Monterey Bay Read Online Free PDF Page A

out different styles, different methods of expression and organization: Fra Angelico, Holbein the Younger, Holbein the Elder, Rivera, Modigliani, Memling. The root cellar deepened itself: darker, wetter, colder, a realm of lawlessness and foreign language, much like being fathoms underwater. And it was in this way that a full six months passed, the Philippines taking on the characteristics of a place she loved, not because it felt comfortable, not because it felt safe, but because it showed the clearest and most direct route to what she had begun to believe was her destiny: a life of solitude, a life of work—hers, not her father’s—rising up around her like walls.
    But then her father recovered, his physical and mental health twice as robust as before.
    â€œAnd you were found out?” There was an excitement in the biologist’s eyes that, for the first time, actually reminded her ofa biologist, of someone who was gathering data and imagining it being put to use.
    â€œYes. By that point, the fields were beyond salvaging.”
    â€œHe blamed you.”
    â€œAnd rightfully so.”
    â€œAnd what about the sketchbook?”
    â€œHe didn’t care.”
    â€œMaybe someday the two of you will go back. Fix things up.”
    She shook her head. “My father never returns to a place he’s already been. What’s more, the embassy had started to evacuate on account of the Japanese.”
    â€œAnd your mother?”
    â€œWhat about her?”
    â€œMothers usually have opinions about things like this.”
    â€œNot mine.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œShe’s dead.”
    â€œOh no. I’m sorry.”
    The furrows in his brow were so dark and deep, they looked like tattoos. She shrugged and looked away.
    â€œJust the two of you, then, and so late in the game,” he continued. “No wonder you’re unhappy.”
    â€œNot unhappy. Just unproductive.”
    â€œFair enough.”
    Just then, the air began to shriek. Three deafening whistle blasts from the street outside: short, long, short.
    â€œThe Del Mar cannery,” the biologist explained, hands shielding his ears. He was trying to look disappointed by the interruption, but he was clearly as thankful for it as she was. “Arthur will be crushed. The poor lamb’s already worked four shifts this week.”
    â€œThe canneries are open this late?”
    â€œThe canneries are open whenever there’s something to can. The whistles blow, they open the throttles, and everything starts to shake.”
    She heard stairs being taken at a hurry, and then Arthur was in the doorway, panting. When he saw the two of them sitting together on the bed, his eyes widened.
    â€œSome of the
Styela
are still in the m-menthol,” he stuttered.
    â€œIt’s all right. I’ll finish up.”
    â€œAnd I’m afraid one or two of the
Okenia
got a bit . . . flattened.”
    â€œIt’s all right, Arthur.”
    â€œI’ll be happy to stay if you need some—”
    â€œNo, no, no. We don’t want you on the foreman’s bad side. Again.”
    Arthur nodded at the biologist and then at Margot, a great seriousness on his face. For a moment, she felt serious, too, as if a piece of crucial information were about to be revealed, but then Arthur was gone and so was the feeling.
    The biologist let out a long exhale, lips fluttering.
    â€œMy God, did you see that look he gave you? Someone needsto inform him you’re not a damsel. And you’re certainly not in distress.” He squinted at her forehead. “Or are you?”
    â€œI’ve endured worse.”
    â€œYou certainly have.”
    She held his gaze until the aforementioned shaking began, until the tension that had existed prior to the whistle blast reknotted itself. Then she looked out the window. The green curtains were almost perfectly translucent now, the fabric dissolved by the streetlights, the