Paul Theroux - The Mosquito Coast

All this time, Mr. Torch was twisting his radio knobs nervously. I had never heard Father's story, but it was characteristic of him to tell personal details of his life to a perfect stranger. Maybe it was his way of avoiding betrayal, divulging his secrets to people he met by chance and would never see again.

"That's a real sad story," Mr. Torch said.

"Then you missed the point," Father said.

Mr. Torch seemed flustered, and when Mother saw me all wet and yelled at Father—"What are you trying to prove?" — Mr. Torch took gulps of air and backed away.

But Father addressed him again. He had a proposition for him. "Mr. Torch," he said, "I am prepared to sell you this pickup truck for twenty-two dollars, because that's what she cost me to register."

"I just figured your kid should be wearing his shoes." Mr. Torch said this very softly.

Father said, "Or you can swap me your radio. There's one on the truck. I've got no use for it." He put his hand out and the black man meekly gave him the radio.

We drove back to the ship. Mr. Torch sat in the back with Jerry and me. He said, "Your old man sure can talk. He could be a preacher. He could preach your ears off. Tell you one thing, though. He ain't no businessman!" He laughed to himself and said, "Where you guys going?"

We said we did not know.

"That your old man there behind the wheel? If I was you I wouldn't be so sure!"

Jerry said, "My father is Allie Fox."

Mr. Torch scratched his teeth with a long fingernail.

"The genius," I said. "That's right," Mr. Torch said.

Back at the ship, Father handed him the keys and said he could have the radio, too. He didn't want it after all. We went up the gangway, and that was that.

"Free at last!" Father said. We stood on the narrow deck outside our cabin. The lights of Baltimore gave the city a halo of glowing cloud. The night was not dark, but just a different sort of muddy light. The traffic noises were muffled and nervous. A breeze scratched at the ship's side, and it seemed as though we had no connection with the city and were already at sea. We stared at the portion of dock where Mr. Torch had driven away in our pickup truck.

Mother said, "If the police stop him, they'll think he stole it. He'll get pinched."

"I don't care!" Father said. He was pleased with himself. "I just gave it away. 'Take it!' I said. 'I've got no use for it!' Did you see the expression on his face? A free pickup truck with a new transmission! Like the Worm Tub. I just gave it away! Like Polski and the job. Clear the decks!"

But Mother said sharply, "What have you given away? A beat-up truck that was too much trouble to dump. A homemade icebox that stank to heaven. A job that wasn't worth having in the first place."

"That's what I mean."

"Don't pretend to be better than you are."

Father was still staring down the hawser at Baltimore.

"Good-bye, America," he said. "If anyone asks, say we were shipwrecked. Good-bye to your junk and your old hideola! And have a nice day!"

WE SAILED from Baltimore on this ship, Unicorn, in the middle of the night. The cabin walls vibrated, as if shimmying on the teeth of a buzz saw. My bunk grumbled and nudged me awake. I put my face against the porthole and saw the sloshings on swells, like whitewash hosed over black ice. I heard a foghorn moan, a bell buoy's clang, and a spray like pebbles hitting a tin pail. The steel door rattled, but none of the kids woke up. In the morning, we were in open sea.

And there, in mid-ocean, the ship came to life. The dining room was full at breakfast — the other three tables occupied by two families. One of the families was very large. After we introduced ourselves, the grownups said good morning to Father and Mother and the children made faces at us. We were quiet strangers, they were noisy and seemed right at home here. They acted as if they had been on the Unicorn before. They were the Spellgoods and the Bummicks.

"You're Mr. Fox," one of the men said to Father on our first day at sea. "You've already forgotten my name. But I remember yours."

"Of course you do," Father said. "I'm much easier to remember than you are."

That man was the Rev. Gurney Spellgood. He was a missionary. At each meal he led his family — two tables of them — in a loud hymn, giving thanks, before they fell on their food. The Bummicks' behavior was odder, for this brown-faced family of four always argued, and as their voices rose in competition they would begin to holler in another language. Father said it was Spanish and they were half-and-halfs. On the afterdeck one day, Mr. Bummick, who was hoggishly fat, told Father that what he had always wanted to do was bust a window in Baltimore, then run aboard the ship and sail away. "They'd never catch me!" Father told us to stay clear of the Bummicks.

Apart from the Spellgoods' prayer meeting, which was a daily affair, we seldom saw these people, except at mealtimes. At dinner on the second day, the nine Spellgoods were not at their tables.

Father said to Mr. Bummick, "What's become of our hymn-singing friends? I suppose they're seasick — feeding the fishes, eh?"

Mr. Bummick said no, they were with the captain. It was the captain's practice to invite his passengers to take turns eating with him.

"That's funny," Father said. "I was thinking of inviting the captain to eat with me. But I decided not to. I don't like the cut of his jib."

The Bummicks stared at him.

"Just joking," Father said.

He never smiled when he told a joke. In fact, he sounded especially grumpy when he tried to be funny. It was embarrassing to know he was joking and to see the puzzlement on other people's faces.

The next night, the Bummicks ate with the captain.

"I guess he's forgotten all about us, Reverend," Father said to Gurney Spellgood. "I'd much appreciate it if you said a prayer for us."

"The last shall be first," Rev. Spellgood said. He folded his hands and smiled.

Father said, "Some."

"Pardon?"

"'Men will come from the north and south, and sit at table in the Kingdom of God. And behold, some of the last who will be first, and some of the first who will be last.' Luke."

Rev. Spellgood said, "I was quoting Matthew."

"You were misquoting," Father said. Up went his blasted-off finger. "Matthew says many, not some. But the best part is in chapter nineteen. 'Everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or lands, for my name's sake, will receive a hundredfold, and inherit eternal life.'"

Rev. Spellgood said, "That is my watchword, brother. You have understood my mission."

"And yet I can't help noticing," Father said, waving his finger at the two tables of Spellgoods — there was a granny there, too—"you haven't left anyone behind." Quickly he added, "Just joking."

But after this, Rev. Spellgood tried to engage Father in discussions about the Scriptures and include him in the prayer meetings on deck. The next morning, Rev. Spellgood stopped him as he paced the deck with his maps. I was nearby, fishing from the rail.

Father said, "We don't look like much at the moment, Reverend, but time and experience will smooth us down, and we pray that we will be polished arrows in the quiver of the Almighty."

"Ezekiel?" Rev. Spellgood said.

"Joe Smith," Father said, and he laughed. "Prophet and martyr and founder of one of the twenty richest corporations in the United States."

Copperations was the way Father said it, with a quack of pure hatred.

Rev. Spellgood faced the ocean and said, "'Thou didst walk through the sea with thine horses, through the heap of great waters.'"

"Hosea."

"Habakkuk," Rev. Spellgood said. "Chapter three."