Ch 3 - Children of Tegalupa

Pain is What You want It to Be

“Let me take a look at your hands.”

The voice of the ship doctor pulls me out of my cloud. He has a face like a lost dog: watchful and waiting, strong but frayed on the edges, still looking for the owner that left him abandoned on the side of the docks.

The man that I pulled from the ocean lies on a table just an arm’s length behind me. I stare at the man’s pale skin wondering what it was like for him to endure the sea. Eyelids slowly close. All I want is sleep. The battle on the deck and saving the man’s life, it all seems like a lifetime away.

“You’re bleeding on my floor!” The doctor’s voice is slightly sour. I look into the concentrated face of the man. There’s a twinkle in his eye. I think that he is making a sad stab at a joke. “Take this,” the doctor tells me in his clipped and conservative way. He hands me a white towel as he points to the metal deck. A shotgun of spatters decorates the painted gray.

I stare at my feet then drop to the floor. Quickly I begin counting the red pattern of stars. Patterns pull my attention with a strength I don’t understand. I look for pictures and meaning while connecting the dots.

“Please clean it up, if you don’t mind. With so many of you coming in here leaking, this place might be mistaken for a latrine.” I catch the man’s meaning. With numb hands, I slowly begin to rub. Stars and constellations are quickly reduced to smears of red. With a liberal splash of water, the evidence disappears.

I settle back on the bunk and take a long look at my hands. The toil with the rope removed long strips of skin. This leaves me with angry, red, seeping wounds. At first I felt nothing. Now, the thaw has begun. Pins and needles hum just below the skin like an angry band of wasps. The stinging grows louder. Skin swells and colors to an angry shade of red.

The doctor seems concerned by the change in appearance, “Are you in a lot of pain?”

I smile over locked teeth that grind like rocks on sand. Our eyes meet for just a moment. The doctor’s expression is dull. His ripple of concern relaxes into the flattened sullenness of knowing. He was there when The Greek ended me. Most men of the Damesquela believed that The Greek would chum the ocean waters with the remains of my corpse. Fate can be merciful and often unexpected. Gregarios is no longer on this earth while I still walk and breathe.

The doctor’s eyes follow the scar that tightly creases the left side of my face. I can sense he wishes to touch it, but he holds his hand just out of reach. He speaks, “The skin has knitted nicely. You are healing very quickly. How do you feel these days?”

In response to the question, I hold my red oozing hands up before the doctors face, flat and wide like a man fending off an attack. Red dripping palms frame a broken crooked face. It is a dramatic gesture deflecting a conversation that I don’t want to have. I speak to the doc in a deep even voice, “Some days are much better than others.” I smile slightly as I wink at the man.

The doctor is seasoned enough not to wince at the antics. He holds my eyes with an expressionless face. Slowly, he takes my right hand and turns it in his own. He looks curiously at the damage. Then, he looks me in the eye, “You could have let go.”

My answer is simple and true, “His life was mine.”

The man rolls his eyes. “You are lucky that your fingers are still attached.” He bends one finger back and takes a better look. “I think that you will scrape by.” The doctor pulls out a roll of gauze bandaging and slowly begins to wrap.

Pain? What is real pain? Is it the light prick of a mosquito taking it’s fill? Is it the loss of a family butchered in flames? Is pain this thing that has happened to my hands, or is pain more like a metal spike jabbing in right behind your eyes?

Think about the last choice. Think about that long metal splinter, driven in deeply three centimeters behind your eyes. To the left a little bit, buried half way into your brain. Think about something that turns hardened men into weeping children doubled over and puking for the audience of their shoes.

Quantify your intense discomfort. Give it a number on a scale of one-to-ten. Multiply that number by something very large. That is the monster trapped inside of my head. You can’t touch, rub, or scratch it. It lives there every day. The scar on my face, the misaligned eyes, the crooked nose - these only show the surface of what The Greek did to me. Over and over I have heard the words spoken, “No one should have survived.”

Over the shoulder of the doctor who is wrapping my hands, I can see the rise and fall of The First Mate’s chest. The motion of my head catches the attention of the doctor, “Is he going to be alright? He was in there for a very long time.”

The Doctor smiles, “It’s probably a miracle that he is still with us. They are saying you were the one who spotted him.” The doctor holds my gaze for a moment, “What do you think happened?”

“I’m not certain. I can hardly see straight. Ask me again after I have had a few hours of rest.”

There is a look of concern in his eyes. I know that he is studying me and working on another question. Much has happened since Gregarios Fotios Tsolakoglou killed me the first time. The Doc and most of the crew aren’t quite sure what to make of the fact that I am now walking and talking after being written off for dead. Lazarus did that. He is a story, black letters on paper. I am flesh and bone. I am the walking reminder of what happens when you don’t follow through. For some, that has an unsettling effect.

The men need to own up to their fears. Fear festers if it is not dealt with in the right way. Frightened men do strange things. On the open ocean, that does not usually work out well. I have spoken to a few of the men. Others prefer to stay away.

The Doctor speaks. His words whisper, “On this boat, many play a game of leverage. Have you noticed? Many hold something over others that gives them power.”

“It’s a relatively small boat,” I complement the man’s thought.

The doctor’s next words wilt away as soon they are exposed to air. A man will sometimes express himself even when he knows the answer, “Has it always been like this? Have men always operated this way?”

The sentiment is justified. The question is more worthy than the doctor believes, “The world is changing. Fear motivates. Power gives a sense that one’s path is clear.”

The doctor scratches his nose. A mix of wonder and annoyance enters his voice. The stone face melts for a moment. The doctor’s hand once again reaches for the scar on my face. The man does something that many are now hesitant to do. He looks me in the eye and uses my first name, "Caird, it astounds me that I am sitting here talking to you like this. I saw the wreckage.” Broken bones. Skull cracked in three places. Head swollen like a sack full of wet grain. The doctor continues, “The beating that Gregarios gave you, I still have nightmares about that night. I doubt that I will ever forget.”

I wink with understanding, “That makes two of us,” as the man bandages my hands. The doctor bunches his shoulder as he moves fully into my space. When he speaks next his voice is a whisper, “There is something that I want to tell you, but I don’t know if it helps or hurts.”

I speak with an even tone, “Doc, you are the one who patched me up. You saved my life. Thank you for that. Whatever you want to tell me, I can keep it to myself. Whatever shenanigans were going on before The Greek ended me... that stuff has mostly stopped.”
The Doctor tilts his head. Eyes narrow just a bit.

I respond with an answer before his question is ripe, “Cowards don’t like blood on their hands. Either I come back to haunt them or I take them with me to the other side. Anyway that they look at it, I smell like death.”

The Doc takes a deep breath before speaking again. His words spill out like the guts of a fish, “Some of the men were betting on the outcome of the fight.”

My movements are slow as my hand goes to The Doc’s shoulder. I pat him firmly to give assurance, “I know about the betting.”

The doctor’s confession is a good thing. It gives me a strong reading of the man’s moral compass. I need friends on this boat. I might need the doctor’s help down the road. I smile at the man. My voice is very calm. “It wasn’t a fight.”

The doctor nods politely at my comment, but I’m certain my meaning has been missed.

“It wasn’t a fight. You know this. Fight indicates two sides evenly matched and willingly participating. At best, my meeting with The Greek was an ambush.”

The Doc looks me in the eye and slowly nods his understanding.

“Thanks for telling me about the betting part. That places you on the right side. Do you know how many were involved? At this point I can only guess.”

The doctor shakes his head, “I mostly keep to myself. But I will listen. I will let you know.”

I probably shouldn’t ask the next question, but I am curious how the doctor will respond, “Men who act like children are one thing, but this was something completely different. What punishment is appropriate for men exhibiting such bad behavior?”

The doctor looks me in the eyes and faces me square, “Someone tries to kill you. How does a fighting man respond? We are on a small ship. A man needs to survive. Just keep in mind there is only one of me on board to mend broken bones.” The doctor raises his own hand and pats me on the shoulder, “Take care of yourself. Get some sleep. We should be in port in about three weeks.”

I leave The Doctor’s office and make my way down below decks. The night is quite dark. I look forward to warmth and rest. Metal stairs echo and squeak as I lumber my way down. My hands are wrapped like balloons. I use them to steady my descent. Shadows along the corridors are quite long.

On the left is the main bunk room for the ship. This houses fifty-three beds. The day’s events and early corks have taken their toll on the crew. As much as I want to sink like a stone into the depths of my pillow, I can not. With this many men snoring and sputtering, it sounds too much like Diearmo’s pig farm in the Spring.

Diermo was the man who raised me after a father and an uncle. The memory of him gets me to thinking about the farms and olive groves back home. Home, a place I have been trying to put behind me. Too many awkward moments and bad decisions. I grab a heavy jacket and head back the way I came.

Back in the central hall, I turn right and head towards the upper deck. It is night time on this ship on a cold winter day. The interior halls are mostly dark spaces. These are illuminated by the occasional overhead bulb. The bulbs dance nakedly with a simple grace. Back and forth they follow in time as Damesquela wallows through light seas.

Shadows are dark and sometimes quite indistinct. As I turn a corner to my left the lighting is gone. I bounce off of something unseen. I land on my backside not knowing what to think. Out of the blackness emerges a man. His is name is Tierno. I have long considered him a friend.

I laugh at myself as the shadow offers a hand. Grabbing my wrist, Tierno helps me to my feet. His hand is strong. The rise is quick. These things are testaments and signs to the man’s dedication to his family and hard work.

We have sailed many years together. He has always been sturdy. But Tierno’s strange behavior up on the deck has left a few thorns that I need to address. I want to approach calmly. I do my best to keep hostility in check, “Why did you desert me early this morning? I was trying to save a man’s life. I needed your help. The task was not complicated, but still you walked away. What is wrong with you Tierno? Have I done something to offend?”

The man looks me up and down then he fixes me with his gaze. The look is a quick assessment of a job completed and well done. His face, like his hands, seem made of stone. He slaps me on my shoulders as friends sometimes do. No words are offered. No expression is exchanged. He turns on his heel and simple walks away.

There is something off about the moment. It is not just the actions of the man, “What is it Tierno? Are you OK? On the deck this afternoon you looked as pale as a ghost.”

There is a moment of hesitation. Tierno turns just a quarter past six. His face is in profile as he talks. His words are just a whisper yet quite audible in the metal halls, “He was not supposed to survive this. You should not have brought him back.” There is anger in the tone. There is a catch in the man’s throat that denotes fear.

Something cold runs up my spine. This man is built like a rock. What can intimidate him? Tierno turns before I can ask questions. Into the cold bowels of the ship, he disappears. A hasp unlatches and a hatch squeals on rusted hinges. Metal crashes upon metal. Tierno is swallowed by the ship’s mass.