The Truth and Other Lies

16

The Drina pitched and rolled in the light swell that was blown into the harbor by the west wind. Obradin pushed a can with the top sliced off under the oil drain outlet of the diesel engine and opened the valve. A change of oil might do the engine good — or it might be the extreme unction. He pursed his lips to whistle his usual little tune, but no sound came out — only air. He could chew much better with his nice new incisors, and cold things didn’t hurt anymore, but he could no longer whistle.

Black with powdered metal, the oil flowed into the can, shimmering in the sunlight that fell through the hatch into the engine room. Obradin dipped in an index finger and rubbed the black grease experimentally between finger and thumb. A shadow fell into the engine room. Obradin turned his massive skull. Glancing up he saw Henry standing over him, his arms folded. He’d pulled his hat low over his forehead. If the expression on his face was anything to go by, it must be something serious.

Henry inhaled tobacco smoke and let his gaze wander along the quayside wall.

“I have to get away from here, my friend.”

Obradin saw the smoke stream out of Henry’s nostrils like cold winter breath. It curled and dispersed over the seaweed-green nets. There just couldn’t be a better place for a man-to-man talk than his pitching, rolling, wonderfully hideous Drina.

“I’m in deep shit and don’t know any other way out, so I’m going to make myself scarce. But first”—Henry laid his hand holding the cigarette on Obradin’s oil-stained trousers—“I wanted to see you again. You don’t know what my life’s been like; you’ve never asked. You’ve never wanted to know where I come from, or what I’ve done, or what I get up to during the day.” He pushed the brim of his hat a little higher up his forehead and smiled sadly at Obradin. “You don’t know how much good that does me.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“Away from here. I’ll lie low until everyone’s given up searching for me.”

Henry looked dreamily at the leather tips of his shoes. “I’ve gone underground a few times in my life. Once I did it for years. I lived by myself in a house with bricked-up windows and no one noticed. The house belonged to my parents; they had been dead for many years. I only went to school until sixth grade, just imagine. I can’t even do mental arithmetic. Can you believe it?”

Obradin spat a flake of tobacco into the water. “Just goes to show how little is actually enough.”

Henry took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He spun the hat between his fingers.

“My wife didn’t drown on the beach.”

Obradin jumped up and raised both arms imploringly. The Drina started to rock.

“Don’t tell me, Henry. I don’t want to know. You’re my friend — I don’t care. It’s better you keep it to yourself.”

Henry stood up too and stretched out his hands to him.

“Calm down, Obradin, you have to know. The night Martha disappeared I drove to the bay.”

Obradin put his hands over his ears. “Don’t tell me any more. Please.”

“I’m not leaving until you know what happened that night. I saw Martha’s bike and her swimming things on the beach, but she wasn’t there.”

Troubled, Obradin sat down again, kneading his hairy hands together. Henry saw tears in his dark eyes.

“I know. I saw you, Henry. You drove to the bay at night with your lights off and I saw you drive back again.”

“And what did you think?” asked Henry, taken aback. “Come on, tell me, what did you think?”

“I didn’t think anything. You can do whatever you like.” Obradin shook his bull’s neck. A tremor racked his huge body. His shirt straining over his belly, he squirmed like a recalcitrant child. “I don’t know what I thought. It’s your business, nobody’s business but yours.”

“There’s a woman,” Henry said softly, and sat down next to his friend again. “Another woman. A wicked woman. She’s called Betty and works at the publisher’s. She’s been pursuing me for years — claims she’s going to have a baby by me. She’s using it to blackmail me. She wants my money, but most of all she wants me.”

And then Henry told his friend, the fishmonger Obradin, what had really gone on at the cliffs that night. The Drina pitched and rolled, wavelets sloshed against the seaweed-covered side of the boat, miniature fish passed by in little schools. Obradin listened with closed eyes; he didn’t interrupt Henry once. Only his hirsute index finger moved, playing over the seam of his trousers, as if he were taking notes.

“She told me Martha went to visit her in order to confront her,” Henry concluded, “but Martha’s car’s still in the barn. Martha didn’t come back from the meeting. I looked for her everywhere. Betty’s car has disappeared. She’s reported it stolen. This woman’s even started using my credit cards. She’s spreading it around that she’s pregnant by me. In court she’ll say I did it. I’ll be locked up for murder and she’ll get the lot — the house, the rights to the novels, the whole lot.”

Obradin opened his eyes and blinked into the sun. “Why don’t you just send her away?”

Henry peered into Obradin’s face. “Send her where?”

“Send her to a place from which no one returns.”

“And where might that be?”

“It’s quite simple,” Obradin replied quietly. “Believe me.”

Henry shook his head violently. “I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I’ve often thought about it, I admit, but I’m too soft.”

“Not in your novels.”

“That’s different. That’s imagination, pure invention. In real life I can’t even kill a marten. You were in the war, Obradin. You lost your daughter. You know how to hate. I don’t know how to hate.”

“You don’t have to hate a fish to kill it. It’s quite simple.”

“A person’s not a fish, Obradin.” Henry slapped his thighs and got up. “Martha was the love of my life. I miss her. The house is too empty without her. I can’t write anymore. My friend, in a year or two you might get a postcard. From a stranger. That’ll be me. Until then…”

Henry reached into his pocket and took out a key.

“This opens my safe. If you ever fall on hard times, if you’re ever at your wits’ end, then use it. You’ll find the bank on page 363 of Frank Ellis. Farewell, my friend.”