Peter Benchley - The Deep

Legends, they call them. I went there because I wanted to live with wild apes, fight with crocodiles, and dive for wrecks no man had ever seen. Instead, I spent my days thinking up lines like, “Calcutta: In-Spot for India’s Teeming Millions.” I never did anything. I was paid to abbreviate what other people did.”

As they neared the club’s main building, another couple, younger, appeared on the path, walking toward them. Their gaits were awkward, for they had their arms around each other’s waists, and since the man was much taller than his bride, he had to shorten his steps into a mincing trot so she could keep up with him. As soon as he saw the young couple, Sanders dropped Gail’s hand.

When the couple had passed, Gail said, “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Drop my hand.”

Sanders blushed. “Honeymooners make me nervous.”

She took his arm and touched his shoulder with her head.

“You’re one, too, you know.”

“Yeah. But I’ve already had one honeymoon.”

“It’s my first, though,” Gail said. “Let me enjoy it.”

They passed through the lobby-large, sedate, paneled in gleaming, close-grained cedar—and walked by the bil-Hard room, game room, card room, reading room, and bar on their way to the outdoor patio overlooking the ocean. They were shown to a table at the edge of the patio. The sun, setting behind them, lit the clouds on the horizon and made them glow bright pink.

A waiter came to take their drink order. He was young, black, and there was a name on the tag on his breast pocket. He spoke in monosyllables and addressed them both-not disrespectfully—as “man.”

As the waiter turned and left, Gail glanced after him and said quietly, “That must be a lousy job.”

“Why?”

“What’s he have to look forward to? Maybe, if he’s really good, he’ll become a headwaiter.”

“What’s wrong with that?” said Sanders. “It’s better than being out of work.”

“Did you notice his name? Slake. That doesn’t sound Bermudian.”

“I don’t think there’s any such thing as a Bermudian-sounding anything. There are black people with names like Bascomb who speak Saville Row British, and there are white folks who sound like they came out of a ghetto in Jamaica. I remember checking a Geographic caption with a guy, a fisherman, who was quoted as saying, “Holiday tomorrow. There’s going to be a tempest.” I thought, nobody says “tempest” any more. But by God, the man really talked that way. Ethnically, this place is a mess.”

When their drinks came, they sat in silence, listening to the waves below them, looking out at the few patches of reef visible on the windless evening.

Sanders reached into his pocket and took out the ampule he had found.

“In the morning, let’s see if anyone around here can analyze this for us. I’ll bet you a dime it’s penicillin-from the sick bay. All ships carry that kind of stuff.”

“I don’t think penicillin was that common till after the war. It looks more like a vaccine. Anyway, you’re on for a dime.”

He started to hand the ampule to Gail to put in her purse when a voice behind them said, “Where did you get that?”

They turned and saw the waiter. Slake had menus in his hand. “I beg your pardon?” Gail said.

He seemed embarrassed by the abruptness of his question.

“I’m sorry. I saw the little glass, and I wondered where you found it.” Slake spoke in a musical accent that sounded Jamaican.

Sanders said, “On the wreck right off there.”

“ Goliath ?”

“Yes.” Gail held up the ampule so Slake could see it more clearly. “Do you know what it is?”

Slake took the ampule and held it between his finger tips. A gas lamp burned behind him, and he twirled the ampule before the light. He gave it back to Gail and said, “I have no idea.”

Sanders said, “Then why are you so interested?”

“I am interested in glass. It looked old. It is pretty. Excuse me.” Slake put the menus on the table and walked toward the kitchen.

After dinner, the Sanderses walked, hand in hand, along the path back to their cottage. A quarter moon had risen, casting golden light on the leaves and flowers. The bushes were alive with the croaking of frogs.

Sanders unlocked the door to the cottage and said, “Let’s have a brandy on the porch.”

“We’ll be eaten alive.”

“I don’t think so.” He pointed to a yellow light above the door. “These things are supposed to keep the bugs away.”

He poured brandy into the two bathroom glasses and carried them out to the porch. Gail was sitting in one of the two rattan chairs that flanked a small table.

“It’s nice,” she said, sniffing the air. “There are a thousand different smells.”

For several minutes, they sat and gazed at the sky and listened to the rustle of the breeze in the trees.

“Are you ready for another thrilling fact from the files of the Geographic ?” Sanders said.

“Sure.”

“Back in the seventeenth century, this place was known as the Isle of Devils.”

“Why?”

“How would I know? My contract only calls for me to give you the “whats.” Someone else is paid to find out the “whys.””

Gail said, “I’m going to yawn now.”

“Feel free.”

“It will be the most sensual and suggestive yawn you have ever heard. It will promise wild, unimagined pleasures that will make me forget that you are a suicidal maniac. In short, it will be a real turn-on.”

“Do it,” said Sanders. He closed his eyes and listened. He heard her embark on a low, moaning, feline yawn. It stopped-as suddenly as if someone had jammed a cork in her throat. “What’s the matter?” he said. “Swallow your tongue?” He opened his eyes and saw her staring out into the darkness.

“What?”

“Someone’s out there.”

“It’s the wind.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Sanders walked to the edge of the patio. The path was empty. He turned back to Gail and said, “Nobody.”

“Look.” Gail was pointing to something behind him.

When Sanders looked again, he saw a man stepping out of the bushes onto the path. He walked toward them, stopped a few yards from the porch, and said, “Excuse me.” He was a black man, dressed in a black suit. All Sanders could see were his eyes and a patch of white shirt.

“How long have you been there?” Sanders said.

“Sir? I arrived this very moment.”

“From the bushes?”

The man smiled. “That is the shortest way.

The path is very roundabout.” His accent was crisp, establishment British.

“What can we do for you?”

“I would like a word with you, if I may.”

“Okay. But come up into the light.”

The man, who looked about fifty, stepped onto the porch. His blue-black skin was wrinkled, and there were flecks of gray in his black hair. “My name is Tupper. Basil Tupper. I am the manager of a jewelry store in Hamilton. Drake’s. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. No matter. My hobby is antique glass.”

Sanders looked at Gail. “Lot of glass freaks in Bermuda.”

Tupper said, “I understand you recently acquired a small item of glass from the wreck of the Goliath . I would like very much to see it.”

“Why?”

“What’s all the curiosity about?” Gail said, reaching for the purse beside her chair. “It’s just a medicine bottle.”

“No curiosity, really,” said Tupper, “except to those of us interested in fine glass. A chap named Reinhardt worked with glass in Norfolk in the mid-1940’s. His work is relatively scarce. It’s not worth much in the open market, but in our small circle it’s quite a coup to have a piece of Reinhardt glass.”