The Island of Last Truth Read Free Page B

even on the terrain we believe we have mastered most.
    Since it seems worse to resign himself to dying motionless than to dying while moving, he begins to swim. But beforehand, and as though it matters at all, he calculates in which direction the nearest shore lies. He tries to remember: at the moment of the attack they were seven hundred miles north of Jamestown; Ascension Island was almost six hundred miles southeast of them; it’s clear that the Ivory Coast is closer than Gabon, although the difference between dying six hundred or eight hundred miles off the coast is ultimately irrelevant. Finally he decides: north. He mocks his instinct for survival and settles for thinking that it gives meaning to his every stroke. Giving meaning to things is an inevitable part of human aspiration and now in his situation, alone as never before, if there is a predominant feeling it is, no doubt, that of being profoundly human.
    Hours of sun remain. He will roast before he drowns. He would prefer to die in the water than in fire. He would prefer not to die at all. He tries to imagine he has the boat at his side and he is taking a dip, so he can enjoy one more moment before fear overcomes him. He takes an inventory. He is dressed in a red T-shirt, jeans, and non-slip boating shoes, a genuine irony if he thinks about how little he’ll be able to walk. In his trouser pockets he is carrying a multiuse penknife and a watch with a compass, barometer, thermometer, alarm, and stopwatch on his wrist. He lost his revolver jumping into the water. His sunglasses are still hanging on a cord around his neck. He looks around. Despite realizing it is one of the last images he will ever see, its beauty excites him. He would like to describe to someone the sensation of abundance he is feeling. Suddenly, he understands the here and now.
    By night the water temperature will drop and he will experience slight hypothermia, not enough to kill him. He will die of thirst. A topical thought overpowers him: “Water, water everywhere!” But he knows very well he cannot give in to the temptation: if he drank seawater he would dehydrate much more rapidly. So what? he thinks. Strange, the instinct to cling to life even when you know you have no chance of survival. Under normal conditions it would take between three and five days to die of dehydration. Given the circumstances, it will all be much quicker. Sometimes he had wanted to die. Now he realizes, no. Never. He didn’t know then what it meant to face your own death.
    He keeps swimming. He is not a great swimmer. He doesn’t breathe well, he tires. He does the dead man’s float again. Face up. Then he relaxes into the fetal position. Luckily, from time to time a cloud blocks the sun. He looks at the time. Four o’clock. The time has passed quickly. His hands and feet are wrinkled. His skin itches. He feels a cramp in his legs. He would like to have a nap. He would like to have something to eat. Most of all he would like to have something to drink. Impossible. He is in the corridor of death. He touches the knife in his pocket. The wait is unbearable. He could use it and end it all. Life is not a decision. Death, yes. He grabs the knife, opens it. Vein at the wrist? Jugular? He takes a deep breath.
    He can’t do it. Kill himself. Let death come and take him. Make it hard for her. He has no intention of making her a gift of his life. What has he been thinking? Mathew Prendel is a survivor. This isn’t the first time death has been near. On more than one occasion, when he has distanced himself from the crowds of people that gather on land, when he has gone off to find himself, to feel the freedom of not being in the place assigned to him and is accountable only to himself, the price has been almost losing his life. Time and again he has proven that the only victory the sea concedes is survival. Until now. This will be his final crossing. Now he is alone forever. There is a bitter