Eden Legacy (17 page)

‘Bulge-earthers,’ smiled Rebecca, glowing with the new knowledge. ‘I’m going to have to use that in my next series.’

The gun dealer wasn’t due until that afternoon, so Boris took Davit into town after breakfast to buy supplies. The two-man tents on offer in the camping store weren’t designed for people the size of Davit; he could only fit diagonally. They took one each, added it to the growing mound by the counter, then returned to look at sleeping bags. ‘Damned things,’ muttered Davit, stepping into one and pulling it up to his waist. ‘It’s discrimination, that’s what it is. It’s tall-ism.’

His good humour needled Boris. He’d been this way all morning. ‘So how’s the girlfriend?’ he asked.

‘I really like her,’ grinned the big man. ‘I’m thinking maybe of staying on a few days after we’re done with Knox.’

‘I wouldn’t make any promises,’ advised Boris. He didn’t know quite how, but Claudia had got beneath his skin. The evening before, he’d offered her fifty euros for a quick roll. The little bitch had turned him down flat. ‘A job like this, we may have to leave in a hurry.’

‘I’d just like to do something for her, you know? Show her a good time, buy her some nice clothes. She’s had such a hard life, and they treat her like shit at that hotel.’

Claudia turning him down had only aggravated Boris’s itch. He’d lain awake last night listening to the two of them going at it like pigmy chimps next door. There was only one thing to do when a woman got beneath your skin this bad, and that was to fuck her until the sight of her made you sick. ‘Why don’t you ask her to come with us?’ he suggested. ‘She can cook for us, translate, even scout out Eden for us.’ This was a genuine problem that had been weighing on his mind. He and Davit shone like beacons in this place; they’d be spotted in a heartbeat as they approached Eden. But no one would look twice at Claudia if she went to their free clinic complaining of a toothache.

‘I don’t know, boss,’ said Davit. ‘I don’t want her tangled up in this.’

‘We won’t ask her to do anything risky. And we’d pay her well. Five hundred euros, say. That’s a hell of a lot of money in this place. It could change her life.’

‘She’d have to give up her job at the hotel.’

‘Make it a thousand, then. I don’t care.’ It was Sandro’s money, and he wouldn’t exactly miss it. And if Boris couldn’t manage to get Davit out of his way for long enough for him to scratch his itch good and proper, he wasn’t the man he knew himself to be.

‘Great,’ grinned Davit. ‘I’ll ask her when we get back.’

This coast had changed beyond recognition in the eleven years of Rebecca’s absence. New villages had appeared, old ones had grown large, and the tangled mangrove of her childhood had all but vanished, leaving it like one long beach. She glanced at Daniel at exactly the same moment he looked at her. It kept happening that way, and it unsettled her. She was here on serious business, not some frivolous jaunt. She folded her arms and looked north. They reached and passed Ifaty, though it didn’t feel as though they were racing. Daniel evidently just had the knack. When he stood up to do boat things, he walked in easy harmony with the roll, whereas she spilled all over the place. ‘Something to eat?’ she suggested.

‘That’d be great.’

She unpacked two of the silver-foil packages Daniel
had had their hotel prepare for them the night before. Cold boiled white rice, octopus and vegetables. She tried a mouthful. Bland, even with the tang of sea-salt on her lips. She went below in search of a bottle of her father’s home-made chilli sauce, opening cupboards at random, including a chest filled with medical supplies for patients too sick to make it to the clinic, and for anaesthetising and treating animals in the wild. She found a bottle of sauce at last, took it back up and added three drops to her rice, cautious as a scientist with a pipette, before mixing it in thoroughly with her fork. She held the bottle out to Daniel. ‘Want some?’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ he said.

‘Be careful,’ she warned. ‘It’s very hot.’

He gave her a patronising look and splashed it all over his rice, as if to prove his manhood. She considered saying something, decided against. He took a forkful, nodded approvingly, followed it quickly with a second and then, a little more slowly, with a third. A first sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. He lifted his fourth forkful to his mouth, then hesitated. ‘Wow,’ he said, putting his fork back down. ‘You weren’t kidding.’

‘I did tell you.’

‘Yeth,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘What’th in thith thtuff?’

She had to fight back laughter. ‘It’s my father’s homebrew,’ she told him. ‘The shops never make it hot enough for him.’

‘Uh huh.’ Daniel lifted his fork again, then put it down untouched, stared at it bleakly. ‘Ith there any water?’

She looked in the bag. ‘Orange juice?’ she asked.

‘Thankth. That would be gweat.’

‘No pwoblem.’

‘It’th not funny,’ he protested. ‘I’ve weally thcorched my tongue.’ He scowled good-naturedly as laughter finally got the better of her, and threw pinches of rice at her.

She passed him her leftovers when she was done, leaned back against the side. The clouds had all vanished; the sun had grown hot. Her legs felt sticky and uncomfortable in her long trousers. She went below to change into shorts. Back on deck, she squirted lotion into her hands, put her foot up on the bench the better to rub it into her leg. She could sense Daniel watching, and his attention felt good. She set her foot back down, put the other one up, taking her time over it, stretching the moment out.

The boat pitched suddenly. She yelped and tumbled into Daniel’s lap. He caught her easily, his arm around her waist. She looked into his eyes but there was nothing there to indicate he’d done it on purpose. ‘So sorry,’ he said, as he helped her back to her feet.

Low sandy islets appeared offshore ahead, and the seabed became increasingly visible beneath their hull. Knox showed Rebecca how to hold a course then went to the bridge to check the charts for dangers. They hadn’t yet reached Eden’s waters, but there were more charts rolled up in a wooden umbrella stand. He pulled one of the tubes out: it actually had two charts back-to-back inside an acetate cover, Tulear on the front, Ifaty on the reverse. He pulled out another pair, of Morombe and Morondava. The third tube also had twin maps, but different in style, and rather startling too—not least because he’d been
looking at their twins just three days ago, on the wall of the
Maritsa’s
conference room.

‘What is it?’ asked Rebecca, who must have noticed his surprise.

‘Nothing,’ he told her.

‘Nothing?’

‘Just some old maps.’ His answer evidently didn’t satisfy her, for she left her position to come look. Instantly, the mainsail started flapping and they began to lose speed. ‘The Waldseemüller and the Piri Reis,’ he said, showing her the reproductions. She raised an eyebrow that he should be familiar with them, so he added: ‘They’re pretty wellknown in my line of work.’

‘Why so?’

‘Because they’re about the first maps we know of that showed America.’

‘Someone had to be first.’

‘Yes, but these were both made in the early sixteenth century, and no one’s quite sure how they were so detailed and accurate.’

‘Why should that be a puzzle? I thought Europeans discovered America in the 1490s.’

‘Yes, but they didn’t realise they’d discovered it. Not until later. Columbus went looking for the Spice Islands, remember, and he went to his grave thinking that was exactly what he’d found. So did Vespucci and the rest.’ It hadn’t been until 1513, when Vasco Núñez de Balboa
crossed Panama to the Pacific, that they’d finally accepted they’d found a whole new continent. ‘So how come these map-makers were drawing South America this accurately so early? Particularly its west coast, which hadn’t yet been visited?’

‘And …? What’s the answer?’

‘Depends who you ask. That salvage guy I interviewed, for example. He thinks these maps are more proof that the Chinese got to America first.’

‘Why would European maps prove that?’ frowned Rebecca.

‘Because all these old cartographers borrowed from each other. Piri Reis was Turkish, and the Turks ran the spice trade at the time, so he’d certainly have had access to Oriental sources.’

‘Sounds plausible enough.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Knox. ‘But there are easier explanations. For example, maybe the Portuguese or the Spanish were much quicker at exploring the new territory than most historians believe. They just kept quiet about it. You have to remember that the pope had just granted the Portuguese all new land discovered southeast of an arbitrary line of longitude west of the Azores, while the Spanish got everything to its south-west. But facts on the ground are what count, so both nations made huge efforts to explore and settle these places before the other, and they only broadcast information
that suited their claims. These were the great state secrets of the time.’

‘So you reckon there was a mole?’

Knox nodded. ‘A lot of people point the finger at Vespucci. He was working for the Spanish at the time. But I guess we’ll never know for sure.’ He rolled the maps back up. ‘Just odd that your father should have these. Is he interested in this kind of thing?’

Rebecca smiled. ‘He’s interested in everything,’ she told him. ‘But, yes, geography for sure. He used to say that evolution
is
geography.’

‘I guess.’ A gust of wind sent their sail flapping. ‘Anyway. We’d better get moving again or we’ll never make Eden tonight.’ He replaced the maps, found the chart he needed, took it back to his seat. Then he adjusted the rigging until the sail swelled again and they began once more to pick up speed.

Rebecca trailed a hand in the water as they headed north, and watched the shore. A pirogue drew close, a spear fisherman standing astride its narrow prow, shouting directions to the youngster at the stern. They were important and admired men, these spearmen. The best could spike fifty kilos of fish on a good day. Some held
rocks as weights so that they could lie on the sea-bed in ambush for big fish; others brashly chased after the shoals, though you needed to be super-fit to fight the currents. Their bodies, consequently, were exquisitely honed, burned of any trace of fat.

The man looked up as they passed, waved exuberantly.
‘Salaam, Becca!’
he cried. He motioned to the youngster and the pirogue tacked and came alongside, holding steady just a couple of metres away. A fat scar glistened on his left hip where a fishing line must once have sliced through his skin, and it was this that gave Rebecca the cue she needed, a sudden memory of the day he’d limped into their clinic with his leg a mess of blood, glimpses of the white bone beneath the flap of skin.
‘Salaam, Toussaint!’
she called out.
‘Inona no
vaovao?’

‘Tsy misy
.’ He was obviously chuffed that she’d remembered him, though he tried not to let it show. ‘So sorry about Adam and Emilia.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Your father is a very good man. Your sister a very good woman. Whatever we can do.’

‘You can search.’

‘We search already,’ he said. But his eyes dropped just a blink. ‘Is a big sea.’

‘Yes.’

‘You come see us sometime, yah?’

‘I’d like that.’

He pointed at Daniel.
‘Vezo blanc, yah
?’

‘Vezo blanc
,’ smiled Rebecca.

He made a small gesture to his companion in the stern and they tacked instantly away, waving their farewells.

‘Vezo blanc
?’ asked Daniel dryly.

‘It’s a compliment,’ Rebecca assured him. ‘It just means a foreigner who knows the sea. It was years before anyone ever called my father a
Vezo blanc.
He didn’t stop gloating for days.’

‘He looked a bit sheepish,’ said Daniel. ‘Did you ask him if he’s been out searching?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s the problem with these guys?’

‘It’s not that simple. They don’t like visiting the Eden reefs, not if they can avoid it.’

‘Why not?’

She didn’t reply at once, for it wasn’t easy to explain properly. ‘Have you ever heard of the tragedy of the commons?’ she asked finally. ‘It’s a theory about why shared resources don’t work. Imagine you live next to a forest full of trees. Under local law, your family owns a section of that forest, as does every other family. You can do what you like with the trees in your section, but if you cut them all down to sell, then that’s it, you can’t take anyone else’s. So you’re going to look after your own holding, right? Plant new saplings, protect it from
thieves, cut only what you need, because your family’s future livelihood depends upon it.’

‘Sure.’

‘Now imagine a different village next to a different forest, where all the trees are common property.’

‘It’ll be logged in a heartbeat,’ nodded Daniel.

‘A short-term feast followed by famine forever,’ nodded Rebecca. ‘That’s the tragedy of the commons. Fishing is a textbook example. No one owns the sea, but they do own whatever they catch, so they’ll fish and fish until there’s nothing left. It used to be fine here, plenty for everyone. But the villages are growing and the lagoon is silting up and the pressure on stocks has become hopelessly unsustainable. My father tried to get everyone to agree not to fish off Eden, leaving it as a breeding ground to keep the stocks up. It worked for a while, but then some people cheated, and the honest ones grew resentful, and it was a free-for-all again.’

‘So what did your father do?’

‘There’s something called
fady
in Madagascar. It’s like a taboo; very powerful.
Fady
aren’t just respected and obeyed: they’re
feared.
He realised that the best way to stop fishing near Eden was to make it
fady.
The question was how. The people here have always loved stories. Before TV came along, they’d all gather in the evenings, get smashed on rum and marijuana, trade tall tales. My father learned Malagasy so that he could join in. He took the
Odyssey and some other Greek myths and transplanted them here. Boats destroyed by clashing rocks, fishermen snatched and eaten by one-eyed sea-creatures with arms thick as trees, families cursed for generations; giant squids lurking in lairs, their tentacles leaving hideous blisters, causing penises to shrivel up and fall off.’