The Adventures Of Indiana Jones (21 page)

He went to the small supply cabin where the crate lay.

He looked at it for a while, his mind empty. What secrets? What can you tell me? He reached out and touched the crate. Did he simply imagine he felt a vibration from the box? Did he simply imagine he heard a faint sound? He closed his eyes, his hand still resting on the wooden surface. A moment of intense awe: he could see some great void, a sublime darkness, a boundary he would step across into a place beyond language and time. He opened his eyes; the tips of his fingers tingled.

Soon, he said to himself.

Soon.

The sea was cold, swirling around him in small whirlpools created by the submarine’s motions. Indy hung to the rail, his muscles aching, the wet whip contracting in water and clinging, too tightly, to his body. You could drown, he thought, and he tried to remember whether drowning was said to be a good way to go. It might arguably be better than hanging to the rail of the submarine that could plunge abruptly into the depths. At any moment, too. He wondered if heroes could apply for retirement benefits. He hauled himself up, swinging his body onto the deck. Then it struck him.

His hat. His hat had gone.

Don’t be superstitious now. You don’t have time to mourn the passing of a lucky hat.

The sub began to submerge. Perceptibly, it was sinking like a huge metallic fish. He rushed across the deck, water at his waist now. He reached the conning tower, then began to climb the ladder. At the top of the turret he looked down: the sub was still sinking. Water was rushing, wildly swirling foam, toward him. The turret was being consumed by the rising water, and then the radio mast was sinking too. He moved, treading water, to the periscope. He hung on to it as the vessel continued to sink. If it went under entirely, then he was lost. The periscope started to go down, too. Down and down, while he gripped it. Please, he thought, please don’t go down any further. But this is what comes of trying to stow yourself away on a German submarine. You can’t expect the old red-carpet treatment, can you?

Freezing, shivering, he hung on to the periscope; and then, as if some merciful divinity of the ocean had heard his unspoken prayers, the vessel stopped its dive. It left only three feet of the periscope out of water. But three feet was something to be thankful for. Three feet was all he needed to survive.
Don’t sink any deeper,
he thought. Then he realized he was talking aloud, not thinking. It might have been, in other circumstances, funny—trying to hold a rational conversation with several tons of good German metal.
I’m out of my mind. That’s what it is. And all this is just hallucination. A nautical madness.

Indy took the bullwhip and lashed himself to the periscope, hoping that if he fell asleep he wouldn’t wake to find himself on the black ocean bottom, or worse—food for the fishes.

The cold seeped through him. He tried to stop his teeth from knocking together. And the bullwhip, heavy with water, was cutting into his skin. He tried to remain alert, prepared for whatever contingency might arise—but weariness was a weight in him now, and sleep seemed the most promising prospect of all.

He shut his eyes. He tried to think of something, anything, that would keep him from dropping off—but it was hard. He wondered where the submarine was headed. He sang little songs in his head. He tried to remember all the telephone numbers he’d ever known. He wondered about a girl named Rita he’d almost married once: where was she now? A lucky escape there, he thought.

But he was weary and the thoughts circled aimlessly.

And he drifted off into sleep, despite the cold, despite his discomfort. He drifted away, the sleep dreamless and dead.

When he woke it was daylight and he wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, whether he’d slept a whole day away. He could no longer feel his body: total numbness. And his skin was puckered from the water, fingertips soft and wrinkled. He adjusted the bullwhip and looked around. There was a land mass ahead, an island, a semi-tropical place—halcyon, he thought. He stared at the rich foliage. Green, wonderful and deep and restful. The submarine approached the island, skimming into what looked like a cave. Inside, the Germans had built a complete underground supply base and submarine pen.
And there were more uniformed Nazis on this dock than you could have found in one of Hitler’s Nuremberg extravaganzas.

How could he fail to be seen?

He quickly drew himself clear of his whip, and he slipped into the water. He submerged, realizing he’d left his whip attached to the scope. The whip and the hat: it was a day for sad farewells to treasured possessions, for sure.

He swam toward the island, trying to remain underwater as much as he could. He saw the sub rise as it went toward the dock. Then he was stumbling onto the beach, glad to feel earth under him again, even if it was the earth of some Nazi paradise. He made his way over the sand to a high point where he had a good view of the dock. The crate was lifted from the sub, supervised by Belloq, who appeared to live in anxious expectation of somebody’s dropping his precious relic. He hovered around the crate like a surgeon over a dying patient.

And then there was Marion, surrounded by a bunch of uniformed fools who were pushing her forward.

He sat down in the sand, hidden by rushes that grew on the edge of the dunes.

Inspiration, he thought. That’s what I need now.

In a good-sized dose.

I
T WAS LATE AFTERNOON
when Belloq met Mohler. He was not entirely happy with the idea of Dietrich’s being involved in the conversation. The damned man was certain to ask questions, and his impatience had already begun to make Belloq nervous, as though it were contagious.

Captain Mohler said, “Everything has been prepared in accordance with your instructions, Belloq.”

“Nothing has been overlooked?”

“Nothing.”

“Then the Ark must be taken to that place now.”

Mohler glanced a moment at Dietrich. Then he turned and began to supervise a group of soldiers while they placed the crate in a jeep.

Dietrich, who had been silent, was annoyed. “What does he mean? What preparations are you talking about?”

“It need not concern you, Dietrich.”

“Everything connected with this accursed Ark concerns me.”

“I am going to open the Ark,” Belloq said. “However, there are certain . . . certain preconditions connected with the act.”

“Preconditions? Such as?”

“I don’t think you should worry, my friend. I don’t want to be the one responsible for overloading your already much-worked brain.”

“You can spare me the sarcasm, Belloq. Sometimes it seems to me that you forget who is in charge here.”

Belloq stared at the crate for a time. “You must understand—it is not simply the act of opening a box, Dietrich. There is a certain amount of ritual involved. We are not exactly dealing with a box of hand grenades, you understand. This is not any ordinary undertaking.”

“What ritual?”

“You will see in good time, Dietrich. However, it need not alarm you.”

“If anything happens to the Ark, Belloq,
anything,
I will personally pull the hanging rope on your scaffold. Do you understand me?”

Belloq nodded. “Your concern for the Ark is touching. But you needn’t worry. It will be safe and delivered to Berlin finally, and your Führer can add another relic to his lovely collection. Yes?”

“You better be as good as your word.”

“I will be. I will be.”

Belloq looked at the crated Ark before staring into the jungle beyond the dock area. It lay in there, the place where the Ark would be opened.

“The girl,” Dietrich said. “I also hate loose ends. What do we do with the girl?”

“I take it I can leave that to your discretion,” Belloq said. “She is of no consequence to me.”

Nothing is, he thought: nothing is of any consequence now, except for the Ark. Why had he bothered to entertain any kind of sentiment for the girl? Why had he even remotely troubled himself with the idea of protecting her? Human feelings were worthless compared to the Ark. All human experience faded into nothing. If she lived or died, what did it matter?

He experienced the same delicious sense of anticipation as before: it was hard, damnably hard, to take his eyes from the crate. It lay in the back of a jeep, magnetizing him. I will know your secrets, he thought.

I will know all your secrets.

Indy skirted the trees at the edge of the dock area. He watched Marion, flanked by her Nazi escorts, get inside a jeep. The jeep was then driven off into the jungle. Belloq and the German climbed into another jeep and, moving steadily behind the vehicle that held the Ark, went off in the same direction as Marion. Where the hell are they going? Indy wondered. He began to move silently through the trees.

The German appeared in front of him, a materialization looming over him. He reached for his holster, but before he could get his pistol out, Indy picked up the branch of a tree, a slab of rotted wood, and struck him hard across the throat. The German, a young man, put his fingers to his larynx as if surprised, and blood began to spill from his mouth. His eyes rolled backward in his head, then he slipped to his knees. Indy hit him a second time across the skull, and he toppled over. What do you do with an unconscious Nazi? he wondered.

He stared at the man for a time before the notion came to him.

Why not?

Why not indeed?

The jeep that carried Belloq and Dietrich moved slowly through a canyon.

Dietrich said, “I am unhappy with this ritual.”

You will be even more unhappy soon, Belloq thought. The trappings of what you so trivially call a ritual will cause a knot in your wooden brain, my friend.

“Is it essential?”

“Yes,” Belloq said.

Dietrich just stared at the crate in the jeep ahead.

“It may console you to consider the prospect that by tomorrow the Ark will be in your Führer’s hands.”

Dietrich sighed.

The Frenchman was insane, he was convinced of this. Somewhere along the way the Ark had warped whatever judgment he might have had. You could see it in his eyes, hear it in the clipped way of talking he seemed to have developed in recent days, and you could sense it in the oddly nervous gestures he continued to make.

Dietrich wouldn’t be happy until he was back, mission complete, in Berlin.

The jeep came out into a clearing now, a clearing filled with tents and camouflaged shelters, barracks, vehicles, radio masts; a swarm of activity, soldiers rushing everywhere. Dietrich surveyed the depot proudly, but Belloq was oblivious to it all. The Frenchman was staring beyond the clearing to a stone outcropping on the other side—a pinnacle some thirty feet high with a flat slab at the top. Into the sides of the slope some ancient tribe, some lost species, had carved primitive steps. The appearance was like an altar—and it was this fact that had brought Belloq here. An altar, a natural arrangement of rock that might have been designed by God for the very purpose of opening the Ark.

He couldn’t speak for a time. He stared at the rock until Captain Mohler came and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Do you wish to prepare now?” the German asked.

Belloq nodded. He followed the German to a tent. He was thinking of the lost tribe that had cut those steps, that had left its own relics scattered here and there, in the form of broken statues suggesting forgotten divinities, across the island. The religious connotations of the place were exactly right: the Ark had found a place that matched its own splendor. It was correct: nowhere else could have been better.

“The white silk tent,” Belloq said. He touched the soft material.

“As you ordered,” Mohler said.

“Fine, fine.” And Belloq stepped inside. A chest sat in the middle of the floor. He opened the lid and looked inside. The ceremonial robe was elaborately embroidered. In wonder, he leaned forward to touch it. Then he looked at the German.

“You’ve followed my orders thoroughly. I am pleased.”

The German had something in his hand: an ivory rod about five feet in length. He passed it to Belloq, who fingered the inlaid carvings of the piece.

“Perfect,” Belloq said. “The Ark has to be opened, in accordance with sacred rites, with an ivory rod. And the one who opens the Ark must wear these robes. You did very well.”

The German smiled. “You will not forget our little arrangement.”

“I promise,” Belloq said. “When I return to Berlin I will personally speak to the Führer about you in the highest possible terms.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank
you,”
Belloq said.

The German regarded the robes a moment. “They suggest a certain Jewishness, don’t they?”

“They should, my friend. They are Jewish.”

“You will make yourself very popular around here with those things on.”

“I am not interested in a popularity contest, Mohler.”

Mohler watched as Belloq slipped the robes over his head, watched as the ornate brocade fell all around him. It was a total transformation: the man had even begun to look holy. Well, Mohler thought, it takes all sorts. Besides, even if he were mad, Belloq still had access to Hitler—and that was all that mattered.

“Is it dark outside?” Belloq asked. He felt peculiar, distanced from himself, as if his identity had begun to disintegrate and he’d become a stranger in a body that was only vaguely familiar.

“Soon,” the German said.

“We must start at sunset. It’s important.”

“They have carried the Ark to the slab, as you wanted, Belloq.”

“Good.” He touched the robes, the upraised stitches in the material. Belloq—even his name seemed strange to him. It was as if something spiritual, immaterial, had begun to consume him. He was floating outside of himself, it seemed—a perception that had the intensity, as well as the vagueness, of a narcotic response.

He picked up the ivory rod and stepped outside of the tent.

Almost everywhere, the German soldiers stopped in their activities and turned to look at him. He faintly understood the vibrations of repulsion, the animosity directed to his robes. But once again this notion reached him across some great distance. Dietrich was walking at his side, saying something. And Belloq had to concentrate hard to understand.