Kitabı oku: «Rushing to Paradise», sayfa 3
But something about the lonely campaign of this English doctor had touched him. The departure of his mother and the arrival of Dr Rafferty in some way seemed connected. Neil knew that he was drawn to older women, like the manager of the rooming house and a middle-aged lecturer in film studies, both of whom had noticed Neil and begun to flirt with him. As he waved goodbye to his mother and Colonel Stamford at the airport, he found himself thinking of Dr Rafferty.
A week later, in downtown Honolulu, he saw the blood-red banner tied to the railings of the Federal Post Office building. A small crowd had gathered, waiting as two policemen cut through the cords. Dr Rafferty stood nearby, chanting her slogans like a scarecrow wired for sound. She was hoping to be arrested, and was more concerned to provoke the bored policemen than convert the passers-by to her cause. An elderly man in a black suit and tie, like a kindly usher at a funeral parlour, tried to speak to her, but she waved him away, watching the traffic for any sign of a news reporter with a camera. The policemen confiscated the banner, and one of them struck her shoulder with his open hand, almost knocking her to the ground. Without complaint she turned and walked past Neil, losing herself among the lunchtime pedestrians.
Despite this set-back, she kept up her one-woman campaign. Neil saw her haranguing the surfers on Waikiki beach, handing out leaflets to the tourists in the Union Street Mall, buttonholing a group of clergymen attending a conference at the Iolani Palace. Often she was tired and dispirited, carrying her banner and leaflets in a faded satchel, the bag lady of the animal rights movement.
Neil was concerned for her, in exactly the same way he had worried over his mother in the months after his father’s death. She too had neglected herself, endlessly fretting about Neil and the unnamed threats to his well-being until he felt like an endangered species. Remembering those fraught days, he sympathized with the albatross, wings weighed down by all the slogans and moral blackmail.
To his surprise, he found that there was an element of truth in her campaign. A paragraph in a Honolulu newspaper reported that the French authorities on Tahiti had withdrawn their approval for the re-occupation of Saint-Esprit by the original inhabitants. Army engineers were extending the runway, and it was rumoured that the government in Paris might end its moratorium on nuclear testing.
Neil secretly admired the French for their determination to maintain a nuclear arsenal, just as he admired the great physicists who had worked on the wartime Manhattan Project. As a young air force radiologist in the 1960s, Neil’s father had attended the British nuclear trials held at the Maralinga test site in Australia, and his widow now claimed that her husband’s cancer could be traced back to these poorly monitored atomic explosions. She often stared at Neil as if wondering whether his father’s irradiated genes had helped to produce this self-contained and wayward youth. Once, Neil rode out on a borrowed motorcycle to the cruise missile base at Greenham Common, moved by the memory of the nuclear weapons in their silos and by the few women protesters still camping against the wire. Without success, he tried to ingratiate himself with the women, explaining that he too might be a nuclear victim.
The power of the atomic test explosions, portents of a now forgotten apocalypse, had played an important part in drawing him to the Pacific. As he screened cold-war newsreels for the modern-history classes in the film school theatre he stared in awe at the vast detonations over the Eniwetok and Bikini lagoons, sacred sites of the twentieth-century imagination. But he could never admit this to anyone, and even felt vaguely guilty, as if his fascination with nuclear weapons and electro-magnetic death had retrospectively caused his father’s cancer.
What would Dr Rafferty say to all this? One afternoon in Waikiki he was buying an underwater watch in a specialist store when he saw her unpacking her banner and leaflets. Neil followed her as she wandered past the bars and restaurants, shaking her head in a dispirited way. She stopped at an open-air cafeteria and stared at the menu, running a cracked fingernail down the price list. Suppressing his embarrassment, Neil approached her.
‘Dr Barbara? Can I get you a sandwich? You must be tired.’
‘I am tired.’ She seemed to remember Neil and his artless manner, and allowed him to take the satchel. ‘Look at this place – buy, buy, buy and no one gives a hoot that the real world is disappearing under their feet. I’ve seen you somewhere. I know, steroids – you’re the body-builder. Well, you can help rebuild my body. Let’s see if they serve anything that isn’t packed with hormones.’
They sat at a table by the entrance, Dr Barbara handing her leaflets to the passing customers. She ordered a tomato and lettuce sandwich, after an argument with the waitress over the origins of the mayonnaise.
‘Avoid meat products,’ she told Neil, still unsure what she was doing in the company of this British youth. ‘They’re crammed with hormones and antibiotics. Already you can see that men in the west are becoming feminized – large breasts, fatter hips, smaller scrotums …’
Neil was glad to let her talk, and watched the sandwich disappear between her strong teeth. For reasons he had yet to understand, he enjoyed seeing her eat. Her clear gums and vivid tongue, the muscles in her throat, all fascinated him. At close quarters Dr Barbara was far less dejected than the woman he saw arguing with the police and tourists. Her strong will overrode the shabby cotton dress and untended hair.
She sat back and polished her teeth with a vigorous forefinger. ‘I needed that – you’ve done your bit today for the albatross.’ She noticed Neil glancing proudly at his rubber-mounted underwater watch. ‘What is it? One of those sadistic computer games?’
‘It’s a deep-water chronometer. I’m planning to swim the Kaiwi Channel to Molokai.’
‘Swim? It’s rather a long way. Why not take the plane?’
‘That isn’t a challenge. Long-distance swimming is … what I do.’ Trying to amuse her, he added: ‘Think of it as my albatross.’
‘Really? What are you trying to save?’
‘Nothing. It’s hard to describe, like swimming a river at night.’ Exaggerating for effect, he said: ‘I swam the Thames from Tower Bridge to Teddington.’
‘Is that allowed?’
‘No. The river police had their spotlights on. I could see the beams through the water …’
‘Long-distance swimming – all those endorphins flowing for hours. Though you don’t look under stress.’ Dr Barbara pushed aside her leaflets, intrigued by this amiable but obstinate youth who had come to her aid. ‘Perhaps you’re a true fanatic. Physically very strong, but mentally …? When did all this start?’
‘Two years ago, after my father died. He was a doctor, too. I needed to stop thinking for a while.’
‘Good advice. I wish more people would take it. What about your mother?’
‘She’s fine, most days. She married an American colonel. He’s kind to her. They’ve just gone back to Atlanta.’
‘So you’re alone here in Honolulu, planning to swim the Kaiwi Channel. Do they know about it?’
‘Of course. They don’t think I’m serious. It’s too far, even with a pace-boat. But that’s not the point.’
‘What is?’ Dr Barbara leaned forward, trying to see through the hair over Neil’s eyes. ‘Or don’t you know?’
Neil covered the dial of his chronometer, as if keeping a secret sea-time to himself. ‘People think you’re alone on long-distance swims. But after five miles you’re not alone any more. The sea runs right into your mind and starts dreaming inside your head. You won’t understand.’
‘Perhaps I do.’ Dr Barbara’s manner was less brisk. She held Neil’s hand between her own, as if welcoming him across a threshold. ‘Now you know why I want to save the albatross.’
Neil felt the pressure of her fingers on his palm, broken nails searching for his heart and life lines. He could smell her breath, keen and freshly scented. Already he had warmed to this older woman; perhaps she would protect him as well as the albatross?
‘When I swim to Molokai you could come along. It’s best if there’s a doctor in the pace-boat. Are you qualified?’
‘I certainly am. I was a Hammersmith GP for six years. Still, I don’t think you’ll ever need a gynaecologist – unless you use too many steroids.’
‘My father was a radiologist at Guy’s. Once he took an X-ray photo of my skull.’
‘I wonder what he found.’ Dr Barbara brushed the hair from Neil’s broad forehead. ‘Now, do you want to help me pass out these leaflets? I’m going to the airline office across the street.’
‘Well … it’s not my—’
‘Come on. Being embarrassed will do you good.’
She waited as Neil paid the cashier, smiling at no one in her self-absorbed way, as if she was digesting more than a sandwich. Neil followed her through the tourist crowds. Like all older women, she had easily taken the initiative from him. Too shy to help with the leaflets, he stood behind Dr Barbara, pretending that he had nothing to do with this eccentric Englishwoman.
However eccentric, Dr Barbara surprised Neil by recruiting her first disciple. When he next saw her, on the steps of the University Library, she was accompanied by a tall and deep-chested native Hawaiian in his late thirties, who gazed at the world with a slight convergent squint that gave him a look of permanent irritation. He thrust the leaflets into the hands of the passing students like a debt-collector reminding them of their dues. Neil at first resented him, naively believing that he alone had discovered Dr Barbara.
The scowling Hawaiian was Kimo, a former sergeant in the Honolulu police, a long-standing anti-nuclear and animal rights protester who had been forced to resign from the police after taking part in a campaign for an independent native Hawaiian kingdom. In 1985 he volunteered to sail aboard the Greenpeace Rainbow Warrior, which resettled the islanders of Rongelap Atoll, 100 miles to the east of Bikini. Many of the Rongelapese had been contaminated by the radioactive ash that fell on them after the Bravo hydrogen bomb test in 1954, and over the decades suffered from high rates of leukaemia, stillbirths and miscarriages. The Rainbow Warrior moved the islanders to Kwajalein Atoll, and later sailed for New Zealand, where she was sunk by French agents hoping to put an end to anti-nuclear protests in the South Pacific.
Dr Barbara had known Kimo for the past two years, and it was the former policeman who told her of the threat to the wandering albatross on Saint-Esprit. Inspired by the image of the great sea-bird, Dr Barbara launched her one-woman campaign, which Kimo had now decided to join, hoping that public concern for the albatross would revive the flagging anti-nuclear cause. Offering his savings, he paid for the printing of a new leaflet, which reproduced a photograph of dead birds lying beside a vast runway filled with implacable nuclear bombers.
Kimo’s arrival restored Dr Barbara’s waning energies, and brought Neil into the group as its cadet member and dogsbody. He tagged behind them as they strode through hotel lobbies and department stores, guarding the leaflets while Dr Barbara hectored everyone in her piercing English voice. To Kimo, forever flexing his shoulders at the nervous security guards, Neil was little more than Dr Barbara’s chauffeur. A foot taller than Neil, he stared straight over his head whenever he conveyed Dr Barbara’s latest command.
Still uneasy in Kimo’s presence, Neil drove the jeep, collected the leaflets from the printer and helped to paint the banners. He remained unsure of Dr Barbara, and was sceptical that she was a doctor at all, until the evening when Kimo was injured in a fracas outside a pool hall.
Neil drove him to Dr Barbara’s single-room apartment at the rear of the children’s refuge. As she treated the Hawaiian’s bruised hands, working confidently with the instruments in her ancient leather valise, Neil gazed around her dingy room, at the leaflets piled on the dressing-table and the unironed clothing heaped at the foot of the narrow bed. The modest apartment, looking out onto fire escapes packed with broken furniture and beer crates, defined the meagre existence of this woman doctor.
Why did she not practise her medical career and join one of the established animal rights groups, instead of serving as a glorified children’s minder at the underfunded refuge? Neil had noticed that the Greenpeace and environmental activists kept their distance from Dr Barbara, as if they suspected that her passionate defence of the albatross concealed more devious aims.
Nevertheless, Neil found himself increasingly committed to the great white bird. Chanting ‘Save the albatross’ gave an unexpected focus to his life. When, two months after their first meeting, Dr Barbara told him that she and Kimo had decided to sail to Saint-Esprit, Neil took for granted that he would be a member of the crew.
As the last of the helium balloons floated towards the sea, the sounds of the protest rally drummed at the windows of the hospital room. Neil forced his head into the pillow, trying to ignore the pains that played their hourly medley across the strings of his leg. He watched the silent television screen and the closing moments of Dr Barbara’s speech. Jaw-bones straining from her cheeks, blonde hair forgotten in the wind, she raised her elbows to reveal the damp armpits of her safari suit. She seemed happier and more determined than Neil had ever seen her. Was she genuine or a fraud? In some way she transcended the question of her own authenticity, and was able to believe sincerely in the threatened bird while manipulating the emotions of her audience.
All along, Neil assumed, she had hoped that the French soldiers on Saint-Esprit would seize them, while Kimo escaped with the video-camera and its precious footage. The Hawaiian had hidden for a few last moments among the waist-deep ferns, and had filmed Neil being shot down by the sergeant, a scene endlessly replayed on television across the world. The existence of the camera, a present from Colonel Stamford, had probably prompted their mission to the island. The French government insisted that it had no plans to resume nuclear testing on Saint-Esprit, but Dr Barbara and the albatross were launched and airborne. A defence committee was formed while Neil and Dr Barbara were held at Papeete, and protesters demanding their release marched through London and Paris. Donations flowed in, and environmentalists argued her case from a hundred pulpits and lecture platforms.
By the time of her return to Honolulu, two weeks later, Dr Barbara was the new heroine of the ecological movement. Yet her real motives, like his own, remained a mystery to Neil.
3
The Dugong
Defender of the albatross, champion of islands, and all-purpose media star, Dr Barbara Rafferty had far stranger sides to her character, as Neil discovered on the day before he left the hospital.
Among the last of his mail was an anonymous get-well card attached to the latest issue of Paris-Match, which devoted its leading feature to the saga of Saint-Esprit. Bored by photographs of himself – his mother had tactlessly released a family snapshot of Neil, aged 4, in a paddling pool – he was about to slide the magazine into the waste basket when he recognized an unexpected face. Among the images of dead birds and camera-towers beside the nuclear lagoon was a grainy close-up taken in 1982 of a younger Dr Barbara.
Dressed in a dark suit, eyes lowered to the pavement, she was leaving the London headquarters of the General Medical Council after being struck from its register of licensed physicians. A sharp-eyed journalist at Paris-Match, his memory nudged, perhaps, by the French security services, had raided the picture library and re-opened the celebrated case.
Ten years earlier Dr Barbara Rafferty had been tried for murder in the British courts. Two of her women patients, elderly cancer sufferers in a Hammersmith hospice, had been eased from their last ordeal by a massive sleeping draught. This lethal cocktail of potassium chloride, chloroform and morphine was openly administered by Dr Barbara with the agreement, she claimed, of the patients and their relatives. But not all the relatives had been consulted. Contesting the will, a sister of one of the women visited the police and brought a complaint against Dr Barbara.
The police seized the hospice’s clinical records and discovered that Dr Barbara had practised euthanasia on at least six terminal patients over the previous year. She freely admitted the charge, claiming that she had secured her patients’ consent after an extended period of bedside counselling. At their request, she had put an end to their pain, defended their dignity and their right to self-respect.
Convicted on eight counts of manslaughter, Dr Barbara was given a two-year suspended sentence. An action group of sympathetic doctors and relatives rallied support, but she lost her appeal. Interviewed outside the High Court, she stated that her further behaviour towards her dying patients would be guided by her conscience, a scarcely veiled threat that led the General Medical Council to strike her from the register. A public debate ensued, during which she appeared prominently on television, arguing her case with a passion and stridency that to some observers verged on the self-righteous. Alienated by her chilling manner, even her closest colleagues turned away from her. From then on she was unable to practise as a doctor and became a director of a fringe company designing a female condom, but after six months she resigned and went abroad. Years of exile followed, in Malawi, South Africa and New Zealand, where clandestine medical work was inevitably followed by the exposure of her past, until she came to rest in Honolulu.
Now Dr Barbara had discovered the animal rights movement, and devoted herself to life rather than death. Neil stared at her photograph propped against his pillow, almost dazed by the revelations. The slim, over-intense face of the guilty physician, shadowed by the dark tones of her suit, might have belonged to a war criminal or psychopath. Nonetheless, he felt a curious concern for this outlawed doctor. He realized that she had once been young, and wondered what the young Dr Barbara would have thought of him, or of her scatty older self and her dreams of facing down the French navy.
When she arrived that afternoon, making her last visit to the ward, Neil left the magazine open on the bedside table. Brushing past Nurse Crawford, she swept into the room with her palms raised to the ceiling, and strode to the window as if only the sky was large enough to contain her excitement.
‘Neil – astonishing news!’
‘Dr Barbara?’
‘You won’t believe it. All I can say is that dreams come true. First, though, how are you?’ She picked Neil’s case notes from the foot of the bed and ran a brisk eye over them. ‘Good, they haven’t done too much damage. Over-prescribing, as usual, and all these tests – they must think you’re pregnant. How do you feel?’
‘Fine.’ Neil found himself smiling at her. ‘Bored.’
‘That means you’re ready to leave. I warn you, there’s a lot to do and not much time.’
Neil let her hand brush his cheek. She sat on the bed, gazing at him with undisguised pleasure. When she was alone with Neil she usually turned down the volume control of her public persona, as if this teenaged boy touched some lingering need for the intimacy of private life. But today she was unable to restrain herself.
‘Listen, Neil – it’s what we’ve prayed for. I’ve found a ship!’
Neil pulled her hands from the air and pressed them together, trying to calm her. ‘That’s great, doctor. But I’m out of training – I won’t be ready for the swim until October or even later.’
‘The swim? I’m not talking about that. We’re sailing back to Saint-Esprit! We have a real ship – the Dugong. It’s moored in Honolulu harbour.’
‘Sailing back …?’ Neil felt the veins throb in his injured foot. ‘You’re going back to the island? You’ll get killed, doctor.’
‘Of course I won’t.’ Dr Barbara smoothed his sheets and pillow, as if taming the white waves. ‘It’s everything I’ve worked for. This time we’ll have the whole world behind us. The French will have to listen.’
Unable to sit still, she sprang to the window and gripped the sill, already on the bridge of her vessel. Neil listened as she told him of the billionaire benefactor who had joined the albatross campaign. This was Irving Boyd, a reclusive thirty-five-year-old computer entrepreneur now living in Hawaii. He had recently retired after selling his software company in Palo Alto to a Japanese conglomerate, and now devoted himself to wild-life causes.
Neil had seen him in a rare television interview, a bespectacled and almost schoolboyish figure with a row of pens clipped to his breast pocket, an earnest reader of science fiction who in some ways had never needed to grow up. Rare species of aquatic mammals such as the manatee were his speciality, and his marine sanctuary on Oahu contained the only breeding pair in captivity. Impressed by Dr Barbara’s poverty and dedication, he had begun to support her with cash donations, and supplied her with an office and free telephone at his Honolulu television station. His most important gift was the Dugong, a 300-ton Alaskan shrimp-trawler which he planned to equip as a floating marine laboratory.
‘But first it will take us to Saint-Esprit.’ Dr Barbara blew the blonde hair from her eyes. ‘We leave in three weeks – that’s not much time, but I want to keep everything on the boil. There should be ten of us, including you and Kimo, and Irving’s television crew. We’ll set up our sanctuary, whatever the French do.’
‘They’ll torpedo you,’ Neil told her matter-of-factly. ‘They’ll sink the ship. Look what they did to the Rainbow Warrior in Auckland harbour.’
‘This time they won’t dare!’ Already in full interview mode, Dr Barbara inflated her lungs, nearly bursting the buttons of her safari suit. ‘Neil, the world will be watching. There’ll be a satellite dish on board to link the film crew to the TV station here. Try to imagine it – everyone will see us reclaim that dead nuclear island and give it back to the living world. The twentieth century criminally misspent itself. When the year 2000 arrives we’ll hand to the next millennium a small part of this terrible century that we’ve redeemed and brought to life again. It’s a wonderful dream, Neil, and thanks to Irving Boyd it’s within our grasp.’
Dr Barbara gazed at the distant sea, breast heaving as she caught her breath. Her eyes swept across the bouquets and greeting cards, and came to rest on the open copy of Paris-Match. Scarcely surprised, she stared at the photograph of her younger self.
‘Irving told me he’d seen this. It says everything about him that he wasn’t in the least worried. It had to come out – better now than later …’
She sat with the magazine in her hands, and then dropped it into the waste-bin, as if discarding an out-of-date calendar. Waiting for her to speak, Neil realized that she had wholly detached herself from the disbarred doctor photographed outside the High Court ten years earlier.
Seeing that Neil was still unsure of her, the sheet drawn up to his chin, she spoke calmly as if to a child.
‘I was terribly naive then, far too idealistic. I thought I could do good, but people resent that, judges and juries above all. Doing good unsettles them. Believe me, Neil, nothing provokes people more than acting from the highest motives.’
‘The dead patients …’ Neil searched for a tactful way around the question. ‘Did you really kill them?’
‘Of course not!’ Dr Barbara seemed genuinely puzzled by Neil. ‘Their minds were already dead, they’d given up long before. Only their bodies were alive, covered with sores and ulcers. All I did was put their bodies to rest.’
‘Then you did …’
‘Neil …’ Dr Barbara smiled at him indulgently. ‘Doctors have to do a lot of things that people would rather not know about. Some of these patients were only minutes away from their deaths, but cruelly the clock had stopped. I merely started it again for them. Old women deserve special care, they’re not looked after as gently as old men. Think of them – exhausted, incontinent, riddled with cancers, only able to breathe sitting up, crying out with pain if you even touched them. What I did, I did openly, because I knew it was right. Even the judge didn’t dare send me to prison …’
As if tired of having to justify herself to this moralistic teenager, Dr Barbara turned to the bouquets lying on the table by the television set. Beyond the chrysanthemums and gladioli was a visionary kingdom of her own, filtered through the scented petals, where she could walk untainted by any moral opprobrium and where the albatross would forever fly above her head. A film of moisture, as pale as hope, ran from her high forehead to the tip of her strong nose.
‘I’ve made you famous, Neil.’ She pointed to the childishly scrawled messages. ‘They all love you.’
Neil flexed his numbed foot, counting his toes under the sheet. ‘They’d love me even more if I died – that would really save the albatross, doctor.’
‘Neil …’ Dr Barbara shook her head at this mischievous sally. ‘Think how proud your father would have been. You do remember him?’
‘All the time. It’s my mother who’s trying to forget him – that’s why she’s …’
‘Drawing away from you a little? You can understand that. In bereavement there’s a time to remember and a time to forget. Sometimes they’re the same thing. When does she expect you in Atlanta?’
‘Next month. But I might stay on here for a while.’
‘Well, we leave in three weeks, Neil. You’ll have to decide. Kimo and I want you to come with us. We need someone your age who’ll encourage other young people to join the sanctuary. In time they’ll take over from us. It’s not a crusade but a great relay race. Will you come?’
‘Well … there might be a nuclear test. I’ll have to think about it.’
‘Good. I’ve always depended on you, Neil. When you’re older we’ll be very close …’
This unveiled threat, uttered in a quietly confident tone, floated through Neil’s mind during his days of convalescence at the swimming-pool. When he left the hospital, blushing through the crowd of teasing nurses, Dr Barbara drove him in the jeep to his rooming house, but she set off immediately for the docks. There were stores to be loaded aboard the Dugong, cabins and the galley to be equipped, satellite communications gear to be installed.
Neil promised vaguely that he would help, but he had secretly decided not to join the expedition. Television and press reporters were already visiting the shrimp-trawler in Honolulu harbour, describing in provocative detail the preparations for the ecological sea-raid on a military outpost of the French colonial empire. The Defence Ministry in Paris neither confirmed nor denied that nuclear tests were to re-start on Saint-Esprit, but warned that any unauthorized vessel entering the exclusion zone would be boarded and seized.
Neil returned to a quixotic mission of his own, the marathon swim across the Kaiwi Channel. The months in hospital had softened the muscles of his legs and shoulders, and his first twenty lengths in the university pool left him too exhausted to climb from the shallow end. Weeks of intense body-building and pool practice would be needed to return him to fitness. Rising at six, determined to work himself back to a hundred lengths a day, he tried not to think of Dr Barbara, Saint-Esprit or the albatross.
But memories of the disbarred physician and her passionate breath tugged like the waking nerves in his injured foot, distracting him as he mapped the currents of the Kaiwi Channel on the U.S. Navy charts. Curious to see her before she sailed, and aware that he might never meet her again, he decided to drive to the harbour to say his goodbyes. The revelation that she had killed her elderly patients lay in the back of his mind like an old newspaper in an attic, fading in a moral climate that took a more tolerant view of euthanasia and, tacitly, even approved of the process. Few of her new-found admirers had lost faith in her or stepped back for a moment to ponder her multiple murders. Paris-Match now lauded the transformation of ‘Dr Death’ into ‘Dr Life’. All lives were precious, but the albatross and manatee now outranked the lowly human being.
Moreover, Neil knew, he missed Dr Barbara, her strong will and her disconcerting coarseness and affection. He remembered how she bullied him during the voyage to Saint-Esprit, while her fingers forever ran across his chest, reading the braille of some invisible desire in his urgent skin. He thought of the thuggish French marines with their rubber truncheons, and wondered how to dissuade her from sailing to the atoll.
On the first Sunday after leaving the hospital he parked the jeep near the harbour and hid himself among the strolling tourists. The Dugong was moored beyond the inter-island ferry station, high bows already pointing towards the open sea. On a steel platform below the bridge a satellite dish cupped the sky. A military staff car stood on the quay, and men in camouflage fatigues climbed the gangway.
Neil limped forward, pushing between the tourists. He hoped that the American government, under pressure from the French, had decided to impound the vessel before it could set sail. But when he reached the staff car he found a driver with a bandit moustache and shaven head lounging behind the wheel. Transfers of a dugong, manatee and great white shark were stuck to his neck, and a rondel on the door was emblazoned with ‘Wild-Water Kingdom Inc. Live and Love—an Irving Boyd Planetary Project’.
