waters off Big Island, because their fur is fashionable on the Mainland, and being fashionable is a death sentence. Mysterious how they live down there in the dark and cold. Yet theyâre like us, breathing air, warm, not like fish, which are cold and alien, barely alive. In spite of her contempt for the boatmaker, at the thought of the seal, the woman of the town feels a motion in her chest.
âYou came on the steamer?â
âNo.â
âSo how did you get here? Fishing boat? Whaler? Sealer?â He doesnât look like he would be working on any of those, but there arenât many ways to get from Small Island to Big Island. She has named them all, as quick and efficient as a businessman.
The boatmaker doesnât feel like telling her about building his boat or the nights he spent on the water. Once he starts talking, he might tell her about the woman on Small Island, about being sick, the wheelbarrow, the money he tried to give the woman, the compass she ordered for him. He might not even stop there, going on to babble about his mother, his brotherâeven the blue wolf. Better to stop before he says anything.
His silence begins to unnerve the woman of the town just a little. Perhaps that is how he is different, she thinks: by being able to remain silent. In her presence, most men start talking right away and then donât stop, boasting about this or that, thinking they can impress her. This one is uncomfortable, she sees, but he can hold his peace. And that bothers her. She has worked so hard to keep the layer of ice around her heart intact. Any feelings she might have had for a man she pushed into the ring of ice and let them freeze solid. Here and there one touched her in a way that might have begun to melt something inside her. When that happened, she pushed him away and froze him right up again. It has always worked. She uses them, pulls the money out of them in a steady stream while she dreams about the capital and the beautiful things they have there.
But it is hard work to keep things frozen inside. She has always known that some man might find a way tobegin to melt that ice. And then it could all be over very quickly. This thought often flickers at the edge of her mind. But the grimy silent little man from the shithole at the end of the world wonât be the one to do that. Thereâs not a chance of it, regardless of his unnerving silence. It wonât even be much of a challenge.
The innkeeper comes out of the inn. The boatmaker orders two drinks for himself and one for her. While the man in the nightshirt goes to fill the order, the boatmaker slides one seat down until heâs directly across from the woman in the dark red dress with the square-cut neckline and the mesmerizing cleft between the two roundnesses.
He reaches into her bag without asking and takes out two cigarettes. Removes the matchbox from her hands, puts both cigarettes in his mouth and lights them, holds one out to her. She is not sure she wants to accept anything from this man. While her mind debates, her hand reaches out, apparently of its own accord, takes the cigarette and brings it to her mouth. She begins to smoke in rhythm with him, taking the smoke in and letting it go when he does.
The innkeeper returns and sets the drinks down: two on his side, one on hers. The blue banknote has plenty of room for these drinks and many more, stored invisibly in the long face of the king, his royal eyes sad and knowing behind his glittering lenses in their oval frames.
CHAPTER 6
The first thing he notices in her room under the eaves are two dresses hanging in an open cupboard, both identical to the one she is wearing. They have the same fitted bodice, square opening and three-quarter-length sleeves, all made of the dark red silk that makes her hair and skin seem tawny. He wants to ask her why she has three of these and why they are the only dresses in her tiny room. But he doesnât ask. These are the
âYou came on the steamer?â
âNo.â
âSo how did you get here? Fishing boat? Whaler? Sealer?â He doesnât look like he would be working on any of those, but there arenât many ways to get from Small Island to Big Island. She has named them all, as quick and efficient as a businessman.
The boatmaker doesnât feel like telling her about building his boat or the nights he spent on the water. Once he starts talking, he might tell her about the woman on Small Island, about being sick, the wheelbarrow, the money he tried to give the woman, the compass she ordered for him. He might not even stop there, going on to babble about his mother, his brotherâeven the blue wolf. Better to stop before he says anything.
His silence begins to unnerve the woman of the town just a little. Perhaps that is how he is different, she thinks: by being able to remain silent. In her presence, most men start talking right away and then donât stop, boasting about this or that, thinking they can impress her. This one is uncomfortable, she sees, but he can hold his peace. And that bothers her. She has worked so hard to keep the layer of ice around her heart intact. Any feelings she might have had for a man she pushed into the ring of ice and let them freeze solid. Here and there one touched her in a way that might have begun to melt something inside her. When that happened, she pushed him away and froze him right up again. It has always worked. She uses them, pulls the money out of them in a steady stream while she dreams about the capital and the beautiful things they have there.
But it is hard work to keep things frozen inside. She has always known that some man might find a way tobegin to melt that ice. And then it could all be over very quickly. This thought often flickers at the edge of her mind. But the grimy silent little man from the shithole at the end of the world wonât be the one to do that. Thereâs not a chance of it, regardless of his unnerving silence. It wonât even be much of a challenge.
The innkeeper comes out of the inn. The boatmaker orders two drinks for himself and one for her. While the man in the nightshirt goes to fill the order, the boatmaker slides one seat down until heâs directly across from the woman in the dark red dress with the square-cut neckline and the mesmerizing cleft between the two roundnesses.
He reaches into her bag without asking and takes out two cigarettes. Removes the matchbox from her hands, puts both cigarettes in his mouth and lights them, holds one out to her. She is not sure she wants to accept anything from this man. While her mind debates, her hand reaches out, apparently of its own accord, takes the cigarette and brings it to her mouth. She begins to smoke in rhythm with him, taking the smoke in and letting it go when he does.
The innkeeper returns and sets the drinks down: two on his side, one on hers. The blue banknote has plenty of room for these drinks and many more, stored invisibly in the long face of the king, his royal eyes sad and knowing behind his glittering lenses in their oval frames.
CHAPTER 6
The first thing he notices in her room under the eaves are two dresses hanging in an open cupboard, both identical to the one she is wearing. They have the same fitted bodice, square opening and three-quarter-length sleeves, all made of the dark red silk that makes her hair and skin seem tawny. He wants to ask her why she has three of these and why they are the only dresses in her tiny room. But he doesnât ask. These are the
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