ING ROTATES THE BOTTLE IN HIS HAND in order to read the label. Heineken. He frowns, wondering how he happens to be drinking Heineken beer? He looks at the man across the table from him.
“I’m sorry, but I forgot your name,” he says.
The man takes a sip of his drink, a twinkle in his eye. “That’s all right. I’m not sure I understood yours. Ing?”
“Yes, Ing. I-n-g, Ing.”
“Mmm-hmm. And I’m Scott Roberts.” He extends a beefy hand and Ing shakes it, surprised at the strength of the old man’s grip.
“Sam,” Ing says.
“No, Scott,” the man corrects him.
“Scott. Right.”
Ing sips his beer, shifting his glance to the bar where several other people are standing and drinking, their legs hooked over a metal rail running along the floor. At the same time, he notices a rumbling under him and the lights outside begin moving.
“Yes,” Scott says, following his glance, “it looks like we’re finally moving.”
“Yes, we are,” the girl says.
Ing swings around to see a young woman with short, red hair and large, blue eyes watching him. She is sitting in the seat occupied a moment ago by the old man, who is nowhere in sigh. Ing sinks down in his chair as the boat gently rocks.
“Is this only your second crossing?” she asks.
Ing manages to say, “Uh, yeah. Yeah, as far as I know.” He glances out the window again. The lights are already some distance away.
“It’s my first time,” she says, and he turns back to her, noticing her smiling face, the traces of freckles on her small, perfect nose, and those lustrous blue eyes. Despite his confusion, he finds himself smiling back at her, unable to think of anything to say but happy with her company. She lowers her gaze.
“Uh, would you like a drink?” he asks.
She holds up a full glass of wine.
“Ah, yes.” He looks at his own full glass, feeling quite silly. “I meant, should I buy a bottle so we can take it up on deck?”
“You mean outside?”
“Why not?” he asks.
She grins. “Why not?”
He moves to the ship’s bar and returns with a bottle of wine. Picking up his glass, he raises both hands and tilts his head toward the door leading to the deck. The woman slowly stands, seeming slightly embarrassed; she picks up her glass and her sweater and moves toward him staggering slightly under the rocking of the boat. Ing, reaching out to steady her with his bottle hand, spills some of the wine from his glass.
“Oops.”
Stepping outside, they brace themselves against the wind.
“Ooh, it’s chilly,” she says as the move along the rail.
“It is, a little,” Ing agrees. “If we get around the corner, it should be better.”
They move toward the stern, Ing glancing at the black water below. “It looks pretty cold,” he says, stopping and leaning over the rail.
“Yes,” she says, also stopping. “I’m afraid of water at night. It’s so mysterious and threatening.” She leans gently against him.
Her body’s gently insinuating presence feels so nice, but is it intentional? If I move, will it upset her? She isn’t close enough for me to feel the warm of her body, but I can imagine it there. Is she speaking to me through that slight touch? Normally, I’d respond, but I don’t want to spoil the moment. Let’s remain like this for now, enjoying this moment without thinking about what may follow — what I should do, what she expects from me. I’ll just stand here, looking down at the black water.
There is blood on my hand, the blood of guilt. Why did I kill her? Was she really trying to push me overboard when she fell against me? Did I misjudge her intentions? No, she did push, hoping to knock me down onto the rocks below. If I hadn’t grabbed onto that boulder, I would have lost my balance and fallen. She was strong enough to push the boulder over onto me. Look! Blood! All over the boulder is the blood! I was so sloppy in that killing!
— It’s all right, James said. We’re home now. You’re at my house. Let me make you a cup of coffee. Would you like that?
Ing watches James go to the cupboard, reaching for the coffee beans and placing them into the grinder. He sees the shadows cast by James’ antlers as they play upon the ceiling. He turns to Wendy, points to the moving shadows, and chuckles.
— Are you feeling better? she asks. Here, come on into the living room and sit down for a while. James will take a while to make the coffee, anyway.
— Am I feeling better? Ing asks (reaching a hand toward her breast as they enter the living room).
— Ing, stop! she says (drawing away from him).
Ing chuckles.
“Okay, then; why do you call yourself Ing?”
Ing turns back from the window to find Scott’s inquisitive eyes. With all the intensity he can summon, Ing says slowly, “I am, and I continue to be, life’s.”
There is no telling, of course, whether I’ll remain life’s, with so much death all around. I’m genuinely frightened, when I think about it, but I am not one to give in to Death, even though I know he must win in the end. I will fight death all the way, murdering whom I must to survive.
But did I murder that girl? If not, where is she? Whatever happened to that girl whose name I didn’t even learn?
“You don’t even remember your own wife’s name?” another voice asks from the bunk bed over his head.
“Of course I know my wife’s name!” Ing responds.
“Then who were you talking about, if not your wife?” the voice asks.
“No, no, no. The girl on the boat; the one that went up on deck with me to drink a bottle of wine.”
The man leans over the side of the bed to meet Ing’s eyes and shakes his head, the curls swinging around his face. “I don’t understand. You were telling me about getting married, then something about being on a boat with a bottle of wine and some other girl?”
“No, no, no,” Ing says, impatiently. “This is after the wedding; a long, long time after the wedding, after I left Karen. That’s when I was traveling on the boat.”
The man shakes his head again. “What do you mean, a long, long time afterward? Didn’t you just say that you came here from your wedding reception?”
“No, of course not….”
Ing breaks off as he suddenly recognizes the face hovering over him. “No! Wait, aren’t you? I know you! Your name is — John, was it?”
“You know me because we just met,” the man says quickly.
“You’re the one in the bunk over my head when I was talking to my father at the wedding reception!” Ing says.
“Shhh, keep it down,” the man cautions, looking around, and Ing becomes aware of the other beds in the hostel. “You wake the others up and they’ll think you’re crazy with this talk. Now, calm down. You’re confused and you’re making me confused. Now, what are you talking about? First, you tell me that you were at a wedding reception one minute and here the next; now you’re telling me that the wedding was a long time ago, that I was there, and that you’ve been traveling for a while?”
Ing shakes his head, getting out of bed to stand beside the bunks. “Something strange is going on. At the reception, my father convinced me that you were just a figment of my imagination. Now, here you are.”
The man rubs his eyes and lies back on the bed. With eyes closed, he says, “You’ve only known me for about fifteen minutes.”
“That’s what I mean. I’ve just met you, yet back when I got married, when I blacked out, you were here, in this very room. When I came to, my father claimed that I had taken a swing at him and that he had knocked me down, unconscious. According to everyone there, there were no ‘Johns’ and I never left the room.”
John shifts his position on the bed. “A few minutes ago, you told me that you had been going over to talk with your father at the reception and you had a blackout and found yourself here. Now you’re telling me another story, claiming that a long time has passed and you’ve left your wife. It sounds to me like you are either making this up, or you have some kind of mental problem.”
“I don’t understand,” Ing says, scratching his beard. “Amnesia would explain it, if I didn’t remember going back to the reception and discussing you.” He paused. “Our first discussion — about my having just been at the reception — how long ago was that?”
“The discussion? Only about fifteen minutes. Then you were quiet for a while, and then you started speaking again, as though years had passed.”
“They have,” Ing says. “Look, just forget I said anything about this, okay?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you should talk to someone. You sound — you know — as if you’re a little messed up.” John considered it for a moment, then said, “You don’t have to talk to me about it, or you don’t have to talk about it right now, but it might do you good to talk about it with someone, just to straighten it out in your own mind.”
“Do you believe in the occult?” Ing asked. “No, never mind. Just answer two questions for me. Your name is John, isn’t it?”
The man is silent for a moment. “That is what I told you, yes.”
“And where am I?”
“You’re in a hotel in Amsterdam.”
“Holland?”
John nods.
Ing shuts his eyes and slowly lowers his head into his hands. “Oh, God, what’s going on?”