt her vision zooming in: the pearl was the colour of the fog and cloud.

The stench of blood overpowered her, and she fell.

Into her pillow. She dragged her face out, breathing heavily, looked round the cabin.

A chink of brightness where the curtain over one porthole let in light. The soft red glow of her old alarm clock on the cabinet, numerals refracted and reflected in the tumbler of water alongside.

She got up on one elbow, feeling her heart thud, and sipped at the water. It had become warm and tasted thick and stale. She fumbled her way out of the bed, to go to the bathroom and get some more.

On the way back she pulled aside the curtain over a porthole. The lit stretch of deck she could see looked the same as it ever did. She was looking in the direction of whatever had happened in the hills to the west, but if there was still any glow left in the sky, it was quite drowned by the Nakodo's own lights.

4: Water Business

She hadn't thought it would be so beautiful. The rugged, lumpy little hills around the canal were covered in trees displaying a hundred different shades of green, broken here and there by clumps of bushes and stretches of grass smothered with bright blossoms. She had imagined low wastes of monotonous jungle, but here was a landscape of such variety of texture and shade, and such delicacy of proportion, she could almost imagine it was Japanese. The canal itself was impressive enough, but — save when the ship had entered the gloomy depths at the bottom of one of the massive locks — its scale was not as oppressive as she'd expected. As the ship slowly rose past the enclosing walls, floating on a raft of swirling water, the manicured grasslands and neat buildings surrounding each great double set of locks came gradually into view.

At the same time, she thought, something of the smoothness and massiveness of the operation, the sensation of inevitability and contained power involved in the raising of the ship in such a stately, nearly majestic fashion, somehow transferred itself to her and to the others on the ship; she thought they all became calmer and less fraught as each set of locks was negotiated, and not just because with each step along and up that ribbon of concrete and water they were closer to their goal, of release from Panama and a clear run through the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico.

The repairs to the prop had been completed. In that week of waiting the situation had become worse, with the venceristas mounting attacks on the towns of David and Penonome and a brief raid on Escobal, which lay on the western shore of Gatún Lake itself. Worst of all, rockets had been fired at two tankers between Gamboa and Barro Colorado, inside the canal. The rocket fired at the first ship had missed; another launched at the second tanker had glanced off the vessel's deck. The canal authorities had told a tanker making its way through from the Caribbean coast to moor in Gatún while the situation was assessed.

Canal traffic had dropped off sharply: Dozens of ships were tied up against the docks of Panama City and Balboa, moored in the bay, or swinging at anchor further out in the Gulf of Panama, awaiting instructions or advice from owners, charterers, insurance companies, embassies and consulates. The Nakodo was already late; the permission to proceed came through from Tokyo as soon as she was ready to sail.

And it all seemed so calm, so orderly and assured. The precise lines of the great locks; the tidiness of the expanses of grass, bordered by the concrete at the side of the locks like inlay edging a lacquer cabinet; the quaint-looking but powerful electric locomotives that pulled the ship through the locks; the deeply eaved, oddly temple-like buildings set at the side of the artificial canyons of the locks, or perched on the thin concrete island dividing one set from the other; the feeling of procession as the ship made its way up towards the level of the lake, as though it was a novice being gently guided, prepared and anointed and clothed for some fabulous and arcane rite in the heart of a great basilica… everything made the war seem distant and irrelevant, and the fuss about threats against the canal and the ships that plied it somehow undignified and paltry.

Miraflores locks, where the gush of fresh water descending from the lock above washed the Pacific's salt from the Nakodo's keel; Pedro Miguel, where the buildings around the locks sat in disciplined rows like solemn spectators, and where a bulk carrier passed them, sinking in her lock as the Nakodo rose in hers (the crews waved to each other).

Her ascent completed, the Nakodo cruised quietly on, through the echoing depths of Gaillard Cut and on into the ruffled emerald landscape beyond, where the canal swung gradually towards the lake, and a train moved, outdistancing them, to their right.

They'd seen a few Guardia Nacional, wandering about the edges of the locks or draped over jeeps and trucks parked on the various roads, or sitting smoking in the shade of the canal buildings… but they'd looked nonchalant, unconcerned, and waved back as the ship passed.

Hisako had been allowed on to the bridge after making great entreaties; Captain Yashiro was worried that if the ship was attacked, any sensible guerrilla would aim at the bridge. However he had finally compromised by agreeing she could stay on the bridge until they approached Gamboa. But it was all so tranquil, so patently normal, that she was pleased but not at all surprised when Gamboa slipped by to starboard, and she was not asked to leave the bridge and go below.

The Panama Canal Commission pilot was chatting in English to Officer Endo. Gamboa, and the mouth of the upper reaches of the Chagres River, moved slowly astern; the train which had overtaken them earlier left the town and passed them again, carriages rocking and wheels singing, only a few hundred metres away; The morning sun slanted over them, between small clouds which speckled shadows over the forested slopes. Only in a few places could she see the naked hillsides where the trees had been cut down and gullies and ravines had formed, scarring the smooth green land. The Commission pilot had said something about problems in the hills; trees cut down, topsoil washed away; dams silting up and so decreasing the available water the canal required to keep functioning. She hadn't thought of that; of course, the canal could not operate without water at its head; water was its currency.

Gatún Lake. They moved under a slightly hazy sun, through the vague shafts of cloud shadows, with the land starting to shimmer on each side and the V of the ship's bow-wave breaking against the shores further and further away.

They cleared Barro Colorado, leaving the island nature reserve behind to port. There must have been a little tension on the bridge after all, because she noticed that people talked a little more now they were past the section the two tankers had been attacked in.

They were in the main part of the lake now. Ahead of them, across the sparkling waters of the lake, its lines sharp and definite against the jumbled greenery of the lake's scattered islands, lay the lone tanker the authorities had told to remain there while the current emergency existed.

It was French, registered in Marseille, and called Le Cercle.

They didn't hear or see the explosion at Gatún, but the VHF call came through just as they were passing the moored tanker, and the masts of another ship — the Nadia — were appearing over the trees of Barro Colorado island, behind them.

They'd told her, her mother had told her, Mr Kawamitsu had told her, but she hadn't thought they were serious; she had to leave her mother and go to live in Tokyo to attend the Academy. For months, whole seasons, at a time. She was twelve. She didn't think it was allowed to desert somebody who was just little, but everybody seemed to think it was for the best, even her mother, and Hisako didn't even hear her weep the night after the confirmed offer of the bursary and place came through. Hisako looked at the palms of her hands that night — it was so dark she wasn't sure whether she could see them or not — and thought, So this is the way the world works, is it?

She felt oddly remote from her mother over the next few months, and really didn't seem to feel very much when she was taken to Sapporo station to board the train. She was looking forward to the ferry journey; that was about it. Her mother was embarrassingly emotional, and hugged her and kissed her in public. As the train pulled out, Hisako stayed at the carriage door, face expressionless, waving goodbye, more because she felt it was expected of her than because she wanted to.

At the Academy everybody seemed cleverer and wealthier than she, and the cello lessons very basic. They were taken to hear the NHK; she preferred it when there wasn't a cello work on the bill, because when there was she couldn't help listening to learn, rather than just to enjoy. On Sundays the hostel children were usually taken round an art gallery or museum, or into the countryside; Hakone, Izu, and the Fuji. Five Lakes, which was much more fun. She got to climb things and go on ferries.

To her dismay, the Academy teachers were just as scathing about her academic performance as the teachers in Sapporo had been. She remained convinced she had actually learned vast amounts throughout her life, and they were just asking the wrong questions. She came top in English, about average in her cello class, close to bottom in everything else.

Hokkaido was clean and clear and empty after Tokyo, on her first vacation, and fairly deserted and unspoiled even compared to the countryside west of Tokyo. Her mother took her walking in the woods, like in the old days. Once, the two of them sat beneath some pine trees overlooking a broad valley, watching the warm wind stroke slow patterns across wide fields of golden grain beneath them, and the tiny dots of cattle moving on the green swell of a hill on the far side. Her mother told her how she'd cried the night Hisako had left for Tokyo, but that really, she was sure, they were tears of happiness. Hisako felt ashamed. She hugged her mother, and put her head in her lap, though she did not cry.

She coped with Tokyo, she mourned for Hokkaido. Sundays were still her favourite days. Sometimes a group of them was allowed to go out without a teacher. They said they were going to museums but they really went to Harajuku to watch the boys. They strolled down Omote-Sando Boulevard, trying to look mature and sophisticated. Hisako's command of English began to be admired. She still came top in that, and her other grades were improving (not that that would have been difficult, as all the teachers pointed out), and she won a prize in the Academy's cello competition. She'd never won a prize in anything before, and enjoyed the experience. She wanted to use the small amount of money involved to buy some new clothes, but her mother's last letter had talked about a part-time job in a bar, so she sent the money home instead.

Another year; another too brief visit home to Hokkaido. The pace of Tokyo life, the urge to do as well in exams as any other child but to be a musical prodigy as well, even the regularity of the seasons; cold, mild, hot, stormy, warm; Fuji invisible for weeks then suddenly there, floating on a sea of cloud, a flurry of cherry blossom lasting hardly longer than a pink snowstorm… all seemed to conspire to sweep her life away from under her. Her grades went on improving, but the teachers seemed to make a special effort to remind her how important they were. She read novels in English; book in one hand, dictionary in another. She won all the Academy's cello prizes. She spent some on clothes, sent the rest home. She was getting used to the remarks about having a cello between her legs.

The Academy offered her a bursary for another three years; somehow she'd expected they would, but she didn't know whether to take it or not. Her mother said she must; Mr Kawamitsu said she must; the Academy said she must. So she supposed she had to.

Philippe had hoped there might be fish in the lake that would be attracted to their lights, as well as simply desiring the novelty of diving at night. So far, in their day-time dives, they had seen hardly any fish. The aquatic life in Gatún Lake had suffered twice over. First there had been a series of algae blooms caused by fertilisers washed down from the distant hills around Madden Lake and the far western shores of Gatún itself; then the fish and plants had been affected recently by deforestation chemicals used in the early stages of the war. The scientific station on Barro Colorado said the lake was safe to swim in again, but the plant community and fish. stocks were recovering very slowly.

Philippe's blue flippers waved back at her. The lake felt warmer than it did during the day, which surprised her. Perhaps it wasn't really any warmer; perhaps it just seemed so because she expected the dark depths to be cold.

The sense of placelessness, of being contained and cut off yet somehow free as well, was intensified by the darkness. With the day's silvery surface removed, the limit of visibility became what their lights could illuminate, and the lake felt both tinier and greater than it had before; tinier because at any moment they could see only a short distance around them, and so could have been swimming in some small pool, but greater because there was no immediate way of telling the surface was not far above, and the floor not far beneath.

Using the lights, the lake waters became like some swirling and disturbed version of space; in the white beams of their lamps a galaxy of minute particles was revealed, each mote glowing against the darkness like a swiftly passed star. Colours were more vivid, too, though there was little enough to see; just the blue of Philippe's stroking flippers and the bright orange of the line he was paying out behind them, to lead them back to the Gemini. She pointed her lights straight down, and saw the floor of the lake gliding greyly by, smooth and ghostly and quiet.

The National Guard reported there had been a venceristas bombardment of Escobal and Cuipo, followed by a retaliatory strike by Panamanian Air Force jets. This was the official explanation for the fireworks on the night of the Nadia's party. The incident made the Channel 8 news, briefly. Reading between the lines, it appeared as though whatever had first happened hadn't warranted the pyrotechnics they'd seen unleashed.

'Bullshit, Broekman said, leaning against the Nakodo's rail. He had come up from the engine room for a cigar, and met Hisako sitting near the stern on a deck chair, reading. She joined him at the rail, looking out to the heat-wavering line of green hills; the bombardment had taken place somewhere behind them.

'You don't believe that? she said.

Broekman spat the stub of the cigar down to the waters of the lake, and watched it drift slowly under the stern. 'Ah, it all sounds very plausible… more plausible than what we saw, perhaps… but it wasn't what we saw. It all started at once, and I didn't hear any jets. The PAF wouldn't get everything that coordinated anyway; God help us, they'd probably have bombed us if they had been around.

'I thought that was why we keep all our lights on.

'Yes, good theory, isn't it? Broekman laughed, clasped his hands over the rail. 'Never convinced me. He spat into the water, as if aiming for the cigar stub. 'First time any terrs take to the water at night, and the Guard call up air support… we'll get clobbered. You watch. Excitable bastards; just as well the Yanks don't let them fly at night.

The last two days had been peaceful. The only unusual activity they'd noticed had been a couple of National Guard patrol boats, venturing out from Gatún and Frijoles to disturb the peace with their droning outboards. Broekman had watched the inflatables with binoculars, claiming he half-expected them to be towing water-skiers.

Hisako had ventured out on deck after lunch. Her cello practice took up about two hours each day, but that was what she thought of as her 'tick-over' rate; it would take the prospect of a proper master class or a concert in the near future for her to summon up the enthusiasm to practise more thoroughly. She did some keep-fit in her cabin; her own mixture of Canadian Air Force exercises and aikido movements.. But that could only hold her interest for about an hour, so she still had a lot of time left to fill each day, and got bored watching television in the passengers' lounge or the officers' mess. Mr Mandamus's appetite for interminable games of chess and gin rummy seemed undiminished, but she could only take so much. That was why she'd been teaching him go. To her surprise, there wasn't a go set on any of the ships, so she'd made one, drawing the grid on the back of an outdated chart and scrounging three hundred washers from the ship's stores; half brass, half steel.

Philippe had radioed again that morning; they could go diving tonight if there were no further excitements. She'd agreed.

'Well, she said. 'It all seems peaceful enough.

'Mmm. Broekman sounded unconvinced.

'Though Panama seemed peaceful, until that explosion, she admitted, trying to imagine what he was thinking. 'And the canal seemed peaceful, until they blew up the lock… and sank that ship in Limón Bay. She shrugged. "Third time lucky", she quoted. 'Don't they say that?

Broekman nodded. 'They say that. But then there's the third light off the one match, too. Broekman snorted. 'They also say look before you leap, and he who hesitates is lost… so take your pick.

'Three is unlucky? I thought it was thirteen.

'Three if you're lighting cigarettes. Thirteen for voyages.

'In Japan, four is an unlucky number.

'Hnn, Broekman said. 'Just as well we don't have another ship here then.

'I wonder if the Panamanians have an unlucky number, she said, still watching the hills. 'I liked Panama. The city, I mean.

'It was all right, Broekman agreed. He inspected his thick, blunt fingernails. 'Very… cosmopolitan. He was silent for a while longer, then added, 'We might have had something like that where I come from. Hnn. He pushed himself away from the rail and clapped his hands together. 'Well; no rest for the wicked. He winked at her enquiring expression. 'They say that, too.

She went back to her book.

She'd taught him the rudiments of cello playing. He took to it quickly, though he would never be very good, she thought, even if he wanted to be; his hands were the wrong shape and probably not supple enough (but she got to touch those hands). He began teaching her to dive. He was experienced, qualified to tutor others in diving, which made it all even more correct and proper, and pleased her. They swam and dived, and she was adolescently, roguishly delighted by the slim, muscled body he revealed. They swam beneath the boats, inspected the buoys they were moored to, investigated the floor of the lake, with its felled, drowned forests and traces of roads and trails, and swam round some of the islets near by, circling the summits of the mostly drowned hills under the quicksilver carpet of waves.

He talked, in a self-mocking but still fascinated way, about how some day he'd like to dive in the harbour of Portobelo, on the Atlantic coast of Panama; the body of the English sailor Francis Drake had been buried there in a lead coffin. Imagine finding that!

She thought that it must happen, then that it never would. She went through brief storms of despair and elation, never trusting herself to believe fully that she really wanted it to happen, never able entirely to stop thinking about him. She discovered he was married; depression. But they were unofficially separated, both thinking about it; elation. She found that Marie Boulard, the junior officer on Le Cercle, didn't interest him, even annoyed him a little; elation. But then that they had had a brief liaison; depression (and dismay that she was depressed and a little jealous). She started to wonder if really he was gay; depression. Then she told herself it was good to have a friend, and if he was gay it would probably just make them even more relaxed together and they might become close friends; pretended joy, faked resignation.

He likes me because he spends so much time with me. He only pretends because there's nothing else to do. He's humouring me; I'm old and pathetic and he won't even have thought about it and if I made a move he'd be revolted, feel it was like his mother making a pass at him. No, he really does like me and he doesn't want to say or do anything because he feels he'll lose me as a friend, and I ought to flirt more obviously to encourage him. But if I do he might think me ridiculous; I might be ashamed, and this is a small community; not Tokyo, not Sapporo, not a university… more like the size of an orchestra. An orchestra on tour, living in the same hotels; that was probably closest. Settle for a friend, then…

And so she went round in circles, on the trapped ship.

She moved his fingers over the neck of the cello, bending her head and neck near him. She stood behind him; he sat on a chair in her cabin. Another lesson. More delicious frustration.

'Hmm; that perfume?

'Kantule, she told him, frowning as she tried to form his fingers into the right shape. 'I bought it in Panama, remember?

'Ah yes. He paused, and they both watched her place his fingers just so on the neck of the instrument, trapping the strings at the appropriate points. 'When I was in Japan, he said, 'few women wear the perfume.

She smiled, finally satisfied with the shape of his hand. She shifted, taking up his hand holding the bow. 'Oh, we wear it, though perhaps not very much, she said. 'But then I'm very Westernised.

She smiled, turned to look at him.

Very close. She felt the smile falter.

'Kantule, he nodded, shaping the word just as she had. 'It is very nice I think. She found herself watching his mouth. He sniffed, frowned minutely. 'No, it is gone again.

Her heart thudded. He was looking into her eyes. Her heart! He must hear it, must feel it, through her breast, her blouse, his shirt and shoulder; he must!

She leant forward a little over his shoulder, so that she looked down the length of the cello. She raised her hand the hand that had held his fingers to the cello neck — to her own neck. She moved her hair aside to reveal her ear, then with one finger flexed it forward slightly. Ici, she said, quietly.

They found the wrecked boat when the line was almost fully paid out. Philippe had been swinging his lights from side to side and, at the extremity of one sweep, they both saw something white flash against the darkness, on the lake floor. When the beam returned, it showed a straight white line; an edge of some sort. It looked artificial, something shaped by humanity. Philippe pointed, looking back. She nodded. The orange line made a perfect curve as they swooped towards the white triangle.

The boat was six or seven metres long; open, with no sign of a mast or rigging. It was fibreglass, and it lay, without any obvious sign of damage, flat upon the floor of the lake. There was a layer of mud inside it, perhaps a quarter of a metre deep. She wondered how long ago it had foundered, and how accurately you could date its sinking from the depth of mud inside. It had, probably, been a fishing boat; a few pieces of string or line moved like tendrils in the mud within its bows, and some netting protruded from its centre-line, waving in the water like odd, graphed weeds. Philippe moved to the boat's stern, and found its outboard motor, missed initially because it was black and comparatively small. He pointed enthusiastically.

Then, like the sound of a ghost, she heard an outboard. She stiffened, felt her eyes go wide. A brief panic seized her and she struggled for breath. She breathed, listened. Philippe still didn't seem to have noticed; he was inspecting the drowned engine.

Whirr; a shrill, distinctive noise, burbling in her ears. She shook her head but it was still there. It was a relief when she saw Philippe look up, his face behind the mask looking surprised, even shocked. She nodded and pointed from her ear to the surface, then at the outboard he still held.

The noise came closer. She thought she could hear not one high-revving propeller, but several. Philippe gestured hurriedly at her, fiddled with his lights, gesticulating at them. They blinked out. She realised immediately, and switched hers off.

The darkness was absolute. The moon was only a sliver, and the clouds had moved over in late afternoon, blanketing the skies above the lake. The ships were a kilometre or more away. She was blind. The water moved round her limbs, the lights felt weightless in her hand. She let go of them, just to feel the slight tug on her wrist as the lanyard tightened, gently trying to pull her to the surface. Then she pulled the lamps back again. The prop noise swelled, like something angry. and vindictive; a drowning whine.

A dark force seemed to gather in her throat, as though a sea snake had wrapped itself round her neck. She fought it, struggling to breathe again, trying to concentrate on the high, gargling sound of the approaching boats, but the feeling increased, blocking her air passage, making her gorge rise. She brought her hands up to her mask, to her neck. Nothing there; nothing round her neck.

Hisako went limp, relaxing, giving in to whatever it was.

She hung there, arms limp, one hand hanging at her side, the other hand raised over her head by the slightly positive buoyancy of the lights, her legs dangling and her head down, on her chest, her eyes closed.

Slowly, the asphyxia started to loosen its hold on her.

She wondered if she was sinking or rising.

tic tic tic.

Ah.

The noise of the boats peaked and passed. Her flippers met the soft mud of the lake bottom, and she kept on going down, her legs buckling slowly, knees folding. She felt the cool mud waft up around her thighs. She stopped like that, in equilibrium.

There. She tested herself, taking a few deep breaths. No problem. Hisako opened her eyes, looked around at nothing but darkness. She brought her watch up, to make sure she could still see as well as to check the time. The luminous face glowed dimly at her. They'd only been down ten minutes; lots of air left.

The sound of the outboards cut suddenly. She brought her lights down so that she could grasp them again.

She tried to remember which way the foundered boat might be. Perhaps she ought to search for it, try to find Philippe. But she might get it wrong; head off in the wrong. direction. She could try going in ever-increasing circles, until she found the line that led back to the boat… if she didn't swim under or above it.

She could kick to the surface; it was calm and she would be able to orient herself by the moored ships and find the Gemini. But whoever was in the boats that had gone overhead and then stopped might see her.

She would wait here for a while; for ten minutes. Or until she saw Philippe's lights again, or heard the boats move off. She undid the pop-fastener on the big diver's knife hanging at her hip, as much to reassure herself she was doing everything she could do in the circumstances as to ready herself for a fight.

She knelt in the soft mud, submerged in darkness, breathing slowly, looking around every now and again.

The high whine came again after seven minutes; one outboard, then two… perhaps one more. She turned her head in the direction the noises seemed to come from. She'd wait till they disappeared entirely, then give it another minute before turning on her lights.

A light! It was far away, twinkling like a tiny drowned star, but it was real; blanked out by her hand, and disappearing when she blinked. She kicked once out of the mud, then again to free herself from its slack grip. She swam towards the light. It disappeared, wobbling and dimming then extinguishing, but she kept towards it. It reappeared, a little stronger this time, and started to resolve into two lights, not one. It dimmed, all but disappeared. And then came back; definitely two lights. She swam on, brought her own lamps in front of her.

She was about to put them on when she thought, What if it isn't him? She hesitated, kicking less powerfully, though still. heading for the twinned, distant glow. Finally she brought the knife out of its sheath and held it alongside the lights in front of her.

She switched them on.

The lights in the distance started to dim again, then jerked back, wobbled up and down. She did the same. It had to be Philippe. She kept the knife where it was.

Philippe turned the lights on his own face when she was about three metres away; Flooded with the relief, she copied that too.

She swam straight into him, ramming him, hugging him, lights floating, knife clenched awkwardly in her fist, trying to keep it away from his back and his air hoses.

'I don't know, he said, when they'd kicked to the surface. She could just make out the white smudge of his face. 'But they had no… navigation lights? I think military. I… she thought he was going to say something more, but he didn't.

They bobbed in the water, directly above where they'd met. She sheathed her knife, looked towards the trio of distant ships. She listened for the noise of outboard engines, but couldn't hear anything.

'Where were you? Where did you go? she asked.

'I swam up; towards them, he told her. 'I heard them talking, but it was… espagnol.

'What now? She spat some water out, looked round for their Gemini.

'Back to the ship. He looked round too.

'I lost the line, he said. He nodded in the direction she was looking. 'You think that way to the Gemini?

'I think so.

'Me too.

They set off keeping the ships to their right. She was waiting for an explosion; a sudden flare of light, a livid mushroom cloud from Le Cercle, or a burst of gunfire, the water leaping around them, a sudden sledge-hammer blow to the exposed back of her skull… but they swam on, the noise of their own progress through the water the only sound.

A glint in the distance, a little to the left. She squinted. There; again. 'Philippe-chan, she whispered. 'Over there. She moved to him and pointed, lining his face up with her arm. The tiny glint again; perhaps the ships' lights reflecting on the glistening hull of the inflatable.

'Magnifique. And I thought all japonais are wearing… les lunettes, no? She saw him make circles in front of his eyes with his fingers.

She giggled in spite of herself.

They climbed into the Gemini, sat breathing hard for a while. Philippe shook his head. 'Should have brought a radio. He looked at the outboard. 'Well, sometime we have to start it.

They both kept down as they headed back to the ships. The Gemini bumped against the pontoon; he left her to moor the boat while he sprinted up to the deck.

She met him there a few minutes later, as she arrived at the top of the steps carrying both sets of scuba gear. He laughed when he saw her, took both of them from her. 'Hisako; I'm sorry. You did not have to lift mine too.

'It's all right, she panted. 'Everything all right?

'Certainly, he nodded, looking briefly at the gauge on his air tank, then stopping, frowning at it. 'Everything is all right, he continued. 'I radioed; no one has seen any boats.

'Something wrong? she tried to look at the air gauge too.

'Is stuck. I go down to engineering; you have shower.

She went up to his cabin, showered and dressed, then wondered why she had dressed, and considered whether she ought to undress again. She was looking out of one of the portholes, wondering if she'd heard a motor, when he came back. 'I try with new cylinder; the… point thing… he gestured, frowning.

She smiled. "Point thing?"

'Oui. Sur le cadran. He mimed a circle with a pointer inside it.

'The needle, she said, laughing at his clumsy miming.

'Yes; the needle is stuck, is all. I fix tomorrow. He skinned off his damp T-shirt. The intercom buzzer sounded. 'Merde, he breathed, lifting the phone. 'Oui? He listened. Moment. He hung up, grabbed a dry towel from the rail in the shower room and wriggled out of his pants, moving to the wardrobe. 'Is Endo, over on launch. Wants to talk.

She watched him dry himself roughly and haul on trousers and a shirt. He flicked his hair into a semblance of order, dragged a comb through it once. She lay on the bed, still watching him, smiling to herself. He went to the door, looked back at her. 'Why you dress? he asked, looking surprised.

She shrugged slowly. 'Forgot. She rolled over and undid a button at the wrist of her blouse, 'Don't be too long.

So she did undress, and slid between the crisp white sheets, and cuddled herself for a moment, a thrill running through her, and she moved herself in the tightly made bed, just to feel the cool sheets on her skin. She put the main cabin light out, leaving the bedside lamp on.

The intercom buzzed, making her jump. She left it. It sounded again, twice, and she got up out of the bed. Merde, she muttered.

'Hisako, Philippe said.

'Philippe. Yes?

'Please come to the officers' mess. He hung up.

There was no dialling tone; the handset was dead in her. hand. She looked at it, slowly hung it up.

She didn't put on her jeans and blouse; she went to the closet and took out a yukata, a kind of light kimono, and — dressed in that — went down to the officers' mess, suddenly nervous.

When she started in through the door she was caught by one arm and dragged to one side. The room was full; she looked quickly round, saw what looked like the entire crew there; Lekkas. Marie, Viglain…It was only when she saw Philippe, standing grimly at the end of the mess-room table, that she realised the hand holding her wrist wasn't his; she'd just assumed that nobody else would touch her like that.

She looked into the unknown face of the man who was holding her. He wore dark National Guard battle-fatigues; he was blacked up, but sweating through it. His beret wasn't National Guard issue; there was a little red-star badge on the front. His voice sounded vaguely Latin as he turned to Philippe and said, 'That is all, Captain?

'I am not captain, Philippe said dully. 'That is all. He nodded. 'There are no more. Endo sat at Philippe's side. There were three other battle-fatigued men standing against the same wall as her, levelling guns at Philippe and the rest.

Hisako twisted her wrist to free it from the man's grasp, and started to feel angry and think about forcing the issue. Then she looked down, and saw the man was holding a small gun with a long, curved magazine, a stubby nightsight and a short barrel, which was pointing into her kidneys.

She thought the better of trying to apply the way of gentleness.

The man looked at her and smiled; white teeth in the blackened face. 'Welcome to the party, Señora. We are from the People's Liberation Front of Panamá, and you have just been liberated.