DEATH B Y WATER

                                                                    DEATH BY WATER

                                                               HARRY THOMAS DANVERS

 

                    THE WASTE LAND…………………T.S. ELIOT

 

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead

Forgot the cry of gulls and the deep sea swell

And the profit and loss

A current under the sea

Picked his bones in whispers

As he rose and fell

He passed the stages of his youth

Entering the whirlpool

Gentile or Jew

O you who turn the wheel and look to windward

Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you

 

                              Mike was neither tall nor handsome. He was not even a sailor, but he died by water.

                             We had met at the local internet center in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. He said he had bought all my self-published works of poems and short stories and had liked them and wanted to read more. We were both of Irish descent, so we had a love of literature and music. When I told him that I was also a painter, he insisted that he should visit my place, up on the mountain and I was all for it, but the weather came between.

                           It was one of those times that you thought that the rain would never stop. There were no sea gulls in the mountains, but the rivers overflowed and the streams were lost in the current. It was precisely and that point that Mike decided to visit me. It was at night.

                           The torrents of water and mud made all transportation impossible, but Mike was not daunted. With no further formality than a loud burst of laughter, he got out of a waylaid, downtrodden taxi and entered my adobe dwelling. The luxurious repast which ensued would have rivaled the most glorious fetes of the Knights of the Round Table.

                          But the rain did not stop. Mike not only brought the basic necessities, like a bottle of good rum, but also all the delicacies which could be bought from the American subsidized supermarkets that had swamped Latin America and threatened the rest of the world as well.

                         Due to the inclemency, we were forced to take refuge in the library. It was also made of adobe but somehow isolated us from the incessant downpour. The oblong room was filled with rustic book shelves that harbored some six thousand volumes. For me, it was paradise and if I had to perish with my books, that would be enough.

                       The handmade table was spread with a white, Irish tablecloth. It was a gift from my mother and thus not often used. This, however, was a special occasion.

                        We ate the imported cheese and consumed the whole bottle of Puerto Rican rum. The rain never ceased, but we were mellowed against the adversities of nature. Now the white tablecloth was stained by our mutual frivolity, so I decided to roll a joint and pulled out my guitar. Mike enjoyed my diverse repertoire, stretching from Bob Dylan to the shores of Ipanima. We had a great time, but the rain didn't stop. We told him we could rig something up for him for the night but he insisted that he could get a cab. He said he came from Oregon. This was nothing for him. He laughed and he was gone.

                        He came to my art exhibitions and we had a few beers and jokes. In fact, the last time I saw him was at an exhibition I had in December.  He told me: "You know Harry, I don't know anything about art, but I sure do like your colors..."   I never saw him again, for he drowned in the Pacific. Perhaps there was…"a current under the sea (that) picked his bones in whispers..." and in a moment.."he passed the stages of his youth…Entering the whirlpool…"

                       He was not tall and handsome like Phlebas the Phoenician sailor, but he was my friend.