XVI
A
nd so our days were
almost gone. Walt had of course decided to go. I felt that he had not really given his home planet a chance. I had not even had a chance to show him some of my favorite parts of San Francisco. I had learned to see in Walt the sort of stoic determination that had allowed his family to fish the same patch of water for seven generations. I did not believe that I could change Walt’s mind.
Walt had little to do to get ready. He had nothing to pack, no one to see, nothing to sell, no house except mine to move out of. His was to be perhaps the simplest departure ever.
Finally the final day came. Walt and I had a big lunch at a Burmese restaurant called Real Good Karma on Dolores Street. I felt dolorous myself. I had come to respect Walt somewhat. We had both felt feelings for each other that we had never felt before. We were friends.
We walked up to the Church Street Station. We hopped the first inbound train that came down the tunnel, a K Ingleside. Walt was carrying under one arm his duffle bag with the few wool sweaters that refused to fit on his body. In his other hand was his lunchbox. I did not know just how I would explain its absence to my roommate, but I had to let him take it. He was the only passenger on the train wearing rubber boots.
Once again, passengers got off at each stop, but none got on to replace them. A palpable tension built in the car. Few people were visible on the platforms as we pulled through each of the stations.
Embarcadero Station was completely empty when we pulled in. I noticed that our train had no driver. I wondered idly how long it had been running itself. The Station was, as always, gently lit with tasteful mood lighting. We got off the train and walked around the deserted platform. I enjoyed hearing my footsteps echo off the convex-tiled walls.
We had only been there a few moments when the unknowable form of the Easybeats rambled out of the tunnel. They made contact with Walt in some way that I could not perceive. He turned agilely on one heel and floated gently off the platform and down the tunnel, following slightly behind them.
I ran to the escalator, ran up the moving stairs three or four at a time. I pushed my way through the turnstile, where there was still no one around, and out into the street. There was no traffic. No idle robber barons happened by from the financial district. Not a single longshoreman or tourist was to be seen anywhere.
I believe that I was the only one to see the brown sphere with no windows, looking very much like a small meteor, rise up from somewhere near the Ferry Building. I watched it shoot across the Bay, climbing, always climbing, until I lost track of it.
I took a long time walking home that day.
XVII
S
ince Walt left I have
been in contact with several people on Tristan. It was difficult for me to come up with a believable story about how I knew Walt and what happened to him after he left.
As far as anyone on his native island knows, he died on board ship, my ship, shortly after I rescued him. I was sailing alone in a race around the world. Rescuing Walt and looking after him dropped me out of competition. I was horribly distraught when he died. In this elaborate lie, I buried Walt at sea.
Mrs. Wilkins has been very kind in her letters and has invited me to come and stay with her. I suspect that she could use some help in raising the twins. Perhaps she could help me learn some more music on the piano, if I have time. I have a job waiting there for me, of course. Someone needs to carry on the respectable tradition of fishing Walt’s ancestral waters in his father’s boat.
I even satisfy the ultimate test of a Tristanian fisherman: I have never tasted lobster. My mother is horribly allergic to it, to the point that eating it could kill her. Since she and I share most of the same allergies, I have never dared to try it.
I have not yet made up my mind as to whether or not I will set up my transmitter on Tristan.
Author's Disclaimer
Walt
is a work of fiction which takes generous liberties with reality. The reader would be poorly advised to take any portion of this book as factual in areas including, but not limited to: fishing, navigation, bacteriology, manual transmissions, and investing in vintage lunch boxes. Most importantly, the frame of a grand piano would make a highly inefficient broadcast antenna for all sorts of reasons. During the gestation of this book, many people including the experts at G. Leuenberger Pianos, the
San Francisco Chronicle
and Ferrari of San Francisco generously shared their knowledge, which I ignored as often as not. Factual inconsistencies are therefore solely my responsibility.
—IS