Decompression

4

The sea was quiet, the air still and for eight o’clock in the morning unusually warm. The dead calm made me uneasy. Whoever’s that quiet is up to something.

I could see the two of them from our roof terrace, where I was gathering up my sandals and a couple of towels. They were standing in front of Casa Raya, waiting for me. Theo reached out a hand to Jola and with two fingers grabbed the soft skin on the back of her upper arm. When she tried to pull away, he pinched her harder; I could see the pain on her face. He kept those two fingers clamped on her arm, stroked her cheek with his other hand, and talked at her. I could hear his voice, but I didn’t understand what he was saying.

Once I’d caught Antje with her arms raised in front of the bathroom mirror, scowling as she appraised her triceps: problem area.

Theo let Jola’s arm go and dug his fingers instead into the flesh above her hip bone, where all women who aren’t anorexic have a little pad of fat. He squeezed her twice and released her to light a cigarette.

In the van, I asked them what no-decompression time was. Jola said it was the number of minutes a person could stay underwater. Theo added that it had something to do with nitrogen.

As always before the first diving session, Antje had briefed me at breakfast about our new clients’ level of experience. In the course of a trip to Vietnam some years earlier, Theo and Jola had taken a diving course and obtained entry-level certification — the “Open Water Diver”—and that was it. Their logbooks documented no more than ten dives. So in their case, a bit of theory couldn’t hurt. Basically, diving wasn’t a dangerous sport as long as you internalized a couple of rules. For their diving-license exam, most beginners learned a few sentences and set phrases by heart and forgot them immediately afterward. Maybe they could define no-decompression time, correctly, as the length of time a diver can remain at a given depth and still ascend rapidly to the surface without exposing himself to grave health risks. But only a few inexperienced divers had the ability to visualize the reality behind that definition. Most beginners were particularly unwilling to accept that their lives could depend on accurately calculating their no-decompression time. I was rather proud to think of myself as a conscientious teacher in this regard.

While we drove to Puerto del Carmen, I rolled out my standard explanation. The high pressure underwater, I said, causes nitrogen to build up in the body, in blood, tissue, and bones. You can imagine it as similar to carbon dioxide in a fizzy drink. As long as the bottle remains closed and under pressure, there’s no problem. But what happens when you open the bottle too fast? Something similar happens in your body when you stay underwater past your decompression time and then ascend to the surface too quickly. It’s not pretty.

Suddenly Jola cried out, “Stop!”

I slammed on the brakes. Jola had risen halfway from the passenger seat. “Did you see what was on the road?” she asked.

I leaned far out of the window on my side and looked back. “Nobody’s there!” I yelled.

“ ‘Everything is will,’ ” Jola said. “In giant letters, sprayed across the asphalt.”

I exhaled, put my hands on the steering wheel, and concentrated on letting my shoulders drop. “Are you crazy, scaring me like that?”

A car overtook and passed us, its horn blaring.

“A message,” Jola said. “A message for me. Written in German, even!”

“Sounds like a very German idea,” said Theo. He was writing in a notebook balanced on his knee. “Good title.”

“I can do it. I can do Lotte,” said Jola. “It’s only a matter of will.”

“Only if you know what no-decompression time is,” I said. “You have until Puerto del Carmen to understand it.”

I put the van in gear and stepped on the gas.

For starters, we walked down the little road to Playa Chica without any equipment. I pointed to a buoy in the water about seventy meters offshore.

“Swim there and back, is that it?” Jola asked.

“At a comfortable pace,” I said.

“But we’re not beginners,” Theo protested. “We have diving experience.”

“I just want to get an idea of what kind of shape you’re in,” I said.

Jola, who’d already pulled her sleeveless shirt over her head, stepped out of her jeans and stood there in a bikini. Theo looked around as though searching for his valet. Or at least a changing room. I helped him out of his linen suit jacket.

While he hopped around on one leg, trying to get his pants off, I observed his girlfriend. In my line of work, I had a great deal to do with bodies. Most clients chose to change into their swim clothes while badly hidden behind the back of my VW van. They’d stand there in gray socks and shabby underwear, looking at the ground because they were ashamed of their hollows and folds and spots. Jola, on the other hand, was not hiding herself. She stood in the middle of the quay, narrowed her eyes, and gazed at the horizon. She was perfect, a living statue. Thoroughly fit, toned, and yet soft. I assured myself that this was not a judgment on my part. It was simply a fact. I knew what a body like that required. Not only time, money, and discipline, but also a sense for the correct measure of things. The knowledge that beauty is to be found not in the extreme, but in balance. Jola had shaped her body like an artist. I frankly admired the result. I would have liked to offer her a word of praise, from one expert to another, but the danger of a misunderstanding was too great.

“Get out of the sun,” Theo said to her. “We can see your cellulite.”

Jola crouched and sprang headfirst from the quay wall into the water before I could call her to order. I considered whether I should break off this practice session and deliver a lecture on security. It was possible that Jola, as a sailor, could estimate how deep the water in front of a landing place was. Nevertheless, checking water depth before jumping in was normal routine. I decided against chewing her out; it was her first day. With one hand on the rail, Theo carefully walked down the steps to the sea.

While Jola swam a crawl, calmly propelling herself through the water, Theo practiced a mixture of breaststrokes and side-strokes. Jola was already halfway back when he reached the buoy. She turned over on her back to float and wait for him.

“What a slowpoke!” she shouted, kicking out when he got close and splashing seawater in his face. Then she swam away laughing, not back to the quay, but a bit farther off, in the direction of the beach. He didn’t catch up with her until they reached shallow water. She defended herself, squealed, flailed; he clung to her waist. I didn’t intervene. They might as well have been tussling children. I thought I heard them laughing. Then Theo lifted his girlfriend high in the air and flung her away. Jola screamed. There were rocks in the shallows, and those rocks were thickly covered with sea urchins. Theo came out of the water, put his linen jacket back on, wet as he was, and ran across the boardwalk to the public toilets.

I was alarmed to see that Jola was limping. As she came toward me, she raised one reassuring hand. We sat on a bench on the quay, and I put her foot on my knee. One of the sea urchin’s spines had penetrated the sole of her foot and broken off. I took out my pocketknife and did my best to think of her foot as an object. I worked until I could take hold of the spine, and as I drew it out, she stared into my eyes.

“So that’s it now,” I said. “No more fooling around. Accidents can happen too easily.”

“Believe me,” she said, rubbing her foot. “He meant to do it.”

The parking spots around the Playa Chica were assigned according to an unwritten law. Bernie’s white minibus with WONDERDIVE written on its sides was parked in the no-parking area near the steps leading to the boardwalk; he and his people were already in the water. As always, my vehicle was in the entrance to the old Spaniard’s place; once a day, he came out of the house to remind me of what he planned to do to me if I damaged his fence. Theo was leaning against my VW van, waiting for us. He took the cigarette out of his mouth to kiss Jola on the forehead, and she snuggled against him. “No more antics from now on,” I admonished, and both of them nodded as if they understood. I spread the canvas on the ground and set out wet suits, buoyancy compensators, diving cylinders, fins, and masks. I took off my shorts and slipped my feet into my sandals. Jola’s eyes strayed briefly over my swimming trunks.

“Take a look,” she said to Theo. “That’s what I call equipment.”

The way she stressed the that had the power to bury a man’s ego, but Theo just kept gazing with furrowed brow at the diving regulators and inflator hoses and trying to remember how such things worked. With his big, loose swimming shorts, which covered him almost entirely from the belly on down, he was going to have a hard time getting into a neoprene suit.

To refresh their knowledge, I put them through the whole beginners’ program. I showed them how they could use the inflator to pump air into their buoyancy compensators or let it out again; how to hook up the diving regulators they’d breathe through, which adjusted the high-pressure scuba-tank air to the ambient pressure; how to fasten a tank to a buoyancy compensator and get the whole thing onto your back. I laid special emphasis on fundamental principles: caution, prudence, and cooperation between diving partners. They listened, asked questions, and helped each other with their equipment.

One hour later, they were floating in their inflated buoyancy compensators like two corks on the water. I showed them how to read the pressure gauge to determine the fill level of their tanks, explained the hand signals, and gave tips about blowing water out of the diving masks. We practiced supplying one another with air in an emergency by means of passing the so-called octopus, a second diving regulator through which one could breathe air from a diving partner’s tank. My two clients acquitted themselves well. We swam some distance out into the bay. I made a circle of my thumb and forefinger, the signal for “okay.” They repeated the gesture to show that everything was in order. We dove down.

After descending barely three meters, we were kneeling on the ocean floor. They were both breathing a bit too fast and holding on to their regulators with one hand, as if they might fall out of their mouths. But this was normal for beginners. Most clients suffered a mild shock when they breathed underwater for the first time. After that, reactions differed. Some would feel incredible euphoria, a kind of mental orgasm triggered by the fact that with the aid of technology they had been able to put one over on a hostile element; totally enclosed in water, guests in a strange environment, they could nonetheless breathe as freely as fish. Others didn’t feel so good. They sensed they didn’t belong in this world, didn’t trust the apparatus that was supplying them with oxygen, and were tormented by the impression that they must go back up to the surface at once. Such persons couldn’t relax underwater. Only a lot of practice could make good divers out of them.

It was immediately clear to me which of my clients belonged in which category. Despite Theo’s mask, I could discern a beaming smile on his face. His knees only lightly touched the sea bottom; he was already on the point of giving himself over to weightlessness. The parrot fish he was following with his eyes came closer, looked us over, peered inquisitively into Theo’s goggles, and finally moved off in the direction of the solidified lava stream. I knew what Theo was experiencing: one of the happiest moments of his life.

Jola, by contrast, turned her head frantically right and left, as if an attack could come from any direction. The sand she was swirling up with her fins obstructed her vision. She kept one hand clamped to her regulator and waggled the other to maintain her balance. I swam close to her and showed her the “okay” signal. She stared at me uncomprehendingly for a few seconds before responding in kind. By way of distracting her, I gave her some little tasks. She had to swim a few meters, use her inflator, check her pressure and depth gauges. I demonstrated how she could balance herself by consciously inhaling and exhaling and pointed out a couple of sardines that were flashing through the water like lightning bolts some distance away. We moved deeper almost imperceptibly. At last, she smiled and nodded.

I waved to Theo to join us and take part in the exercises. We began with “hovering,” trying to remain motionless in the water for a minute or longer. Theo and Jola hovered close to each other, their arms folded, and concentrated on breathing so smoothly that the amount of air in their lungs caused them neither to float up nor to sink down. I looked at my watch to see if the prescribed minute was up, and then suddenly Theo grabbed his diving regulator and made a few frantic turning movements. He tore the octopus out of its holder, clapped it to his mouth, and threw it away again at once. Although he was too unfamiliar with the routine to give the correct sign, I nevertheless understood that he wasn’t getting any air through either of his mouthpieces. Before I could reach him and offer him my octopus — as we’d discussed doing in emergencies — he pushed off the bottom and shot toward the surface. I had no chance of holding him back. At a depth of eight meters, that presented no problem. At greater depths, such a move could in the worst case cost a diver his or her life.

I quickly followed him to the surface, indicating to Jola that she should also come up. It took some force to keep Theo from swallowing more water as he coughed. With eight kilos of lead in his belt, he lay in my arms like a concrete pier. When I tried in vain to fill his buoyancy compensator with air, I guessed what had happened. Jola, who was shaking with laughter, made any further explanation superfluous. While they were hovering, she’d reached behind him and shut off his valve.

By the time we reached the beach, I was so furious I had to clench my teeth to keep from screaming. We were barely ashore when the rage burst out of me. I told them I had something I needed to make crystal clear. I told them they’d had their last chance. I told them that if one of them dared to pull any such shit again, any such childish and moreover dangerous stunt, their training would be at an end, and it wouldn’t make any difference who they were, who they thought they were, or how much they paid. On land they could bash each other’s head in for all I cared, but underwater they had to follow my rules. When they were down there, they had to behave like adults. Underwater they were partners, I said, their lives were in each other’s hands.

There was a stunned silence. Even Theo looked aghast. Apparently they hadn’t thought me capable of such an outburst. I announced that I was going to get a cup of coffee. During my absence, I said, they could consider whether they wanted to stick to the rules or whether our working relationship should cease at once. And with that, I left them where they stood. The Wunder Bar café had German cheesecake. Just what I needed sometimes. My rage calmed down, but only very slowly.

JOLA’S DIARY, SECOND DAY

Sunday, November 13. Afternoon.

He blew his top. Right after we came back. I barely had time to put down the bags and hang up the wet towels before he grabbed my arm and threw me across the room. Not because of the prank with his air valve. Not because of my “equipment” remark. But because I showed him up when we were swimming. Well, what was I supposed to do, old man? Swim clumsily on purpose? So you wouldn’t seem like such a slowpoke? He said we both know I miss no opportunity to make him look ridiculous. I had to apologize, he said, or he was going to slug me. I said, You’ll slug me anyway, sooner or later. He grabbed my hair. I get anxious about my hair. My hair is part of my capital. I said, I apologize. He let me go but kept that look on his face.

It was totally idiotic of me to think a vacation trip could change anything. The old man himself said it best years ago: “Emigration would make sense only if the country we were running from wasn’t ourselves.” How I love him when he writes like that. And that’s precisely why he doesn’t let me read his stuff anymore. It’s his way of taking himself away from me. He pretends he’s not working. He deletes his things. Hides them. Publishes nothing. And tells me lies. Because he thinks living with a writer is too good for me. A failure is what I deserve, a failure and nothing more.

It’s so quiet here. The absence of people in Lahora is like breathing underwater — wonderful, but a little scary. If I had to make a quick getaway, I wouldn’t even have a car. Rilke: Who, if I cried out, would hear me then …? Answer: Sven, at best. I’ll make sure he’s always nearby. I felt really sorry for him, sorry that he had to get so upset over us. He stood there amid the trappings of his little diving-instructor world, trembling with rage. I was shocked by how shocked he was. Because I understood that he doesn’t understand us. No one would ever turn off Sven’s valve — he’s not the type. He didn’t even know there were people who did that sort of thing. All at once I felt a strange kind of longing. I’m going to make an effort for his sake. And for Lotte’s sake. Underwater, I was so close to her. As alert and nimble as a fish. While Theo was bobbing around like a sack of potatoes.

We don’t have to be on vacation. The old man could get to work on writing a book about the island. I can train for Lotte. That’s the beauty of being in the arts. You can call everything work, and then you can realize it’s shit without being disappointed.