The End of the Ocean

Chapter 12 DAVID

“I want to go see the boat again,” Lou said when she woke up.

She was lying in bed, smiling at me.

“Hush,” I whispered. “Don’t wake the others.”

It was the crack of dawn, by my guess. The hall was still quiet. I heard only the sound of people sleeping, breathing heavily. Somebody was snoring loudly, others turned over in their beds. The morning light filtered through the windows.

“But I want to go to the boat,” Lou said, a little more softly.

“I thought you said it was a shitty boat,” I whispered.

“You’re not allowed to say shitty,” she said.

“No.”

“I’m going to the boat anyway.”

She placed her bare feet on the concrete floor and pulled on the pair of shorts that had been hanging over the headboard.

“Maybe later,” I said.

“It’s our boat now.” She came over to me. “C’mon, get up.”

“It’s not ours.”

“But we’re the ones who found it.”

She leaned over me, pressing her face against mine. Her eyes were two bright slits in her face. God, she looked so much like Anna. She also looked this way in the morning. The same eyes. The sun was always shining in there, regardless of the weather.

Anna.

“Maybe we can go after breakfast,” I said, and tried to hide the huskiness in my voice.

She hopped up and down. “Can we?”

“We have to put the tarps back on.”

“Of course,” she said.

“But first we have to drop in at the Red Cross.”

“Oh. The Red Cross.”

She stopped hopping.

“Maybe they’ve found them,” I said.

“Yes.”

I stood up and pulled on my clothes, taking my time with my T-shirt, hiding my face inside it until I felt that I had my crying under control.

I held out the bottle of antibacterial handwash and she accepted it automatically. We both cleaned our hands. Then we walked through the quiet hall of sleeping bodies, out into an equally quiet morning.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

She took my hand as we approached the Red Cross barracks.

“Do I have to go inside with you?”

“Why don’t you want to go inside?”

“I want to wait outside.”

“It would be nice if you came inside with me.”

“I want to wait outside.”

“But why?”

“I want to play.”

“Play? Play what?”

“Just play.”

She threw herself down on the patch of grass by the entrance and sat calmly on the withered blades that had once upon a time been grass, while the sun beat down on her.

She didn’t make a sound.

Jeanette nodded at me when I walked in, and before I even had time to sit down she said: “I have nothing new for you today, David.”

“Wow,” I said and tried to smile. “That was quick.”

“Sorry. But you don’t need to check in every single day. These things take time.”

“I realize that,” I said. “But I wanted to stop by anyway. Imagine if something had actually happened?”

“You aren’t the only one who has to hear this. I say it to everyone, there’s no point in coming every day.”

“But imagine if something had happened last night, that they’d appeared somewhere, even here. Imagine if they were sick?” My voice rose. “If they were sick and alone. But that they were here—and I didn’t find out about it.”

I caught myself, made an effort to lower my voice.

“Or imagine if you had found out that they were somewhere else,” I said. “At a camp nearby, that we could go be with them right away.”

“You’re in such a hurry,” Jeanette said. “Try not to be.”

“But it’s been almost a month!”

I took a deep breath, was about to say something else. But her mouth curled into a grimace and that stopped me. Not that she was mocking me, she just pulled her lips apart, like a smile but without any joy. A grin.

She could have sighed, probably had every reason to sigh. Sitting here all day long with people like me—who thought we were the only ones who mattered.

“Sorry,” I said.

“It’s fine,” she said.

But I wasn’t convinced that she really meant it. Because nothing was really fine. For any of us. Not for her. Not for Lou and me. And I should just get out of here, stop pressuring her, pestering, hassling her.

“But I can’t help it,” I said quickly.

“What?”

“I can’t help pestering you. I’m sorry.”

“Come back tomorrow,” Jeanette said.

“Everyone wants to get inside,” Lou said.

We were on our way to the boat and the only ones walking in that direction, walking out of the camp. At least twenty people were standing in front of the entrance to the camp and waiting to be registered. People who wanted to get inside. I hadn’t seen so many people there before. So many, so dirty, so tired. And some with soot marks on their faces.

Where were they going to live, all of them?

I wanted to hurry away from the camp, taking Lou with me. But I couldn’t help noticing three young men who were standing at the front of the line. There was something rough about them, something guarded. They had been on the road a long time, were used to sleeping with one eye open, used to having to watch over their things, take care of themselves, listen for footsteps, look over their shoulder. They spoke quickly. Laughed a little too loudly, the way you laugh when you want everyone to hear how much fun you are having. Like waiting in line to enter a nightclub, the way Edouard and I had done, once upon a time.

Suddenly one of them spun around to face the man behind them in the line and he spoke loudly to him in Spanish. The man was in his forties. Thick-necked, heavyset, his skin sun-beaten. He took a threatening step towards the young men. And said something, also in Spanish, in an even louder voice.

The two friends approached him. One of them pointed at his buddy’s bag, gesturing—it seemed like they were saying that Thick-Neck had tried to help himself from it.

The words began to fly rapidly back and forth between them. Their voices rose. Almost to screams. They stood close to one another. The three young boys on the one side, the adult and another man, who clearly was taking his side, on the other.

I could make out a few words that I understood, idiot, bastard.

Thick-Neck slapped his forehead with his hand.

At the same time he moved one step closer. Everyone in the line noticed them and had stopped talking. The woman sitting at the registration table was completely silent. Lou pressed up against me.

“What are they doing?” she whispered.

The young boy looked at Thick-Neck and then at the camp entrance. One of his buddies put his hand on his arm, restraining him, take it easy.

Finally the young boy took a deep breath, nodded quickly.

“OK, OK.”

He turned to the woman at the registration table, attempting a smile as he spoke in broken English: “Can we go in now?”

She didn’t answer. She could maybe have said something, about how troublemakers were not welcome in the camp. But it probably didn’t make any difference. Those who want to make trouble will do so, no matter what, whether they are allowed to enter or not. Sometimes it’s best just to be nice to them.

Hurriedly, I led Lou away, down the road. I had seen things like this before, brawls in food lines, in bars in the evening.

I knew what it was about and that it wouldn’t pass anytime soon. They would keep it up for a long time, these men, because it was always men. They would keep it up until their fists hardened. Till they had hit everything they could find that was soft, throwing punches that landed with hollow thuds. Muscles, bones, flesh and organs. Strange moans a split second after the blow, when the body absorbed what had happened, as the nervous system did its job.

Their frustration was intensified by the heat, the heat that never relented, not even during the night. There is nothing that makes people more aggressive than not being able to sleep because of the heat.

The heat did something to the air. Like a gas, we inhaled it without noticing it. Like fungal spores. We absorbed them through our respiratory passages. They were growing inside of us. The fungi grew large and gray. Shiny on top, layers of supple frills under the cap. Poisonous. They spread through us. Altered our nerve impulses, took control of the brain.

But this wasn’t my fight, not my conflict. Spain was not my country.

I had Lou. The only thing I could do was leave.

Nonetheless, my feet were dragging. Because hadn’t Thick-Neck stuck his hand into the young boy’s bag? Hadn’t I seen that, really? Shouldn’t I have supported them? Sided with them?

I should have. And I wanted to. Show my solidarity with them. Choosing sides means being inside.

“You are walking so slowly.” Lou was pulling me.

And I quickened my pace, walking faster, even though I felt I had shrunk. I was convinced that they were staring at us, everyone in the line, that they saw how small we were, what outsiders we were.

He who doesn’t choose sides is damn lonely.

Lou followed the right route, the third lane to the left. The gardens were deserted today, the shutters were closed. All the houses looked empty.

As we walked along Lou’s steps became lighter. She was looking forward to this. Soon she started chattering. She talked more than she had in a long time, about the boat, about the dolphins. I listened only in part. But then she started asking questions.

“Daddy. Where is there the most water?”

I didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t bring myself to talk now.

“Daddy? Where is the most water? In the world or in the oceans?”

“The oceans are also a part of the world,” I said.

“And is it water when it’s salty?”

“Yes, it’s still water.”

“Are there oceans that aren’t salty?”

“Do you remember when we went up into the mountains?” I asked.

“The mountains?”

“Do you remember you swam in a lake up there?”

“In my yellow bathing suit?”

“Yes.”

“I went swimming in the yellow bathing suit even though it was too small for me.”

“That was the time, yes.”

“But it wasn’t too small. I was the one who had grown too big.”

“Yes… The water you went swimming in then, it wasn’t salty.”

“Did we drink it?”

“No, but we could have drunk it.”

“Why didn’t we drink it?”

“I don’t know. I imagine because we’d brought bottled water.”

“Why?”

“Well…”

“Daddy, can we go there? To the lake?”

“It’s no longer possible.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“The drought?”

“Yes.”

“And there’s no lake like that here without salt? Fresh water?”

“No. Maybe there were lakes here. But now they’ve dried up.”

“Too bad.”

“Yes.”

“How many freshwater lakes are there?”

“A lot.”

“More than ten?”

“More than ten.”

“More than a hundred?”

“More than a million. There are even lakes under the ground.”

“Under the ground? That we walk on?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not true. You can’t walk on water.”

“Yes, you can. It’s called groundwater.”

“And we walk on it?”

“In some places there’s a lot. In South America, for example, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, the Guarani reservoir is located underground.”

“We walk on it. Like Jesus.”

“We walk on the ground, but the water is beneath us, between layers of soil and stone, so it’s not exactly like Jesus.”

“But almost.”

“There’s groundwater everywhere. It’s under us now, too.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“But why can’t we just dig for it?”

“It’s too deep. And the water is mixed with soil and stones.”

“Can’t we try?”

“People did try a long time ago.”

“But what about that place in America, then?”

“South America. There you can dig for it. And it’s enormous. It extends all the way under Brazil, Argentina, Paraguay and Uruguay.”

“Paraguay, Uruguay?”

“It’s much bigger than all of France… there’s enough water for the whole world to survive on.”

“Wow.”

“For two hundred years.”

“Wow!”

“Yes. Wow.”

“Who owns it?”

“I don’t know… I guess it’s the people who own the land on top of it.”

“But somebody owns it?”

“I believe so.”

“How can somebody own water?”

We had arrived. She let go of my hand and trotted away, ducking in beneath the shadow of the trees. Yippee her shoulders said. And her braids bounced against her T-shirt.

We walked through the garden, passing the rainwater tank. I would have liked to try to open it, maybe there was a key in the house. But Lou had disappeared in the direction of the boat and I followed behind her.

“We’re just going to put the tarps back on,” I said. “And tie the ropes tightly. Remember that. The boat isn’t ours.”

But she didn’t answer. And when we were sitting in the cockpit again, it quickly became clear that we hadn’t come to cover up the boat again right away.

Because it was cool in the shade between the trees. There was even a bit of a breeze up there. And almost immediately, Lou was back in the game. She shouted, she screamed and yelled, shot and fenced, laughed and cried. She raised the sail, fought against pirates and found a baby dolphin that was her own. It swam after the boat and was named Nelly. I had no idea where she got that name from.

I was an extra. The stupid sailor. I did as she said, took part in her game of make-believe. And then you, like, said this, and then I answered that, and then you, like, suddenly jumped to one side, and then it was night and you got, like, scared. And then we sailed to the end of the ocean.

There was never any fire in her games. Even if we were in danger, it was never really scary. And there was water everywhere, all the time.

I followed orders. I breathed easily.

But finally it was Lou who didn’t want to play anymore.

“I’m thirsty.”

We’d brought along a half-liter bottle of water that we’d filled up that morning when the rations were doled out, but it was long since empty. I could feel the dust from the dry soil on my tongue.

“We have to go back,” I said.

“No,” Lou said.

She was filthy. A thin layer of dust covered her skin. There were grimy streaks of sweat on her face. One of her braids had slipped out of the rubber band and her hair was tangled. We needed water for more than drinking.

“We’ll have to fill out the forms again and stand in line, from the looks of you,” I said.

“Do we have to stand in line? Won’t they let us in again?”

“I’m kidding, Lou.”

“Won’t they let us into the camp?”

“Yes, they will, don’t worry.”

But suddenly she was tense, her little body on alert. I regretted making the joke.

“Fine,” I said. “We can stay here a little longer if we find water.”

“Where?”

I nodded towards the rainwater tank in the garden.

“There.”

I tried all the keys from the house. One by one.

“None of them fit,” I said.

“Why not?” Lou asked.

“So we have to go home,” I said.

“But can’t we open it some other way?”

I nodded slowly, realizing how thirsty I was. I thought about the water down there. Clear, dark, cold water.

I struck the padlock again and again. First with a stone, then with a rusty spade I found in the outbuilding.

But the lock was far too solid. They only made things this solid back in the old days.

While I was banging away at the padlock, I tried smiling at Lou—see, it will be fine, the smile was supposed to say, see, I’ll fix everything. But I didn’t fix anything. I just got more and more sweaty.

Finally I put the spade on the ground and sank down on the lid of the tank.

Lou looked at me with dissatisfaction. Then she reached into her hair with one hand, took something out and handed it to me. A bobby pin.

“That’s what thieves do.”

Jesus. “Where did you learn that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Did you see it in a movie?”

“Maybe. I can’t remember.”

I puttered with the hairpin for a while, jiggling and coaxing the lock. Finally it opened. I raised the lid. We stuck our heads over the edge and peered down into the darkness.

“Yoo-hoo,” Lou called.

Her voice echoed.

An old iron bucket was hanging on the inside of the tank. I threw it down. Hollow sounds reverberated against the walls.

Then we heard the sound of a splash far below.

“Water!” Lou said.

The sound of water, it was really water.

I felt the bucket take hold. Tip over. And grow heavier as it filled up.

I pulled it up again and Lou leaned forward in excitement.

Then I lifted it over the edge. We looked inside, both of us.

It was only a quarter full and the contents could not exactly be called water. The sour-smelling liquid was a light-brown color and there were flakes of rust swirling through it.

Lou wrinkled her nose.

“Can we drink it?”

I shook my head, realizing how disappointed I was.

“But I’m so thirsty,” Lou said.

“I know that.”

“Very thirsty.”

“We can’t drink it.”

She bowed her head, mumbling from between her shoulders. “Mommy always had water.”

“What did you say?”

Then she looked at me.

“Mommy always had water.”

“She certainly did not.”

“She certainly did.”

“But it was from the faucet.”

I was about to say more, but stopped myself in time. Because Anna had always had water. She always remembered to bring along an extra bottle. For the children. For us. But now we were sitting here, without Anna, without water, only Lou and I.

The world was empty—no people, no animals, no insects, no plants. Soon even the largest trees would die, in spite of their deep roots. Nothing could survive this.

We sat there, alone, and all we had was a quarter of a bucket of undrinkable sludge.

“Daddy?”

I turned away, didn’t want her to see how shiny my eyes were. I got to my feet, took a couple of deep breaths. Pull yourself together, David.

“We can’t drink it,” I said. “But we can at least clean you up a little bit.”

I found an old rag in the outbuilding. I dipped it in the rusty water and wrung it out. The water was cool against my skin. It felt like water. That was at least something.

“Close your eyes,” I said to Lou.

Then I wiped her cheeks and forehead. She stood facing me, completely still and just relishing the feeling of the cold, damp rag against her skin.

“And hold out your arms,” I said.

She stretched them out towards me. The inside, the outside. The rag turned brown as I washed her. She kept her eyes shut. Smiling.

“It tickles.”

She stuck her tongue out towards the rag.

“No, Lou.”

“Just a little.”

“No.”

“OK, then.”

But when I had finished closing up the rainwater tank, I discovered that she had grabbed the rag and was holding it against her mouth, sucking the water out of it.

“Lou!”

She dropped it immediately.

“Did you swallow any?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Positive?”

“Yes.”