As Hayes walked away, he wasn't sure he could count on them, but he tried to stay optimistic about Philip's grand plan. He restarted the boat's engines and veered north of Costa Verde to find an adequate drop off point for Vitus and Jenn. As they once more passed by the dinghy carrying the man called Hemingway, Hayes used the opportunity to extend his middle finger.
When the water was too shallow to proceed, Hayes and Philip inflated an emergency raft that was kept on board and took great care to make sure that Jenn, Vitus, and the crate containing the settee could all fit. When all fears were allayed, the antique-dealer and his partner lowered their means of escape into the water with their cargo and paddled toward the shore. Philip and Hayes watched them to make sure they didn't run into any problems and then turned Bess back toward deeper waters to reach the rendezvous point at Costa Verde.
"Let's get ready," Philip said to Hayes.
"I've gotta know something, Phil. Do you trust me?" asked Hayes.
"What are you talking about? You know I do."
"It's just that last night when Hemingway came aboard, I was the one on watch. You were supposed to be sleeping at the time. Now don't get me wrong, thank God you were awake, or we'd all be floating face down right about now. And I know I ain't as young as I used to be, but I just wish you'd told me is all. To any other man, it'd seem like you don't have any faith in me."
"I couldn't sleep, all right?" said Philip. "Is this really the best time to talk about this?"
"Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't. I know you, kiddo. I know you have a hard time trusting anyone but yourself, but you've gotta trust me. Especially right now."
"Sure," said Philip. "But let me remind you that my apparent mistrust saved us all."
"I can live with that," said Hayes with a shrug. "Just seems to me like a bad moral of the story."
"The moral of the story is: don't go looking for morals where there are none to be found."
"Fair enough."
"Anything else you'd like to discuss before we start shooting?" Philip asked.
"Not unless you can recommend me some good postcolonial novels," said Hayes as he alternated between loading a shotgun and a rifle. "I've had the itch for some reactionary literature lately."
Vitus and Jenn lugged the crate as they wandered further inland. The entire coastline around Costa Verde appeared to be private land, so as of yet, they'd had no luck in finding anything remotely resembling transportation. After a half mile of carrying, stumbling, and cursing, they came to what appeared to be a dirt road and decided to follow it.
The dirt road led to a gravel road, and the gravel road led to a paved road. The paved road, in turn, began to develop painted lines--both dashed and solid. This new development excited them, and though they made sure to stay off the road proper just in case anyone took an interest in the crate they were hauling, they trudged along even faster than before--also due, in no small part, to the small, pain-inducing rocks that had recently left their shoes.
It wasn't much longer until they reached signs that civilization was near and finally caught a glimpse of something on the road ahead that filled them with joy and hope--that shining bastion of humanity known as the strip mall. They had never been so happy to see one in their entire lives. Thinking back on this moment later, they would also realize that it was the only time they had ever been happy to see one. And there, just beyond the chain coffee house and the discount tobacco outlet was a moving truck rental center. The red sign baring the name HaulIt stood before them, inviting them, welcoming them closer.
"Do you have any money?" asked Vitus.
Jenn checked the pockets of her heavy coat and was surprised to find her wallet exactly where she had left it--surprised because this felt like exactly the kind of moment when one would reach for his or her wallet, only to find it missing.
"I have a credit card," she replied.
Vitus looked at her and smiled. They had found their transportation. They both agreed that Jenn should be the one to rent the truck mainly because she was the only member of their party who was completely unknown to anyone who would be looking for them. While a name like Vitus Bethel might set off bells at some unseen enemy's hideaway, the name Jenn Korova was not even a blip on the radar.
While he waited in the parking lot with his crate, Vitus wondered if Philip would have handled the situation any differently. Renting a truck for a planned getaway did seem a bit absurd, so he simply assumed that Philip would have stolen one, using some trick he'd learned in Jacobi's employ (of which there seemed to be many). In fact, Vitus had been thinking about Philip a lot lately, mainly because the former realized he was nothing at all like the latter. Vitus had always dreamed about being an adventurer, and here he'd found a real life one, of sorts, who was cool and confident and without any of the quirks that defined the sort of person Vitus was. In fact, he felt a bit threatened.
Jenn had noticed this as well. "Are you jealous?" she had asked him earlier as they hauled the crate along the dirt road.
"Of what? His blond hair and blue eyes and chiseled physique? No, not at all!" he replied. He was, of course, being sarcastic.
"So, what? Do you think I'm going to fall for him or something?"
"No, I didn't say that. Well, maybe."
"Relax. He may look like he was sculpted by Michelangelo, but there's something about him that's just so unsettling. He's cold and distant. Not exactly my type," said Jenn.
"And am I?"
Jenn shrugged. "Eh."
It occurred to Vitus that Jenn greatly enjoyed tormenting him. He didn't mind, though. In fact, he found it quite endearing, and while he stood by the crate, mulling over his increasingly complex love life, he barely noticed when a moving truck whipped around him and parked. Jenn jumped from the truck and helped Vitus load the crate into the back.
"I'll drive," she said.
"Shotgun!" Vitus pointlessly yelled, and as he climbed into the passenger seat he realized that though the life he'd adopted was agonizing and nerve-wracking, he was also having more fun than he'd had in years. It was as if he was a child again, and all the instinctive playfulness inherent therein came flooding back. Jenn had noticed the change as well. He was not the same Vitus Bethel that took care to not wear the same color suit two days in a row or sat quietly as she rambled on about her yoga class every morning. This was a man who had seen danger and was not completely destroyed by it. It was a quality she admired and one that brought them closer together.
"Okay," she said. "So where are we going?"
"I have no idea."
"What do you think?" Hayes asked. His back was braced up against a large, metal crate on the dock, and bullets pelted both the opposite side of the crate and the ground around him. He pumped the shotgun in his hands and swung it around the edge of the crate, blasting in the direction of the trucks to give Philip cover for more carefully aimed and accurate shots, but the gunmen were hunkered down behind the trucks cautiously.
"I don't know," said Philip. He slouched down behind a crate of his own and reloaded his twin pistols.
"I'm just saying that while your definition of postcolonialism is technically accurate, the connotations go beyond literature that deals strictly with newly independent nations struggling to eke out a new identity," said Hayes. He took aim at the second truck and blasted away again, this time successfully blowing out a tire and sending the gunman behind it scurrying for more cover while his companions retaliated.
"And I'm not disagreeing with that," said Philip, his words momentarily muffled as he fixed a makeshift bandage that he wrapped around his cut hand and pulled tight with his teeth. "I'm just saying that it happens to be set after India achieved its independence. Roy practically beats you over the head with the events of the History House corresponding to various points in the struggle of the nation to find its identity, but the caste system plays an enormous, pivotal role. You can't tell me that discussing an institution that was so important and damaging during British Imperial rule doesn't constitute postcolonial theory."
"I'll give you that," said Hayes. "Cover me. I'm coming over."
Philip stepped out from behind his crate, and his guns blazed. He fired at both trucks simultaneously, sending a shower of sparks across the field of battle. Hayes took the opportunity to dash from behind his crate to Philip's.
"I guess I'm just saying that Achebe went and spoiled me," said Hayes.
"Then why'd you even ask for recommendations?" asked Philip. "Just read Achebe."
Hayes sighed. "Yeah, I suppose you're right," he said. "You about ready to end this?"
"Almost," said Philip. A small wooden box sat at his feet, well away from the line of fire. He opened it up and pulled out two grenades, handing one to Hayes and keeping the other for himself. "I think we've given Vitus and Jenn enough time. On the count of three. One, two, THREE!"
They launched their grenades high into the air, each took a different path. Philip's sailed left, behind the truck with the bright blue cab, and Hayes' went right, behind the truck with the white and red cab. The gunmen were flushed out as the grenades exploded shrapnel all around them, and Philip and Hayes leapt out to meet their enemies with a hail of gunfire.
When Vitus and Jenn pulled up to the dock, it looked as if a war had taken place there, and, in fact, one had. Two large tractor-trailers were ablaze, and the bodies of several unidentified men littered the ground. For that brief moment, the hearts of both the antique-dealer and his partner ceased their beating at the horror around them, only to come racing back to life as the blood continued its merry circulation through their bodies. They had no idea how to react, whether they should get out of the truck or stay in it, whether they should leave immediately and find some quiet place to settle down, preferably a villa somewhere between Paris and Vienna.
Philip and Hayes strolled up to them with smiles on their faces, and immediately, Vitus and Jenn both began questioning the company they kept. They had guns in their hands and carried several large and apparently heavy bags, at least one of which carried many more guns. Hayes nodded as he took in the sight of the rented moving truck before him.
"Not bad, kids," he said. "Not bad."
Philip simply stared approvingly. He approached the driver's side, where Jenn still sat, and tapped on the window. Jenn quickly rolled it down.
"Follow that road," said Philip, pointing at a paved strip that wound off to the east. "It'll take us straight to the manor."
Then Philip and Hayes opened the rear door, hopped inside, and closed it back, and the crew of a fishing boat named Bess rode away in a truck, which Hayes inexplicably also named Bess. The road was narrow but not long. They saw large, extravagant wrought iron gates in front of them that opened to another private drive, but beyond that was nothing. There was no manor or house or anything that could remotely be called a home. Instead, there was only rubble and ash and blackened bits of wood. Once upon a time, there had been a beautiful manor at the place called Costa Verde, but now it was burned to the ground. It and Aristotle Jacobi were gone.
When the water was too shallow to proceed, Hayes and Philip inflated an emergency raft that was kept on board and took great care to make sure that Jenn, Vitus, and the crate containing the settee could all fit. When all fears were allayed, the antique-dealer and his partner lowered their means of escape into the water with their cargo and paddled toward the shore. Philip and Hayes watched them to make sure they didn't run into any problems and then turned Bess back toward deeper waters to reach the rendezvous point at Costa Verde.
"Let's get ready," Philip said to Hayes.
"I've gotta know something, Phil. Do you trust me?" asked Hayes.
"What are you talking about? You know I do."
"It's just that last night when Hemingway came aboard, I was the one on watch. You were supposed to be sleeping at the time. Now don't get me wrong, thank God you were awake, or we'd all be floating face down right about now. And I know I ain't as young as I used to be, but I just wish you'd told me is all. To any other man, it'd seem like you don't have any faith in me."
"I couldn't sleep, all right?" said Philip. "Is this really the best time to talk about this?"
"Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't. I know you, kiddo. I know you have a hard time trusting anyone but yourself, but you've gotta trust me. Especially right now."
"Sure," said Philip. "But let me remind you that my apparent mistrust saved us all."
"I can live with that," said Hayes with a shrug. "Just seems to me like a bad moral of the story."
"The moral of the story is: don't go looking for morals where there are none to be found."
"Fair enough."
"Anything else you'd like to discuss before we start shooting?" Philip asked.
"Not unless you can recommend me some good postcolonial novels," said Hayes as he alternated between loading a shotgun and a rifle. "I've had the itch for some reactionary literature lately."
***
Vitus and Jenn lugged the crate as they wandered further inland. The entire coastline around Costa Verde appeared to be private land, so as of yet, they'd had no luck in finding anything remotely resembling transportation. After a half mile of carrying, stumbling, and cursing, they came to what appeared to be a dirt road and decided to follow it.
The dirt road led to a gravel road, and the gravel road led to a paved road. The paved road, in turn, began to develop painted lines--both dashed and solid. This new development excited them, and though they made sure to stay off the road proper just in case anyone took an interest in the crate they were hauling, they trudged along even faster than before--also due, in no small part, to the small, pain-inducing rocks that had recently left their shoes.
It wasn't much longer until they reached signs that civilization was near and finally caught a glimpse of something on the road ahead that filled them with joy and hope--that shining bastion of humanity known as the strip mall. They had never been so happy to see one in their entire lives. Thinking back on this moment later, they would also realize that it was the only time they had ever been happy to see one. And there, just beyond the chain coffee house and the discount tobacco outlet was a moving truck rental center. The red sign baring the name HaulIt stood before them, inviting them, welcoming them closer.
"Do you have any money?" asked Vitus.
Jenn checked the pockets of her heavy coat and was surprised to find her wallet exactly where she had left it--surprised because this felt like exactly the kind of moment when one would reach for his or her wallet, only to find it missing.
"I have a credit card," she replied.
Vitus looked at her and smiled. They had found their transportation. They both agreed that Jenn should be the one to rent the truck mainly because she was the only member of their party who was completely unknown to anyone who would be looking for them. While a name like Vitus Bethel might set off bells at some unseen enemy's hideaway, the name Jenn Korova was not even a blip on the radar.
While he waited in the parking lot with his crate, Vitus wondered if Philip would have handled the situation any differently. Renting a truck for a planned getaway did seem a bit absurd, so he simply assumed that Philip would have stolen one, using some trick he'd learned in Jacobi's employ (of which there seemed to be many). In fact, Vitus had been thinking about Philip a lot lately, mainly because the former realized he was nothing at all like the latter. Vitus had always dreamed about being an adventurer, and here he'd found a real life one, of sorts, who was cool and confident and without any of the quirks that defined the sort of person Vitus was. In fact, he felt a bit threatened.
Jenn had noticed this as well. "Are you jealous?" she had asked him earlier as they hauled the crate along the dirt road.
"Of what? His blond hair and blue eyes and chiseled physique? No, not at all!" he replied. He was, of course, being sarcastic.
"So, what? Do you think I'm going to fall for him or something?"
"No, I didn't say that. Well, maybe."
"Relax. He may look like he was sculpted by Michelangelo, but there's something about him that's just so unsettling. He's cold and distant. Not exactly my type," said Jenn.
"And am I?"
Jenn shrugged. "Eh."
It occurred to Vitus that Jenn greatly enjoyed tormenting him. He didn't mind, though. In fact, he found it quite endearing, and while he stood by the crate, mulling over his increasingly complex love life, he barely noticed when a moving truck whipped around him and parked. Jenn jumped from the truck and helped Vitus load the crate into the back.
"I'll drive," she said.
"Shotgun!" Vitus pointlessly yelled, and as he climbed into the passenger seat he realized that though the life he'd adopted was agonizing and nerve-wracking, he was also having more fun than he'd had in years. It was as if he was a child again, and all the instinctive playfulness inherent therein came flooding back. Jenn had noticed the change as well. He was not the same Vitus Bethel that took care to not wear the same color suit two days in a row or sat quietly as she rambled on about her yoga class every morning. This was a man who had seen danger and was not completely destroyed by it. It was a quality she admired and one that brought them closer together.
"Okay," she said. "So where are we going?"
"I have no idea."
***
"What do you think?" Hayes asked. His back was braced up against a large, metal crate on the dock, and bullets pelted both the opposite side of the crate and the ground around him. He pumped the shotgun in his hands and swung it around the edge of the crate, blasting in the direction of the trucks to give Philip cover for more carefully aimed and accurate shots, but the gunmen were hunkered down behind the trucks cautiously.
"I don't know," said Philip. He slouched down behind a crate of his own and reloaded his twin pistols.
"I'm just saying that while your definition of postcolonialism is technically accurate, the connotations go beyond literature that deals strictly with newly independent nations struggling to eke out a new identity," said Hayes. He took aim at the second truck and blasted away again, this time successfully blowing out a tire and sending the gunman behind it scurrying for more cover while his companions retaliated.
"And I'm not disagreeing with that," said Philip, his words momentarily muffled as he fixed a makeshift bandage that he wrapped around his cut hand and pulled tight with his teeth. "I'm just saying that it happens to be set after India achieved its independence. Roy practically beats you over the head with the events of the History House corresponding to various points in the struggle of the nation to find its identity, but the caste system plays an enormous, pivotal role. You can't tell me that discussing an institution that was so important and damaging during British Imperial rule doesn't constitute postcolonial theory."
"I'll give you that," said Hayes. "Cover me. I'm coming over."
Philip stepped out from behind his crate, and his guns blazed. He fired at both trucks simultaneously, sending a shower of sparks across the field of battle. Hayes took the opportunity to dash from behind his crate to Philip's.
"I guess I'm just saying that Achebe went and spoiled me," said Hayes.
"Then why'd you even ask for recommendations?" asked Philip. "Just read Achebe."
Hayes sighed. "Yeah, I suppose you're right," he said. "You about ready to end this?"
"Almost," said Philip. A small wooden box sat at his feet, well away from the line of fire. He opened it up and pulled out two grenades, handing one to Hayes and keeping the other for himself. "I think we've given Vitus and Jenn enough time. On the count of three. One, two, THREE!"
They launched their grenades high into the air, each took a different path. Philip's sailed left, behind the truck with the bright blue cab, and Hayes' went right, behind the truck with the white and red cab. The gunmen were flushed out as the grenades exploded shrapnel all around them, and Philip and Hayes leapt out to meet their enemies with a hail of gunfire.
***
When Vitus and Jenn pulled up to the dock, it looked as if a war had taken place there, and, in fact, one had. Two large tractor-trailers were ablaze, and the bodies of several unidentified men littered the ground. For that brief moment, the hearts of both the antique-dealer and his partner ceased their beating at the horror around them, only to come racing back to life as the blood continued its merry circulation through their bodies. They had no idea how to react, whether they should get out of the truck or stay in it, whether they should leave immediately and find some quiet place to settle down, preferably a villa somewhere between Paris and Vienna.
Philip and Hayes strolled up to them with smiles on their faces, and immediately, Vitus and Jenn both began questioning the company they kept. They had guns in their hands and carried several large and apparently heavy bags, at least one of which carried many more guns. Hayes nodded as he took in the sight of the rented moving truck before him.
"Not bad, kids," he said. "Not bad."
Philip simply stared approvingly. He approached the driver's side, where Jenn still sat, and tapped on the window. Jenn quickly rolled it down.
"Follow that road," said Philip, pointing at a paved strip that wound off to the east. "It'll take us straight to the manor."
Then Philip and Hayes opened the rear door, hopped inside, and closed it back, and the crew of a fishing boat named Bess rode away in a truck, which Hayes inexplicably also named Bess. The road was narrow but not long. They saw large, extravagant wrought iron gates in front of them that opened to another private drive, but beyond that was nothing. There was no manor or house or anything that could remotely be called a home. Instead, there was only rubble and ash and blackened bits of wood. Once upon a time, there had been a beautiful manor at the place called Costa Verde, but now it was burned to the ground. It and Aristotle Jacobi were gone.
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