Barnacle Love (3 page)

Once relieved of his parcels, Manuel was guided by a couple of other Portuguese fishermen to where Mateus lived, a man known to provide the comforts of home to seafaring men. He did not enter the home located just below the towering gloom of the Basilica of St. John the Baptist. He had been avoiding the church ever since he landed. Manuel simply stood outside Mateus’s house and bathed in the familiar sounds of the accordion and trill voices of amateur
fadistas.
He knew that here he would find wine and food but most importantly, he knew inside was the man who had lived in St. John’s since he was a boy. The man had left Portugal hidden in the dory of the ship, in search of his father. The man would help Manuel.

Manuel spent the rest of his day weaving in and out of shops, dizzied by the display of things to buy: coffee, sugar, and vegetables he had never seen. He saw women smoking casually as they moved along the hills that undulated upward to the church. There were men in suits and hats who walked along with purpose and importance. They angled their shoulders so as not to hit
the narrow bay windows that jutted every so often into the crowded sidewalks. Other men lumbered along the roads in coveralls or thigh-high rubber boots, pushing carts or lugging crates over their shoulders. Manuel saw a Chinese man sorting through vegetables and felt compelled to follow him up a narrow series of steps, past a war statue, up to yet another layer of the city to be explored. Manuel looked up at a large sign with a panda bear sipping from a bowl. He opened the door and heard the tinkling of chimes. Manuel twirled the noodles on his fork—he wasn’t quite sure what the sticks that lay next to his plate were for—and forced the swirling mounds of sweetly covered noodles and scored lengths of squid into his mouth.

After his meal he continued to walk through the streets of the city. He didn’t worry about getting lost. From almost any point in St. John’s he could look out toward the Narrows and into the sea. He could then let his eyes work their way back to the wharf, where he could see the White Fleet’s forest of masts and sails. He could see the long lengths of rope and chain that held the ships firmly against the dock. Some ropes had been covered in long underwear and plaid flannel shirts that flapped in the warm air. He could see the decks of the ships covered with the dory sails, allowed to dry in the waning summer sun.

Tired, Manuel found a spot in a park at the top of the hill. He sat under the shade of a tree, surrounded by the magnificent homes where all the rich, fine men lived, he assumed.

Manuel recognized a few of the Portuguese fishermen playing soccer in their bare feet. Some young boys played
with them. Soon there were people gathering to sit on benches or sprawl on checked blankets. They watched the game played in the meadow near the bandstand as the dark-skinned Portuguese players dazzled everyone with their footwork. The grunting only drew louder claps at the friendly sportsmanship. Manuel took off his shoes and socks in the comfort of sounds and sights familiar but new. He flicked the cool blades of grass between his toes. A sailor began playing his accordion—some lilting Portuguese waltzes—under the roof of the bandstand. With the music dancing in his head, Manuel turned and looked out to the sparkling, still water in the harbor.
Life in this new land is determined by being so close to the ocean
, he thought. It was as if the cliff he had dangled his feet from all his life was the same rock and mineral that formed along the shores of this land. The drift may have occurred millions of years before but there was sameness, an intimate sense of belonging that closed the chasm of ocean between here and his home—between all things left behind and his future.

Manuel’s eyes had grown heavy and he had fallen asleep. His eyes opened slightly at the sound of the first gust of foghorns blowing. Manuel drew his knees close to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. The park now lay empty in front of him. He could see sails crawling up the masts and the men filing in thin lines like ants, winding their way down the streets toward the docks.

The time spent on land had been short. The men boarded the ship wearily, their minds drunk with stories just waiting to be told. There were only a few days left before the
Argus
and other ships would turn their noses home, and underneath the layer of fatigue were the fired
spirits of men who knew they would be with their real families soon. But the promise of the new land would not be erased from Manuel’s mind. He closed his eyes in the warm knowledge he would stay.

The foghorns blared again.

The wind had picked up in the dusk and Manuel reached for his father’s sweater, which he had knotted around his waist. He pulled it over his head. With a desperate hope, he thrust his hand up under his sweater and patted his chest. His mind’s veil lifted and he pictured his father’s gold crucifix in its foil packet pressed under the center of his mattress. There was no hesitation as he clambered down the steep hills toward the wharf. There were times when he thought he would stumble down the sloping streets, that his burning thighs wouldn’t be able to stop the momentum building with every leap. He sprung onto the ramp, pushed himself through the thick clumps of returning men. Manuel’s boots clanged against the iron mesh gangway, the metallic sound reverberating in his panicked head. He reached the mouth of the doorway, threw himself down its gullet in a single bound, felt the walls like a blind man, pupils ill-adjusted to the gloom as he charged into an open room strewn with narrow rows of rotting bunks. He flipped over his mattress and grabbed at the tinfoil envelope. He unfolded the flaps and drew out the twirling cross.

The foghorns blew again, deep and long.

Manuel leapt up the stairs in a fluid motion, the necklace now secured beneath his father’s sweater. As he came up on deck, Manuel’s eyes met Francisco Golfinho’s clean-shaven face and tender stare. Manuel looked over
Francisco’s shoulder to the city of St. John’s. He pushed up against Francisco, tried to wedge himself between some men who sang in a drunken stupor at what had been the gangway’s opening. The ropes and chains had been drawn and the ship had pushed away from the dock. He looked down at the widening gap of black water. He looked toward the colors all muted and hazy in the early moon’s light. Francisco Golfinho leaned in and placed his hand on Manuel’s shoulder. Manuel could smell the traces of aftershave and bacon fat mingling on Francisco’s skin.

“Look at it,” Manuel whispered. His eyes scanned the skyline. “It’s like I want to … touch it, hold on to it.”

“It’s time to find our way back home.” Francisco slapped Manuel’s shoulder twice. Manuel thought of his mother. Over the months her face had softened in his mind. He thought of all the ways in which his siblings had suffered so much, had loved him unconditionally because they believed in their mother’s fiction.

Francisco Golfinho moved his hand to the small of Manuel’s back and Manuel reluctantly turned from the city. They were both caught by a mob of reveling men and Manuel staggered, then fell onto the ship’s deck, where he choked on his disappointment, swallowed the snot in the back of his throat and wept.

It would be the final day of fishing before returning home. Manuel pushed off from the
Argus
, as he had done so many times before. But on this day he set the oars into the oarlocks and rowed out into the ocean’s vastness with a renewed sense of vitality; he had seen a part of
the world that seemed boundless and felt he must be part of it. With these thoughts swimming in his mind he drifted for hours in the dense fog. He could hear the voices of the other men singing as they fished, but no vision could pierce the wall of white mist. He tried to row in a certain direction but then realized there was no direction, no bearing.

The long days passed. Alone on his dory, Manuel gnawed at the bluish-white flesh of the cod he’d caught. Taste had abandoned him now and all that remained was his fear. During the day the sun pounded his head as he lay rocking on the dory’s bottom. To cool his mind, Manuel remembered himself as a boy, diving into the waters every morning, burlap sac and a forged trident in hand. He would make his way to what he called the clam stone, a large rock formed by lava that flowed toward the shore, only to bubble into a solid black form millions of years ago. He would step onto its hollowed smoothness worn by sand, sea, and time. Manuel would pick at all the bounty trapped at low tide—
God’s gift.
There was always the initial stab when he dove into the ocean. But then his eyes would adjust to the wonderful world of the green waters. He loved the feeling of his hair being free, individual strands swarming around his head. The sense of control: holding his breath till his lungs burned, kicking his way to the sun-drenched surface before taking in another deep breath and going under again. He would spear only what was necessary, only what they could eat that day. But before he left he would always mangle one of the smaller fish he had caught and make his way to the rocky bottom, dive down along the drop wall and gently
offer his hand and wiggle the bait, hoping the large black grouper would appear again. It never did.

It was a cold night when Manuel lay down flat on the bottom of the dory, made the sign of the cross and looked up at the stars. He thought of the dream he had sacrificed and all the things he would never know. And then he prayed. The dory rocked, lifted and twirled, a mere twig caught by the force and power of the ocean. The storm was building and Manuel knew that it was only a matter of time.

Frightened by the impenetrable dark, he breaks the surface, gasps and coughs up the crucifix. Salt water splashes against his face, forces his lips open, gushing in like an uninvited guest as he chokes on bile.

Don’t panic—the panicked are dead.

His perfectly round face remains above water, then disappears under a small rolling wave, only to bob and break the surface again. Suddenly, there is nothing but ocean and a promising sky full of fading stars. The ocean has been lulled. The worst has passed. Manuel tilts his head back, ears submerged just under the waterline. He tries kicking his numb legs to propel himself into a back float—if only for a short while more. His burning arms and wrists circle in vain. He looks up at the sky, urging the sun to arrive and warm him. His heavy worn leather shoes were the first things to sink into the ocean’s muddy depths. His wool pants followed, his childhood fishing belt sinking with them. But the fisherman’s sweater, its
pounds of soaked cabling, cannot be allowed to go, not just yet. He moves with the dancing waves. Only, he does not lead.

“Manuel,” he hears a familiar voice call in singsong.

He recognizes the voice he has not heard in years.

“Big Lips, is that you?” Manuel says.

He sees the large grouper burst out of the water, its olive and grey shimmering body twisting over him in an arc. He thinks he sees the fish grinning at him with those balloon lips before its black-blotched shape plunges into the water without a splash.

“Big Lips. Come back!”

He waits, but hears only the lapping of water breaking under his chin. The sea invites him down once again. His arms no longer push through the water, his legs abandon him. Manuel Antonio Rebelo looks up at the new sun as he fills his lungs with air and slips once again under the surface, this time with eyes shut.

As he drops, he sees his father’s smile, his mother’s expression of betrayal, his abandoned brothers and sisters, and the women and children he will never know. He breathes out his last pocket of air, bubbles rising from him to pop on the surface. Manuel feels a tightening in his chest and arms, an inability to move and direct his weight. But instead of going down, his frame is tilting and twirling under the water’s current. He feels himself dragged across and up, up toward the surface light. There is a gash of cold air before he feels the thud of his numb weight hitting a boat’s wooden floor.

He adjusts his sight to see the face of a leathery man: toothless smile, uneven stubble, and half-soaked cigarette
dangling from the corner of his mouth, cantilevered on his lip.

“Hmmm,” is all the man grunts.

Manuel lies trembling on a nest of jumbled net. He grabs hold of the boat’s edge, retching onto the wooden floor. There is a sense that he is not quite saved. He is thankful to lie curled, wound tightly in a ball as woollen blankets are draped over him. Every so often he squints at the back of a plaid woolen jacket, green rubber boots, and a man’s piston arms, elbows pointing back, bringing the oars up with his hairy knuckles. Again and again. He falls in and out of an exhausted sleep.

“What do they call you, b’y, now?” the man asks.

“Manuel.”

He had taken a few lessons in basic English before setting sail and had picked up more from the men on board the
Argus.
He learned everyday words—
house, girl, boy, food
—and phrases: “What is your name?” which required the proper response, “
My name is Manuel.
” But, the leathery man did not offer his name in return.

Manuel can only think of fresh water, food, and warmth. He can hear the mumbled questions this man is asking, but right now he is too spent to respond. All Manuel can do is think of home, his mother, the men of the
Argus
, and the news that will greet them all. Suddenly, a new, distant voice pierces his thoughts.

“Dad! Dad! Did you catch anything?” the echo travels.

Manuel struggles to lean up on his elbow and looks over the rim of the tiny boat for the first time. His eyes can only distinguish a girl’s slight figure and the glint of sun radiating from her. She stands atop a glossy bed
of kelp and runs her hands through her light brown hair, adjusts some strands behind her ears and tugs the hem of her flower-print skirt over her rubber boots. Manuel squints at a glare that flashes off her leg. The bottom of the boat scuffs onto land, tilts slightly to one side, then stops.

“Pepsi, my love. Your father caught you a big one.”

He roars with laughter as he hauls the wet twine, heaves the bow of the boat farther up and carves into the pebbled shore.