“When the fog lifted and we were basking in a warm November sun boosted by a mild breeze from the sea, we spied a congress of gulls romping above a patch of whitened water a quarter mile to the north. Captain Donnelly cried out as if at market, ‘Mackerel, morwong, and fine john dory!’ We headed straight that way, and he was soon proved right. We had two nets out behind us and netted more than eight hundred pounds of those same fish, with a few dozen hake and blue moki among them. We made three long passes — the Captain complimented me on the spiral paths I took, which added greatly to my joy. The value of the catch was heightened by the abundance of terakihi among the morwong, a favorite for grilling in these parts, and by the great number of john dory, a fish prized in many lands. Our two lesser ‘mates’ joined in the excitement. (A good haul would fatten their day’s wage. We call them mates to give them a smidgeon of dignity, but in truth they are deck hands. I’m the only one the Captain trusts with the handling of our craft.)
“Once we’d iced down our harvest it was still early morning; we chose to venture into deeper waters — perhaps a mistake, we spent two barren hours offshore where the breeze was more a cold, ruffling wind, and the two long lines we’d put out took not a single strike until, now feeling resigned and with our earlier elation souring, we turned homeward. And then our discontent was scattered: we hauled in two albacore, each close to a hundred choice pounds. Having no more ice, we secured them under water to the sides of our boat to keep them fresh. The Captain stood aft with his .30 caliber rifle in hand lest predators should appear; none did. So we came to port a happy crew again. Pale ale never tasted so good as the first stoup I drank here before you came in. And you, Andreas, what do you think of the vermentino?”
“The best!” Andreas dreaded spoiling John’s sunny mood; but the subject he was afraid would exasperate him was the one that had prompted this meeting. He deployed prodigies of tact in retelling the same story that had so disastrously affected Paul, emphasizing his seriousness as a publisher; emphasizing the seriousness of his interest in the tale of two brothers who had organized their lives with such efficient originality; performing miracles of narrative evasion to avoid mentioning Paul by name, until at last he had to: “I asked Paul if he would write your story. He refused.”
“I gathered as much.” John’s face was quickly shadowed with melancholy. Andreas knew better than to try and restore its cheerfulness; he made the plunge: “John, please tell the story yourself — the story of both of you. It deserves to be told. Unless you do it, some journalist, or maybe an academic, will disassemble the facts and rearrange them in a chic or respectable interpretation and call that your story. It’s bound to be a travesty of your lives. Only you can say what really happened.” (But Andreas later told me that even as he spoke these words, he thought: But there is Wicheria!)
John: “I can’t.” I asked him, “Can’t because you don’t want to? Or maybe it frightens you?”
“Why should it frighten me? There’s nothing shameful about it. As for wanting or not wanting, that’s irrelevant. I don’t even know what to think about that.”
Andreas: “But it would come to matter inevitably.”
“Perhaps. But when I said ‘I can’t,’ I meant that I’m bound not to. Paul and I have a sworn agreement not to discuss one another in public, certainly not in print. I suppose that right now I’m technically breaking my promise. But you are clearly good people, I hope we’ll become friends, the three of us. I feel that you deserve a few words of explanation. But very few.
“It was precisely because we knew how odd our behavior appeared to outsiders — all the more so in a community as small as this — that we came to our agreement. I think it’s worked rather well. Many people wonder; and most of them are discreet, they let us live our lives as we wish. We have friends enough, but I’d say we’re accepted with respect rather than affection. Although Captain Donnelly I think has taken me to his heart.”
Andreas: “Do you think that it was your pact that made Paul turn me down? He did so very angrily.”
“I don’t know. And if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you! You see, our arrangement is an outcome of events long past. It’s a way of being able to live near one another without having our earlier history lead to discord or even disagreement of any kind. I can’t speak for Paul’s respect for our bargain, but as for myself, I shall never break faith with it. As I hope you can tell, I say this without a jot of anger.”
I gave his nearby hand a reassuring squeeze; Andreas said, “None that my tetchy nerves can detect. I’m not surprised by your saying no. I suppose I shouldn’t have asked you at all. I usually feel very strongly about
