“Why don’t you take a turn?” said Simonson. “I’ve had it.”
He flopped down in the bottom of the boat and closed his eyes while Alistair took over the job of reeling in the trawl line. It was sluggish and painful work, a foot at a time, with the cord digging in to his hands as he heaved it in. The white line angled straight down into the blue, with golden coils of sunlight chasing it into the darkness. After a few minutes Alistair saw a gray-green looming, thirty or forty feet below.
“Lump of seaweed,’ he said.
Simonson yawned. “I’ve been called worse, and by better-looking men.”
As Alistair worked, the shape came closer to the surface and resolved itself into a thing that ought to be recognized, but for the reluctance of the mind. When it was only twenty feet down, Alistair could see it distinctly. The dead man looked back at him with an expression as quiet and clear as the water, and Alistair shivered and took out his pocketknife and cut the line. He put away the knife and watched as the uniformed body rolled onto its front and began the long journey down, trailing blond hair and the long white filament of fishing line that Alistair watched until it blent with the coiling sunlight and was lost to sight.
“Damn it,” he said.
“Hmm?’ said Simonson, half opening an eye.
“Line snapped,” said Alistair. “I must have pulled too hard.”
“I paid three shillings for that gear.”
“I’ll buy you another set.”
“Oh, that’s quite all right,” said Simonson. “You are miserably poor, and there’s nothing down there in any case.”
They sailed the dinghy back to the beach and dragged it up through the narrow channel of sand that had been left between the barbed-wire entanglements. They lowered the sails, stowed the rudder and left the boat in its spot for the next officers who got the half-day leave.
Their driver had waited for them. As the boat came in he had harnessed his bony horse between the shafts and now they climbed into the open calash for the bumpy ride back to Fort St. Elmo.
The sun was sinking over the spine of the island. Alistair shivered as the heat went out of the day. The shadows spread across the yellow rock outcrops and the yellow rock walls. On either side of the road, women in black scratched at the thin earth of fields no bigger than tennis courts. The blades of their hoes rang as they struck the rock beneath the soil. Alistair watched Simonson, his fine black hair still wet, looking out over the scene. He was twenty-two but looked younger. He was muscled from swimming and sports, and he moved with an athlete’s competence. When he walked, he seemed to need the ground only for balance. Now, at rest, his eyes glowed amber in the last of the light. His face was wonderfully kind in a way that Alistair was certain would infuriate Simonson if he knew. The face had the habit of subverting, with bashful smiles, the harshest of his talk.
Simonson wrapped himself in the horse’s blanket and scowled at the bucolic scene.
Alistair grinned. “Do you also disapprove of agriculture?”
“I think of the parties we’re missing. Every letter I get stinks of champagne and orchestras.”
“From what I hear, London is catching hell.”
“It is a matter of perspective. With proper planning one can watch while hell is caught, from the safety of Claridge’s roof. My dear elder brother hasn’t been sober since this war started.”
“Doesn’t it bother him, to stay behind?”
“Good god, why would it? Randolph has nothing to prove beyond being the firstborn son, to the actuality of which attests a certificate that he keeps in a safe.”
“Now I know you’re not serious,’ said Alistair.
“Jealous, is what I am. Randy will just be waking up now, in silk sheets, with a nice pink lover on either side. While we cling to this bilious rock.”
“Your brother will be called up eventually, I suppose.’
Simonson shook his head in simple pity. “You really don’t know how it works, do you?”
“I know how it has worked until now. But this war will change things.”
Simonson raised a horrified eyebrow. “Not unless we lose. And even then, I daresay Mother will have squirreled away a few choice photographs. Any family worth its arms has learned to hedge a few bets.”