Sanibel Flats

NINETEEN

Ford caught ten of the fish and worked on them in the shade of the mangroves. Their skin was as leathery as melon rind and he used a sharp stick, ripping them open from the anus. But then he found a couple of razor clams that were better for cutting.

Ford laid back the bellies of the fish, then cut out the small livers and gall bladders as carefully as he could. Several of the fish were gravid, and he added a few of the eggs to the pile.

Tomlinson came up behind him, throwing a shadow. 'I've seen people eat those kind of fish. Or fish kind of like that, I'm almost sure. In New Jersey they call them sea squab. I think they were called fugu fish in Japan. They keep them alive in the markets.' There was the timbre of relief in his voice, as if Ford couldn't be planning anything that bad.

'Do you know what they call people who eat fish from this family?'

Tomlinson shook his head. When Ford said, 'They call them fools,' Tomlinson turned without comment and walked away.

Ford tore a piece from his shirt, wrapped the entrails, then threw the dead fish far out into the lagoon.

They followed the path back toward the camp and stopped where it swept closest to the bluff. They were above the lake and could see some of the bodies still floating. The young doctor was facedown, his arms thrown out, his legs submerged and spread. The water was clear and very blue, and it added to the impression that the doctor had somehow been frozen in freefall, trapped in blue space.

They could see something else, too: dark torpedo shapes that appeared small from that distance, spiraling up through the shafts of sunlight which pierced the depths. They were sharks; dozens of them. When the sharks broached and listed to feed, the corpses bobbed like corks, trailing rust-colored stains that marked the trajectories of the feeding fish: red contrails on the pale void.

They stood watching for a short time, saying nothing, then Tomlinson said, 'He went brave, that doctor. I wish his schoolmates could have seen him. The man was no coward. Jumped off the cliff rather than work for Zacul.'

Ford suspected the doctor had probably jumped out of fear of being shot, but either way it had taken courage. He said nothing.

Back at their hut, Tomlinson piled the seashells outside the door as Ford said, 'I'm going to pay a visit to the chef.' Tomlinson, who still looked shaken, very weary, said he would come along; that he might be able to provide a diversion. When

Ford said he couldn't, Tomlinson insisted. 'Look, man, what we saw upset me, okay? But I'm not an invalid.'

'Then what you can do is try and find a leverage bar—-a strong limb or something—we can use to pry up the lip of the stockade. Hide it in the weeds. We may need it tonight.'

Tomlinson said, 'I feel like I'm going to throw up.'

Ford said, 'In the next few hours there's going to be a lot of that going around.'

Oscar was alone in the officers' kitchen, peeling potatoes. He looked up expectantly when Ford came through the screen door. Was there something the Senor required? Some way he could be of service? Ford said that he had come because the fish prepared for his lunch was superb; that he wished to watch a master at work if it was possible.

Oscar beamed, looking down at the pile of potatoes. 'It is true,' he said in Spanish, 'that I once trained in the very best kitchens of Masagua City. But out here, with these limited facilities, my work has suffered,' looking rather sad as he made this sly request for reassurance.

'Artistry shows even when the materials are inferior,' Ford offered. 'I cook only as a hobby, but I know that much.'

That quick, Ford had the run of the kitchen. Oscar wanted to show him everything; to make all the difficulties he endured known. His stove was fueled with wood. It was fine for boiling and frying, but how could one bake properly with such a system? Bread was difficult; cakes a disaster. But did the general and his officers understand these difficulties? No, but they expected perfection anyway. Then there was the problem of proper utensils. How could he provide superior fare when he was forced to use the cookware of peasants? Ford listened sympathetically as he worked his way between Oscar and the stove.

There were several two-gallon pots bubbling on the fires, and Ford lifted the lids one by one. One pot held red beans. Another held several chickens being rendered for stock. In a third, spiny lobsters, whole clams, and a fish head simmered in an oily broth. The beans would have served; the fish chowder was ideal. Ford inhaled deeply, as if in ecstasy, and put the lid on the counter. 'Bouillabaisse!'

'What?' Momentarily confused, Oscar had to look in the pot himself to see what Ford was talking about.

Ford said, 'Truly, you are a master. Who would have expected to find such artistry in the jungle?' Then he hesitated. 'But perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps it isn't really bouillabaisse, for I see you are using clams—'

Oscar held up his index finger; an exclamation. 'I use them because our bouillabaisse is not the weak soup of the Mediterranean! This is ocean bouillabaisse, as delicate and as strong as the sea itself. I use mollusks as well as crustaceans, plus good fresh eorvina. You will see! I will serve you this for your dinner.'

'If you're sure General Zacul and his officers won't require it all. I don't want to deny my host.'

'They would eat it all if I let them, the'—Oscar was about to say 'pigs,' but he quickly amended—'for they are having a party tonight. The Cubans especially appreciate fine seafood, as does the general. They have complimented me personally.'

Ford pointed to the enlisted men's mess where soldiers in T-shirts stirred huge pots cooking over open fires. 'Do those men also know the secret of your bouillabaisse?' When the chef turned to look, Ford dropped the botete entrails into the soup and he began to stir with the ladle.

'Those men are peasants. They cannot even cook beans properly. I will serve you and your associate the soup for dinner.'

Ford scooped a ladle and smelled it. 'You think there's enough?'

'Tonight I will eat beans like the peasants so that the soup may be eaten by one who appreciates artistry. '

Ford put the lid back on the pot. 'A sacrifice you won't regret, Oscar.'

When Ford returned to the cabin, Tomlinson was inside pacing back and forth, back and forth. He looked up when the door opened and said, 'They took him.'

'What?'

'They took him—the kid! They took Jake!' He was running his fingers through his hair, frantic. 'Not five minutes ago I saw Suarez pushing him down the path. That dick.'

'Where? Toward the cliff?'

'Naw, the other way. Toward the main building.'

Ford said, 'Maybe they were taking him to the shower or something,' not because he believed it, but to calm Tomlinson.

'Come on.'

'Wherever they took him, we can't do anything about it now.'

Tomlinson stepped in front of him, his eyes intense, breathing too fast, hyperventilating. 'Whata you mean we can't do anything about it? We got to; those bastards! I've had just about enough of this shit, Doc. I can't take much more; I mean it. I keep seeing those guys falling off that cliff. I close my eyes and I see that little doctor hitting the rocks. You think I'm gonna let that happen to that little kid? No way, man; no fucking way.' And he pushed past Ford and started out the door.

Ford grabbed his arm. 'What are you going to do?'

'I'm going to talk to Zacul, that's what I'm gonna do. I'm going to try and talk some sense into him. He's got no reason to hurt that child. He's got no reason to hurt us either. I'll make him see that!'

Ford pulled Tomlinson back into the hut. 'I can't let you do that.'

'Let go of my arm, goddamn it!'

'I can't let you—'

Tomlinson yanked his arm free, yelling 'You son of a bitch, you got us into this, and now you won't let me get us out!' He lunged for the door again, but Ford caught him by the shirt, swung him around, and slammed him into the wall.