Rum and Roses
IV: Together and Alone
Anamaria liked rum as much as the next man. More, in fact—she liked it too much. Her love of drink was only one of the many things that left her helpless with rage and shame. She didn't want to rely on liquor. She didn't want to rely on anything. It seemed like too much of a concession to the harsh forces of the world.
Nevertheless, some days the desire for sweetness and oblivion became too strong, and in a ship full of rum such cravings were hard to refuse. She had not been able to sleep after her encounter with Sparrow on deck. She had lain for an hour in her bunk, staring into darkness and listening to the breathing of her cabin mates. It baffled her how they could sleep so soundly, with easy minds and light hearts. She envied them. Her own repose was troubled by images that would not let her rest: Alexander, the stars, the railing on deck, bottles of rum, dark waves, and always, always, always Jack Sparrow. Anamaria was not one to brood, but the irritating insightfulness of Sparrow, the haunting familiarity of his eyes, wove a net around her unwilling, wakeful mind.
After an hour, she left the bunk, troubled by claustrophobia. She took only one thing with her, a small object wrapped in a piece of cloth. The watch acknowledged her with a wave when she stepped on deck. She waved back absently and wandered away along the side of the ship.
She knew where there were a few bottles of rum hidden among the rope coils. It was practically a public stash; everyone knew about it and turned a winking eye. When the bottles were gone, someone always replenished them. The captain let it pass, figuring it would cause less profit loss if he let his crew have a reasonable quota of rum instead of inducing them to steal it. Anamaria rarely took advantage of the cache, but she was in the mood tonight.
She took a bottle and, for lack of a better objective, climbed to the crow's nest. The stars were very bright, the moon pure and luminous. She huddled in the cramped space, soothed by sounds of creaking rope and wood. The ship slept below her, sailing gracefully in the brilliant night. It looked almost femininely beautiful. She marveled at the fact that something so exquisite could be a prison. But it was, and she felt her confined soul yearning for freedom, for vastness, for open spaces where it could expand to its natural breadth.
Despair threatened. For a moment, she felt as if she were falling into an endless black hole, a great nothingness where the tiny spark of her consciousness would be extinguished once and for all. She felt the stifled, solitary fear of life faced with the certainty of death, the fear of living and dying in a trap. The mast seemed like a skewer thrusting her into the blackness of the night sky, the ship an island a million miles below. An hour ago she had desired death. Now she feared both it and its opposite.
Anamaria unstoppered the bottle and took a swig of rum. Its rough heat coursed into her body, driving away the demons of despondency. She mused briefly on the healing powers of alcohol before gulping down half the bottle. Drinking in such a precarious position did not bother her. She had a head for heights, a good liver, and, most importantly, a total disregard for her own safety.
The drink cleared some of the cobwebs of depression from her mind. Humming under her breath, she fiddled with the object she had brought from her bunk. Removing the cloth revealed a small, unadorned mirror. She examined it with deliberate aimlessness, knowing all the while she had carried the thing up here for a reason.
Finally, she sighed and gazed into the innocuous glass. There it was: the inevitable truth, the one she had not wanted to see but could not deny. No wonder Sparrow's eyes had looked so familiar. They were the same as her own. Dark, deep, vivid, vibrant with pain and paranoia and sarcasm, eyes that should belong to madmen, eyes that strove to match the masks of the face and always failed. The recognition was no shock. She had known it all along. They had nothing in common, the two of them, except that mutual thread of sensitivity and depth, stained by the accumulated misery of their secret lives. And that one thing was already too much.
In a fit of resentment, she hurled the mirror away. It flashed in the moonlight before vanishing into the waves. She hoped the sea would get some pleasure out of it. Leaning dangerously into the air, she let the salty breeze sweep her hair back. As she teetered in this position, she caught sight of the subject of her fevered reflections. Apparently, Anamaria and Jack Sparrow had another thing in common: insomnia.
He was sprawled, wide awake, on his back on the deck below, and she knew he had been watching her. For some reason, it didn't bother her this time. Probably because of the rum. Feeling reckless and giddy, she raised one hand and waved slowly with self-destructive joy. The one gesture was enough. It was as if they connected for a split second, and then he was on his feet and climbing the ropes like a monkey.
The crow's nest was not meant for two. Though she had tacitly consented to speak to him, Anamaria balked at touching Jack, so they were forced to stand, leaning slightly away from each other. She offered him the bottle of rum and he took a drink with studied seriousness, as if accepting a medal of honor from a queen.
"Lovely view," he commented after swallowing.
"Yes," she answered. They were looking at each other.
"For those who can appreciate it, of course," he added as an afterthought.
"Like us?"
"Who else, love? Unless, of course, this ship is a secret haven for appreciative philosophers."
Anamaria laughed grimly. "You're a clown, Sparrow." She meant it to be harsh, but it rang more with patient amusement than cruelty.
He affected indignation with a wave of his hand. "The least you could do is call me Jack. Or Captain Jack, if you prefer."
"You're a clown, Captain Jack."
Jack leaned his head back, as if contented with this acknowledgment. The silvery moonlight threw his profile into sharp relief, exposing a half smile. "Reconsidered yet, love?" he asked.
"I don't need your charity," Anamaria said furiously. "This is my ship. I belong here, I have work here, I—I—"
"—you're miserable here," he finished for her. "I may be a clown, but ol' Jack is no fool. You're miserable, and I know just why. No need to scowl at me—I won't say it if you don't want me to. Just be sure I know."
"So what?" she asked sarcastically. "I can look after myself."
Jack didn't reply. She watched him blithely, made bold by rum and despair. With the ship so far below, it seemed as if the two of them were sailing together, alone in the starry night, serenaded by the sea's voice. Together and alone, a truth and a paradox. For no matter how many people she was with, or who they were, Anamaria had always felt alone. Solitude insulated her against fears of all sorts, and in its protective cloak she could face anything. Even Jack Sparrow and his knowing eyes.
Those eyes fixed her benevolently. She saw herself mirrored in them, and him mirrored in hers, and on and on and on. . . . The thought made her dizzy and she gripped the rail reflexively. When the stars stopped spinning, she realized Jack was offering her something. She accepted it, held it in her hand, examined it carefully.
"It's a rose, love," Jack said lightly, "Have you never seen one before?"
It was a rose, or rather an imitation, cleverly twisted out of red cloth. She had indeed seen roses, and this was a fair copy. In the moonlight it looked almost real. No one had ever given her a flower before.
"Some things are beautiful regardless of their surroundings," Jack observed, studying the sky.
Anamaria gazed at the mock rose for another moment before tossing it to the wind. "It's a piece of cloth," she stated flatly.
He cocked his index finger at her. "That depends on how you look at it."
"I'll take a bottle of rum over any number of roses," she retorted, grabbing for the jug and swallowing the dregs.
"Why not both?" he suggested, weaving slightly and painting pictures with his hands, "Excitement and beauty. Adventure and reward. It can all be yours, if you come with me."
Anamaria snorted. "You're not much of a romantic. Money, ships, liquor, women, more money . . . don't you want anything worth having? Why should I leave my ship—my home—to join you? What can you offer me?"
He became suddenly serious, the lines of mockery fading from his face. His eyes, deep and inscrutable, gave a glimpse of the mind and heart usually kept hidden. He replied with one word: "Freedom."
"Freedom! Freedom!" Anamaria laughed, "A toast to freedom!" She tossed the empty rum bottle the way of the rose and mirror, nearly losing her balance in the process. Jack caught her arm to steady her, and the two of them swayed precariously.
"Careful," he said, "You shouldn't be climbing down any time soon, love. Best stay up here with me." A meaningful smile graced his lips, full of teasing humor.
"Up here is the closest I'll ever get to freedom," she giggled painfully.
"Freedom is your own ship," he mumbled, "Freedom is with me. . . . Freedom is the Black Pearl."
"The Black Pearl? Is that her name?"
"Aye, that's it. . . . She's the fastest ship in the world, graceful as a maiden, strong as a warrior, hard as cannonballs. You should see her. Her sails fly like great black clouds with—with lightning! Law-abiding folk shudder at her name. It's the place for you, love. The best pirate ship in the world"
She shook her head in bemusement. "Why are you trying so hard? What do you care about me, anyway?"
He answered with his eyes what he was too canny to express in words. Anamaria did not bother to deny him any more. Rum and sadness had broken down her defenses and inflamed her dormant loneliness. He might be a cad, but he was no less a kindred spirit.
Their lips met, and the stars wheeled around Anamaria's head. The crow's nest swayed—or was it their bodies, drunk with the unexpected joy of having found each other, like a rose floating on the waves? High above the world, with the ocean whispering in her ears and Jack's breath hot on her skin, she felt frightened and liberated at the same time. She teetered on the edge of an abyss, and did not know if she wanted to fall or not.
Neither of them remembered the night watch, alert and attentive on the deck below.
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A/N: Wow, I don't update for a month and then this comes out of nowhere…. Ana, an existentialist? Jack, a romantic? WTF? If anyone knows what's going on here, please inform the author, because she's swaying giddily from some kind of mental crow's nest with a Johnny Depp/Peter O'Toole hybrid and can't think very much right now. But she . . . erm, I hope you enjoyed this chapter despite its strangeness. There are three more chapters and I will finish them! Eventually! Ta ta, mates! Thanks for reading!