Canal Dreams

Hisako saw the people from the Nakodo and went over to them, hugging Mandamus (a slobbery kiss on the cheek), Broekman (an encouraging pat on the back) and even Endo (rigid fluttering surprise).

'Dear lady, are you all right? Mandamus enquired.

'Fine, she told him. She felt a little foolish in her light kimono, like the one person at the party wearing fancy dress. 'What's happening? she asked Broekman, still wearing his engineer's overalls. 'Do you know? Why are they here?

They all sat down together on the carpet. 'Could be part of a general push, Broekman said. 'More likely it's an ambush of some sort; I bet they're expecting the National Guard out here; something like that. Broekman hesitated, looked around. 'Have you seen the Americans?

'What? She looked around, peering over the tops of chairs and couches.

'Captain and Mrs Bleveans, Broekman said softly. 'We know they clobbered Ja

'I think Orrick was up in the bow, smoking, when they came aboard, Mandamus said. He wore his usual baggy, creamy white suit.

'You didn't say that, Broekman said, obviously surprised.

Mandamus shrugged massively. 'I just remembered. He goes there to smoke the kif. I have smelled it. I never wanted before to mention it.

'Well, either they've got him but haven't brought him here like everybody else, or he's hiding… or escaped, Broekman said. 'Whatever. It did occur to me the Americans might be singled out; shot, maybe. Hostages perhaps.

'They've kept the radio operators separate, too, Mandamus pointed out.

'I think Bleveans help Mr Ja

'Could be, Broekman agreed.

'But what should we do? This is the question. Mandamus looked laden with the responsibility of it all.

'You mean, Broekman said, 'should we try to escape?

'Dig a tu

'Well, that isn't one of our options, Broekman gri

'Depends on their intentions, Mandamus said, glancing at the man behind the bar.

'They no kill us yet, Endo said, smiling.

'… with us split up, Mandamus was saying. 'They haven't said they will kill others if one tries to escape, but I think one has to assume this is implied. We live in an age where the etiquette of sieges and hostage-taking has become — as one might say — public domain. They assume that we know the rules. I think we have to test these assumptions before we make any hasty moves.

'The etiquette of hostage-taking? Broekman almost choked. 'What are you talking about, some avant-garde theatre show or something? These bastards are threatening to turn us into hamburger meat and you're talking about etiquette?

'A turn of phrase, Mr Broekman.

She stopped listening to them talk. She stood up and looked to the door as it opened. More of Le Cercle's crew; Marie Boulard came to her and they embraced. The small trenchwoman's hair smelled of roses; her skin of… some allotrope of normal human sweat; fear perhaps. Hisako looked anxiously at the door, but it closed again. Marie kissed her cheek, then sat beside Mandamus, who patted her hand. Le Cercle's chief engineer, Viglain, stood before Hisako, tall and vaguely cadaverous and smelling of Gitanes. He took her solemnly by the shoulders and a

She nodded. Je comprends. (But thought, How does he know he will come?)

Viglain sat down with Marie Boulard.

She watched Broekman share a cigarette with one of the Nakodo's Korean crew, and wished that she smoked.

It was another twenty minutes by her watch before they brought Philippe and the rest of the crew in. She ran to him, threw her arms round him. They were hustled further into the lounge by the armed men.

They reassured each other they were both all right, and sat with the others. Philippe and Broekman started talking about what might be going on. She half-listened, but really only wanted to sit there, holding Philippe's hand, or with her head on his shoulder. His deep voice lulled her.

She was shaken awake gently. Philippe's face looked very large and warm. He was holding her left wrist oddly. 'Hisako-chan, they want our watches. He stroked her wrist with his thumb. She had to ask him to repeat what he'd said. It was still night, the lounge was warm. Comrade Major Sucre stood in front of her, assault rifle strapped over one shoulder. He was holding a black plastic bag. Philippe took off his big diver's watch and dropped it into the throat of the bag as Sucre held it out to him. She looked at her watch; she'd snoozed for less than fifteen minutes. She fumbled with the strap on the little Casio, wondering fuzzily where she'd left her own diver's watch. Probably in Philippe's cabin.

'Don't worry, lady, Sucre said. 'You get it back when we're finished here.

'Why do you want our watches? she said, feeling her mouth stumble over the words. The strap resisted her. She tutted, leant forward, then Philippe held her hand, helped her.

'Hey, Sucre said. 'You that violinist?

She looked up, blinking, as the watch came free. 'Cellist, she said, dropping the watch into the bag with the others. 'I play the cello. She only realised then that she hadn't thought of the instrument; of course, it might be at risk. She formed a question to enquire after its safety, then thought the better of it.

'I heard of you, Sucre said. 'I bet I heard your discs.

She smiled. Sucre had wiped most of the blacking off his face. He looked young beneath it; a lean Hispanic face.

'Comrade Major, Broekman said, putting his watch into the bag. 'I don't suppose you're going to tell us what you're doing, are you?

'Huh?

'Why are you doing this? Why are you occupying the ships?

'Is Free Panamanian Navy, Sucre laughed. He moved off to take watches from other people. He stopped, looked back at Broekman. 'Where you from?

'South Africa, Broekman said.

Sucre sauntered back. 'You fascist? he asked. Hisako felt her palms start to sweat.

Broekman shook his head. 'When I was there they called me a communist.

'You like blacks?

Broekman hesitated. Hisako could see him composing his reply. 'I don't like anyone automatically, Comrade Major; black or white.

Sucre thought about this, nodding absently. 'OK, he said, and moved off again. Hisako breathed out.

She bought a new cello with one lot of prize money. She took her old cello back to Hokkaido for the winter holiday, leaving the new one in the Academy, not knowing quite why she did this. Hisako had a decision to make. She might stay on at the Academy, or she might go to Todai — Tokyo University — every Japanese kid's bright shining wept-for goal. She'd known people who had broken their hearts when they could not get into Tokyo. You heard all the time of people killing themselves because they didn't get good enough grades, or because they'd failed when they got there and found the work too hard.

Did she want to do this? English at Todai. It would have seemed absurd just a few years ago, but her grades had improved that much; she honestly had no idea why. She thought she probably could do it; she had become a good student, and she had the enthusiasm in the subject she thought necessary to carry her through.

But was she ready for the pressure? Did she really want to be a diplomat or civil servant, or a teacher or translator? Or somebody's highly qualified wife? None of those things attracted her. She didn't particularly want to travel, for one thing, which closed off diplomacy, or marriage to a diplomat; she always felt slightly queasy at the thought of getting on a plane. And she wanted to read and speak English because she enjoyed it, not because it was her job.