Mark Lee - The Canal House

“Go!” he shouted. “Let’s get out of here!”

We scrambled over a wall, ran between two houses, and cut through a garden filled with bright red peppers and tomato plants. Why would anyone kill us when people were growing zucchini and honeybees were buzzing around some morning glories? The fast-breathing, dry-mouthed terror that had taken over my body found no confirmation in the pleasant scenery. We heard more gunfire in the distance as we cut across a dirt road and began to climb a ravine.

We reached a grove of thatch palms at the top of the ravine and I collapsed on the dead leaves that covered the ground. I was sweating and breathing hard, but I felt exhilarated. Still alive.

Daniel lit a cigarette, then buried the match in the dirt. “Lost my phone. Left it in the car.”

“Yeah.”

“Lost the water bottles.”

I nodded.

“Lost the chocolate bars.”

I lay on my back and gazed up at the sky. “Now that’s a real crisis.”

I stood on the bowof the Seria as we followed the UN convoy into Dili Harbor. The city was burning. Columns of smoke from different fires rose up into the sky and combined into a hazy gray cloud that drifted across the water. Small particles of ash—very light, very fragile—fell on the deck of the ship. I could hear gunshots and a single alarm bell that rang loudly at first, then weakened and died.

Everyone came out on deck and stared at the burning city. Richard had some binoculars and we took turns using them. Columns of gray smoke came from looted buildings while the black smoke came from burning cars. Billy nodded solemnly like a theater critic watching an impressive performance. “The Indonesians would burn down the whole bloody island if they could,” he said. “They don’t want to leave anything behind.”

The Seria was filled with tons of food, water, and medicine, but Interfet command had ordered Captain Vanderhouten not to move the ship without permission. As the day went on and the smoke kept rising, Billy played cards with Collins and Briggs. The crew slept on deck or fished for shark with chunks of rotten meat. Richard sat in his cabin with his sat phone and told executives how to take control of a Scottish bank. We had traveled thousands of miles to come here and now we weren’t helping anyone. I kept pacing from the bow to the stern and back again.

Different patches of fire flared up that night. They grew larger and merged together. I watched the wind push the fire north, extending its bright orange fingers through the darkness. When I woke up the next morning and went out on deck, I could smell a harsh chemical odor that reminded me of melted plastic. The flames were gone, but smoke drifted from the ruins. Using the binoculars, I watched Indonesian soldiers carry looted furniture and television sets down to the wharf where two ferries were waiting. On the radio they were saying that UN troops had landed at Dili airport and were beginning to take control of the city. If the soldiers had arrived, that meant Daniel was probably with them.

I locked the door of my cabin and lay on the narrow berth. In my mind, I saw Daniel at Bracciano digging out the roots of a dead olive tree. Sweat glistened on his skin, and his shoulders shifted and moved as he raised an ax and swung at the earth. I remembered him walking down Church Street on a rainy afternoon. Then he was standing in the bedroom of the Canal House on the first night of snow. He opened the window, took a knife from the dresser, and held it out into the cold darkness. Silently, he turned and walked over to our bed, a single perfect snowflake resting on the blade.

Now we were just a few miles apart, but there was no way to see him or know that he was safe. When I left Bracciano, I had wished for the sort of fantasy that appears in the Sunday supplements: together, but apart, the modern couple who manages to have a relationship even though she’s lecturing at Harvard and he’s directing operas in Bayreuth. It was all nonsense, of course. If you loved someone, you tried to stay with them, and yet somehow we had thought that it was the right choice to go off in different directions.

The burning city was dangerous, even for an experienced journalist. The radio reported that groups of anti-independence militiamen were starting the fires and killing people. And there were other dangers, too: the chance that Daniel would be lured back to the solitary life. It was easier being alone and unencumbered, like having fewer bags to carry to the train.

THE CREW ON THE Seria owned a video collection of karate movies and Indian musicals, but the VCR had jammed. As the only woman on the ship, I was the next option for entertainment. Pak, the first mate, and his friends spent their free time staring at me and chattering to each other in Indonesian. Occasionally, Captain Vanderhouten translated their comments so that I learned that they were discussing which T-shirt best showed off my breasts. Vanderhouten was an alcoholic who kept asking me to look at his hernia and the fungus growing beneath his toenails. Collins and Briggs were convinced that I wanted to sleep with them. They were each drinking ten to twelve cans of lager a day until Richard restricted them to three. Now they consumed their quota with great ceremony during dinner, then secretly drank more when it was dark.

Billy had assumed more power ever since we’d left Darwin Harbor. The day that we sailed, I discovered that someone had stolen a case of chloramphenicol and some infant dysentery medicine. I mentioned this to Richard, and then Billy showed up at my cabin.

“It’s probably somebody in the crew,” he said. “Although it could be Vanderhouten. I’ve never trusted that bastard.”

“You don’t have to start a war over this, Billy. Just search the ship. You’ll probably find the medicine hidden somewhere.”

Billy smiled at me like I was a little girl who still believed in Father Christmas. I realized that he wanted a confrontation and would make it as threatening as possible.

“I don’t want anyone beaten up,” I said. “This is an aid organization and we’re supposed to be helping people.”

“I’m not going to hurt a fly,” Billy said. “All I need is a prop.”

“What are you talking about?”

He rummaged through my medical bag and pulled out a piece of plastic tubing. “Don’t worry, Julia. This’ll do.”

Billy called the entire crew up on deck and lectured them about the theft, all the while playing with the plastic tube, snapping it in the air and whipping it around his fist. Billy never said what the tube would be used for or if it would even be used at all, but there was something frightening about his performance.

“I want the drugs back by tomorrow,” Billy told them, then had his remarks translated into Indonesian.

The stolen medicine was stacked neatly outside my cabin door the next morning. After I had sorted through the boxes I realized that the thief had held back 10 percent, accurately gauging the amount of loss I would allow without complaint.

“Good job,” Richard said to me when he saw the boxes. “All you need is a clear statement about consequences. Of course I couldn’t do it and you couldn’t either. In this particular area, Billy has credibility.”

In London, Richard and I had managed to establish a professional relationship. He’d drop by the office once a week and we’d communicate through e-mail and faxes. When we flew to Australia, Richard sat two rows in front of me and tapped away on his laptop. He never mentioned Westgate Castle or the fact that we had been lovers. He was polite, but not overly personal, and I began to relax around him.