The Journal: Memoirs of a Jarvis Levitt

<b>The Journal: Memoirs of a Jarvis Levitt and a Ruben Dawe</b>

<i>“Irony is Fate’s forgiveness”</i>
-Old Adage

Fate, that supposed rudder which guides our ship-like bodies during their peregrinations of the Sea of Time, is a very curious thing. So elusive has it been in my life that until very recently I had held in viselike grip the opinion that it was not but a supremely wrong-headed view ascribed to -or rather suffered by- those people residing at either pole of the spectrum of success and sorely lacking in sagacity; that Fate was none other than a sobriquet for what could be considered her sibling: Chance. Recently, however, a most peculiar occurrence has caused me to re-evaluate my former skepticism.

I am a fairly young man, yet in my third decade, and as such I am still free of the various restraints and obligations that tend to bind a man later in life. Capitalizing on this freedom last summer, I resolved to vacation for a few weeks in Bali (being a citizen of Brisbane, Australia, this is not so terribly uncommon). The excursion, while very enjoyable, was not so remarkable, that is, uniquely remarkable (any individual who visits another nation finds the culture and people intriguing, but this is of an ordinary sort from which I wish to differentiate), save for one singular experience, which I mean to relate herein.

One mid-morning while in Ubud I decided, upon finishing my meal at a café ARMA, to peruse the market. I am a habitual journalist and had filled up the last page of my blue notebook the day previous. My inquiry for a fresh volume at the markets was answered with clothing and vegetables for quite some time until finally, after having made my way some distance south from the main crossroads, I posed the question to a young antique dealer (I was nearly desperate by this time) who informed me that he did indeed have a journal in his collection.

A few minutes passed while I waited for him to retrieve the object after which he returned and produced a very old, green-backed book which had evidently sustained a great deal of water damage. I brought this to his attention in an attempt to coerce him to reduce the cost and in so doing almost lost the book altogether. He withdrew the notebook and in its stead put forth a very elaborate narration depicting the astonishingly circuitous way in which the volume had come into his hands. Unfortunately, I can not recall many of the details but essentially he stated that the book had come all the way from Guinea and that it had changed hands several times in transit (and also that the book was old).

Being very desperate, I quickly gave a mostly intelligible (both the man’s English and my Balinese were limited), ingratiating apology and stated that I had only made an observation and meant nothing at all by it. This seemed to partially dispel the affront I had inflicted upon him and following some further dialogue he again offered the book to me. I was, of course, at a great disadvantage in haggling and so was constrained to pay him the entirety of what he asked –approximately four-hundred thousand rupiahs.

Beginning my ambulation back, I could not help but feel dismayed, and not a little irked at having been so forced to purchase a journal of such poor quality at such an exorbitant price. It had not, however, yet occurred to me that there may be some valuable traits or desirable attributes of the book which had otherwise compelled the dealer to charge thusly. In this state of mind, consumed by less than congenial thoughts towards the man and his country, I absent mindedly flipped open the journal to have a look at it only to discover that it had manifestly been previously used.

Initially galled by the sight of the writing already contained within, as it meant there were fewer pages for my own use, I began to read through the entries. I continued thus, walking and reading without comprehending for both several dozen paces and a handful of sentences before I abruptly stopped short. The content of the journal had arrested my attention so completely that I could not help but pause other physical activities. Standing in the midst of the street enraptured, I read through the entirety of the journal, discovering just how valuable the book was and just how fortunate I was for having stumbled across it. The subsequent portion of this document consists of the journal’s contents, which I have enclosed for your enjoyment.

<i>Jarvis Levitt Thursday 2nd March 1890</i>
What an utterly miserable few nights these last three have been. Though this is my first entry, and may itself prove to be in vain (such is the damage caused to this journal by our driftings at sea), this does not mean that today marks the first occurrence worthy of note: far from it. I suppose I should and will now begin properly, even though clarifying recent events herein for other eyes seems to me completely laughable (the chances of someone learning of our circumstances from this journal in time to save us from our plight are difficult to imagine).
In short, we are the stranded victims of shipwreck. While passing through the Torres Strait, the Quetta, upon which we were passengers, struck a rock or some such on the night of the twenty-eighth and Ruben and myself were thrown over the railings of the deck to drift among the pitch and throw of the sea until this morning. Washing up upon this bleak, ashen beach (there appears to have been an extensive fire very recently), inexorably brought a tenuous wonderment as to whether I was still among the living, which was in turn directly followed by more substantial thoughts concerning the apparent exchange of purgatories we had been so fortuitously graced with (I could not help but grin wryly).
When we awoke several hours ago the subject of our future course of action was broached. Ruben argued, rather obstreperously, that we should go in search of food, but I maintained that we should remain near the shore to accommodate rescue and he eventually relented. We have no way of ascertaining what happened to the Quetta and the other members of her crew, but judging by the severity of impact that night, she will undoubtedly require rescue which, logically, would extend to the surrounding area. I am not certain how far we drifted but surely we must still be within the proximity that a search would extend to. I here exclude the possibility that the entire crew could have perished (it stretches the imagination to think that of over three hundred crewmembers, we alone would survive).

<i>Jarvis Levitt Friday 3rd March 1890</i>
What I would give for a hot, hearty meal and some cold water! Whoever it was that said something can not truly be appreciated until its absence has been known was the wisest man to walk this earth. Ruben and I found some driftwood with which to heat rocks and thereby steam some saltwater into our clothes for drinking, but this hot mouthful of liquid does little to alleviate the growing thirst and hunger that have become our merciless third and fourth companions. Food and water occupy most of my waking thoughts, and my resolution to stay here by the seashore is beginning to waver. Ruben has become very contemplative and we speak very little, I do not begrudge him for it though, the surroundings are as dreary as the circumstances. I hope we are rescued soon.

<i>Jarvis Levitt Saturday 4th March 1890</i>
I have been reflecting with bitter amusement upon the change in our business prospects. Yesterday denoted two weeks since we left port aboard the Querra. Such intrepid surety we had when we set out for embarked for London from Brisbane! We joked with each other about taking the first boat back such would be our immediate financial success. If our present situation is to be indicative of our future as business partners, then perhaps I should formally absolve the relationship now!
I am now aware that I failed to consider the length of time a rescue ship would take to reach us when I made my obstinate decision that we remain by the shore. I suppose I should not dwell upon my foolishness too much now as such thoughts will only cause me to feel more rueful. Ruben has surpassed contemplativeness and sunk into what I can only describe as a deep, brooding melancholy. We have not spoken for two days.

<i>(This next entry is written in a slightly shakier hand than those previous)
Jarvis Levitt Monday 6th March 1890</i>
I have tarried in recording this because I felt it was too horrible and preposterous a notion to put on paper, but I fear my dreadful suspicions may be accurate. I believe that Ruben, in order to satiate his share of the gnawing hunger we both feel, intends to eat me. Even now, as I finally write this down, he silently stares and watches me from across the fire. Oh, my hand shakes! I try to avoid looking at him; his eyes are filled with what is unmistakably –and quite disturbingly- lust. I am afraid to sleep.

<i>Ruben Dawe Wednesday 8th March 1890</i>
Jarvis Levitt is dead. I killed him last night after he finally succumbed to sleep and made a meal of his thigh muscle immediately thereafter. His other thigh I ate only moments ago. I’m not sure what to do with the rest of his body as I can not preserve it and I will not be able to eat all of it before it begins to rot. I suppose I shall leave it where it is and go search inland for more food.

<i>Ruben Dawe Friday 10th March 1890</i>
In my reckless haste to locate sustenance and get as far from that despicable ashen waste of a beach as possible, I stumbled into a village of tree-dwelling aborigines. Fortunately, these natives appear to be friendly, in fact, they have taken it upon themselves to personally attend to my convalescence.

<i>Ruben Dawe Sunday 12th March 1890</i>
The beneficence and generosity of these natives has no bounds! I have been given my own tree-house to lie in, an unlimited supply of food (a tapioca like mush that, while infinitely better than nothing, is perhaps a bit tasteless), and attendants to answer my every beck and call. I can not help but feel some remorse at my previous repugnant deed and the terrible demeanor I showed to my late friend in light of the sheer abundance of food and the congenial conduct of the natives towards myself, a complete stranger to them. I find myself almost wishing that someone would discover the body and so relieve me of a life haunted by self-loathing, even if I must then be subject to the requisite dire consequences.

<i>Ruben Dawe Tuesday 14th March 1890</i>
I have been ruminating some more about my future prospects and the highly unpleasant situation I will face should I return to Australia. Undoubtedly, I will be required to explain Jarvis’ fate to his family, or rather some fabrication thereby pertaining should I wish to remain alive. Such cold-blooded deceit, however, may be beyond my abilities; my conscience wracks me constantly. The image of his mother’s face, strangled with despondency and grief, has been plaguing my thoughts.
Yet it is not the grief or sorrow that she will exhibit upon my explanation that bothers me so, but the pity she will show me. I have spoken to Jarvis’ mother for only a handful of minutes, yet I know that, such is her sympathetic and kind-hearted nature, she will feel as much sorrow (and, worse yet, sympathy) on her son’s behalf as she will for me; me who unfeelingly took her son’s life and lies to her face. I could not withstand that, to return is impossible. These natives though, they are kind enough, perhaps I will remain and become part of their tribe; the life they live, while mundane, is comfortable enough, and they certainly do seem eager to accept me.
Finally, something which may be unimportant, I include it only out of whimsy; I have been feeling slightly ill as of this morning. A mild ache of the stomach comprises the worst of it and I do not think much of it. Still, I have heard gruesome tales of foreign diseases and, as such, I can not help but feel a bit of discomfiture at my recollections of them.

<i>This last entry is undated and consists of one word hastily scrawled across the page by a shaky hand which is as follows: </i>CANNIBALS!