The Nautical Chart Part 10

"It was turned into a barracks, then into a prison. Finally they demolished it, and all that's left is a couple of old walls and an arch. This arch."

She turned back and again contemplated the dark, low vault. "What is it you're looking for?" he asked. He heard her soft laugh, very quiet, in the shadows that veiled her face.

"You already know that. The Dei Gloria." Dei Gloria."

"I don't mean that. Or treasures or any of that... I'm asking what you're you're looking for." looking for."

He waited for an answer but none was forthcoming. She was silent, immobile. On the other side of the arch the headlamps of an automobile lit a stretch of the street before driving on. For a moment, the brightness outlined her face against the dark wall.

"You know what I'm looking for," she said finally.

"I don't know anything." He sighed.

"You know. I've seen you look at my building. I've seen you look at me."

"You don't play fair." "Who does?"

She moved as if she was going to walk away, but instead she stopped still. She was one step away from him, and he could almost feel the warmth of her skin.

"There's an old riddle," she added after a silence. 'Are you good at solving riddles, Coy?"

"Not very."

"Well, I am. And this is one of my favorites. There's an island. A place inhabited by only two kinds of people-knights and knaves. The knaves always lie and deceive, the knights never do You get the situation?"

"Of course. Knights and knaves. I understand."

'All right. Well, one inhabitant of that island says to another: 'I will lie to you and I will deceive you.' Understand? I will lie to you and I will deceive you. And the question is, who is speaking? Knight or knave? Which do you think?''

Coy was puzzled.

"I don't know. I'd have to think about it." "Fine." She stared at him hard. "Think about it." She was still very dose. Coy felt a tingling in his fingertips. His voice sounded hoa.r.s.e.

"What do you want of me?"

"I want you to answer the riddle."

"That isn't what I'm talking about."

Tanger tilted her head to one side.

"I need help." She looked away. "I can't do it alone."

"There are other men in the world."

"Maybe." There was a long pause. "But you have certain virtues."

"Virtues?" The word confused him. He tried to answer, but found that his mind was blank. "I think..."

He stood there, mouth half open, frowning in the darkness.

Then Tanger spoke again. "You're no worse than most men I know."

After a brief pause, she added, 'And you're better than some."

This isn't the conversation, he thought, irritated. This wasn't what he wanted to hear at the moment, nor was it what he wanted to talk about. In fact, he decided, he didn't want to have a conversation at all. Better just to be standing beside her, sensing the warmth of her freckled flesh. Better to stand in the shelter of their silence, though silence was a language Tanger controlled much better than he did. A language she had spoken for thousands of years.

He turned, making sure she was watching him. He glimpsed navy-blue glints beneath the pale splash of hair. 'And what is it that you want, Coy?" "Maybe I want you."

A long silence this time, as he discovered it was much easier to say this in the penumbra that covered their faces and muted their voices. It was so easy that he'd heard his words before he'd thought of speaking them, and all he felt afterward was faint surprise.

"You are too transparent," she whispered.

She said it without moving back, standing firm even when she saw him inch forward and slowly lift a hand toward her face. She spoke his name as you would a warning; like a small cross or blue dot on the white of a nautical chart. Coy, she said. And then she repeated: Coy. He moved his head, to one side then the other, very slowly and very sadly.

"I'll go with you to the end," he said.

"I know."

Just as he was about to touch her hair, he looked over her shoulder and froze. He saw a small, vaguely familiar silhouette beneath the arch at the end of the alley. It stood there waiting, tranquil. Then the headlights of another automobile flashed down the street, the shadow slid from wall to wall beneath the arch, and Coy easily recognized the melancholy dwarf.

VII.

Ahab's Doubloon And so they'll say in the resurrection, when they come to fish up this old mast, and find a doubloon lodged in it HERMAN MELVILLE MELVILLE, Moby-d.i.c.k Moby-d.i.c.k When the waiter at the Terraza set his beer on the table, Horacio Kiskoros raised it to his lips and took a prudent sip, watching Coy out of the corner of his eye. Foam whitened his mustache. "I was thirsty," he said.

Then he surveyed the plaza with satisfaction. The cathedral was lighted now, and the white towers and the large cupola over the transept stood out against the dark sky. People were strolling under the palm trees and sitting on tables on nearby terraces. Some young people were drinking beer on the steps beneath the statue of Fray Domingo de Silos. One was playing a guitar, and the music seemed to attract Kiskoros, who from time to time observed the group and moved his head in time, his air nostalgic.

"A magnificent night," he added. magnificent night," he added.

Coy had learned his name only fifteen minutes before, and it was difficult to believe that the three of them were sitting there drinking like old friends. In that brief span of time the melancholy dwarf had acquired a name, an origin, and a character of his own. Argentine by nationality, he was called Horacio Kiskoros, and he had, as he said as soon as it was possible to do so, an urgent matter to present to the lady and gentleman. All the details did not surface immediately, for his unexpected appearance under the Guardia-marinas arch had preceded a reaction by Coy even the most favorable witness would have qualified as violent. To be exact, when the sliding shadow in the headlights had allowed Coy to recognize who it was, he had marched straight toward him without missing a beat, not even when he heard Tanger, at his back, call his name. "Coy, please. Wait."

He hadn't waited. In truth, he didn't want to wait, or know any reason why the h.e.l.l he should wait, why he should do anything other than exactly what he did do: walk eight or ten steps, adrenaline pumping, take several deep breaths along the way, grab the little man by the lapels and shove him against the nearest wall, under the yellow light of a street lamp. He needed desperately to do that, and to smash the man's face before he got away from him as he had at the service station in Madrid. Which is why, ignoring Tanger, he lifted the dwarf onto his tiptoes and, pinning him to the wall with one hand, he raised the other, making a fist. Between the gleam of gelled hair and the thick black mustache, a pair of dark protruding eyes stared at him intently. He didn't resemble a pleasant little frog now. There was surprise in those eyes, Coy thought. Even pained reproach.

"Coy!" Tanger called again.

Hearing the click of a switchblade, low and to his left, he glanced down, and saw the reflection of naked steel dose to his side. An uncomfortable thrill shot through his groin; a knife-thrust upward, at such dose quarters, was the worst way to end this. In such a situation the definitive argument would normally be Anchors aweigh! with a no-return ticket. But others had tried to knife Coy before, so before reflecting on this turn of events, he had instinctively jumped back and chopped down on the other's arm, as if a cobra had leaped from his pocket. "Come and get it, a.s.shole," he said.

Naked fists against a knife; that had a good sound. Of course he was bluffing, but he was angry enough to see it through. He had whipped off his jacket the way Tuc.u.man Torpedoman had taught him once in Puerto Principe, wrapping it a couple of times around his left arm, waiting for his adversary, crouched, the arm with the jacket held out to protect his belly and the other poised to deliver a knockout punch. He was furious, and he felt the muscles of his shoulders and back knot, tense and hard, with his blood pounding rhythmically through his veins. Just like the old days.

"Come and get it," he repeated. "So I can bust your b.a.l.l.s."

The dwarf was holding the switchblade aloft, his eyes glued on Coy, but he seemed uncertain. With his short stature, his hair and clothing disheveled, his skin pale in the yellow light, he was somewhere between sinister and grotesque. Without the knife, Coy decided, he wouldn't have a chance. He watched as this nameless so-and-so straightened his jacket and ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it back. He put his weight on one foot, then the other, rose up to his full height, and lowered the hand with the knife.

"Let us negotiate," he said.

Coy measured the distance. If he could get close enough to kick him in the groin, the dwarf wouldn't feel like negotiating with his own wh.o.r.e of a mother. He moved a little to the side and his opponent stepped back, prudent. The blade shone in his hand.

"Coy," said Tanger.

She had come up behind him, and now was at his side. Her voice was serene.

"I know him," she added.

Coy gave a quick nod, without taking his eyes from the little man, and in the same instant kicked with all his strength; the man with the knife escaped the worst because he had antic.i.p.ated Coy's move and scooted backward to get out of range. Even so, he took a vicious. .h.i.t on the knee, stumbled, and spun around, catching himself against the wall. Coy seized the opportunity to go on the attack, first with the arm wrapped in the jacket, then with a punch that struck his adversary at the base of the neck, dropping him to his knees. "Coy!"

The cry increased his rage. Tanger tried to grab his arm, but he shook her off roughly. Go to h.e.l.l. Someone had to pay, and this guy was the right person. Later she could say whatever she wanted, explanations he wasn't sure he wanted to hear. As long as he was fighting, there was no opportunity for words, so he kicked the so-and-so a second time, but he slithered round in an impossibly small s.p.a.ce, and Coy felt the knife slice like lightning against the jacket-wrapped arm. He had underestimated the dwarf, he realized suddenly. He was quick, the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And very dangerous. So he retreated two steps and caught his breath, sizing up the situation. Easy does it, sailor. Calm down or not even a can of spinach will get you out of this one. Forget that he's small; any man, no matter how short, is tall enough to sever an artery. And besides, on one occasion he'd seen a real dwarf, an authentic Scots dwarf) sink his teeth into the ear of an enormous stevedore and hang on like a leech as his victim ran screaming down the dock in Aberdeen, unable to shake him off. So caution is the watchword, he told himself. There's no enemy, short though he may be, and no knife that can't f.u.c.k you for good. He was panting for breath, and between inhaling and exhaling he could hear the other man breathing hard. Then he saw him hold up the knife, as if to show it to him, and slowly raise his left hand, palm open, in a conciliatory gesture.

"I bring a message," the dwarf said.

"Well, you can stick it up your a.s.s."

The dwarf's head moved slightly. You don't seem to hear what I'm saying, the gesture said.

"A message from Senor Palermo."

So that was it. A meeting of old acquaintances. The social club of seekers of lost ships was complete. That explained a few things, but muddied others. He breathed once, twice, and took a step toward his adversary, fist c.o.c.ked again, ready to strike.

"Coy."

Suddenly Tanger stepped in front of him, blocking his way, and stared straight into his eyes. She was dead serious, hard as he'd never seen her. He opened his mouth to protest, but then just stood there with a stupid expression. A man in a fog. Indecisive, because she was touching his face the way someone tries to calm a raging animal, or a child that is beside itself. And over her shoulder, through the gold tips of her hair, he saw the melancholy dwarf closing the knife blade.

COY didn't touch his beer. With his jacket over his shoulders, his hands in his pockets, and leaning back in his chair, he watched the man seated across from him drink. "I was thirsty," the man repeated. didn't touch his beer. With his jacket over his shoulders, his hands in his pockets, and leaning back in his chair, he watched the man seated across from him drink. "I was thirsty," the man repeated.

They were on the way from the alley to the plaza, after Tanger had restrained Coy and he had finally yielded, mechanically, with the sensation of moving through a surreal mist. The melancholy dwarf had again smoothed his hair and straightened his clothing. Except for a slight rip in the upper pocket of his jacket, which he had discovered with pained eyes and an accusing look, he appeared respectable again, if a lirde eccentric, his own southern European and bizarrely English composite.

"I have a proposal from Senor Palermo. A reasonable proposal."

His Argentine accent was so strong it seemed affected. Horacio Kiskoros, he had said once the streams were back within their banks. Horacio Kiskoros, at your service. He'd said that with a nod of the head, and in a courteous tone completely free of irony, as he and Coy were getting their breath back. He expressed himself in the scrupulous and slightly anachronistic Spanish spoken by some Latin Americans, using words that on the eastern side of the Atlantic sounded old-fashioned. He had said "at your service" as he was checking his disordered clothes and adjusting the bow tie that had twisted to one side in his contortions. Beneath his jacket he was wearing strange suspenders with stripes that were white down the middle and blue on each side.

"Serior Palermo wishes to reach an accord."

Coy turned to Tanger. She had walked with them without saying a word. He was aware that she was avoiding looking at him, at the face she had touched for the first time only a few minutes before, perhaps to escape giving the inevitable explanations.

'An accord," Kiskoros reiterated, "with terms that are reasonable for everyone." He studied Coy and pointed toward his nose with his thumb to remind Coy of the scene at the Palace. "With no hard feelings."

"No reason to have an agreement with anyone about anything."

Tanger had spoken at last, as if her voice were filtered through ice cubes, Coy observed. She was looking directly into Kiskoros s sad, protruding eyes, her right hand resting on the table. The stainless-steel watch lent an unexpectedly masculine flavor to the long fingers with the short, rough nails.

"That is not what he believes," the Argentine replied. "He has access to resources you lade technical equipment, experience____ Money."

A waiter brought a platter of squid a la romana a la romana and fried roe, and the mdancholy dwarf said thank you with impeccable good manners. and fried roe, and the mdancholy dwarf said thank you with impeccable good manners.

'A lot of money," he repeated, examining the contents of the platter with interest.

'And what does he expect in return?"

Kiskoros had taken a fork and was delicately spearing a cirde of squid.

"You have done a lot of research." He chewed the mouthful with delight, but didn't speak until his mouth was empty. "You have valuable facts. Is that not true? Details that Senor Palermo has not as yet acquired. That has led him to believe that a partnership would be advantageous for both parties."

"I don't trust him," said Tanger.

"Nor does he trust you. You can work together."

"I don't even know what I'm looking for."

Kiskoros seemed to be hungry. He had tried the roe, and now returned to the squid between sips of beer. For an instant he half-turned, listening to the guitar music from the steps of the cathedral, then smiled, pleased.

"Perhaps you know more than you think you do," he said. "But those are details you should discuss with him. I am merely a messenger, as you are aware."

Coy, who until that point had not opened his mouth, spoke to Tanger.

"How long have you known this jerk?"

She took exactly three seconds to turn toward him. The hand on the table had closed into a fist. She lifted it slowly from the table and put it in her lap.

"For some time," she said calmly. "The first time Palermo threatened me, Kiskoros was with him."

"That is true," Kiskoros confirmed.

"He has been using him to pressure me."

"That too is true."

Coy ignored the Argentine. He was hanging on her words.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Tanger s sigh was audible.

"You agreed to play by my rules."

"What else haven't you told me?"

She stared at the table, and then at the plaza. Finally she turned toward Kiskoros again.

"What does Palermo propose?"

'A meeting." The Argentine looked at Coy before going on, and Coy thought he detected a gleam of irony in the frog eyes. "To negotiate. On terms you consider suitable. He is currently in his office in Gibraltar." He took a card from his pocket and pushed it across the table. "You can find him there."

Coy got to his feet. He left his jacket on the back of his chair and, without looking at either of them, walked across the plaza in the direction of the cathedral steps. His brain was buzzing, and in a rage he squeezed his fists in his pockets. Without planning it, he ended up near the group of young people with the guitar. There were two girls and four boys, almost surely students. The one with the guitar was thin, with gypsy good looks and a cigarette smoldering at the corner of his mouth. One of the girls was following the beat of the music, swaying in place, her hand on his shoulder. The other focused on Coy, smiling, and handed him a bottle of beer. He took a drink, thanked her, and stood there, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He then sat down on the steps. The guitarist was not accomplished, but the melody sounded fine at that hour of the night in the half-empty plaza, with the palm trees and the lights of the cathedral overhead. Coy stared at the ground. Tanger and Kiskoros had left the table in the bar and were approaching the plaza. She had Coy's jacket doubled over her arm. Sweet Jesus, he thought. I'm up to my neck in G.o.dd.a.m.n s.h.i.t.

'A beautiful city," said Kiskoros, smiling at the young people. "It reminds me of Buenos Aires."

Tanger was silent, standing beside Coy. He did not get up.

"I believe you are a sailor, is mat not correct?" the melancholy dwarf asked. "I, too, was a sailor. The Argentine Navy. Retired CPO Horatio Kiskoros." His brow furrowed with nostalgia, as if listening to a distant, familiar sound he could not recapture. "I was also in the Malvinas, with the amphibious commandos."