HOW DID WE GET HERE? I can scarcely believe it. Nor do I recall exactly what happened. I do not know which came first, or which is stronger: the failure of my memory to record events accurately or the failure of my belief in what is true. All I know is that we are here and we are alive. I know, too, that we have no idea where here is.
We drifted all night, rocking gently on the waves that licked against the hull. Johnny lay in bed, sweating under a blanket. I went to him once, but he turned away from me.
I said to Peter, “Johnny is ill. He has a fever.”
Peter’s face was contorted in a deep frown. He had not stopped searching the darkness around us in the hope that some clue, some sliver of light, might suddenly appear. He looked at me and said, “I know.”
Mamoru sat quietly with his maps, examining them and making calculations. He had not cleaned his face or arms; the light from the lamp danced on his grease-streaked features, illuminating his troubled countenance (“He looks like a civet cat,” Peter said, attempting a joke). He remained this way for hours, isolated from everyone, including me. He looked so alone, so cast adrift and in need of comfort, yet I did not know what I could do. I did not dare approach him.
Honey had, with the help of the rest of the whisky, fallen asleep on deck. His body jerked violently now and then, and he mumbled loudly in a language neither Peter nor I could understand. When Peter laughed at this, it felt as though it was the first time anyone had laughed since we got on the boat, and I began to laugh too. We tried to suppress our laughter so as not to disturb Mamoru from what he was doing; the effort of doing this reduced us to tears. It was only when Peter stopped laughing that I realised I was still crying. I could not stop. Peter stood watching me awkwardly; I thought he was startled, even contemptuous of me. I suddenly felt ashamed and tired and disgusted with myself for this display but still I could not stop. Peter put his hand on my head, attempting to soothe me, but I drew away. I would stop crying and prove that I did not need his help.
“I’m sorry,” I said, but still the hot tears burnt my cheeks. I turned to go back to the cabin. “You just keep watching for lights, Peter.”
“I will,” he said, seeming to smile. “What I’d give to see a passing ship. Even a pirate boat, for heaven’s sake!”
I fell asleep with my eyes and throat feeling sore.
The next morning I found Mamoru in better spirits. I saw him as soon as I climbed up the steps from the cabin. He had washed and changed into a fresh shirt and was standing over the broken machinery looking exactly like a schoolteacher: hands on hips, patient, a quizzical expression on his face. He greeted me with a silent “good morning,” which seemed to serve as an apology for everything that had happened the previous night. It was only then, when I stepped properly onto the deck, that I saw Johnny crouched over, kneeling at the base of the machine. He did not look up as I approached.
“Mamoru,” I whispered, “do you think this is wise? Johnny is ill, and besides, I have never seen him operate a machine in his life.”
He lifted his eyebrows in an enquiring manner.
“He dislikes all types of machines,” I continued. “Even the simplest mechanical task has to be delegated to a servant — changing the tyre on a bicycle, for example. He looks away whenever we go past a dredging machine. Honestly, sometimes I think he has a medical aversion to all things mechanical.”
“That is very strange, given his humble background — relatively speaking, of course. You would have thought that machines were essential to village life.”
“Apparently not.”
“Well, it was he who volunteered,” Mamoru explained as we watched Johnny at work. “I would not have dreamt of disturbing him. He simply came up on deck and said he had an idea; he felt luck was on his side. I was on the verge of despair, so I agreed.”
“Do you think he knows what he’s doing?”
“I’d say so, by the looks of things. As I said before, Snow, your husband is a surprising person.”
Johnny did not seem to expend any effort. At first I thought he might be weakened by his fever, but then I saw that he was simply and perfectly at ease where he was, kneeling next to the machine, easing various parts away from it and cradling them in his hands with the gentlest of touches. I noticed that because his hands had never appeared softer or more pliable. Those hands—those hands — had never before touched me in that way. Nor did he appear to use the tools that Mamoru had given him. He had no use for them; his fingers were sufficient.
Peter joined us, rubbing his eyes of sleep. He said nothing but merely stood with us, watching Johnny and the machine. The rhythm of his hands on the machine lulled us into silence. We could do nothing but bear witness.
