The Nautical Chart Part 2

'As you see."

He was amused. "That makes you some kind of service-woman, then."

"Not at all." The golden hair swished from side to side as she shook her head. "I'm cla.s.sified as a civil servant. I took an examination after I got my degree in history. I've been here four years."

She turned pensive and looked out the window. Then, as if she had something on her mind she couldn't dismiss, she went to the table very slowly, closed the atlas, and put it back in the case.

"My father, though, was in the service," she added.

There was a note of defiance, or perhaps of pride, in her words. That confirmed a number of things Coy had noticed: a certain way she had of moving, a gesture here and there, and the serene, slightly haughty self-discipline that seemed to take over at times.

"Career Navy?"

'Army. He retired as a colonel, after spending most of his life in Africa."

"Is he still alive?" "No."

She spoke without a trace of emotion. It was impossible to know if it upset her to talk about it. Coy studied the navy-blue irises, and she bore his scrutiny with no expression.

"Which is why your name is Tanger. For Tangier."

"Which is why my name is Tanger."

THEY walked past the Museo del Prado and the railings of the Botanical Garden in no hurry, then turned left and started up Claudio Moyano hill, leaving the noisy traffic and pollution of the Atocha traffic circle behind them. The sun shone on the gray booths and stalls stair-stepped up the street. "Why did you come to Madrid?" walked past the Museo del Prado and the railings of the Botanical Garden in no hurry, then turned left and started up Claudio Moyano hill, leaving the noisy traffic and pollution of the Atocha traffic circle behind them. The sun shone on the gray booths and stalls stair-stepped up the street. "Why did you come to Madrid?"

He stared at the ground He had answered that question at the museum, before she had even asked. All the commonplaces and easy pretexts had been exhausted, so he took a few more steps before responding.

"I came to see you."

She did not seem surprised or curious for that matter. She was wearing the light wool jacket, and before they left her office she had knotted a silk scarf of autumnal colors around her neck. Half turning, Coy observed her impa.s.sive face.

"Why?" was all she asked.

"I don't know."

They walked on a bit in silence. Finally they stopped before a stall piled with detective novels strewn about like flotsam washed up on a beach. Coy's eyes slid over the worn volumes without paying much attention: Agatha Christie, George Harmon c.o.xe, Ellery Queen, Leslie Charteris. Tanger picked up a copy of She Was a Lady, She Was a Lady, looked at it absently, and put it back. looked at it absently, and put it back.

"You're mad" she said.

They walked on. People were strolling among the stands, picking up books, leafing through them. The booksellers kept a sharp eye on them from behind their counters or standing in the doorways of the booms. Most were wearing overcoats, jerseys, or pea coats, their skin tanned by years in the sun and wind, like sailors in some impossible port, stranded among reefs of paper and ink. Some were reading, unaware of pa.s.sers-by, sitting among mountains of used books. Two young sellers greeted Tanger, who answered them by name. h.e.l.lo, Alberto. See you, Boris. A boy with a hussar's locks and a checked shirt was playing the flute, and she placed a coin in the cap at his feet, just as Coy had seen her do on the Ramblas, when she'd stopped before the mime whose white-face was streaked by the rain.

"I come by here every day on my way home. Isn't it strange what happens with old books? They choose you. They reach out to their, buyer-h.e.l.lo, here I am, take me with you. It's as if they were alive."

A few steps farther on she paused to look at The Alexandria Quartet, The Alexandria Quartet, four volumes with tattered covers, marked down. "Have you read Durrell?" she asked. four volumes with tattered covers, marked down. "Have you read Durrell?" she asked.

Coy shook his head. He'd never seen any of these books. North American, he supposed. Or English.

"Is there anything about the sea in them?" he asked, more to be courteous than out of interest.

"No, not that I know. Although Alexandria is is still a port." still a port."

Coy had been mere, and he didn't recall anything special. Heat, days of dead air, derricks, stevedores lying prostrate in the shade of the containers, filthy water lapping between the hull and the dock, and c.o.c.kroaches you stepped on as you came ash.o.r.e at night. A port like any other, except when wind from the south carried clouds of reddish dust that sifted into everything. Nothing to justify four volumes. Tanger touched the first with her finger, and he read the tide: Justine. Justine.

"Every intelligent woman I know," she said, "has at some time wanted to be Justine."

Coy looked at the book with a perplexed expression, wondering if he ought to buy it, and if the bookseller would make him buy all four. The books mat had caught his attention were others nearby; The Death Ship, The Death Ship, by one B. Traven, and the Bounty trilogy, by one B. Traven, and the Bounty trilogy, Mutiny on the Bounty, Men against the Sea, Mutiny on the Bounty, Men against the Sea, and and Pitcairn's bland, Pitcairn's bland, all in a single volume. But she was moving on. He saw her smile again, take a few more steps, and distractedly leaf through another mistreated paperback. all in a single volume. But she was moving on. He saw her smile again, take a few more steps, and distractedly leaf through another mistreated paperback. The Good Soldier, The Good Soldier, he read. Ford Madox Ford did sound familiar, because he had collaborated with Joseph Conrad on he read. Ford Madox Ford did sound familiar, because he had collaborated with Joseph Conrad on The Inheritors. The Inheritors. Finally Tanger whirled around and looked at him, hard. Finally Tanger whirled around and looked at him, hard.

"You're mad," she repeated.

He touched his nose and said nothing.

"You don't know me," she added a moment later, a hint of harshness in her voice. "You know nothing at all about me."

Curiously, Coy didn't feel intimidated or out of place. He had come to see her, doing what he thought he had to do. He would have given anything to be an elegant man, easy with words and with something to offer, even if just enough money to buy the four volumes of the Quartet Quartet and take her to dinner that night in an expensive restaurant, calling her Justine or whatever she wanted him to call her. But that wasn't the case. So he kept quiet, and stood there with all the openness he could muster, at once sincere and neutral, almost shy. It wasn't much, but it was everything. and take her to dinner that night in an expensive restaurant, calling her Justine or whatever she wanted him to call her. But that wasn't the case. So he kept quiet, and stood there with all the openness he could muster, at once sincere and neutral, almost shy. It wasn't much, but it was everything.

"You don't have any right to show up like this. To stand there with that good-little-boy face___ I already thanked you for what you did in Barcelona. What do you want me to do now? Take you home like one of these books?"

"Sirens," he said suddenly.

She looked at him with surprise.

"What about sirens?"

Coy lifted his hands and let them drop.

"I don't know. They sang, Homer said. They called to the sailors, isn't that right? And the sailors couldn't help themselves."

"Because they were idiots. They ran right onto the reefs, destroying their ships."

"I've been there." there." Coy's expression had darkened. "I've been on the reefs, and I don't have a ship. It will be some time before I have one again, and now I don't have anything better to do." Coy's expression had darkened. "I've been on the reefs, and I don't have a ship. It will be some time before I have one again, and now I don't have anything better to do."

She turned toward him brusquely, opening her mouth as if to say something disagreeable. Her eyes sparked aggressively. That lasted a moment, and in that s.p.a.ce of time Coy mentally said so long to her freckled skin and to the whole crazy daydream mat had led him to her. Maybe he should have bought that book about Justine, he thought sadly. But at least you gave it a shot, sailor. Too bad about the s.e.xtant. Then he gathered himself. I'll smile. I'll smile in any case, say what she will, until she tells me to go to h.e.l.l. At least that will be the last thing she'll remember about me. I'd like to smile like her boss, that commander with his shiny b.u.t.tons. I hope my smile doesn't come off too edgy.

"For the love of G.o.d," she said. "You're not even handsome."

Ill

The Lost Ship

You can do everything right, strictly according to procedure, on the ocean, and it'll still kill you, but if you're a good navigator, at least you'll know where you were when you died. JUSTIN SCOTT SCOTT, The Shipkilkr He detested coffee. He had drunk thousands of hot and cold cups in endless pre-dawn watches, during difficult or decisive maneuvers, in dead hours between loading and unloading in ports, in times of boredom, tension, or danger, but he disliked that bitter taste so much that he could bear it only when cut with milk and sugar. In truth, he used it as a stimulant, the way others take a drink or light a cigarette. He hadn't smoked for a long time. As for drinking, only rarely had he tasted alcohol on board a ship, and on land he never went past the Plimsoll mark, his cargo line of a couple of Sapphire gins. He drank deliberately and conscientiously only when the circ.u.mstances, the company, or the place called for ma.s.sive doses. In those cases, like most of the sailors he knew, he was capable of ingesting extraordinary quant.i.ties of anything within reach, with consequences that entailed husbands guarding their wives' virtue, police maintaining public order, and nightclub bouncers making sure that clients toed the line and didn't leave before paying.

That was not the case tonight. The ports, the sea, and the rest of his previous life seemed far from the table near the door of an inn on the Plaza de Santa Ana, where he was sitting watching people strolling on the sidewalk or chatting on the bar terraces. He had asked for a gin and tonic to erase the taste of the syrupy cup of coffee before him-he always spilled it clumsily when he stirred- and was leaning back in his chair, hands jammed into his jacket pockets, legs stretched out beneath the table. He was tired, but he was putting off going to bed. I'll call you, she'd said. I'll call you tonight or tomorrow. Let me think a little. Tanger had an appointment she couldn't break that afternoon, and a dinner date in the evening, so he would have to wait to see her again. That was what she told him at noon, after he had walked with her to the intersection of Alfonso XII and Paseo Infanta Isabel; and she said good-bye right there, not letting him see her to her door. She offered the strong hand he remembered so well, in a vigorous handshake. Coy had asked how the devil she thought she could call him, since he had no home, no telephone, no nothing in Madrid, and his seabag was checked at the station. Then he saw Tanger laugh for the first time since he'd known her. It was a generous laugh that encircled her eyes with tiny wrinkles, making her, paradoxically, look much younger, more beautiful. Then she asked him to forgive her stupidity, and for a couple of seconds looked at him, his hand in hers, the last trace of laughter fading from her lips. She gave him the name of an inn on the Plaza de Santa Ana, across from the Teatro Espanol, where she had lived for two years when she was a student. A clean, cheap place. I'll call you, she said. I'll call you today or tomorrow. You have my word.

And there he was, staring at his coffee and wetting his lips with the gin and tonic-they didn't have Sapphire in the bar-the waitress had just set before him. Waiting for her to call. He hadn't moved all afternoon, and had eaten dinner there, a bit of overcooked beef and a bottle of mineral water. It was possible she might come in person, he thought, and that possibility made him keep an eye on the plaza, not to miss her approaching along calle de las Huertas, or any of the streets leading up from the Paseo del Prado.

Between the benches on the plaza, some beggars were talking loudly and pa.s.sing around a bottle of wine. They had begged for money at the tables on the terraces and now were counting up the nights take. Three men, a woman, and a little dog. From the door of the Hotel Victoria, a guard costumed as RoboCop watched them like a hawk, hands crossed behind his back, legs spread apart, standing exactiy where he had ejected the female beggar shortly before. Chased off by RoboCop, she had zigzagged among the tables to where Coy was sitting. Give me something, friend, she'd said in a listless voice, staring straight ahead. Give me something. She was still young, he thought as he watched her counting the take with her buddies and the mongrel. Despite the blemished skin, the dirty blond hair and vacant eyes, there were traces of a former beauty in her well-defined lips, the curve of her jaw, her figure, and the red, chapped hands with long dirty fingernails. Terra firma rots people, he thought once again. It overpowers and devours them. He searched his own hands, resting on his thighs, for the first symptoms of aging that accompany the inevitable leprosy of city pollution, the deceptively solid ground beneath your feet, contact with people, air with the salt sucked out of it. I hope I find another ship soon, he told himself. I hope I find something that floats so I can climb aboard and be carried far away while there's still time. Before I contract the virus that corrodes hearts, disrupts their compa.s.s, and drives them rudderless onto a lee sh.o.r.e.

"There's a call for you."

He leapt from the chair with an alacrity that left the waitress wide-eyed and bounded down the hallway leading to the lobby. One, two... he counted to five before answering, to slow his pulse. Three, four, five. h.e.l.lo. She was there, her calm, well-bred voice apologizing for calling so late. No, he replied, it wasn't late at all.

He'd been waiting for her call. Just a bite out on the terrace, and he was about to have his gin. As good a time as any, he insisted. Then a brief silence at the other end of the line. Coy laid a broad, square hand on the counter, contemplating its rough network of tendons, nerves, and short, strong, widespread fingers and waited for her to say something. She's relaxed on a sofa, he thought. She's sitting in a chair. Lying on a bed. She's dressed, she's naked, in her pajamas, in a nightgown. She's barefoot, with an open book in her lap, or she's watching TV She's lying on her back, or on her stomach, and the lamplight is picking up the gold of her freckled skin.

"I have an idea," she said finally. "I have an idea that might interest you, a proposition. And I thought maybe you could come to my place. Now." have an idea," she said finally. "I have an idea that might interest you, a proposition. And I thought maybe you could come to my place. Now."

ONCE, sailing as third officer, Coy had crossed paths with a woman on a boat. The encounter lasted a couple of minutes, the exact time it took the yacht-she was aft, sunbathing-to pa.s.s the Otago, Otago, where Coy was standing on the flying bridge, looking out to sea. Along the deck he could hear a monotonous clanging as sailors hammered the hull to remove rust before going over it with coats of red lead and paint. The merchant ship was anch.o.r.ed between Malamocco and Punta Sabbioni. On the other side of the Lido the sun was brilliant on the Lagoon of Venice, and on the campanile and cupolas of San Marco three miles away. The tiled roofs of the city were shimmering in the light. A soft west wind was blowing at eight or ten knots, rippling the flat sea and swinging the bows of anch.o.r.ed ships toward the beaches dotted with umbrellas and multicolored cabanas. That same breeze brought the yacht from the ca.n.a.l, tacking to starboard with all the white elegance of her sails set aloft, slipping by the ship at a half cable's length from Coy. He needed his binoculars to see her better, to admire her sleek, varnished wood hull, the thrust of her bow, her rigging, and her bra.s.s gleaming in the sun. A man was at the helm, and behind him, near the taffrail, a woman sat reading a book He turned the binoculars on her. Her blond hair was knotted at the back at her neck, and something about her evoked the white-gowned women one could easily picture in that place, or on the French Riviera, at the turn of the century. Beautiful, indolent women protected by the broad brim of a hat or a parasol. Sphinxes who gazed at the sea through half-dosed eyes, or read, or just sat. Coy avidly focused the twin circles of the Zeiss lenses on that face, studying the tucked chin, the lowered eyes concentrating on the book In other times, he thought, men killed or squandered their fortunes and reputations for such women. He was curious about the person who might deserve that woman, and he swung his gla.s.ses to focus on the man at the wheel. He was facing in the other direction, however, and all Coy could make out was a short figure, gray hair, and bronzed skin. The yacht pa.s.sed on by and, fearful of losing the last instants, Coy again focused on the woman. One second later she lifted her head and looked into the binoculars, at Coy, through the lenses and across that distance, straight into his eyes. She sent him a look that was neither fleeting nor lingering, neither curious nor indifferent. So serene and sure of herself she seemed almost inhuman. Coy wondered how many generations of women were necessary to produce that gaze. He lowered the binoculars, dazed by having observed her at such close range. Then he realized the woman was too far away to be looking at him, and the beam he had felt bore into his gut was nothing but a casual, distracted glance toward the anch.o.r.ed ship the yacht was leaving behind as she sailed into the Adriatic. Coy stood there, leaning against the bridge, watching her go. And when he held up the binoculars again, all he could see was the escutcheon and the name of the vessel painted in black letters on a strip of teak where Coy was standing on the flying bridge, looking out to sea. Along the deck he could hear a monotonous clanging as sailors hammered the hull to remove rust before going over it with coats of red lead and paint. The merchant ship was anch.o.r.ed between Malamocco and Punta Sabbioni. On the other side of the Lido the sun was brilliant on the Lagoon of Venice, and on the campanile and cupolas of San Marco three miles away. The tiled roofs of the city were shimmering in the light. A soft west wind was blowing at eight or ten knots, rippling the flat sea and swinging the bows of anch.o.r.ed ships toward the beaches dotted with umbrellas and multicolored cabanas. That same breeze brought the yacht from the ca.n.a.l, tacking to starboard with all the white elegance of her sails set aloft, slipping by the ship at a half cable's length from Coy. He needed his binoculars to see her better, to admire her sleek, varnished wood hull, the thrust of her bow, her rigging, and her bra.s.s gleaming in the sun. A man was at the helm, and behind him, near the taffrail, a woman sat reading a book He turned the binoculars on her. Her blond hair was knotted at the back at her neck, and something about her evoked the white-gowned women one could easily picture in that place, or on the French Riviera, at the turn of the century. Beautiful, indolent women protected by the broad brim of a hat or a parasol. Sphinxes who gazed at the sea through half-dosed eyes, or read, or just sat. Coy avidly focused the twin circles of the Zeiss lenses on that face, studying the tucked chin, the lowered eyes concentrating on the book In other times, he thought, men killed or squandered their fortunes and reputations for such women. He was curious about the person who might deserve that woman, and he swung his gla.s.ses to focus on the man at the wheel. He was facing in the other direction, however, and all Coy could make out was a short figure, gray hair, and bronzed skin. The yacht pa.s.sed on by and, fearful of losing the last instants, Coy again focused on the woman. One second later she lifted her head and looked into the binoculars, at Coy, through the lenses and across that distance, straight into his eyes. She sent him a look that was neither fleeting nor lingering, neither curious nor indifferent. So serene and sure of herself she seemed almost inhuman. Coy wondered how many generations of women were necessary to produce that gaze. He lowered the binoculars, dazed by having observed her at such close range. Then he realized the woman was too far away to be looking at him, and the beam he had felt bore into his gut was nothing but a casual, distracted glance toward the anch.o.r.ed ship the yacht was leaving behind as she sailed into the Adriatic. Coy stood there, leaning against the bridge, watching her go. And when he held up the binoculars again, all he could see was the escutcheon and the name of the vessel painted in black letters on a strip of teak Riddle. Riddle.

COY was in no way intellectual. He read a lot, but only about the sea. Even so, he had spent his childhood among grandmothers, aunts, and cousins on the sh.o.r.es of another ancient, enclosed sea, in one of those Mediterranean cities where for thousands of years mourning-dad women garnered at dusk to talk in low tones and watch their men in silence. That had left him with a certain atavistic fatalism, a rational idea or two, and strong intuition. And now, feeing Tanger Soto, he thought about the woman on the yacht. After all, he said to himself, they might he one and the same, and men's lives always turn around a single woman, the one in whom all the women in the world are summed up, the vortex of all mysteries and the key to all answers. The one who employs silence like no other, perhaps because silence is a language she has spoken to perfection for centuries. The woman who possesses the knowing lucidity of luminous mornings, red sunsets, and cobalt-blue seas, one tempered with stoicism, infinite sadness, and a fatigue for which- Coy had this curious certainty-one lifetime is not enough. In addition, and above all else, you had to be female, a woman, to achieve that blend of boredom, wisdom, and weariness in your gaze. To demonstrate a shrewdness as keen as a steel blade, inimitable and born of the long genetic memory of countless ancestors stowed like booty in the holds of black, hollow ships, thighs bloodied amid smoking ruins and corpses, weaving and ripping out tapestries through countless winters, giving birth to men for new Troys and awaiting the return of exhausted heroes, of G.o.ds with feet of clay whom they at times loved, often feared, and nearly always, sooner or later, scorned. was in no way intellectual. He read a lot, but only about the sea. Even so, he had spent his childhood among grandmothers, aunts, and cousins on the sh.o.r.es of another ancient, enclosed sea, in one of those Mediterranean cities where for thousands of years mourning-dad women garnered at dusk to talk in low tones and watch their men in silence. That had left him with a certain atavistic fatalism, a rational idea or two, and strong intuition. And now, feeing Tanger Soto, he thought about the woman on the yacht. After all, he said to himself, they might he one and the same, and men's lives always turn around a single woman, the one in whom all the women in the world are summed up, the vortex of all mysteries and the key to all answers. The one who employs silence like no other, perhaps because silence is a language she has spoken to perfection for centuries. The woman who possesses the knowing lucidity of luminous mornings, red sunsets, and cobalt-blue seas, one tempered with stoicism, infinite sadness, and a fatigue for which- Coy had this curious certainty-one lifetime is not enough. In addition, and above all else, you had to be female, a woman, to achieve that blend of boredom, wisdom, and weariness in your gaze. To demonstrate a shrewdness as keen as a steel blade, inimitable and born of the long genetic memory of countless ancestors stowed like booty in the holds of black, hollow ships, thighs bloodied amid smoking ruins and corpses, weaving and ripping out tapestries through countless winters, giving birth to men for new Troys and awaiting the return of exhausted heroes, of G.o.ds with feet of clay whom they at times loved, often feared, and nearly always, sooner or later, scorned.

"Would you like more ice?" she asked.

He shook his head. There are women, he concluded with a shiver of fear, who have that gaze from the day they're born. Who look at you the way she was looking at him that moment in the small sitting room whose windows were open to the Paseo Infanta Isabel and the illuminated brick-and-gla.s.s building of Atocha station. I am going to tell you a story, she had said as soon as she opened the door and led him to the sitting room, escorted by a shorthaired yellow Labrador that lay down close by, its dark, sad eyes fixed on Coy. I am going to tell you a story about shipwrecks and lost ships. I'm sure you like that kind of story, and you are not going to open your mouth until I finish telling it. You will not ask me whether it's real or invented, and you will sit quietly and drink tonic without gin, because I am sorry to inform you I don't have gin in my house, not Sapphire blue or any color. Afterward I will ask you three questions, and you may answer yes or no. Then I will let you ask me a question, just one, which will be enough for tonight, before you go back to the inn and to bed. That will be all. Do we have a deal?

Coy had answered without hesitation, a little surprised but with reasonable sangfroid. We have a deal. Then he sat down where she indicated, on a beige upholstered sofa. They were in a sitting room with white walls, a desk, a small Moorish-style table with a lamp on it, a television with a VCR, a pair of chairs, a framed photograph, a table with a computer next to a bookcase filled with books and papers, and a cabinet for tapes and CDs with speakers from which the voice of Pavarotti-or maybe it wasn't Pavarotti-issued, sounding something like Caruso. Coy read the spines of a few of the books: Los jesuitas y el motin de Esquilache, Historia del arte y ciencia de navegar, Los ministros de Carlos in, Aplicaciones de Cartografica Historica, Mediterranean Spain Pilot, Espejos de una biblioteca, Navegantes y naufragios, Catologo de Cartograph Historica de Espana del Museo Naval, Derrotero de las costas de Espana en el Mediterraneo. Los jesuitas y el motin de Esquilache, Historia del arte y ciencia de navegar, Los ministros de Carlos in, Aplicaciones de Cartografica Historica, Mediterranean Spain Pilot, Espejos de una biblioteca, Navegantes y naufragios, Catologo de Cartograph Historica de Espana del Museo Naval, Derrotero de las costas de Espana en el Mediterraneo. There were numerous references to cartography, shipwrecks, and navigation. There were also novels and literature in general: Dinesen, Lampedusa, Nabokov, Durrell-the There were numerous references to cartography, shipwrecks, and navigation. There were also novels and literature in general: Dinesen, Lampedusa, Nabokov, Durrell-the Quartet Quartet fellow from Moyano hill-something t.i.tled fellow from Moyano hill-something t.i.tled Green Fire Green Fire by Peter William Rainer, Joseph Conrad's by Peter William Rainer, Joseph Conrad's The Mirror of the Sea, The Mirror of the Sea, and a number of others. Coy had not read one of those books, with the exception of the Conrad. His eye lighted on a book in English that had the same t.i.tle as a movie- and a number of others. Coy had not read one of those books, with the exception of the Conrad. His eye lighted on a book in English that had the same t.i.tle as a movie-The Maltese Falcon. It was an old dog-eared copy, and on its yellow cover were a black falcon and a woman's hand holding coins and jewels. It was an old dog-eared copy, and on its yellow cover were a black falcon and a woman's hand holding coins and jewels.

"It's a first edition," Tanger said when she saw him pause at that t.i.tle. "Published in the United States on Valentine's Day, 1930, at the price of two dollars."

Coy touched the book. "By Dashiell Hammett," it said on the cover. "Author of The Dain Curse." The Dain Curse."

"I saw the movie."

"Of course you saw it. Everyone's seen it." Tanger pointed to a shelf. "Sam Spade is the reason I became unfaithful to Captain Haddock."

On a shelf a little apart from the other books, was what looked like a complete set of The Adventures of Tintin. The Adventures of Tintin. Beside the cloth spines of those tall, slim volumes he saw a small, dented silver cup and a postcard. He recognized the port of Antwerp, with the cathedral in the distance. The cup was missing a handle. Beside the cloth spines of those tall, slim volumes he saw a small, dented silver cup and a postcard. He recognized the port of Antwerp, with the cathedral in the distance. The cup was missing a handle.

"Did you read those when you were a boy?"

He was still looking at the silver cup. "Junior Swimming Championship, 19..." It was difficult to read the date.

"No," he said. "I recognize them, and I think I may have looked through one. A meteor falls into the ocean."

"The Shooting Star."

"That must have been it."

The apartment was not luxurious, but it was nicer than average, with good-quality leather cushions, tasteful curtains at the two windows overlooking the street, and a good painting on the wall. It was an antique oil in an oval frame, a landscape with a river and a pretty good ship-even though, in his opinion, she was not carrying enough sail for that river and that wind. The kitchen, from which she'd brought the ice and tonic and a couple of gla.s.ses, seemed clean and bright; he could see a microwave, a refrigerator, and a table and stools of dark wood. She was dressed in a light cotton sweater in place of the morning's blouse, and she had slipped out of her shoes. Her black-stockinged feet moved noiselessly, like those of a ballerina, with the Lab tagging along. People don't learn to move like that, Coy thought. You move or you don't move, one way or the other. A woman sits, talks, walks, tilts her head, or lights a cigarette in a certain way. Some things you learn, some you don't. No one can surpa.s.s predetermined limits, try as she may, if she doesn't have it inside. Predetermined behavior, gestures, and manners.

"Do you know anything about shipwrecks?"

The question changed his line of thought, and he smothered a laugh in his gla.s.s.

"I've never actually been shipwrecked, if that's what you mean. But give me time."

She frowned, ignoring the sarcasm.

"I'm talking about ancient shipwrecks." She kept looking into his eyes. "About ships that went down a long time ago."

He touched his nose before answering. Not much. He'd read things, of course. And dived at some of the sites. He also knew the kinds of stories sailors often tell among themselves.

"Have you ever heard of the Dei Gloria?' Dei Gloria?'

He searched his memory. It wasn't a name that was familiar to him.

"A ten-gun merchant ship," she added. "She went down off the southeast coast of Spain on February 4,1767."

Coy set his gla.s.s on the low table, and the movement caused the dog to come lick his hand.

"Here, Zas," said Tanger. "Don't be a pest."

The dog didn't move a hair. He stood right by Coy, licking him and barking, and she thought it necessary to apologize. Actually the dog wasn't hers, she said. He belonged to her roommate, but because of a job her friend had moved to another city two months before. Tanger had inherited her half of the apartment, and Zas.

"It's fine," Coy intervened. "I like dogs."

It was true. Especially hunting dogs, which tended to be loyal and quiet. As a child he had owned a red setter that had the same loyal eyes as this dog, and there had also been a mongrel that had come aboard the Daggpo IV Daggpo IV in Malaga, staying on until he was swept overboard near Cape Bojador. Coy absentmindedly rubbed Zas behind the ears, and the dog leaned into his hand, happily wagging his tail. in Malaga, staying on until he was swept overboard near Cape Bojador. Coy absentmindedly rubbed Zas behind the ears, and the dog leaned into his hand, happily wagging his tail.

Then Tanger told him the story of the lost ship.

THE Dei Gloria Dei Gloria was a brigantine. She had sailed from Havana on January i, 1767, with twenty-nine crew and two pa.s.sengers. The cargo manifest listed cotton, tobacco, and sugar, and the destination was the port of Valencia. Although officially she belonged to a man named Luis Fornet Palau, the was a brigantine. She had sailed from Havana on January i, 1767, with twenty-nine crew and two pa.s.sengers. The cargo manifest listed cotton, tobacco, and sugar, and the destination was the port of Valencia. Although officially she belonged to a man named Luis Fornet Palau, the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria was the property of the Society of Jesus. As was later confirmed, this Fornet Palau was a figurehead for the Jesuits, who maintained a small merchant fleet to a.s.sure the traffic of pa.s.sengers and commerce that the Society, extremely powerful at that time, conducted with its missions, set-dements, and interests in the colonies. The was the property of the Society of Jesus. As was later confirmed, this Fornet Palau was a figurehead for the Jesuits, who maintained a small merchant fleet to a.s.sure the traffic of pa.s.sengers and commerce that the Society, extremely powerful at that time, conducted with its missions, set-dements, and interests in the colonies. The Dei Gloria Dei Gloria was the best ship in that fleet, the swiftest and best-armed against threats by English and Algerine corsairs. She was under the command of a reliable captain by the name of Juan Bautista Elezcano from Biscay, who was experienced, and closely connected with the Jesuits. In fact, his brother, Padre Salvador Elezcano, was one of the princ.i.p.al a.s.sistants to the general of the Order in Rome. was the best ship in that fleet, the swiftest and best-armed against threats by English and Algerine corsairs. She was under the command of a reliable captain by the name of Juan Bautista Elezcano from Biscay, who was experienced, and closely connected with the Jesuits. In fact, his brother, Padre Salvador Elezcano, was one of the princ.i.p.al a.s.sistants to the general of the Order in Rome.

After the first few days, tacking into an opposing east wind, the brigantine found winds from the south- and northwest, which sped her across the Atlantic through heavy cloudbursts and squalls. The wind freshened southwest of the Azores, gradually increasing until it turned into a storm that caused damage to the rigging and made it necessary to man the pumps continually. That was the state of the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria when she reached me 35th parallel and continued east without incident. Then she tacked in the direction of the Gulf of Cadiz, with the aim of sheltering from the easterlies of the Strait, and without touching a port she found herself beyond Gibraltar on the second of February. The next day she doubled Cabo de Gata, sailing north within sight of the coast. when she reached me 35th parallel and continued east without incident. Then she tacked in the direction of the Gulf of Cadiz, with the aim of sheltering from the easterlies of the Strait, and without touching a port she found herself beyond Gibraltar on the second of February. The next day she doubled Cabo de Gata, sailing north within sight of the coast.

From this point on, things grew a little more complicated. On the afternoon of February 3, a sail was sighted from the brigantine's stern. The ship was approaching rapidly, taking advantage of the southwesterly wind. Soon identified as a xebec, it was quickly gaining on them. Captain Elezcano maintained the Dei Gloria's Dei Gloria's pace, sailing under jib and courses, but when the xebec was within a little over a mile, he observed something suspicious in her actions, and he put on more sail. In response, the other ship lowered her Spanish colors and, revealing herself as a corsair, openly gave chase. As was common in those waters, it was a ship licensed in Algeria; from time to time she changed her colors and used Gibraltar as a base. It was later established that her name was the pace, sailing under jib and courses, but when the xebec was within a little over a mile, he observed something suspicious in her actions, and he put on more sail. In response, the other ship lowered her Spanish colors and, revealing herself as a corsair, openly gave chase. As was common in those waters, it was a ship licensed in Algeria; from time to time she changed her colors and used Gibraltar as a base. It was later established that her name was the Chergui, Chergui, and that she was commanded by a former officer of the British Royal Navy, a man named Slyne, also known as Captain Mizen, or Misian. and that she was commanded by a former officer of the British Royal Navy, a man named Slyne, also known as Captain Mizen, or Misian.

In those waters, the corsair had a triple advantage. One, she made better time than the brigantine, which, because of the damage suffered to her masts and rigging, had limited speed. Two, the Chergui Chergui was sailing with the wind in her favor, keeping to windward of her prey and between her and the coast. Three, and most decisive, this was a vessel fitted for war. She was superior in size to the was sailing with the wind in her favor, keeping to windward of her prey and between her and the coast. Three, and most decisive, this was a vessel fitted for war. She was superior in size to the Dei Gloria, Dei Gloria, and had at least twelve guns and a large crew trained to fight compared to the brigantine's ten guns and crew of merchant seamen. Even so, the unequal chase lasted the rest of the day and that night. By all indications, the captain of the and had at least twelve guns and a large crew trained to fight compared to the brigantine's ten guns and crew of merchant seamen. Even so, the unequal chase lasted the rest of the day and that night. By all indications, the captain of the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria was unable to gain the protection of Aguilas because the was unable to gain the protection of Aguilas because the Chergui Chergui had cut off that course, so he tried to reach Mazarron or Cartagena, running for the protection of the guns of the forts there, or hoping to meet a Spanish warship that would come to his aid What happened, however, was that by dawn the brigantine had lost a topmast, had the corsair upon her, and had no choice but to strike her colours or fight. had cut off that course, so he tried to reach Mazarron or Cartagena, running for the protection of the guns of the forts there, or hoping to meet a Spanish warship that would come to his aid What happened, however, was that by dawn the brigantine had lost a topmast, had the corsair upon her, and had no choice but to strike her colours or fight.

Captain Elezcano was a tough seaman. Instead of surrendering, me Dei Gloria Dei Gloria opened fire as soon as the corsair sailed within range. The gun duel took place a few miles southwest of Cabo Tifioso; it was brief and violent, nearly yardarm to yardarm, and the crew of the brigantine, though not trained in war, fought with resolve. One lucky shot started a fire aboard the opened fire as soon as the corsair sailed within range. The gun duel took place a few miles southwest of Cabo Tifioso; it was brief and violent, nearly yardarm to yardarm, and the crew of the brigantine, though not trained in war, fought with resolve. One lucky shot started a fire aboard the Chergui, Chergui, but the but the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria had now lost her foremast, and the corsair was prepared to board. The had now lost her foremast, and the corsair was prepared to board. The Chergui's Chergui's guns had inflicted serious damage to the brigantine, which with many dead and wounded taking on water fast. At that moment, by one of those chance occurrences that happen at sea, the guns had inflicted serious damage to the brigantine, which with many dead and wounded taking on water fast. At that moment, by one of those chance occurrences that happen at sea, the Chergui, Chergui, almost alongside her prey and with her men ready to leap onto the enemy deck, blew wide open, from bow to stern. The explosion killed all her crew and toppled the brigan-tine's remaining mast, speeding her downward plunge. And with the debris of the corsair still steaming on the waves, the almost alongside her prey and with her men ready to leap onto the enemy deck, blew wide open, from bow to stern. The explosion killed all her crew and toppled the brigan-tine's remaining mast, speeding her downward plunge. And with the debris of the corsair still steaming on the waves, the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria sank to the bottom like a stone. sank to the bottom like a stone.

"LIKE a stone," Tanger repeated. a stone," Tanger repeated.

She had told the story precisely, without shadings or adornment. Her tone, thought Coy, was as neutral as a television commentator's. It did not escape him that she had followed the thread of the narrative unhesitatingly, relating the details without a single doubt, not even when it came to dates. The description of the pursuit of the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria was technically correct, so it was dear, whatever the reason, this was a lesson well learned. was technically correct, so it was dear, whatever the reason, this was a lesson well learned.

"There were no survivors from the corsair," she continued. 'As for the Dei Gloria, Dei Gloria, the water was cold and the coast distant. Only a fifteen-year-old ship's boy managed to swim to a launch that had been lowered before the battle. Without oars, he drifted, propelled southeast by wind and currents, and was rescued a day later, five or six miles south of Cartagena." the water was cold and the coast distant. Only a fifteen-year-old ship's boy managed to swim to a launch that had been lowered before the battle. Without oars, he drifted, propelled southeast by wind and currents, and was rescued a day later, five or six miles south of Cartagena."

Tanger paused to look for her Players. Coy watched her carefully open the wrapping and put a cigarette in her mouth. She offered him one, and he refused with a gesture.

"Taken to Cartagena"-she bent over to light her cigarette from a box of matches, again protecting the flame in the hollow of her hands-"the survivor recounted the events to the harbor authorities. But he didn't have much to tell, he was badly shaken from the battle and the shipwreck. They were to interrogate him again the next day, but the boy had disappeared. At any rate, he had given important clues to clarifying what had happened. In addition, he pinpointed the place the ship had gone down, for the captain of the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria had ordered a position reading at dawn, and this very boy had been charged with noting it in the log. He actually had the page in the pocket of his long coat, the paper where he had written the lat.i.tude and longitude. He also told them that the charts on which the ship's navigating officer had worked out his calculations from the time they came within sight of the Spanish coast were Urrutia's." had ordered a position reading at dawn, and this very boy had been charged with noting it in the log. He actually had the page in the pocket of his long coat, the paper where he had written the lat.i.tude and longitude. He also told them that the charts on which the ship's navigating officer had worked out his calculations from the time they came within sight of the Spanish coast were Urrutia's."

She paused as she exhaled, one hand cupping the elbow of the other arm, hand uplifted, cigarette between her fingers. It was as if she wanted to give Coy time to measure the import of that last bit of information, told in a tone as dispa.s.sionate as all the rest. He touched his nose without comment. So that was what was behind the story, he thought, a sunken ship and a map. He shook his head and nearly laughed, not from disbelief-such stories could contain as much truth as chimera, with one not excluding the other-but from pure and simple pleasure. The sensation was almost physical. A mystery at sea. A beautiful woman telling him all this as if it were nothing, and he sitting there listening. Whether or not the story of the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria was what she believed was the least of it. For Coy it was a different matter, a feeling that made him warm inside, as if suddenly this strange woman had lifted a corner of a veil, an opening through which a little of that wondrous matter dreams are woven from escaped. Maybe that had a lot to do with her and her intentions-he wasn't sure-but it certainly had a great deal to do with him, with what makes certain men put one foot before the other and travel roads that lead to the sea, and wander through ports as they dream of finding sanctuary beyond the horizon. Coy smiled but said none of that She had half-closed her eyes, as if the cigarette smoke was irritating, but he knew that what was disturbing her was precisely his smile. So he wasn't an intellectual or a charmer, and he wasn't good at expressing himself. Also, he was conscious of his burly physique, his rough hands and manners. But he would have stood up at that moment, touched her face, kissed her eyes, her lips, her hands, had he not a.s.sumed that his action would have been gready misinterpreted. He would have sunk with her to the rug, put his lips to her ear, and whispered his thanks for having made him smile the way he used to when he was a boy. For being a beautiful woman, and for being so fascinating. For reminding him that there was always a sunken ship, an island, a refuge, an adventure, a place somewhere on the other side of the ocean, on that hazy boundary where dreams blend into the horizon. was what she believed was the least of it. For Coy it was a different matter, a feeling that made him warm inside, as if suddenly this strange woman had lifted a corner of a veil, an opening through which a little of that wondrous matter dreams are woven from escaped. Maybe that had a lot to do with her and her intentions-he wasn't sure-but it certainly had a great deal to do with him, with what makes certain men put one foot before the other and travel roads that lead to the sea, and wander through ports as they dream of finding sanctuary beyond the horizon. Coy smiled but said none of that She had half-closed her eyes, as if the cigarette smoke was irritating, but he knew that what was disturbing her was precisely his smile. So he wasn't an intellectual or a charmer, and he wasn't good at expressing himself. Also, he was conscious of his burly physique, his rough hands and manners. But he would have stood up at that moment, touched her face, kissed her eyes, her lips, her hands, had he not a.s.sumed that his action would have been gready misinterpreted. He would have sunk with her to the rug, put his lips to her ear, and whispered his thanks for having made him smile the way he used to when he was a boy. For being a beautiful woman, and for being so fascinating. For reminding him that there was always a sunken ship, an island, a refuge, an adventure, a place somewhere on the other side of the ocean, on that hazy boundary where dreams blend into the horizon.

"This morning," she said, "you told me you knew that coast well. Is that true?"

She looked at him questioningly, one hand still cupping an elbow, the cigarette held high between her fingers. I would like to know, he thought, how she gets that hair cut to be so asymmetrical and so perfect at the same time. I would like to know how the h.e.l.l she does that.

"Is that the first of the three questions?"