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Fiction Contest

No. 6 Spring 2004


Stephanie Dickson
Mangos for Stalin

I haven't seen the North Atlantic in many years nor walked amongst the merchant ships of once busier Nantucket Bay. My current existence is in a quiet Argentine fishing village, far away from any South American port of call. It is death that brings me back now, as death does. It pulls on the living, temporarily changing their course -- making them travel backward for a time.

The deceased is my friend and former navigator. His widow, Nantucket-born, was the cause of his retirement on the Atlantic Coast. Our lives merged 40 years ago when he responded to a hand-written notice I posted on the wall in a Nantucket tavern frequented by seaman. Navigator wanted. Inquiries directed in person to Captain of the Lucille.

Soon after tacking my advertisement to the mahogany and returning to my seat, I set eyes on the man who was to become my trusted crewman. Brown and swarthy, Nihoa quietly introduced himself to me as a navigator without a vessel. I eyed him with curiosity listening to his odd and formal English. When I began to speak of instruments and the navigational theory of the day I sensed a particular lack of interest. Nihoa, I soon learned, was a Polynesian Wayfinder, one guided by means of the heavens and by knowing answers to the most complex riddles of the sea which enabled him to find his way by water and home again. Of these rare men I'd heard seamen tell, but never before laid eyes on.

***

Nihoa handed me a meticulously folded piece of paper bearing two names of ships and their captains upon which he had served as navigator. I recognized them immediately as small merchant ships. When I asked Nihoa why he was not still in the employ of these vessels, he explained that their voyages were not regular for lack of constant freight. This situation kept him too long at port he said. I knew this to be true of the vessels mentioned, and explained to Nihoa that although he would visit regularly the great ports of Panama, Magellan, Good Hope, Gibraltar, Suez, Hormuz, Babel, Mandab, Malacca, and others, our docking would be brief and would occur only for the sake of commerce; Lucille being regularly commissioned full of freight, and usually at sea. She was to set sail to Panama bound for Vladivostok, with cargo of several tons of tropical fruit tomorrow and I badly needed a navigator, as mine had departed for better commission. I warned the silent man the crew would be suspicious of him initially, but if he could route them safely, and find fast water between ports, he would earn their respect and my loyalty. Nihoa nodded deeply in acceptance of my offer.

Our voyage south to Panama was uneventful. My men were lighthearted and good-natured, enjoying the warm nights as we journeyed toward the equator. Upon the night of our arrival in Panama, my first mate, Bigsley, a former whaler from the Puget Sound, blustered drunkenly about the main cabin.

"Any sailor worth a damn could find Panama from New England," mumbled Bigsley. "The Wayfinder hasn't been tested."

The others, enjoying their ale and the good humor that travels with easy voyages, ignored him.

The next morning I awoke to voices raised in argument. Bigsley, the ship's cook, and the quartermaster were engaged in a loud disagreement with a man speaking harsh and broken English. Neatly outfitted in a heavy foreign uniform, the man seemed oblivious to the sweltering tropical heat.

"We're gonna load as we see fit to load, like we always load," barked Bigsley. "Ain't no cargo so special. None of it has to ride in the galley. How's the cook here suppos'ta stock our mess? What's to ship, we're in charge of!" The cook and quartermaster stood behind Bigsley, glaring at the Russian for emphasis.

They disputed handling drums of mango, banana, and papaya that the Russian was adamant should receive special care. Stifling my own curiosity, I introduced myself as Lucille's captain. I silenced my men with a scowl, and assured the angry Russian that I would do my best to accommodate his request. He glowered in the direction of cook and quartermaster, cleared his throat and instantly changed his demeanor to one of polite amicability. He gestured toward the insignia and metal at his breast and informed me he was an agent of the NKVD, and he worked directly for Lavrentii Beria, the much-feared director of Stalin's military police. Recognizing my surprise, the man smiled.

"If you wonder why Comrade Beria concerns himself with fruits, it is because they are for a banquet for the most important Communist Party leaders and Stalin's closest confidants. The fruits are very rare and coveted in the Soviet Union," he explained. "It is important to Comrade Beria they arrive in good -- nyet -- impressive condition."

The man smiled again almost apologetically this time. I assured Beria's agent the cargo would be taken care of properly. This seemed to satisfy him; he nodded in approval and disappeared into the crowded docks of the port of Panama, leaving me alone with my thoughts and blinking into the sunlight.

I was a merchant seaman. A man of commerce. I dealt only in legal cargo. Only with those whose money was good. I was not a political man. That is not to say I was not a moral man. I had seen much of the world and had come to believe the laws of men fashioned in the name of government, religion, or social order, to be flawed, illogical, and ultimately self-serving, regardless of how well intentioned they might have been. The only laws of real meaning and eternal consequence were nature's.

***

Upon retiring to my quarters that evening of our departure from Panama, I heard an exchange between Bigsley and the old seaman, Fornoff.

"It just seems an odd commission, mate, that's all I'm saying. It don't make a lot of sense, does it? Vladivostok. Last stop on the Trans-Siberian Railroad they say. Port to nowhere if ya' ask me. What's in Eastern Russia besides lots o' Chinamen? And then there's that fellow in uniform this morning, making a fuss o'er how we saw fit to stow his mangos."

"Russia is a strange part of the world, Bigs," replied the old sailor, "a left-behind land. But Moscow's far away, the Red grip ain't so tight in Vladivostok and commerce thrives. Cap'n says the Russians pay their freight, and he ain't never had n' trouble with 'em before."

"May be the truth, but I got a bad feeling," said Bigsley.

"Ah, you always got a bad feeling, cause you're a ninny. Go t' bed and quit worrying like my Grandma, ya hear, Bigs? G'd night to ya, Bigs."

***

The first nights I spent here in Nantucket, Nihoa appeared in my dreams. He visits me there as I remember him best in life: still, silent as a statue, staring into the night sky.

Nihoa did much of his work at night and his methods for the most part remain a mystery to me to this day. His knowledge of the sea and the night sky was remarkable. I have never again met a man as at home with the natural elements as Nihoa. Nor one who loved them more. It was as if the sea and sky shared all their secrets with him.

But by day Nihoa often looked downward. He regularly scanned the sea for the sight of his supreme love: whales. Bigsley, a former harpooner who once said that the mere spotting of whales caused his blood to run hot and fast, frequently joined Nihoa.

The knowledge between the two men on the topic of leviathans was extensive -- their rivalry entertaining. The two men's fascination with the great creatures was contagious. It soon captured the imaginations of other members of the crew. The coastal, tropical seas showed us Melon-headed whales, False Killers, Pilot whales. Open water bore Sei whales, Beluga, and Sperm. In the Pacific coastal waters Grey, Killer, and Humpback whales were spotted, glistening islands of light in the water. Nihoa loved most passionately the Humpback, or singing whales, as he referred to them.

"Their songs are sung in repeating patterns, like human music," he said. Each pattern contains a different revelation, each song a different epiphany. The secrets of the universe are in whale songs. The whales are the keepers of Creation's soul."

I have since realized that some secrets of the world are too obvious to be recognized, and are therefore kept forever.

***

"Eh well, that may be so my friend, but to chase the giant beast into the sea and match wits against him -- that is the stuff for my soul," cried Bigsley. "Some whales are as cunning as any two-legger, and just as full of devilry too."

"That is so," smiled Nihoa. "As cunning indeed."

***

Rounding the tip of South Korea and entering the Sea of Japan with Vladivostok a short sail away, we were overtaken by a vessel of the Russian Far Eastern Fleet and boarded. I was surprised and angry. However, I knew I was not the first merchant ship to be boarded in foreign waters, and it would be in our best interest to submit to this impropriety without exuberant protest -- at least initially.

I spent the brief moments between being hailed and being boarded securing the ship's papers. When the Russians embarked I was surprised to see that the officer in charge of the boarding expedition was not naval, but NKVD, the same as the man who met us on the dock in Panama. I introduced myself and presented him with Lucille's commission signed by Beria's agent, expecting this to end our encounter without incident.

The Russian eyed the paper then dropped his arm to his side, letting the document slip out of his hand.

"You are trespassing," he stated.

I stared incredulously at the officer awaiting more information. It never came. Perplexed, I reminded the Russian that we were still in international water and once again referenced my contract to emphasize that we were delivering goods for the Communist Party. I glanced at Bigsley and Nihoa, gauging their reactions. Bigsley's fury was evident and Nihoa's face wore no clue to his mind.

The awkward silence that ensued was shortly interrupted by Bigsley.

"You call yourselves Navy? You Russian dogs couldn't sail your way out of a Vodka bottle! Are you telling us we can't go to Vladivostok?"

The officer looked at me uneasily.

"Silence that man," he demanded.

I glared at Bigsley, but he did not return my gaze.

"You will go to Vladivostok," replied the officer, addressing me, not Bigsley, "but you will approach from the east."

"The East? Do you mean we should sail around Japan?" I said. "There was no mention of this in Panama."

"You will approach Golden Horn Bay from the East."

"Why!" demanded Bigsley.

The officer again ignored my first mate.

"Do I make myself clear, Captain?"

Checking my own anger, I acknowledged that the Russian had made himself quite clear. The officer made a gesture in the direction of Bigsley and disembarked. When the officer disappeared from sight, two sailors sprung onto Bigsley like crocodiles. In seconds Bigsley sustained powerful blows to the gut and a slash across the face. My crewmen swarmed the Russians. The Russians drew their guns. My men stood down. Bigsley lay curled in a fetal ball. The Russians left the ship as if there had been no incident.

Bigsley groaned. Nihoa helped drag him to his feet.

"I can clean that cut up," said Nihoa. "Lucky that sailor carries a Mongol knife. But your stomach . . . "

"Lucky?" gasped Bigsley.

"Blade's made for skinning. A good Mongolian skinner would use that knife to peel all the flesh off the bone of an animal -- or man -- whole. Thanks to the herdsman who crafted it, your scar won't be too ugly."

Nihoa smiled as he helped Bigsley ease into his bunk.

There were five of us sitting around the dining table intent to determine our course of action. The cabin was too warm and tempers rose as we discussed previous events. Paranoid speculation traveled from man to man. Why had we been boarded and commanded to sail a ridiculous and costly voyage around Japan to approach Golden Horn Bay? We easily agreed not to follow the course the Russians demanded.

"We sail south toward Japan, then travel eastward between Japan and the Yamato Rise, approaching Vladivostok's Golden Horn Bay north easterly from Yamato," said Nihoa.

We all knew this was dangerous, yet it seemed likely we might be able to travel this course unnoticed.

"What do you men have to say?"

"I think it's our best choice," responded Fornoff.

We charted our course, and headed south as if to circle Japan.

Night fell on the Sea of Japan. The men on board Lucille were nervous and alert. Some paced the decks. Others retired to their cabins early; a few remained above with me well into the black night. Nihoa, silent at his post, stared out at the dark ocean, and the cloud covered sky. Bigsley moaned in his cabin.

Our trip toward the Yamato Rise went smoothly. The vessels we encountered at a distance were primarily merchant ships. It was not until heading back north toward Vladivostok that our journey took another bad turn.

***

Earlier than the rest of us that morning, Bigsley ventured topside for the first time since his encounter with the Russians.

"Jesus! Mother of God!" he exclaimed. "What in the hell is that smell?"

His shouts brought me, and the rest of the crew, above. I gagged as the nauseating stench washed over me.

"Cap'n, do you have a nose on your face?" cried Bigsley. "Tell me from where this ungodly aroma comes?"

I looked to Nihoa, who was scanning the horizon.

"It smells like whale-meat to me," continued Bigsley. "But why such a strong smell of it here?"

Nihoa was pointing at something in the distance and we set our course for it. In an hours sail, we saw what we had never seen, and never wanted to see again: whales. Different species. Packed on top of each other for miles. They filled the Sea of Japan's most northwesterly bay and stretched east toward Vladivostok. Lured mid-migration from the Pacific by a "singing" beacon, and caught in a diabolical series of gargantuan man-made locks and dams that spanned miles -- a horrendous and brilliant trap. Entire pods of whales on their migrations had been lured here to their death.

Transfixed by the sight in front of us, we didn't notice the vessel belonging to the Russian Far Eastern Fleet approaching from the west until she was practically upon us. This time we were not boarded, but instructed to follow the gun ship to port. When Lucille arrived in Vladivostok; we docked, waited, and expected the worst. We were quite amazed but certainly no more optimistic when a messenger informed us that Comrade Beria wished to first inspect the freight that was to be unloaded personally.

The air was heavy, weighted with the smell of death, death on a leviathan scale.

"Eh, men, you'll get used to it after a time," called a sailor meandering near a British ship docked beside us. He smiled at our pained grimaces.

We invited him aboard to question him.

"Eh sailor, can you tell us what in the name of hell is happenin' here?" demanded Bigsley.

"What's happening?" the sailor responded perplexed. "Can't ya see? The Bolsheviks need fuel, boys. Why look to the future when you can steal from the past? Seems to be the way they do things around here, if you ask me -- and my Cap'n's been doing business with the Far East Shipping Company for years. They don't like the rest of the world to see it either. But there ain't much they can do about it. Oh, they try to bully ships into strange routes to port, but they can't enforce them really. The geography just doesn't work in their favor. Their geography really never has worked well for them. Except in respect to Napoleon. Ships come to Vladivostok to supply Siberia, and this little project -- French construction companies made a fortune when they built this devil. These Russians need things they ain't got, just like the rest of us. Well, some of them need things, as for those scattered about the rest of the country, or what's left of them . . . Rumor is all the big and important party types are visiting from western Russia to view this latest technological wonder of the east . . . "

"But the scale of this," interrupted Bigsley. "Whales have always been hunted for oil, but never harvested and destroyed like this."

"Whales, they are essential to . . . " began Nihoa.

"Apparently only in the form of oil if you happen to be a Bolshevik," interrupted the sailor. "Oil processors run the coastline from Slavyanka to Nakhodka. You should see it at night, friends. Comrade Beria is Stalin's efficiency man, among other things. I hear he is a person of . . . err, many talents.

The Gulag had to be drastically expanded from earlier times to accommodate Bolshevik use," the sailor rattled on. "Transportation there had to be made more efficient; more men had to be stacked on top of each other -- cruelty and starvation intensified for the sake of faster turnover. Beria headed that project, and he's Stalin's man-in-charge here. Speaking of . . . looks like you have visitors. I'll just be going now. Goodbye to you chaps and good luck!"

"The whales, our fate and theirs -- they are shared -- interdependent," continued Nihoa.

"Yeah, well I don't know exactly what you mean by that, Nihoa," replied Bigsley. "I don't know about the connectedness of all things the way you seem to, or at least I've never given much thought to the subject. I've always just assumed that man kinda runs the show cause he can think, and shoot a gun, and sail a ship. But man is a greedy bastard -- for certain -- and these bastards are taking what ain't no man's right to take. Maybe, they are taunting the Fates -- maybe all of our fates. Cap'n, promise me we're gonna drop this fruit and get the hell out of here, wretched stink hole."

I assured Bigsley those were my exact intentions.

***

He was a short, thin-lipped, bespectacled man, flanked by two pasty-faced guards. His glasses were dark, but somehow I knew his eyes would reveal little had they been visible. His physical strength was apparent, his voice soft.

"Captain," he said, "I am Lavrentii Beria. I understand you defied my instructions."

I acknowledged his statement to be true. Beria made no reply, implying the matter was really of no importance to him.

"Calm conditions for your journey this time of year? The fruit has arrived in excellent condition?"

I informed Beria conditions had been calm only in terms of the weather at sea, and the fruit had not suffered for the voyage.

He offered a mildly amused glance my direction and pried open a barrel of mango.

"Ah, mangos. Lovely! Koba will be very pleased. They are his favorite, you know."

I watched Beria open barrel after barrel surveying and admiring the fruit. He was smiling, completely absorbed in the quality of produce for his banquet, as if the beauty of the fruit somehow insulated him from the ugliness surrounding us in the bay.

"This shipment is satisfactory," pronounced Beria. "Unload it."

He turned to leave.

Bigsley followed.

"You ain't got no right to lure all the whales in the sea here. No whaling people in the world have ever done the likes of this. You're harvesting them as if you made them yourself."

Beria stopped. He turned on his heels to face his accuser. But Nihoa quickly moved in front of Bigsley and said, "When you are called to be judged for your deeds by the creators of the universe, how will you to answer for yourself?"

Beria stopped. Appearing seemingly unruffled he stepped toward Nihoa, finding this second accuser more interesting than the first.

"How?" asked Beria amused, "I am no less ordinary a man than you. If such powers exist, my savage friend, how will I answer? For my actions? I do the things I do because I can. All men do, when given the opportunity."

Beria and his henchmen left my ship without incident. From the dock, he glanced toward the statuesque wayfinder standing on deck above and twisted his thin lips into something resembling a smile. He turned away. Nihoa, expressionless, slipped silently over starboard, into the sea.

***

As morning spilled into evening, the ship's hold emptied. I called down to learn the progress of unloading to my men sweating below.

"Almost sir," called out Fornoff. "We will be empty in good time."

"Not good time enough," snorted Bigs. "And where is the Polynesian for God's sake? I ain't seen him all day. And I for one ain't going on no search parties a'for leaving this stinkin' armpit of the east! Not with my belly still aching like a speared cod . . . "

Ignoring Bigsley, I scanned the crowded dock and saw Nihoa moving toward Lucille's bow, then he was on board. The man was wet and his eyes radiated a strange glow, like that of a certain breed of whaling man after an arduous hunt.

"Captain, we must leave now," stated Nihoa.

"We're almost empty . . . "

"No, sir. Leave now or there will be no leaving," he insisted.

I asked for explanation with my eyes, but my gut somehow knew to trust my navigator. Act on his word alone.

"Please Captain. We must go. Quickly, now!"

I bellowed the order.

"Cap'n? What the . . . but . . . there's still fruit aft . . . " cried Bigsley.

As Lucille sailed out of Golden Horn Bay we heard the noise -- a deafening crash -- like all the trees in a forest being felled and falling to the ground at once. Docks and ships crumbled under weight of leviathans and crashed into the bay. There was screaming. The collective howl of man and beast filled the air. The great dam had been opened. The whales released. The port of Vladivostok was buried in whales, death, and then silence. Lucille glided toward open water. We could see light from the windows of Asian style houses spread around the mountains in neighborhoods that made up the city as we sailed out of the bay. The great fortress of Vladivostok watched from the hills.

***

I remained on deck late into that night at sea while my crew lay below searching for sleep. I stood beside the Wayfinder as he stared out into the darkness enveloped in impermeable silence. Nihoa removed his hand from his coat pocket, a mango gently encased in his grasp. It's smell sweet and pungent. I watched him peering into the sea, concentrating on the darkness below.

I wanted to ask the man what it was that engaged his attention so, but I thought better of it and prepared to go below. As I said goodnight and headed toward my quarters, Nihoa, remaining motionless, spoke to me.

"Do you not hear it?"

I shook my head and asked what there was to hear.

"The singing."

***

A foghorn sounds. Shivering, I pull my coat more tightly about my body. The temperature has dropped since I first stepped into the night. Continuing my stroll along the Atlantic coastline, I look out toward the blackness that is the ocean. I listen.

Copyright 2004, Stephanie Dickson

nidus is an online publication supported by the Writing Program at the University of Pittsburgh's English Department.


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