Mermaids in Paradise - Lydia Millet (phonics story books txt) 📗

human hybrid. Better safe than sorry, when it comes to human rights. I’m going to call in an anthropologist ASAP. By tomorrow, I guarantee, a colleague from Berkeley will be coming. In the meantime, we can’t leak. Is that one hundred percent understood? The find and its location absolutely cannot be leaked. Mr. Foster’s got some confidentiality agreements I’m going to need you all to sign.”

There was a low rumble of dissatisfaction as Chip, who’d pulled out a sheaf of papers, saluted once again.

“Wait. In return—and this is on the forms too—every single one of you gets an equal share in whatever benefits come from this. Should they accrue. My motive is research and conservation, not profit, I’m telling you flat out. Still, in the event that any revenues do accrue, they will be equally shared. Fair’s fair. I’m putting my name on the same contract as you. Finally, we all get joint credit for the find. Keep in mind, though, we don’t own anything except this video. These mer-people—well, they own themselves. All we have is a story. But it’s an important one. Our story will change the world!”

Nods, respectful signs of assent, a few whispers.

“We’re the custodians of a priceless knowledge, a unique piece of history. Not grubby profiteers who’ll go down in Wikipedia as the destroyers of a race. We don’t want to be the conquistadors. We want to be Charles Darwin.”

“Charles Barkley?” muttered the Fox News spearfisher.

“So until we get the anthropologist onboard—which should be tomorrow if all goes well—no tweets. No social networking sites. No nothing. Anyone who leaks anything forfeits their share of any proceeds or benefits, as well as their credit. Am I crystal-clear here? And the video is embargoed. That contract was signed before we went under at all. OK? Please: Do yourselves a favor. Sign the agreement.”

There were grumbles from the Fox spearfisher and maybe the substitute teacher, but it seemed that all the forms got signed, Nancy collecting them and scanning them with brisk efficiency. I had to hand it to that parrotfish expert—she planned ahead. She had the courage of her convictions.

I saw now, despite the purple, owlish rings the mask had made around her eyes, that she didn’t necessarily have a derelict/unstable aspect after all. Her look was more take-charge than that of a disordered, rootless individual tragically amputated from society. She was mannish, yes, but now I considered how that mannishness might be helping her, in this new, albeit temporary, leadership role. Those eyebrows, with their insectoid appearance, reminded me of Stalin eyebrows, come to think of it. So many despot eyebrows, in the past, had been untrammeled, left to sprout free, and maybe hers were a bow to this authoritarian eyebrow styling. And the faint mustache on her upper lip, the furry rim, that too could be a nod in the direction of Stalin . . . not that she was a despot. I thought her rule was mostly benevolent.

I’m no expert on the discovery of new species, needless to say, but from my amateur perspective—considering we were in completely uncharted mermaid territory—she had a decent grip.

I BARELY RECALL the rest of the day, which turned into a boozefest. Because of the embargo we didn’t want to celebrate in public, so as the afternoon wore on Chip and I found ourselves letting more and more members of the expedition into our cabana—Nancy’s cabana was smaller, since she was on a tighter budget. Before the drinking began, she made calls and confirmed that a first-contact scholar was winging it our way, the Berkeley anthropologist. So there we were, under a gag order, confronted with the existence of beings as improbable as unicorns—hell, more improbable, even.

We waited for the anthropologist.

And while we waited, we blew off some steam. The videographer plugged his camcorder into the cabana’s flat-screen TV and our mermaid footage played across it in a loop, repeatedly; after the first few viewings the guests began to treat the bare-breasted fish/woman as scenery, wandering freely in front of the screen, mingling. As the evening wore on the mermaids seemed to swim among us, or we swum among them: they were there and then gone, with the flick of one tail, the flick of many. They were present, the main one’s face looking at us, and they were gone again, and again, and again. The flat-screen TV was like a massive fish tank in our midst, with various yellow and orange and spotted fish crossing the field of view, passing corals, passing the sunken plane, before the mermaids entered.

Though I knew it was embargoed, and I didn’t plan to share the pic with anyone, I wanted a shot for my records. So I took one, on the sly.

We circulated and talked around the sparse furniture and the dramatic displays of cut flowers, one of us posted as a sentinel at the doorway to make sure the secret video went unseen by others’ eyes. No strangers were allowed. We ordered more and more drinks via room service, through happy hour and into the sadder ones; we ordered individual drinks, then later whole bottles, which arrived on the golf carts with a generous surcharge. The servile young men dismounted from the cart and brought trays to our door.

Once or twice there was a scuffle at the threshold, a member of the party who wanted to smuggle in a loved one or friend. The Heartland man, for instance, was turned away by Nancy for trying to sneak in his wife; I think I hid my pleasure quite smoothly. Later a large man stationed himself outside our door, a large man in a flowery shirt. He was a hotel janitor by day, moonlighting for us in a freelance capacity, Chip told me, as a bouncer. That parrotfish expert had outsourced our security.

I can’t say my fellow party guests were above average, in terms of charisma, intelligence or conversational ability, but I felt like the mermaid sighting was bringing