Authors: Pat Murphy
As she passed a shop doorway, she noticed a group of teenaged boys watching her a little too closely. One of them said something she didn’t understand, and the others laughed. She hurried past them, glad of the crowd of housewives around her.
She felt dizzy with the heat. She needed something cool to drink, a place to sit down. Maybe she should turn back. She glanced back in the direction from which she had come, but two of the teenagers were walking after her. Looking forward, she could see bright sunlight where the street ended at another street or a square. She continued down the narrow street.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Pardon me.” She was squeezing through a crowd of chattering housewives—big black women in colorful clothing who had gathered around a produce stall. Susan had to make her way past them to reach the light. She clutched her purse under her arm, remembering now that the guidebook had warned against pickpockets and purse snatchers. It was too hot, too crowded, too loud with unintelligible chatter. “Excuse me. Pardon me.”
She had almost reached the end of the alley when she heard a rumble of drums and a shrieking of whistles. “It’s the gombey,” she heard a woman say—or at least that’s what it sounded like.
People jostled against her. The crowd moved and she was carried along with them, like a swimmer caught in a current. She tried to resist, struggling toward the light at the end of the alley. “Please,” she said. “Excuse me. I need to go this way.”
“Gombey,” someone else was saying. “It’s the gombey.”
“Please let me through,” Susan said. She just wanted to get to an open space where she could get a breath of air. “Please.”
Some of the people around her tried to help. “look sharp there—let the tourist lady through,” said a woman.
More chatter around her—she didn’t catch much of it, something about the tourist lady, something about a good view—and she found herself pushed to the front of the crowd, facing the bright mouth of the alley. The drums were thundering around her, echoing from the walls; the whistles were shrieking like lost souls. She could see strange figures coming toward her, silhouetted against the light. They were impossibly tall, and the light reflected from them, sparkling on their faces and bodies. She squinted, trying to make out details, and she saw leering faces with bright, staring eyes. One figure brandished a hatchet in her direction. The monstrous creatures around him wielded whips, raising them high. They stalked toward her, waving their weapons.
She clutched her purse and her camera, confused by the pounding of the drums, frightened and dizzy. She couldn’t run—the alley behind her was packed with people; in front of her, the creatures blocked the way. She didn’t know what to do.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Your camera,” said a woman’s voice. “Take his picture.” Susan glanced at the woman beside her—a smiling American woman in a brilliantly flowered dress.
Susan raised her camera and snapped a picture.
“It’s the local gombey troop,” the woman was saying. “They’re dancers, practicing for a festival next week. Take another picture.”
Susan lifted her camera and snapped a picture of a gyrating creature in a feathered headdress. She could see now that it was a man in a costume decorated with beads and sequins and fringe and tassels. They were costumed dancers, nothing to be afraid of. She took another photo.
“That’s it,” said the woman beside her. “People let you to the front so you could get a good view.”
Susan nodded and managed a smile. “Yes,” she said. She glanced around her at the smiling faces. “Very nice of them.”
Susan was almost finished with the roll of film, when the gombey dancers moved on. Some of the crowd surged around her, moving to follow the dancers. Others returned to their shopping.
Susan turned to the woman beside her. “I’m sure glad you came along,” Susan said. “I didn’t know what was going on.”
The woman laughed. “The gombey can be startling,” she said. Susan nodded. “That’s for sure. By the way, I’m Susan Galina.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the woman said. “I’m Mary. I was just thinking of getting some lunch. Do you want to join me?”
Mary led the way through a series of narrow streets and somehow, miraculously it seemed to Susan, they emerged on Front Street. She could see the
Odyssey
in the distance, looming over the buildings along the waterfront, shining white and clean in the sunshine. “There’s the ship!” she said. It was strangely comforting to see the
Odyssey,
so substantial and familiar.
“There’s an Irish pub up this way,” Mary said. “Good beer and good food. Does that sound all right to you?”
“Sounds wonderful.”
Susan followed the woman into a building and up a flight of stairs to Flanagan’s. The room was cool and dimly lit, a relief after the heat of the day. The air was perfumed with the rich scent of Guinness and grilling steak. Susan realized how hungry she was. The cheese Danish she’d had for breakfast had been a long time ago.
They took a table by the window, where Susan could look out at the tourists and vendors on the waterfront below. A few other tables were occupied by tourists and locals. The honeymooning couple from the
Odyssey
was two tables down.
“I recommend the fish chowder,” Mary said. “I’ve been told it’s the best on the island.”
While they ordered—fish chowder and Guinness for Mary and a steak and Guinness for Susan—Susan studied the woman. Her shoulder-length black hair was almost as unruly as Susan’s. She was a few years older than Susan.
No wedding ring—Susan looked for that. Mary wore dangling earrings and a charm bracelet that jingled when she gestured, which she did frequently. Her jewelry, her clothing, her gestures, her expressions all indicated that this woman was confident and comfortable with her body and her self.
“You certainly seem to know your way around,” Susan said. “Have you been here before?”
“Oh, yes,” Mary said. “I’ve visited Hamilton before, spent some time here. I like Bermuda. I often dream of the island.”
Susan nodded. She could imagine that dreaming of tropical beaches when she was back at home. “Well, I’m glad you came along when you did,” Susan said.
Mary nodded. “You looked a little overwhelmed.”
“Well, I had just realized that I was completely lost. And I didn’t know what to make of those dancers.”
“The gombey dancers can be startling. Back in the early 1900s, there was a move to outlaw them, because so many of the white settlers found them intimidating.”
Susan nodded. She could see that. The whips, the hatchets—it all had sinister overtones.
“They do shows for the tourists, but those are much tamer than what you saw.” Mary leaned forward, speaking softly so that they couldn’t be overheard by the people at other tables. “They always tone it down for the tourists.”
Susan smiled, happy that Mary had accepted her as a fellow traveler, rather than just another tourist. She didn’t know how she had earned the credential, but she was pleased to accept it anyway.
Their food arrived then—and Susan listened while Mary chatted with the waiter, asking a few questions about what was happening around town. Susan sipped her Guinness, feeling content.
She felt strangely comfortable with Mary. Unlike Alberta, Mary didn’t quiz Susan about who she was, where she was from.
“So how do you like Bermuda?” Mary asked. “Is it what you expected?”
“Well, I don’t know that I expected anything in particular. I won this cruise in a raffle, you see, and it seemed like the perfect thing to do. I needed to get away …” She hesitated. “… because I’ve been having a bad year.”
“Ah,” Mary said. “You needed a change of scene.”
“I needed something. You see, my husband …” She stopped, not wanting to get into it in detail. She considered lying, but given the reaction to her last attempt, decided against it. Besides, she didn’t want to lie to Mary.
“Don’t say another word.” Mary waved a hand, bracelet jangling. “I can tell you’re still sorting out that story.”
“What do you mean’“
“Your story, your version of what happened. The short version is simple: your husband did something dreadful and now he’s no longer your husband. But you are trying to put the right words and thoughts to that story, the right emotional tones and resonance. You aren’t ready to tell that story yet.”
Susan frowned. “You make it sound like I’m inventing what happened.”
“Of course you are.” Mary said. “You are reinventing what happened. Reinventing who you are. We all do that all the time. Sort out the past, rearrange it, make it a little better, give it a bit of a plot.” Mary shrugged. “Psychologists have done studies about human memory, and it turns out that people rewrite their memories all the time. You’re always at the center of your own story—so you might as well make yourself the hero.”
Susan shook her head, smiling. “That’s funny. Just yesterday, someone was telling me that I should lie more often. Now you’re saying that everybody lies to themselves as well as to everyone else.” Mary cocked her head to one side. Her blue eyes reflected the light from the window, catching the tropical blue of the water in the harbor. “I don’t think it’s lying,” she said. “It’s more like revising. Rewriting a scene, so that you say just the right thing.” She sipped her Guinness. “So who’s been telling you to lie?”
“A writer named Max Merriwell. He’s teaching a workshop on the ship. Do you know his work? He also writes books as Mary Maxwell,” Susan said. “Wonderful books.”
Mary smiled, as if Susan had told a joke. “Max Merriwell,” she said. “Of course.”
“You should come to the next workshop. Max is really a wonderful storyteller.” Susan frowned, suddenly realizing that she’d made an assumption. “You are on the cruise, aren’t you? I assumed.
Mary nodded, still smiling. Susan wished she knew what the joke was. “Of course,” Mary said. “Of course I am.”
She was gazing out the window. The sky had clouded over. The fronds of the potted palms along the waterfront were stirring in the wind. “Looks like we’re in for a shower,” Mary said. “You’d probably better get back to the ship before the rain starts.”
“Aren’t you going back to the ship?”
“Later,” Mary said. “I have a few errands ashore. But I’ll see you later.”
“I don’t know—I haven’t seen you until now.”
Mary reached across the table and patted Susan’s hand. “Don’t worry—now that we’ve met, we’ll meet again.”
They said good-bye at the restaurant door. Mary headed down a side street and Susan headed for the ship. The wind was cool. She was halfway back to the
Odyssey
when the rain started: big, windblown drops that came thicker and faster as she started to run. Her sundress whipped around her legs; the rain pelted her arms and face. She felt exhilarated by the rain on her face, by her experiences in town. She was thinking about what she would tell Pat—what stories she would tell—and she felt, for a moment, like the wild adventurer in a story. Her own story or someone else’s—it didn’t really matter which.
“Wheels have been set in motion,” Gyro said. The pataphysician shrugged. “Nothing that you
or
I can do about that.”Ferris regarded the pataphysician with alarm. “What should we do?” he asked.
“Wait and see.”
—from
The Twisted Bandby Max Merriwell
Tom was very tired. He had spent two hours that morning with Mr. Perkins. It had bee n, as Tom had anticipated, a waste of time. Mr. Perkins was now convinced that nothing had really happened. “I’d been drinking a bit,” he told Tom with a sheepish laugh. “Those fellows must have just been joking around.”
From the database of passenger photos, Ian had sorted out two hundred men whose age, hair color, and eye color matched those of the men described by Mr. Perkins and the bartender. Somewhat reluctantly, Mr. Perkins had glanced through the photos, but he hadn’t seen either of the men he had been playing cards with. “I’m not very good with faces,” Mr. Perkins admitted.
Tom had politely thanked Mr. Perkins for his time, pinning his hopes on the bartender. It was so simple. If the bartender could identify the men, Tom could find them, question them, and more than likely dispose of the matter quickly and easily.
But Nic had no better luck. The bartender was motivated to succeed—interested in a possible bonus—and he looked through all the photos very patiently. He didn’t find either of the poker players among them, though he identified Mr. Perkins as the man who had been with them.
Tom thanked Nic for his time and sent him on his way. Then Tom leaned back in his desk chair, sleepy and frustrated. “Another cup of coffee?” Ian asked sympathetically.
Tom accepted a cup of coffee and the biscotti Ian offered along with it. “You’re sure you included all the men in the right age range,” Tom asked.
Ian nodded. “Every Caucasian male with a mustache over thirty and under sixty,” he said patiently. “Passengers and crew.”
Tom nodded wearily.
“Maybe it was a fake mustache,” Ian said cheerfully.
“They both had mustaches,” Tom pointed out, studying him with a level gaze. “Two men, both wearing fake mustaches, stage a fight for the benefit of a drunk.”
“Sure,” Ian said.
“Why would they do that?”
“A joke?” Ian shrugged. “I have to admit, I prefer my original explanation.”
“What was that?”
“Max’s fictional pseudonym is making trouble.” Ian grinned. “He stabbed another fictional character, then tore the wires out of a fuse box to slow down anyone who was trying to find him.”
Tom shook his head wearily. “Great—but I told you: I stick to nonfiction. If this turns out to involve paranormal occurrences in the Bermuda Triangle, I figure it’s your department.” Tom glanced at his watch. “I’d better check on the electrical work,” he said. “That, I can deal with.”
Tom spent the rest of the morning with a work crew, overseeing the installation of security locks on the utility panels, a precaution that had never seemed necessary before the vandalism of the previous night. Someone had yanked open the door to the utilities panel, torn out a handful of wires, seemingly at random, then splashed the box with Scotch, causing a blackout in the passenger areas of the ship.