Sascha Arango - The Truth and Other Lies

And then he heard a scratch of sharp teeth above him.

“Martha?”

Henry came in from the garden. He took off his rubber boots at the bootjack and listened. He looked at the clock. It was getting to be nine. Really she ought to be asleep still, but — how odd — her bicycle wasn’t where it usually was, leaning beside the door.

The vegetable stew was already cooking on the stove. Henry had just nipped out into the garden to pull up a few shallots. He put them on the kitchen counter next to the Patek Philippe, which he’d gift wrapped. The dog sniffed at his trousers.

“Where’s Martha, Poncho?”

The dog put his head on one side. What do you want from me? he seemed to ask.

“Then I’ll just have to do it myself.”

Henry climbed the stairs to Martha’s room and knocked gently.

“Martha?”

He put his hand on the doorknob and carefully opened the door.

“Darling? Are you awake?”

The standard lamp was on, the bed was untouched, and a book lay open on the pillow. The dog came into the room behind Henry and sniffed. Martha wasn’t in the bathroom either. Henry flung open the window and called out her name, but she didn’t reply. That was odd. But not yet cause for concern. Maybe she was in the barn.

He ran a little faster on the way down, put his boots back on and went out of the house. He opened the back door; her Saab was still there. Maybe she’d just gotten up early, taken her bike, and cycled to the sea.

Henry closed the barn door again. He stopped to think. She knows I’m already awake — she wouldn’t leave without letting me know? No, she wouldn’t. Henry decided to drive to the sea to look for her.

He opened the car door to let Poncho onto the passenger seat; the dog was simply crazy about riding in the car. But he didn’t get in; he lay down and pressed his nose to the ground. He normally did that only when Henry got out the garden hose to shower him down after he’d rolled in something foul. Henry took a piece of dried meat out of his pocket and held it up, but the dog didn’t move. Henry threw him the treat, got in the car, and started the engine. The dog knew everything.

Obradin was just pulling up the shutters in front of the fishmonger’s when Henry stopped outside and lowered his window.

“Obradin, have you seen my wife? Has she come past?”

Obradin shook his head. “I’ve only seen my own wife. I have cod. Do you want some cod?”

“Later.”

“Have you caught the marten?”

“Not yet.”

Henry drove on slowly. In the rearview mirror, he saw that Obradin was watching him. Before the harbor he took the westerly fork and reached the bay a minute later. The wind was coming in from the sea; the red flag that warned of dangerous currents was fluttering wildly. Henry left the key in the ignition, got out of the car, and walked the hundred yards over the shingle beach to the water. Martha’s bike was still propped up against the cliff. But her green parka was no longer hanging on the handlebars. The wind had blown her clothes over the beach; some of them were caught between the rocks. He saw one of Martha’s green rubber sandals lying on the shingle and bent down to pick it up. Shreds of dried seaweed were dancing over the pebbles. The surf was now ash-gray with gleaming white crests.

Right by the water stood Martha in her green parka.

His heart missed a beat when he saw her, his throat fired up, his knees began to tremble. She was standing with her back to him, barefoot, her trousers rolled up. Her hair was concealed beneath her hood. She bent down, picked up a pebble. Henry ran across the shingle to her.

“Martha!”

She turned around in alarm. Henry stood still. No, it wasn’t her. This woman was much younger; her face was pink from the wind. She smiled, startled.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were my wife. That’s her parka.”

The woman pulled the hood down off her head and Henry saw her short, reddish-brown hair. She was young, not yet thirty, and began to undo the parka. If God is another word for nature, Henry thought, then there’s no reason to doubt his existence.

“No, leave it.”

With Martha’s sandal in his hand, he shaded his eyes and looked out to sea. The woman followed his gaze.

“Are you looking for somebody?”

“My wife. She’s about your size and my age.”

Now she too looked around.

“Sorry, I haven’t seen anyone here.” An apologetic smile revealed white teeth set in firm, pink gums.

“How long have you been here?”

“Must be an hour or more.”

Henry pointed at the fissured cliff behind him. “Her bike’s over there. She must be somewhere about.”

Henry set off. He ran along the water’s edge, looking out to sea. The young woman looked around too, walked toward the bicycle, searched the rocks. Henry could see her out of the corner of his eye, stooping to pick up the clothes and gather them together.

Henry ran from one end of the beach to the other, the water lapping over the tops of his boots. He was out of breath when he finally got back to the bicycle. The young woman was sitting on a rock, clutching the clothes she’d gathered on her lap. She saw Henry fall to his knees and cover his face with his hands.

She was still sitting on the rock when the lifeguards pulled their boats down the slopes and launched them into the water. Two hours later a naval helicopter arrived and began to circle. The local fishermen scoured the area around the bay with dogs.

In spite of the noise in the engine room of his old cutter, Obradin heard the thundering of the rotors. He climbed up through the smoke onto the deck of the Drina and saw the heavy naval helicopter circling low over the bay. That could only mean that they were looking for someone who’d drowned, or for a ship in distress. Obradin climbed back down into the smoke and switched off the engine. It wouldn’t hold out much longer. It had lost compression and had started to spew oil. Its time had come. Obradin didn’t know where he was going to get the money for a new engine. Drina was no ocean trawler. Since the herrings no longer came in endless droves, Obradin had been sailing farther and farther out to sea. Even on rough seas, he’d worked the old diesel mercilessly; now it was nearing its end.

When Obradin reached the beach and leaped out of the car, he saw Henry standing in the surf up to his hips; two men had him by the arms and were pulling him out of the water. The men supported him on the short walk to the ambulance. Henry’s face was white; he was staggering. Half the town had already gathered in the bay. No one spoke a word; everyone was thinking the same. Obradin saw Henry’s look; his eyes were as dark as molten quartz that’s been burned into the sand by a bolt of lightning.

Elenor Reens, the mayor, short-haired, petite, and dressed in yellow oilskins, handed Obradin her binoculars and summed up the ineluctable. “There won’t be a funeral. She’s already a long way out.”

Obradin looked through the binoculars out to sea and made the sign of the cross. There was no more he could do.

Toward evening the wind got up. Two trawlers with searchlights tacked up and down, and another coast guard ship arrived with divers, even though everyone had long since given up hope. At midnight the search was called off. One by one, the lights in the town went out. Only in the pub in the harbor did the drinking go on late into the night, as the day’s events were discussed. There was no one who wasn’t convinced that the silent, unprepossessing writer’s wife had been caught by the current while swimming and carried out to sea, where she had eventually drowned. Everyone knew her by sight, but nobody knew her; she’d only ever been the writer’s wife. She had rarely come into town to do the shopping or go for a walk. In all weathers she had cycled to the bay to swim, always alone. The sympathy of the locals went out to the lonely man who would be spending the night without his wife, without any consolation, or hope of her return.