The Nautical Chart Part 18

He shrugged again when he finished, and she kept looking at him the same way The navy-blue eyes were focused on his lips.

"You were what you wanted to be," she said.

Her voice was still a pensive whisper. Coy turned up the palms of his hands.

"I was Jim Hawkins, then I was Ishmael, and for a while I even thought I was Lord Jim- Later I learned that I was never any of them. That relieved me in a certain way. Like being freed of some annoying friends. Or witnesses."

He gave one last look at the bare walls. Dark shadows waved to him from upstairs-women in mourning talking in the waning light of late afternoon, an oil lamp before the figure of the Virgin, the soothing d.i.c.k of bobbins making lace, a black leather trunk with silver initials, and the aroma of tobacco on a white mustache. Engravings of ships under full sail among the crisp pages of a book. I fled, he thought, to a place that no longer existed from a place that no longer exists today. Again he smiled, at emptiness.

'As El Piloto is known to say, never dream with a hand on the wheel."

Tanger had said nothing after hearing that, and said nothing now. She had taken out the pack bearing the likeness of Hero and slowly lit a cigarette, holding the box in her hands, as if that bit of colored cardboard consoled her for her own ghosts.

THEY ate ate michirones michirones and fried eggs and potatoes in the Posada de Jamaica, on the far side of the old calle Ca.n.a.les tunnel. El Piloto joined them there, his hands stained with grease, and said that the sounding equipment was installed and was working well. There was a hum of conversation, tobacco smoke collecting in gray strata beneath the ceiling, and in the background, on the radio, Rodo Jurado was singing, and fried eggs and potatoes in the Posada de Jamaica, on the far side of the old calle Ca.n.a.les tunnel. El Piloto joined them there, his hands stained with grease, and said that the sounding equipment was installed and was working well. There was a hum of conversation, tobacco smoke collecting in gray strata beneath the ceiling, and in the background, on the radio, Rodo Jurado was singing, "La Lola se va a los puertos." "La Lola se va a los puertos." The old eating house had been refurbished, and instead of the oildoth table coverings Coy remembered from a lifetime ago, there was now new linen and cutlery, as well as tiles, decorations, and even paintings on the walls. The clientele was the same, especially at noon-people from the neighborhood, stonemasons, mechanics from a nearby repair shop, and retirees drawn by the family-style, reasonably priced meals. At any rate, as he told Tanger, serving her more Sangria, the name of the place alone made it worth coming. The old eating house had been refurbished, and instead of the oildoth table coverings Coy remembered from a lifetime ago, there was now new linen and cutlery, as well as tiles, decorations, and even paintings on the walls. The clientele was the same, especially at noon-people from the neighborhood, stonemasons, mechanics from a nearby repair shop, and retirees drawn by the family-style, reasonably priced meals. At any rate, as he told Tanger, serving her more Sangria, the name of the place alone made it worth coming.

As El Piloto peeled a mandarin for dessert, they worked out the search plan. They would cast off early the next morning so they could begin to comb the zone by mid-morning. The initial search sector would be established between 120' and 122' W and 3731.5' and 3732.5'N. They would start on the outside of that one-mile-long, two-mile-wide rectangle, working from deepest to shallowest in decreasing soundings, beginning with one hundred sixty-five feet. As Coy pointed out, starting farther off the coast meant it would take longer, as they gradually came closer to land, for the Carpanta's Carpanta's movements to be noticed. At a speed of two or three knots, the Pathfinder would allow them to make detailed soundings of parallel tracks some one hundred sixty-five to two hundred feet in width. The area of exploration would be divided into seventy-four of those tracks, so that, counting the time lost in maneuvering, it would take an hour to run each one, and dghty to cover the complete area. That placed the hours of real work time at about a hundred or a hundred and twenty, and they would need ten or twelve days to cover the search area. If and as weather allowed. movements to be noticed. At a speed of two or three knots, the Pathfinder would allow them to make detailed soundings of parallel tracks some one hundred sixty-five to two hundred feet in width. The area of exploration would be divided into seventy-four of those tracks, so that, counting the time lost in maneuvering, it would take an hour to run each one, and dghty to cover the complete area. That placed the hours of real work time at about a hundred or a hundred and twenty, and they would need ten or twelve days to cover the search area. If and as weather allowed.

"The forecast looks good," said El Piloto. "But I figure we'll lose a few days."

"Two weeks," Coy calculated. 'At a minimum."

"Maybe three."

"Maybe."

Tanger was listening attentively, elbows on the table and fingers under her chin.

"You said we would attract attention from land- Would that raise suspicions?"

'At first, I don't think so. But as we work our way closer, maybe. This time of year people are already coming to the beach."

"There are also fishing boats," El Piloto pointed out, with a segment of mandarin in his mouth. 'And Mazarr6n's pretty close."

Tanger looked at Coy. She had picked up a piece of peel from El Piloto's plate and was tearing it into little pieces. The aroma perfumed the table. "Is there some way we can justify what we're doing?"

"I suppose so. We can be fishing, or looking for something we've lost."

'A motor," El Piloto suggested.

"That's it. An outboard motor that dropped off. It's to our advantage that El Piloto and the Carpanta Carpanta are well known in the are well known in the area, and don't attract much attention_________ As for what happens ash.o.r.e, that won't present any problems. We can tie up one night in Mazarr6n, another in Aguilas, sometimes in Cartagena, and the rest of the time drop anchor outside the area. There's nothing strange about a couple renting a boat for two weeks of vacation."

He was joking when he said that, but Tanger didn't seem to find it amusing. Or maybe it was the word "couple." She tilted her head, the mandarin peel still in her hands, considering the situation.

'Are there patrol boats?" she asked without emotion.

"Two," El Piloto answered. "Customs and the Guardia Civil."

Coy explained that the Customs HJ generally operated at night, and concentrated on contraband. They didn't need to worry about them. As for the Guardia, their a.s.signment was to watch the coast and enforce the laws regarding fishing. The Carpanta Carpanta wasn't their affair in principle, but there was always the possibility that when they saw them there day after day, they'd come and nose around. wasn't their affair in principle, but there was always the possibility that when they saw them there day after day, they'd come and nose around.

"The good thing is that El Piloto knows everyone, including the Guardias. Things have changed now, but when he was young he worked with some of them a little. You can imagine-blond tobacco, liquor, a percentage of the profits." He looked at El Piloto with affection. "He always found a way to make a living."

El Piloto made a fatalistic and wise gesture, ancient as the sea he sailed, the heritage of countless generations of adverse winds.

"Live and let live," he said simply.

Coy had accompanied him once or twice in those days, taking on the role of cabin boy in clandestine nocturnal outings near Cabo Tinoso or over toward Cabo de Palos, and he remembered the episodes with the excitement appropriate to his youth. In the dark, waiting for lights from a slowing merchant ship that stopped just long enough to lower a couple of bales to the deck of the Carpanta. Carpanta. Boxes of American tobacco, botdes of whiskey, j.a.panese electronics. Then the return trip in the black of night, maybe unloading the smuggled goods in a quiet cove, transferring it to the hands of shadows that waded out in water up to the chest. For the boy Coy was then, there was no difference between that and what he'd read, which was enough to justify the adventure. From his point of view, those pages of Boxes of American tobacco, botdes of whiskey, j.a.panese electronics. Then the return trip in the black of night, maybe unloading the smuggled goods in a quiet cove, transferring it to the hands of shadows that waded out in water up to the chest. For the boy Coy was then, there was no difference between that and what he'd read, which was enough to justify the adventure. From his point of view, those pages of Moonfleet Moonfleet and and David Balfour David Balfour and and The Golden Arrow The Golden Arrow and all the others-waiting for a burst of gunfire in the dark remained for a long time his deepest yearning-were pretext enough. The fact was that later, when they got back to port and threw an innocent line to be tied to the bollard, there was always a Guardia Civil or minor coast guard official waiting to collect the lion's share. After paying the bribe, what was left for El Piloto, after risking his boat and his freedom, was barely enough to get him to the end of the month. Live and let live. But there's always someone who's living better than you are. Or at the cost of others. Once, in the Taibilla bar, as they were eating and all the others-waiting for a burst of gunfire in the dark remained for a long time his deepest yearning-were pretext enough. The fact was that later, when they got back to port and threw an innocent line to be tied to the bollard, there was always a Guardia Civil or minor coast guard official waiting to collect the lion's share. After paying the bribe, what was left for El Piloto, after risking his boat and his freedom, was barely enough to get him to the end of the month. Live and let live. But there's always someone who's living better than you are. Or at the cost of others. Once, in the Taibilla bar, as they were eating bocadillos, bocadillos, someone took El Piloto aside and proposed a more involved venture, going out on a moonless night to meet a fishing boat coming from Morocco. Pure Ketama, he said. One hundred pounds. And that, the guy explained in a low voice, would earn a thousand times what El Piloto got from his little night excursions. From their table, sandwich in hand, Coy watched El Piloto listen carefully. Then he finished his beer and casually set the empty gla.s.s on the counter before punching the man all the way to the door and throwing him out on calle Mayor. someone took El Piloto aside and proposed a more involved venture, going out on a moonless night to meet a fishing boat coming from Morocco. Pure Ketama, he said. One hundred pounds. And that, the guy explained in a low voice, would earn a thousand times what El Piloto got from his little night excursions. From their table, sandwich in hand, Coy watched El Piloto listen carefully. Then he finished his beer and casually set the empty gla.s.s on the counter before punching the man all the way to the door and throwing him out on calle Mayor.

Tanger paid for their meal and they left. The temperature was pleasant, so they strolled in the direction of the Murcia gates and the old city. There was a marine standing motionless at the white door of the harbormaster's office-the same building, Tanger commented, in which the ship's boy of the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria had been questioned. They also saw the blinking green lights of bored taxi drivers waiting at the Mariola theater, and people sitting around on cafe terraces. Every once in a while Coy saw a familiar face, exchanged a silent nod of the head, or said hi, see you later, without any intention of seeing anyone later, or ever, or even of getting an answer. He no longer had anything in common with anyone here. He saw a boyhood sweetheart, now a respectable matron with two children holding hands and one in a baby buggy, accompanied by a husband with gray, thinning hair, whom Coy remembered vaguely as an old schoolmate. As she went by, her face showed no sign of recognition in the glow of the postmodern streetlights that cluttered the sidewalks. But you know me all right, he thought, amused. LWUTSYWSYN: Law of Who Used To See You and Who Sees You Now. Me waiting at the gate of San Miguel, our hands brushing in the Cafe Mastia. That impromptu bash one New Year's Eve at your house when your parents were out of town: had been questioned. They also saw the blinking green lights of bored taxi drivers waiting at the Mariola theater, and people sitting around on cafe terraces. Every once in a while Coy saw a familiar face, exchanged a silent nod of the head, or said hi, see you later, without any intention of seeing anyone later, or ever, or even of getting an answer. He no longer had anything in common with anyone here. He saw a boyhood sweetheart, now a respectable matron with two children holding hands and one in a baby buggy, accompanied by a husband with gray, thinning hair, whom Coy remembered vaguely as an old schoolmate. As she went by, her face showed no sign of recognition in the glow of the postmodern streetlights that cluttered the sidewalks. But you know me all right, he thought, amused. LWUTSYWSYN: Law of Who Used To See You and Who Sees You Now. Me waiting at the gate of San Miguel, our hands brushing in the Cafe Mastia. That impromptu bash one New Year's Eve at your house when your parents were out of town: Je t'aime, moi non plus, Je t'aime, moi non plus, couples embracing in the near dark as Serge Gainbourg and Jane Birkin held forth on the record player. The dark corner, and your brother's bed with a Madrid Ati6tico pennant pinned to the wall with thumbtacks, and the fit your father had when he returned unexpectedly to break up the party and found us all playing doctor. Of couples embracing in the near dark as Serge Gainbourg and Jane Birkin held forth on the record player. The dark corner, and your brother's bed with a Madrid Ati6tico pennant pinned to the wall with thumbtacks, and the fit your father had when he returned unexpectedly to break up the party and found us all playing doctor. Of course course you know me. you know me.

"The search phase," he said, "concerns me less than what happens if we do find the Dei Gloria. Dei Gloria. In that case, even if we mask what we're doing by coming and going, just being in that spot day after day will make us more suspicious." He turned to Tanger. "What I don't know is how long we can carry that off." In that case, even if we mask what we're doing by coming and going, just being in that spot day after day will make us more suspicious." He turned to Tanger. "What I don't know is how long we can carry that off."

"I don't either."

They had gone up calle Del Aire as far as the Del Macho tavern. The steps of La Baronesa hill ascended toward the ruins of the old cathedral and Roman theater, past openings to narrow streets, few of which remained but whose layout was indelible in Coy's memory. Farther on were the barrios of the port workers and fishermen crowded together below the castle, with wash strung from balcony to balcony. The neighborhood was run-down now, occupied by African immigrants who stared at them, hostile or complicitous, from every corner. Good hash, lady. Jus' here from Morocco. Beneath old iron window grates filled with flowerpots, cats slipped along the walls like commandos on a night raid. From nearby bars came the mingled smells of wine and fried sardines, and a solitary wh.o.r.e paced like a bored sentinel beneath a little lighted niche containing a figure of La Virgen de la Soledad.

"In order to locate the bow and the stern, you'll have to take measurements of the wreck and compare them with the plans," said Tanger. "And then zero in on the place where the captain's cabin should be. Or what's left of it."

'And what if it's buried?"

"Then we'll leave and come back with the necessary equipment."

"You're the boss." Coy avoided meeting El Kioto's eyes, which he could feel boring into him. "Whatever you say."

The Del Macho tavern wasn't called that any longer, nor did it smell of olives and cheap wine, but the old bar was still there, along with the dark oak barrels and the look of an old wine cellar that Coy remembered. El Piloto was drinking Fundador cognac, and the naked woman tattooed on his forearm moved lasciviously every time his muscles contracted to raise his gla.s.s. Coy had seen those blue lines fade with the pa.s.sage of time. El Piloto had it done when he was very young, during a visit of the Canarias Canarias in Ma.r.s.eilles, and then been down with a fever for three days. Coy himself had nearly been tattooed in Beirut, when he was serving as third officer on the in Ma.r.s.eilles, and then been down with a fever for three days. Coy himself had nearly been tattooed in Beirut, when he was serving as third officer on the Otagp. Otagp. He'd chosen a very pretty winged serpent from the designs the artist had exhibited on the wall. But once his bare arm was extended and the needle ready to touch his skin, he thought better of it. So he put ten dollars on the table and left with his arm untouched. He'd chosen a very pretty winged serpent from the designs the artist had exhibited on the wall. But once his bare arm was extended and the needle ready to touch his skin, he thought better of it. So he put ten dollars on the table and left with his arm untouched.

"There's another minor hitch," he said. "Nino Palermo. He's bound to have someone around here watching us. It wouldn't surprise me if he let us do the searching and then showed up the minute we locate the ship."

He drank a sip of his Sapphire gin and tonic, letting it slip, cool and aromatic, down his throat. He could still taste the salt from his nocturnal bath.

"That's a risk we have to take," she said.

Between her thumb and index finger she was holding a gla.s.s of muscatel she'd scarcely tasted. Coy watched her over the lip of his gla.s.s. He was thinking about the .357 magnum. He'd gone through her luggage, cursing in a low voice, without finding it. He was prepared to throw it into the sea, but all he found were notebooks, sungla.s.ses, clothes, and a few books. As well as a box of tampons and a dozen cotton panties.

"I hope you know what you're doing."

He'd glanced at El Piloto before he spoke to her. It was best if the old sailor didn't know about the revolver, because he was not going to be happy about having weapons on the Carpanta. Carpanta. Not happy at all. Not happy at all.

"I've done fine so for," Tanger replied glacially. "You two take care of finding the ship, and let me worry about Palermo."

She has a card or two up her sleeve, Coy told himself. The little -b.i.t.c.h has cards up her sleeve that no one knows about but her. Otherwise she wouldn't be so sure of herself when it comes to that d.a.m.n Dalmatian. I'll bet my boots she's already considered everything-possible, probable, and watch out! The problem is knowing which one I figure in.

"There's one other matter." There were only a few customers now, and the tavern keeper was at the other end of the counter, yet he lowered his voice before he spoke. "The emeralds."

"What about them?"

In El Piloto's eyes Coy read that his friend was thinking the same thing: If you decide one day to play poker, try not to play with her. Even if you've been playing a long time.

"Let's suppose they show up," he answered. "And that we find the chest. Is it true what Palermo said? That you've thought about where to take them? That they'll have to be cleaned, or whatever? And that it will require a specialist?"

She frowned. She looked at El Piloto out of the corner of her eye.

"I don't think this is the time..."

Coy pounded his fist on the counter. His irritation was building, and this time he didn't bother to hide it.

"Look, El Piloto is in this up to his eyebrows, just like you and me. He's gambling his boat, and trouble with the law. You have to guarantee him_____ "

Tanger lifted one hand. Mine tremble sometimes, Coy thought. In fact, mine are trembling nearly all the G.o.dd.a.m.n time. And look at her.

"What I've promised you justifies the risk for the time being. Later, with the emeralds, we will all be well compensated and happy."

She had emphasized the all, all, turning to Coy with a hard expression. He was once again wondering how many pieces she had used to construct her personality, as she lifted the muscatel to her lips, barely moistening them, and set it back on the counter. She held her head to one side, as if considering the advisability of whether to add something. Veronica Lake, Coy thought, admiring the asymmetrical curtain covering half her face. Tanger had mentioned turning to Coy with a hard expression. He was once again wondering how many pieces she had used to construct her personality, as she lifted the muscatel to her lips, barely moistening them, and set it back on the counter. She held her head to one side, as if considering the advisability of whether to add something. Veronica Lake, Coy thought, admiring the asymmetrical curtain covering half her face. Tanger had mentioned The Maltese Falcon, The Maltese Falcon, but Kim Basinger in but Kim Basinger in L.A. Confidential L.A. Confidential was more like it, a movie he had seen two hundred times in the video room of the was more like it, a movie he had seen two hundred times in the video room of the Fedallah. Fedallah. Or Jessica Rabbit in Or Jessica Rabbit in Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Who Framed Roger Rabbit. I'm not bad. I'm just drawn that way. I'm not bad. I'm just drawn that way.

"Regarding the emeralds," Tanger added after a minute, "I can only tell you that there is a buyer. I spoke with him, as Palermo told you____ Someone will come here to take charge of them as soon as we bring them up. With no further negotiations or complications." Again she paused and stared defiantly at them both. "With plenty of money for everyone."

It wasn't going to be easy, Coy sensed, looking at her freckles. Or, to be more exact, he knew knew it wasn't going to be easy. They were still on that island of knights and knaves, and the last knight had been dead and buried for centuries now. His preserved skull still showed the befuddled grin of a fool. it wasn't going to be easy. They were still on that island of knights and knaves, and the last knight had been dead and buried for centuries now. His preserved skull still showed the befuddled grin of a fool.

"Money," he repeated mechanically, little convinced.

He wrinkled his nose before looking questioningly toward El Piloto, who was listening with apparent indifference. After a moment he saw him half-close his eyes, agreeing.

"I'm getting old," El Piloto commented. "The Carpanta Carpanta barely pays for herself, and I've never paid any Social Security contribu- barely pays for herself, and I've never paid any Social Security contribu- tions___ I'd buy a little motorboat, and take my grandson out fishing on Sundays."

He almost smiled, and stroked his gray stubble. His grandson was four years old. Whenever they went out hand in hand around the port, the boy scrupulously kept count of the beers El Piloto drank, following his grandmother's orders, and then tattled when they got home. It was a stroke of luck that he'd only learned to count to five.

"You'll buy your boat, Piloto," said Tanger. "I promise you."

She grasped his forearm spontaneously. An almost masculine gesture of camaraderie. Precisely, Coy observed, on the faded tattoo of the naked woman.

LIKE the stutterings of a hoa.r.s.e guitar, the first notes of "Lady, Be Good" stippled the lights of the city reflected in the ink-black water between the the stutterings of a hoa.r.s.e guitar, the first notes of "Lady, Be Good" stippled the lights of the city reflected in the ink-black water between the Carpanta's Carpanta's stern and the dock. Little by little, the cla.s.sic swing of ba.s.s chords was interwoven with the intricate entrances of the rest of the instruments-the trumpets of Killian and McGhee, the solos of Arnold Ross at piano, and Charlie Parker on alto. Coy listened to it all intently, headphones to his ears, watching the luminous dots on the water as if the notes flooding his head had materialized on that oily black surface. Parker's sound, he decided, was saturated with alcohol, and shirtsleeves reeking of tobacco smoke, and vertical clock hands plunged like knives into the belly of the night. That melody, like the others, had the taste of a port of call, of women sitting alone at the far end of a bar. Of silhouettes reeling beside garbage cans, and red, blue, and green neon lighting the red, blue, and green half-faces qf faltering, drowsy drunks. The simple life, h.e.l.lo and good-bye, with no complication but what the stomach and bowels could take, here I catch you and here I kill you. No time to court the princess of Monaco: Oh, my word, mademoiselle, how beautiful you are, allow me to invite you to have a cup of tea, I too read Proust. Which was why Rotterdam and Antwerp and Hamburg had p.o.r.no movies, topless bars, mercenary madonnas knitting on the other side of sheer-curtained show windows, cats with a philosophical air observing Crew Sanders pa.s.s by, zigzag from sidewalk to sidewalk, vomit Black Label oil of turpentine, to kill time while waiting to return to vibrating steel plates, wrinkled sheets in your berth, and the ashen light of dawn filtering between the curtains at the porthole. Ta-da-da-da. Dong. Ta-da-da. The alto of Charlie Parker kept underlining the absence of commitment, the almost autistic nature of the theme. It was like the ports of Asia, Singapore and all the others, when you were outside the harbor, riding the anchor with the sh.o.r.e beyond the gunnel on which you're leaning, waiting for the launch with Mama Sans girls and their lively, birdlike trills as they come on board, aided by the third officer, with Mama San chalking up accounts on the door of each cabin like a waiter on his marble bar: one x, one girl, two x's, two girls. Fragile, accommodating, satin-skinned girls, with malleable thighs and obedient mouths. No problem, sailor, h.e.l.lo and good-bye. You just haven't done it, the Tuc.u.man Torpedoman once said, until you've done it here with three at a time. You never saw a depressed sailor when Asia or the Caribbean lay at the bows between the eyes of the hawseholes. But Coy had seen men crying like babies when headed in the opposite direction, simply because they were going home. stern and the dock. Little by little, the cla.s.sic swing of ba.s.s chords was interwoven with the intricate entrances of the rest of the instruments-the trumpets of Killian and McGhee, the solos of Arnold Ross at piano, and Charlie Parker on alto. Coy listened to it all intently, headphones to his ears, watching the luminous dots on the water as if the notes flooding his head had materialized on that oily black surface. Parker's sound, he decided, was saturated with alcohol, and shirtsleeves reeking of tobacco smoke, and vertical clock hands plunged like knives into the belly of the night. That melody, like the others, had the taste of a port of call, of women sitting alone at the far end of a bar. Of silhouettes reeling beside garbage cans, and red, blue, and green neon lighting the red, blue, and green half-faces qf faltering, drowsy drunks. The simple life, h.e.l.lo and good-bye, with no complication but what the stomach and bowels could take, here I catch you and here I kill you. No time to court the princess of Monaco: Oh, my word, mademoiselle, how beautiful you are, allow me to invite you to have a cup of tea, I too read Proust. Which was why Rotterdam and Antwerp and Hamburg had p.o.r.no movies, topless bars, mercenary madonnas knitting on the other side of sheer-curtained show windows, cats with a philosophical air observing Crew Sanders pa.s.s by, zigzag from sidewalk to sidewalk, vomit Black Label oil of turpentine, to kill time while waiting to return to vibrating steel plates, wrinkled sheets in your berth, and the ashen light of dawn filtering between the curtains at the porthole. Ta-da-da-da. Dong. Ta-da-da. The alto of Charlie Parker kept underlining the absence of commitment, the almost autistic nature of the theme. It was like the ports of Asia, Singapore and all the others, when you were outside the harbor, riding the anchor with the sh.o.r.e beyond the gunnel on which you're leaning, waiting for the launch with Mama Sans girls and their lively, birdlike trills as they come on board, aided by the third officer, with Mama San chalking up accounts on the door of each cabin like a waiter on his marble bar: one x, one girl, two x's, two girls. Fragile, accommodating, satin-skinned girls, with malleable thighs and obedient mouths. No problem, sailor, h.e.l.lo and good-bye. You just haven't done it, the Tuc.u.man Torpedoman once said, until you've done it here with three at a time. You never saw a depressed sailor when Asia or the Caribbean lay at the bows between the eyes of the hawseholes. But Coy had seen men crying like babies when headed in the opposite direction, simply because they were going home.

He looked up, focusing on something on the other side of the quay. The crew of a Swedish sailboat were having dinner in the c.o.c.kpit, by the light of a lamp where nocturnal moths were circling dizzily. From time to time, despite the music, he would catch a few loud words, or a laugh. They were all blond and size XXL, with tiny children who tottered around the deck naked during the daytime, connected by harnesses to the manropes. Blondes like one he remembered, a pilot of the port of Stavanger whom he'd met when the Monte Pequeno Monte Pequeno spent two months there. She was the Nordic beauty you see in photographs and films, tall and substantial, a thirty-four-year-old Norwegian woman with the rank of captain in the Merchant Marine. She had confidently climbed the sea ladder from the launch in open water, leaving all the men on the bridge breathless, and then maneuvered the ship into the fjord in perfect English, directing the tugs with a walkie-talkie while don Agustin de la Guerra stared at her out of the comer of his eye and the helmsman stared at him. Stop her. Dead slow ahead. Stop her. A little push now. Stop. Afterward she drank a gla.s.s of whiskey and smoked a cigarette with the captain, before Coy, who at the time was a cadet of twenty-two, accompanied her to the gangway. An athlete in canvas pants and a heavy red anorak who smiled at him before she left. So long, officer. He ran into her three days later, while the crew of the tanker was going crazy over the dream-girl Scandinavians, in the Ensomhet, a well-appointed and sad bar by the red houses on the Strandkaien dock, which was filled with men and women for whom a spree meant drinking for hours without saying a word, like stupefied tunas, until they tied on a 9mm Para-bellum drunk. He'd gone into the bar by chance, and she-there with a bearded, impa.s.sive Norwegian who looked as if he'd recently been paid off from a Viking spent two months there. She was the Nordic beauty you see in photographs and films, tall and substantial, a thirty-four-year-old Norwegian woman with the rank of captain in the Merchant Marine. She had confidently climbed the sea ladder from the launch in open water, leaving all the men on the bridge breathless, and then maneuvered the ship into the fjord in perfect English, directing the tugs with a walkie-talkie while don Agustin de la Guerra stared at her out of the comer of his eye and the helmsman stared at him. Stop her. Dead slow ahead. Stop her. A little push now. Stop. Afterward she drank a gla.s.s of whiskey and smoked a cigarette with the captain, before Coy, who at the time was a cadet of twenty-two, accompanied her to the gangway. An athlete in canvas pants and a heavy red anorak who smiled at him before she left. So long, officer. He ran into her three days later, while the crew of the tanker was going crazy over the dream-girl Scandinavians, in the Ensomhet, a well-appointed and sad bar by the red houses on the Strandkaien dock, which was filled with men and women for whom a spree meant drinking for hours without saying a word, like stupefied tunas, until they tied on a 9mm Para-bellum drunk. He'd gone into the bar by chance, and she-there with a bearded, impa.s.sive Norwegian who looked as if he'd recently been paid off from a Viking drakkar drakkar-recognized him as the young man from the gangway of the tanker. Hey, Spanish boy, Shorty, she said in English. Then she smiled and invited him to have a drink. An hour later, the impa.s.sive Viking was still leaning on the bar, as far as Coy knew, while he, naked and soaked with sweat despite the early morning air blowing through a window open to the fiord and the snowy mountains towering over the sea, was making an all-out a.s.sault on the awesome broad-shouldered woman with muscular thighs, whose light eyes stared at him from the dark as her lips, when Coy's mouth left them free, emitted strange whispers in a barbaric tongue. Her name was Inga Horgen, and for the two months the Monte Pequeno Monte Pequeno was in Stavanger, Coy, envied by everyone from the boy in the scullery to the captain, spent every free minute with her. From time to time they drank beer and aquavit with the impa.s.sive Viking, who never objected when the woman stepped back from the bar with gleaming eyes and a slight imprecision in her walk, and Shorty, the "Spanish boy," took off in the company of that Valkyrie nearly nine inches taller than he was. With her he got to know the Lyse Fjord and Bergen, was in Stavanger, Coy, envied by everyone from the boy in the scullery to the captain, spent every free minute with her. From time to time they drank beer and aquavit with the impa.s.sive Viking, who never objected when the woman stepped back from the bar with gleaming eyes and a slight imprecision in her walk, and Shorty, the "Spanish boy," took off in the company of that Valkyrie nearly nine inches taller than he was. With her he got to know the Lyse Fjord and Bergen, koldtbord, a koldtbord, a few intimate words in Norwegian, and certain useful secrets about female anatomy. He even learned to think he was in love, and that not every woman takes the trouble, or the precaution, to fall in love first. He also learned that sometimes, when you get close enough and pay attention, the woman without her mask, whose half-open eyes wander absently across the ceiling as you open a way into her depths, wears the face of all the women who have inhabited the earth over the centuries. Finally, one night when there was a problem on board and he went ash.o.r.e later than usual, young Spanish Shorty went directly to the house of black logs and white windows and there found the impa.s.sive Viking as drunk as he always was in the bar, the only difference being that this time he was naked. She was too, and she looked at Coy with a fixed and indifferent smile, hazy with alcohol, before speaking words that never reached his ears. Maybe she said "come," maybe she said "go." He slowly closed the door and returned to his ship. few intimate words in Norwegian, and certain useful secrets about female anatomy. He even learned to think he was in love, and that not every woman takes the trouble, or the precaution, to fall in love first. He also learned that sometimes, when you get close enough and pay attention, the woman without her mask, whose half-open eyes wander absently across the ceiling as you open a way into her depths, wears the face of all the women who have inhabited the earth over the centuries. Finally, one night when there was a problem on board and he went ash.o.r.e later than usual, young Spanish Shorty went directly to the house of black logs and white windows and there found the impa.s.sive Viking as drunk as he always was in the bar, the only difference being that this time he was naked. She was too, and she looked at Coy with a fixed and indifferent smile, hazy with alcohol, before speaking words that never reached his ears. Maybe she said "come," maybe she said "go." He slowly closed the door and returned to his ship.

b.u.m, b.u.m. b.u.m. An exhausted Charlie Parker, who in the blink of an eye would be dead, had put his sax on the floor and was getting a drink at the bar, or, more likely, was shooting something in the men's room. Now, above the others, came the slap of Billy Hadnott's ba.s.s. In this last section he was again master of the melody, and it was at that moment that El Piloto came up from the cabin to join Coy, taking the other teak seat attached to the stern rail. In his hand he had the bottle of cognac they'd brought from Del Macho's to finish on board. He held it out to Coy, and when he refused, shaking his head to the music dying in his ears, his friend took a swallow before setting it straight up in his lap. Coy pulled the headphones from his ears.

"What's Tanger doing?'

"She's reading in her cabin."

The San Pedro and Navidad lighthouses were flashing on the other side of the mole, marking the entrance to the port. Green and red, cl.u.s.ters of flashes every fourteen and ten seconds, familiar lights that had always been there for Coy, ever since he could remember. He looked up above the walls of shadows encircling the port. In the mountains, the lighted castles of San Julian and Galeras seemed suspended in the air, as in paintings from other centuries. The glow of the city outshone the stars. "What do you think, Piloto?"

The clock in the town hall struck eleven before he answered.

"She knows what she's doing. Or at least she acts like she knows. The question is whether you do."

Coy wound the cord of the headphones around the Walkman. He half-smiled in the reflection from the oily water.

"She's got me back at sea again."

El Piloto kept looking at Coy.

"If that's an excuse, fine," he said. "But don't be talking nonsense to me."

He took another drink and handed Coy the bottle.

"I told you before. I want to count those freckles." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Every b.l.o.o.d.y one."

El Piloto said nothing, but reached out to reclaim the bottle. A night watchman walked down the quay, his footsteps sounding on the planks of the floating dock. He exchanged a greeting with them and went on his way.

"Listen, Piloto. We men go through life stumbling from place to place. Usually we grow old and die without really understanding what it's all about. But they're different."

He paused and stretched back, his arms extended. His head brushed the flag hanging limp from the mast, next to the mushroom-shaped antenna of the GPS. The night was so tranquil you could almost hear the screws in the bow rail rusting.

"Sometimes I look at her and think she knows things about me I don't know myself."

El Piloto laughed quietly, the bottle'in his hands. "My wife says the same thing/'

"I'm serious. They're different. Clearheaded. So clearheaded that it seems almost like a sickness. You know what I mean?" "No."

"It's something in the genes. It's even true of the stupid ones."

El Piloto was listening intently, with an open mind. But the slight tilt of his head was skeptical. Occasionally he gave a glance around at the sea and the lights of the city, as if in search of someone who would bring some sense to bear on all this.

"They're there. Not speaking. Watching us," Coy continued. "They've been watching us for centuries, you know? They've learned from watching us."

Then he and El Piloto lapsed into silence. From the Swedes' boat came the sound of voices as they cleared the table and got ready to go to bed. The town-hall clock tolled the first quarter hour. The water was so still it looked solid.

"This one is dangerous," El Piloto said finally. "Like that sea where ships get entangled and sit there until they rot."

"The Sarga.s.so Sea."

"You told me she's bad. All I know is that she's dangerous."

He had pa.s.sed Coy the bottle of cognac again. He held it without taking a drink.

"That's exactly what Nino Palermo said, Piloto. How about that. The day I talked with him in Gibraltar."

El Piloto shrugged. He waited, patient.

"I don't know what he told you."

Coy took a pull from the bottle.

"That we're bad because we're stupid, Piloto. Because we're dim-witted. We're bad because of ambition or l.u.s.t, or ignorance. You understand?"

"More or less."