The Nautical Chart Part 21

"But you are now."

He felt her burrow closer against him. Her lips touched his ear.

"Swear... that you won't... let me die alone."

She said it very slowly, and her voice was barely a murmur. For a while Coy lay motionless, his eyes dosed, listening to the rain. Then he nodded.

"I won't let you die alone."

"Swear it."

"I swear."

He felt her naked body swing astride him, her spread thighs gripping his hips, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s brushing against his chest, her lips seeking his. Then a hot tear fell onto his face. He opened his eyes, surprised, and saw a face made of shadows. Confused, he kissed the moist, open lips. Again he heard a slight sigh, and the long, suffering, female moan of a wounded animal.

XIII.

The Master Cartographer Erring due to the vagaries of the sea is not the worst thing. Some err by using bad information. JORGE JUAN JUAN, Compendio de navegacion para guardiamarinas Compendio de navegacion para guardiamarinas The Dei Gloria Dei Gloria wasn't there. Coy was gradually coming to that conclusion as they swept the grid marked on the chart without finding anything. At depths from sixty-five to two hundred feet, the Pathfinder had imaged nearly the entire relief of the two square miles in which they should have found what remained of the brigantine. The days pa.s.sed, each warmer and calmer than the last, and the wasn't there. Coy was gradually coming to that conclusion as they swept the grid marked on the chart without finding anything. At depths from sixty-five to two hundred feet, the Pathfinder had imaged nearly the entire relief of the two square miles in which they should have found what remained of the brigantine. The days pa.s.sed, each warmer and calmer than the last, and the Carpanta, Carpanta, to the incessant purr of the motor, was sailing along at two knots across a sea as flat and shining as a mirror, tacking north and south with geometric precision, and with continuous satellite position readings. Meanwhile, the beam of the sounder swept the floor beneath the keel as Tanger, Coy, and El Piloto, bathed in sweat, relieved one another before the liquid crystal screen. The colors indicating the composition of the ocean floor-soft orange, dark orange, pale red -marched by with exasperating monotony. Mud, sand, seaweed, shingle, rocks. They had covered sixty-seven of the seventy-four projected tracks, and made fourteen dives to reconnoiter suspicious echoes, without finding the least sign of a sunken ship. Now hope was fading with the last hours of the search. No one had spoken the ominous verdict aloud, but Coy and El Piloto were exchanging long looks, and Tanger, sitting obstinately before the sounder, was growing increasingly irritable and uncommunicative. Failure was in the air. to the incessant purr of the motor, was sailing along at two knots across a sea as flat and shining as a mirror, tacking north and south with geometric precision, and with continuous satellite position readings. Meanwhile, the beam of the sounder swept the floor beneath the keel as Tanger, Coy, and El Piloto, bathed in sweat, relieved one another before the liquid crystal screen. The colors indicating the composition of the ocean floor-soft orange, dark orange, pale red -marched by with exasperating monotony. Mud, sand, seaweed, shingle, rocks. They had covered sixty-seven of the seventy-four projected tracks, and made fourteen dives to reconnoiter suspicious echoes, without finding the least sign of a sunken ship. Now hope was fading with the last hours of the search. No one had spoken the ominous verdict aloud, but Coy and El Piloto were exchanging long looks, and Tanger, sitting obstinately before the sounder, was growing increasingly irritable and uncommunicative. Failure was in the air.

The eve of the last day they were anch.o.r.ed with one hundred feet of chain in twenty-three feet of water, between the point and La Cueva de los Lobos island. El Piloto stopped the motor, and the bow of the Carpanta Carpanta slowly rode around the anchor and pointed west. The sun was hiding behind the dark, jagged mountains, illuminating clumps of thyme, palmettos, and p.r.i.c.kly pears with tones of gold and russet. At the foot of the escarpment the sea was almost still, lapping softly on rocks and the narrow fringe of sand gleaming whitely amid tangles of seaweed. slowly rode around the anchor and pointed west. The sun was hiding behind the dark, jagged mountains, illuminating clumps of thyme, palmettos, and p.r.i.c.kly pears with tones of gold and russet. At the foot of the escarpment the sea was almost still, lapping softly on rocks and the narrow fringe of sand gleaming whitely amid tangles of seaweed.

"It isn't here," Coy said in a low voice.

He wasn't speaking to anyone in particular. El Piloto had just furled the mainsail on the boom and Tanger was sitting on the steps at the stern, her feet in the water, staring at the sea.

"It has to be," she replied.

Her gaze was unfaltering; she was focused on the imaginary rectangle where they had sailed, almost without respite, for two weeks. She was wearing one of Coy's T-shirts-so big it came to the top of her thighs-and was slowly kicking her feet, splashing like a child on the sh.o.r.eline.

"This is crazy, all of it," Coy commented.

El Piloto had gone below to the cabin, and through an open porthole came the sounds of his dinner preparations. When he came back up on deck to open the chest that held the butane bottle and to connect the gas for the galley, his grave eyes met Coy's. This is your affair, sailor.

"It has to be," Tanger repeated.

She was still kicking her feet in the water. Coy was slouched against the binnacle, looking for something adequate to say, or do. Since he couldn't think of anything, he went to get a diving mask and jumped from the bow to check out the anchorage. The water was clean, warm, and pleasant, and the waning light allowed him to follow the line of the chain stretched across the bottom of sand and scattered rocks. The anchor, a fifty-five-pound CQR, was in the correct position, free of the seaweed that might have let it drag if the wind freshened during the night. He went down a little farther to see dearly, and then slowly came to the surface and swam to the sailboat on his back, paddling with his feet, unhurried, enjoying the water. He wanted to postpone as long as possible having to face Tanger again.

Once on board, he dried himself with a towel, contemplating the arc of the coast stretching eastward. Now totally red from the setting sun, it was the route of marble, Roman legions, and the G.o.ds. This time, however, he drew no pleasure from the view. He hung the towel to dry and went down into the well, where he sat on the last step of the ladder. El Piloto was busy with pots and pans in the galley, preparing a platter of macaroni, and Tanger was sitting in the cabin with the nautical charts spread out on the main table.

"There's no possibility of error," she a.s.sured Coy before he could say anything.

She had her pencil in hand and was pointing out the coordinates of lat.i.tude and longitude on various charts, determining miles on the scales in the margins, and transferring them with the compa.s.s onto the graphed rectangle, just as he had taught her to do.

"You checked the figures yourself," she added "From Mazarron to the headland of Las Viboras, to Punta Percheles, to Cabo Tinoso." She was bent over, showing him the results, like a serious student trying to convince her professor. "3732' "3732' north of the equator and 4 51' east of Cadiz on Urrutia's nautical chart corresponds to 3732,N and 121'W relative to the Greenwich meridian. You see?" north of the equator and 4 51' east of Cadiz on Urrutia's nautical chart corresponds to 3732,N and 121'W relative to the Greenwich meridian. You see?"

Coy pretended to review the numbers. He had done that operation so many times that he knew them by heart. The charts were covered with annotations in his hand.

"There could be an error in the conversion charts."

"There isn't." She shook her head energetically. "I've already told you they came from Nestor Perona s Aplicaciones de Cartografia Historica. Aplicaciones de Cartografia Historica. Even that error of seventeen minutes in the Cadiz longitude relative to Greenwich on the Urrutia charts is corrected there. Every minute and every second is precise. It's thanks to these tables that they found the Even that error of seventeen minutes in the Cadiz longitude relative to Greenwich on the Urrutia charts is corrected there. Every minute and every second is precise. It's thanks to these tables that they found the Caridad Caridad and the and the Sao Rico Sao Rico two years ago." two years ago."

"Maybe the position the ship's boy gave wasn't accurate. In all the commotion, they may have made a mistake."

"No. That's not possible." Tanger kept shaking her head with the stubbornness of someone hearing what she doesn't want to hear. "It was all too exact. The ship's boy even talked about how close the cape was, to the northeast- Remember?"

In unison they looked through the open starboard porthole toward the reddish ma.s.s outlined at the end of the semicircle of coast, beyond the bay of Mazarron and Cabo Falco. "Having already sighted the cape," the ship's boy had declared, according to the report.

"It may be," Tanger added, "that the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria is buried in sand and we pa.s.sed right over her without picking her up." is buried in sand and we pa.s.sed right over her without picking her up."

It was possible, Coy thought. Although not very likely. In that case, he explained, the sounder would at least have signaled differing densities in the composition of the floor. But it had been constantly indicating layers of sand and mud of seven feet, and that was deep not to show anything.

"Something would have to be there," he concluded. "Even if it was just the metal from the guns. Ten guns in one spot is a significant ma.s.s of iron. And to those ten you have to add the twelve on the corsair, even though they were scattered by the explosion."

Tanger was drumming her pencil on the chart, chewing the thumbnail of the other hand. The furrows in her forehead resembled scars. Coy reached out to touch her neck, hoping to erase that frown, but she was indifferent to the caress, focused on the charts. The drawings of the brigantine and the xebec were also where she could see them, taped to one of the cabin bulkheads. She had even estimated the dispersion of the corsair's guns on the localized charts, taking into account the explosion, drift, and distance to the bottom.

"The ship's boy," Coy offered, taking away his hand, "could have lied."

Another shake of the head as the frown lines grew more p.r.o.nounced.

"Too young to come up with a deception of that complexity. He talked about the nearby cape, about a couple of miles of coast__ And in his pocket he had the penciled data on lat.i.tude and longitude."

"Well, I can't think of anything else- Unless Cadiz isn't the right meridian."

Tanger gave him a somber look.

"I thought about that too," she said. "The first thing. Among other reasons because Tintin and Captain Haddock make a similar error in Red Rackham's Treasure, Red Rackham's Treasure, when they confuse the Paris and Greenwich longitudes." when they confuse the Paris and Greenwich longitudes."

Sometimes, Coy thought as he listened to her, I wonder if she's pulling my leg. Or if this isn't some childish adventure she dreamed up out of a comic book. Because it sure isn't serious. Or doesn't seem to be. Or wouldn't seem to be, he corrected himself, if it didn't involve that Argentine dwarf with his knife, d.o.g.g.i.ng our shadows, and that boss of his, the Dalmatian. A little girl's dream of searching for sunken ships. With treasures and villains.

"But we know the meridians they used at that time," he said. "We have the position the ship's boy provided, and we can confirm it on the chart, along with where he was picked up after the ship went down. It can't be the Hierro meridian, or Paris or Greenwich."

"Of course not." Tanger pointed to the scale in the upper margin of one of the charts. "The longitude is definitely relative to Cadiz. With it, everything works out. The zero meridian of our search is the Guardiamarinas castle. That's where it was in 1767 1767 and that's where it was in 1798. Old longitude from Cadiz to the wreck: 451'E. Present longitude, after the correction: 512,E. Relative to Greenwich, 121'W. No other meridian can situate the and that's where it was in 1798. Old longitude from Cadiz to the wreck: 451'E. Present longitude, after the correction: 512,E. Relative to Greenwich, 121'W. No other meridian can situate the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria so perfectly on Urrutia's and modem charts." so perfectly on Urrutia's and modem charts."

"That's all well and good. Perfect, you say. But we're missing the most important part-the ship."

"We've done something wrong."

"That's obvious. Now tell me what."

Tanger threw the pencil down on the table and got up, still studying the chart Coy's eyes took in her bare feet against the deck planking, the long, freckled thighs and small b.r.e.a.s.t.s beneath the T-shirt. Again he caressed her neck, and this time she leaned a little against him. Her firm, warm body smelled faintly of sweat and salt.

"I don't know," she said, pensive. "But if there's an error, we're the ones who made it. You and me. If we finish the search tomorrow with no success, we'll have to start over."

"How?'

"I don't know. With how we applied the cartographical corrections, I suppose. An error of half a minute throws things off by half a mile. And while Perona's tables are extremely precise, our calculations may not be. All it would take is a slight miscalculation in the boy's lat.i.tude and longitude. That ten seconds would be scarcely noticeable in their system of positioning, but decisive when transferred to the chart. Maybe the brigantine is a mile more to the south, or to the east. Maybe we made a mistake in limiting the search area so strictly."

Coy took the deepest breath he could. That was all reasonable, but it meant starting anew. On the other hand, it also meant being with her longer. He circled her waist with his arms. She turned to face him and looked at him questioningly, her lips parted. She's afraid, he realized, resisting the temptation to kiss her. She's afraid that El Piloto and I will say we've had enough.

"We don't have forever," he said. "The weather may turn bad again. And up to now we've been lucky with the Guardia Civil, but they could start to ha.s.sle us any time. Questions and more questions. And then there's Nino Palermo and his people." He pointed to El Piloto, who was clearing the table to put on the tablecloth, acting as if he wasn't listening to the conversation. 'And he has to be paid."

"Don't do that." Slowly, gentry, she removed the hands clasping her waist. "I have to think, Coy. I have to think."

She smiled a little, distant but embarra.s.sed, as if trying to soften her withdrawal. Suddenly she was miles away, and Coy felt a dark sadness slip through his veins. The void in the navy-blue eyes deepened as they turned toward the porthole open to the sea.

"But it's out there somewhere," she murmured.

She put both hands on the porthole and leaned forward. He rubbed a hand across his badly shaven face, feeling his own desolation. Once again she seemed isolated, solitary, self-absorbed. She was returning to the cloud from which they were excluded, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

"I know it's down there, somewhere close," Tanger added softly. "Waiting for me."

Coy said nothing. He felt a mute, impotent anger, like an animal struggling in a trap. He knew he would spend that night with Tanger lying awake in the dark in impenetrable silence.

Now is when I make my appearance, although brief, in this story. Or when, to be more precise, we come to the more or less decisive role I played in the resolution-to give a name to it-of the enigma surrounding the sinking of the Dei Gloria. Dei Gloria. In truth, as some perspicacious reader may have noted, I am the person who has been doing the telling all this time, the Marlow of this novel, if you will permit the comparison-with the reservation that until now I hadn't thought it necessary to emerge from the comfortable voice I was using. Those are, they say, the rules of the art. But someone pointed out once that tales, like enigmas, and like life itself, are sealed envelopes containing other sealed envelopes. Besides, the story of the lost ship, and of Coy, the sailor banished from the sea, and Tanger, the woman who returned him to it, seduced me from the moment I met the protagonists. Stories like this, as far as I'm concerned, scarcely ever happen these days, and even more rarely do those protagonists tell them, though they may embellish the tale a little, as ancient cartographers ornamented the blank s.p.a.ces of still-unexplored areas. Maybe they don't tell them because we no longer have verandas dripping with bougainvillea, where dark falls slowly as Malay waiters serve gin-Bombay Sapphire, naturally-and an old captain enveloped in pipe smoke spins his story from a wicker rocking chair. For some time now the verandas and Malay waiters and rocking chairs, even the gin, have been the province of tour operators-in addition to which it is no longer permitted to smoke, whether it be a pipe or any other G.o.dd.a.m.n thing. It is difficult, therefore, to escape the temptation to tell a story the way they used to be told. So, to get to the heart of the matter, the moment has come for us to open the next-to-last envelope, the one that brings me, with all modesty, center stage. Without that narrative voice, and this you need to understand, the cla.s.sical aroma would be lacking. Shall we just say, by way of immediate introduction then, that the sailboat that entered the port of Cartagena that afternoon was a defeated vessel, as much as if instead of returning from a few miles to the southwest it was coming back-empty-handed, not with bags of gold-from an actual encounter with a corsair that had dispelled all dreams. On the chart table, the grid on nautical chart 4631 is covered with useless little crosses, like a used bingo card, disillusioning and worthless. As they arrived, there was little conversation aboard the In truth, as some perspicacious reader may have noted, I am the person who has been doing the telling all this time, the Marlow of this novel, if you will permit the comparison-with the reservation that until now I hadn't thought it necessary to emerge from the comfortable voice I was using. Those are, they say, the rules of the art. But someone pointed out once that tales, like enigmas, and like life itself, are sealed envelopes containing other sealed envelopes. Besides, the story of the lost ship, and of Coy, the sailor banished from the sea, and Tanger, the woman who returned him to it, seduced me from the moment I met the protagonists. Stories like this, as far as I'm concerned, scarcely ever happen these days, and even more rarely do those protagonists tell them, though they may embellish the tale a little, as ancient cartographers ornamented the blank s.p.a.ces of still-unexplored areas. Maybe they don't tell them because we no longer have verandas dripping with bougainvillea, where dark falls slowly as Malay waiters serve gin-Bombay Sapphire, naturally-and an old captain enveloped in pipe smoke spins his story from a wicker rocking chair. For some time now the verandas and Malay waiters and rocking chairs, even the gin, have been the province of tour operators-in addition to which it is no longer permitted to smoke, whether it be a pipe or any other G.o.dd.a.m.n thing. It is difficult, therefore, to escape the temptation to tell a story the way they used to be told. So, to get to the heart of the matter, the moment has come for us to open the next-to-last envelope, the one that brings me, with all modesty, center stage. Without that narrative voice, and this you need to understand, the cla.s.sical aroma would be lacking. Shall we just say, by way of immediate introduction then, that the sailboat that entered the port of Cartagena that afternoon was a defeated vessel, as much as if instead of returning from a few miles to the southwest it was coming back-empty-handed, not with bags of gold-from an actual encounter with a corsair that had dispelled all dreams. On the chart table, the grid on nautical chart 4631 is covered with useless little crosses, like a used bingo card, disillusioning and worthless. As they arrived, there was little conversation aboard the Carpanta. Carpanta. Lying to facing the rusted structures of the Graveyard of Ships With No Name, its crew silently furled the sails, and then, under motor, made their way to one of the slips in the port for pleasure craft. Together they went ash.o.r.e, unaccustomed to walking on solid ground, past the Lying to facing the rusted structures of the Graveyard of Ships With No Name, its crew silently furled the sails, and then, under motor, made their way to one of the slips in the port for pleasure craft. Together they went ash.o.r.e, unaccustomed to walking on solid ground, past the Felix von Luckner, Felix von Luckner, a Belgian container vessel belonging to Zeeland, preparing to weigh anchor and set sail, and started out in the Valencia and the Taibilla, followed by the Gran Bar, the Sol, and the Del Macho, and ended their Via Cruris three hours later in La Obrera, a small tavern located on a corner behind the old town hall. That night, Coy would remember later, they looked like three good friends, three sailors come ash.o.r.e after a long and perilous voyage. And they drank until things got hazy, one and another and then still another, followed by the next-to-the-last, all for one and no complexes. Alcohol distances events, words, and gestures. So Coy, aware of that, was attending the party, including the main show itself, with a perverse curiosity that contained both amazement and guilt. That was also the first and last time he had seen Tanger drink that much, and so deliberately and earnestly. She was smiling as if all at once the a Belgian container vessel belonging to Zeeland, preparing to weigh anchor and set sail, and started out in the Valencia and the Taibilla, followed by the Gran Bar, the Sol, and the Del Macho, and ended their Via Cruris three hours later in La Obrera, a small tavern located on a corner behind the old town hall. That night, Coy would remember later, they looked like three good friends, three sailors come ash.o.r.e after a long and perilous voyage. And they drank until things got hazy, one and another and then still another, followed by the next-to-the-last, all for one and no complexes. Alcohol distances events, words, and gestures. So Coy, aware of that, was attending the party, including the main show itself, with a perverse curiosity that contained both amazement and guilt. That was also the first and last time he had seen Tanger drink that much, and so deliberately and earnestly. She was smiling as if all at once the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria was a bad dream left far behind, and she kept leaning her head on Coy's shoulder. She drank what he was drinking, gin with ice and a little tonic, while El Piloto accompanied them with eye-watering belts of Fundador cognac chased with beer. Watching them through amused, puckish, friendly eyes, he told brief and incoherent stories about ports and ships with that serious tone and slow, careful speech one uses when alcohol thickens the tongue. Sometimes Tanger laughed and kissed him, and El Piloto, cut short, would dip his head a little, always calm, or look at Coy and smile again, elbows on the worn Formica table. He seemed to be having a good time. As did Coy, who was rubbing Tanger's stiff waist and the slim curve of her back, feeling her body against his, her lips on his ear and his neck. Everything could have ended there, and it wasn't a bad ending for a failure. Because everything was grotesque and yet logical at the same time, Coy decided. They hadn't found the brigantine, but it was the first time the three of them had laughed together, without reserve, free of problems, unself-conscious and loud. It felt liberating, and in that state of mind they drank as if playing themselves, aware of. the trite ritual the circ.u.mstances demanded. was a bad dream left far behind, and she kept leaning her head on Coy's shoulder. She drank what he was drinking, gin with ice and a little tonic, while El Piloto accompanied them with eye-watering belts of Fundador cognac chased with beer. Watching them through amused, puckish, friendly eyes, he told brief and incoherent stories about ports and ships with that serious tone and slow, careful speech one uses when alcohol thickens the tongue. Sometimes Tanger laughed and kissed him, and El Piloto, cut short, would dip his head a little, always calm, or look at Coy and smile again, elbows on the worn Formica table. He seemed to be having a good time. As did Coy, who was rubbing Tanger's stiff waist and the slim curve of her back, feeling her body against his, her lips on his ear and his neck. Everything could have ended there, and it wasn't a bad ending for a failure. Because everything was grotesque and yet logical at the same time, Coy decided. They hadn't found the brigantine, but it was the first time the three of them had laughed together, without reserve, free of problems, unself-conscious and loud. It felt liberating, and in that state of mind they drank as if playing themselves, aware of. the trite ritual the circ.u.mstances demanded.

"To the turtle," said Tanger.

She raised her gla.s.s, clinking it against Coy's, and emptied what remained in one swallow. That afternoon on the way to Cartagena, a mile south of Palomas Island, they had sighted in the distance something splashing in the water. Tanger had asked what it was, and Coy took a look through the binoculars-a sea turtle trapped in a fishing net. They had headed for her, watching the creature struggle to free herself. The netting was wrapped around her sh.e.l.l and b.l.o.o.d.y fins, strangling her as she fought to keep her head above water; she was on the verge of asphyxiation. It was rare to see a turtle in those waters, and the trouble she was in was a good indication of why. The net was one of thousands strung everywhere in the Mediterranean, a thousand feet of mesh held by plastic drums as floats, lethal labyrinths that trapped any living thing. The turtle would never be able to get free. Her strength was failing and her wrinkled eyelids were closing over bulging eyes in a death agony. Even if she got free of the net, her exhaustion and wounds had already sentenced her to death. But that didn't matter to Coy. Before anyone could say a word, blind with rage, he had jumped into the water with El Piloto's knife in his hand and was wildly slashing at the net around the animal. He hacked at the netting with fury, as if attacking an enemy he despised with all his soul. He would take a breath and dive in water blood had turned a rosy pink, and when he came up stare straight into the creature's desperate eye. He cut everything he could, roaring with outrage when he came up to breathe, then went back down to destroy all he could of the net. Even when the turtle was finally free and slowly drifting away, weakly moving her fins, he kept slashing, until his arm refused to respond. Then he took one last look at the turtle, whose dying eye followed him as he swam away toward the Carpanta. Carpanta. She didn't have much of a chance, exhausted and trailing blood that sooner or later would attract some voracious shark. But at least the end would come in the open sea, in accord with her world and her species, not a wretched death strangled in a tangle of cord woven by human hands. She didn't have much of a chance, exhausted and trailing blood that sooner or later would attract some voracious shark. But at least the end would come in the open sea, in accord with her world and her species, not a wretched death strangled in a tangle of cord woven by human hands.

In La Obrera they ordered more gin, more cognac, and more beer, and Tanger again rested her head on Coy's shoulder. She was quietly singing the words of a song, and from time to time she would stop, turn up her face, and Coy would seek her lips, cool from the ice and perfumed with gin, to warm them with his. No one mentioned the Dei Gloria, Dei Gloria, and everything was being played by the rules, by what the situation demanded, and by the roles that they-perhaps not El Piloto, or at least not consciously-were performing in that contemporary version of a timeworn plot. They had lived that scene a hundred times before, and it was soothing to lose the game in times when men were trained to see a certain kind of success evaporate before their eyes. At the bar, facing the tavern-keeper Coy remembered being there all his life in his ap.r.o.n and with a cigarette hanging from his Hps, red-nosed drunks and steady clients with skinny, tattooed arms were putting down gla.s.ses of wine and goblets of cognac, turning from time to time to smile with complicity. They were old acquaintances of El Piloto, and now and again the three at the table would tell the tavern-keeper to serve a round for everyone. Your health, Piloto, and your buddies'. Here's to you, Gines. And you, Gramola. You, too, Jaqueta. Everything was perfect, and Coy felt at peace. He was having fun playing his own character. All that was missing, he lamented, was the piano, with Lauren Bacall shooting sidelong glances as she sang in that hoa.r.s.e, hushed voice, which in the original, subt.i.tled version sounded a little like Tinger's. A little later, when they reached a certain point, the alcohol would transpose all images to black and white. Because after so many novels, so many films, and so many songs, there weren't even innocent drunks anymore. And Coy asked himself, envying him, what the first man felt the first time he went out to hunt a whale, a treasure, or a woman, without having ever read about it in a book. and everything was being played by the rules, by what the situation demanded, and by the roles that they-perhaps not El Piloto, or at least not consciously-were performing in that contemporary version of a timeworn plot. They had lived that scene a hundred times before, and it was soothing to lose the game in times when men were trained to see a certain kind of success evaporate before their eyes. At the bar, facing the tavern-keeper Coy remembered being there all his life in his ap.r.o.n and with a cigarette hanging from his Hps, red-nosed drunks and steady clients with skinny, tattooed arms were putting down gla.s.ses of wine and goblets of cognac, turning from time to time to smile with complicity. They were old acquaintances of El Piloto, and now and again the three at the table would tell the tavern-keeper to serve a round for everyone. Your health, Piloto, and your buddies'. Here's to you, Gines. And you, Gramola. You, too, Jaqueta. Everything was perfect, and Coy felt at peace. He was having fun playing his own character. All that was missing, he lamented, was the piano, with Lauren Bacall shooting sidelong glances as she sang in that hoa.r.s.e, hushed voice, which in the original, subt.i.tled version sounded a little like Tinger's. A little later, when they reached a certain point, the alcohol would transpose all images to black and white. Because after so many novels, so many films, and so many songs, there weren't even innocent drunks anymore. And Coy asked himself, envying him, what the first man felt the first time he went out to hunt a whale, a treasure, or a woman, without having ever read about it in a book.

THEY said good-night at the city wall. They had left the boat clean and secure, and that night El Piloto was going to sleep at his house in the fisherman's barrio of Santa Lucia. They stood watching him stumble off through the palm trees and huge magnolias, and then looked down toward the port, where beyond the seamen's club and the Mare Nostrum restaurant the said good-night at the city wall. They had left the boat clean and secure, and that night El Piloto was going to sleep at his house in the fisherman's barrio of Santa Lucia. They stood watching him stumble off through the palm trees and huge magnolias, and then looked down toward the port, where beyond the seamen's club and the Mare Nostrum restaurant the Felix von Luckner Felix von Luckner was casting off her lines with her deck illuminated and her lights reflected in the black water. They had let the stern line go, and Coy mentally repeated the orders the pilot would be sending that moment from the bridge. Hard a-starboard. A little forward. Stop. Rudder amidships. Engines half back Cast off bowlines. Tanger was beside him, also watching the ship's maneuver, and abruptly she said, "I want a shower, Coy. I want to strip and take a really hot shower, boiling with steam, like fog on the high seas. And I want you to be in that fog, and not talk to me about boats or shipwrecks or any of that. I've drunk so much tonight that all I want is to put my arms around a tough, silent hero, someone who's returned from Troy and whose skin and lips taste like salt and the smoke of burned cities." She said that, and looked at him the way she sometimes did, quiet and very serious and focused, as if she were waiting for something from him. The blue steel of her eyes was softened by gin into shining, almost liquid navy blue, and she parted her lips as if the ice of the drinks she'd drunk made her mouth so cold that it would take was casting off her lines with her deck illuminated and her lights reflected in the black water. They had let the stern line go, and Coy mentally repeated the orders the pilot would be sending that moment from the bridge. Hard a-starboard. A little forward. Stop. Rudder amidships. Engines half back Cast off bowlines. Tanger was beside him, also watching the ship's maneuver, and abruptly she said, "I want a shower, Coy. I want to strip and take a really hot shower, boiling with steam, like fog on the high seas. And I want you to be in that fog, and not talk to me about boats or shipwrecks or any of that. I've drunk so much tonight that all I want is to put my arms around a tough, silent hero, someone who's returned from Troy and whose skin and lips taste like salt and the smoke of burned cities." She said that, and looked at him the way she sometimes did, quiet and very serious and focused, as if she were waiting for something from him. The blue steel of her eyes was softened by gin into shining, almost liquid navy blue, and she parted her lips as if the ice of the drinks she'd drunk made her mouth so cold that it would take Coy hours to warm it. He wrinkled his nose and smiled the way he so often did, with that shy expression that lit his face and softened his rough features, the too large nose and chin almost always in need of a shave. Tough, silent hero, she'd said. On that particular island of knights and knaves, no one had spoken the magic words. Only I will lie to you and I will deceive you. Not even in that context of lying or betrayal had anyone yet said "I love you." At that precise instant, though with the world whirling around him and alcohol pumping through his veins, he was on the verge of being vulgar and saying it. He had even opened his mouth to say the forbidden words. But she, as if sensing it, put her fingers to Coy's lips. She came so close that the liquid blue of her eyes was sparkling and dark at the same time, and he smiled again, resigned, as he kissed her fingers. Then he took a deep breath, as he did before a dive, and looked around for five seconds before taking her hand and crossing the street, setting a direct course for the door of the Cartago Inn, one star, rooms with bath and views of the port. Special rates for officers of the Merchant Marine.

THAT night, enclosed by white tiles and thick steam, it rained on the sh.o.r.es of Troy as ship after ship set sail. It was, in fact, a warm fog, gray or shades of gray, in which all colors were washed out by that gentle rain falling on a deserted beach where signs of a denouement could be seen-a forgotten bronze helmet, a fragment of broken sword half-buried in the sand, ashes carried on the wind from some burned city out of sight but sensed, still smoking, as the last ships hoisted damp sails and sailed away. It was the night, enclosed by white tiles and thick steam, it rained on the sh.o.r.es of Troy as ship after ship set sail. It was, in fact, a warm fog, gray or shades of gray, in which all colors were washed out by that gentle rain falling on a deserted beach where signs of a denouement could be seen-a forgotten bronze helmet, a fragment of broken sword half-buried in the sand, ashes carried on the wind from some burned city out of sight but sensed, still smoking, as the last ships hoisted damp sails and sailed away. It was the nostos nostos of Homeric heroes, the return and the loneliness of the last warriors coming home after the battle to be murdered by their wives' lovers or to be lost at sea, victims of cholera and the caprices of the G.o.ds. In that warm mist, Tanger's naked body sought Coy's, foam of soapy water on her thighs, smooth, freckled skin shining wetly. She sought him with silent determination, with intense purpose in her gaze, literally trapping him at the head of the bathtub. And lying back there, warm water to his waist and warm rain falling on his head and running down his face and shoulders, Coy watched her rise slowly, lift above him and slowly descend, decisive, slow, inch by inch, leaving him no escape but forward between her thighs, deep into that intense, desperate embrace, at the very edge of a lucidity draining away with his surrender and defeat. Never, until that night, had Coy felt raped by a woman. Never so meticulously and deliberately relegated to marginal status. Because I'm not me, he reasoned with the last bit of flotsam floating from the shipwreck of his thoughts. It isn't me she's embracing, it isn't anyone who can be a.s.signed a face, a voice, a mouth. It wasn't for me those other times, when she moaned that long, sorrowful moan, and it isn't me she is imagining now. It's the tough, male, silent hero she was calling for before. Summoning him to the dream that she, all shes, have carried in their cells since the world began. The man who left his s.e.m.e.n in her womb and then sailed for Troy on a black ship. The man whose shadow not even cynical priests, pale poets, or reasonable men of peace and the word who wait beside the unfinished tapestry have ever been able to erase completely. of Homeric heroes, the return and the loneliness of the last warriors coming home after the battle to be murdered by their wives' lovers or to be lost at sea, victims of cholera and the caprices of the G.o.ds. In that warm mist, Tanger's naked body sought Coy's, foam of soapy water on her thighs, smooth, freckled skin shining wetly. She sought him with silent determination, with intense purpose in her gaze, literally trapping him at the head of the bathtub. And lying back there, warm water to his waist and warm rain falling on his head and running down his face and shoulders, Coy watched her rise slowly, lift above him and slowly descend, decisive, slow, inch by inch, leaving him no escape but forward between her thighs, deep into that intense, desperate embrace, at the very edge of a lucidity draining away with his surrender and defeat. Never, until that night, had Coy felt raped by a woman. Never so meticulously and deliberately relegated to marginal status. Because I'm not me, he reasoned with the last bit of flotsam floating from the shipwreck of his thoughts. It isn't me she's embracing, it isn't anyone who can be a.s.signed a face, a voice, a mouth. It wasn't for me those other times, when she moaned that long, sorrowful moan, and it isn't me she is imagining now. It's the tough, male, silent hero she was calling for before. Summoning him to the dream that she, all shes, have carried in their cells since the world began. The man who left his s.e.m.e.n in her womb and then sailed for Troy on a black ship. The man whose shadow not even cynical priests, pale poets, or reasonable men of peace and the word who wait beside the unfinished tapestry have ever been able to erase completely.

IT was still night when Coy awakened. She was not beside him. He had dreamed of a black, hollow s.p.a.ce, the belly of a wooden horse, and bronze-armored companions who, swords in hand, slipped stealthily into the heart of a sleeping city. He sat up, uneasy, and saw the silhouette of Tanger at the shadowed window, against the lights from the city wall and the port. She was smoking. Her back was to him and he couldn't see the cigarette, but he caught the scent of tobacco. He got out of bed, naked, and went to her. She had put on his shirt but left it unb.u.t.toned despite the cool night air blowing through the open window. The silver chain with the soldier's I.D. shone at her neck. was still night when Coy awakened. She was not beside him. He had dreamed of a black, hollow s.p.a.ce, the belly of a wooden horse, and bronze-armored companions who, swords in hand, slipped stealthily into the heart of a sleeping city. He sat up, uneasy, and saw the silhouette of Tanger at the shadowed window, against the lights from the city wall and the port. She was smoking. Her back was to him and he couldn't see the cigarette, but he caught the scent of tobacco. He got out of bed, naked, and went to her. She had put on his shirt but left it unb.u.t.toned despite the cool night air blowing through the open window. The silver chain with the soldier's I.D. shone at her neck.

"I thought you were sleeping," she said, without turning. "I "I woke up and you weren't there." woke up and you weren't there."

Tanger didn't add anything, and he stood quietly looking at her. She inhaled deeply, held the smoke in her lungs, then slowly expelled it. As she drew on the cigarette, the glowing tip lit her fingers with their ragged nails. Coy put one hand on her shoulder, and she touched it absently, distractedly, before taking another drag.

"What do you think happened to the turtle?" she asked after a while.

Coy shrugged. "By now she's dead."

"I hope not. It's possible that she made it."

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" She observed him out of the comer of her eye. "Sometimes there are happy endings, Coy." "Sure. Sometimes. Save one for me."

Again that silence. She was gazing down below the wall at the empty s.p.a.ce left at the dock by the departure of the Zeeland ship.

"Do you have the answer yet to the puzzle of the knight and the knave?" she asked finally, speaking very quietly.

"There is no answer."

She laughed very low, or he thought she did. He couldn't be sure.

"You're mistaken," she said. "There's always an answer for everything."

"Well then, tell me what we're going to do now."

It was some time before she replied. She seemed as far away as the wreck of the Dei Gloria. Dei Gloria. Her cigarette had burned down, and she leaned over to crush the b.u.t.t on the ledge of the recessed window, very deliberately extinguishing the last ember. Then she dropped it out the window. Her cigarette had burned down, and she leaned over to crush the b.u.t.t on the ledge of the recessed window, very deliberately extinguishing the last ember. Then she dropped it out the window.

"Do?' She tilted her head, as if considering that word. "What we've been doing, naturally. Keep looking."

"Where?'

"Back on dry land again. You don't only fund sunken ships in the ocean."

AND that was how I came to see them the next day in my office at Universidad de Murcia. It was one of those very bright days we tend to have, with huge parallelograms of sun gilding the stones of the halls of learning amid shimmering windowpanes and sparkling fountains. I had put on my sungla.s.ses and gone down to the corner cafe for a cup of coffee, and on my way back, my jacket over my shoulder, I saw Tanger Soto waiting for me at the door-blond, pretty, full blue skirt, freckles. At first I took her for one of the students who at this time of year come to ask for help with their theses. Then I took note of the fellow with her, who was close but keeping a certain distance-I suppose you know what I mean if you know Coy a little by now. Then she-carrying a leather shoulder bag and with a cardboard doc.u.ment tube under one arm-introduced herself and pulled my that was how I came to see them the next day in my office at Universidad de Murcia. It was one of those very bright days we tend to have, with huge parallelograms of sun gilding the stones of the halls of learning amid shimmering windowpanes and sparkling fountains. I had put on my sungla.s.ses and gone down to the corner cafe for a cup of coffee, and on my way back, my jacket over my shoulder, I saw Tanger Soto waiting for me at the door-blond, pretty, full blue skirt, freckles. At first I took her for one of the students who at this time of year come to ask for help with their theses. Then I took note of the fellow with her, who was close but keeping a certain distance-I suppose you know what I mean if you know Coy a little by now. Then she-carrying a leather shoulder bag and with a cardboard doc.u.ment tube under one arm-introduced herself and pulled my Aplicaciones de Cartografia Historica Aplicaciones de Cartografia Historica from her bag, and it came to me that she was the young woman my dear friend and colleague Luisa Martin-Meras, head of cartography at the Museo Naval in Madrid, had spoken to me about, describing her as bright, introverted, and efficient. I even recalled that we had had several telephone conversations about Urrutia's from her bag, and it came to me that she was the young woman my dear friend and colleague Luisa Martin-Meras, head of cartography at the Museo Naval in Madrid, had spoken to me about, describing her as bright, introverted, and efficient. I even recalled that we had had several telephone conversations about Urrutia's Atlas Atlas and other historical doc.u.ments in the archives of the university. and other historical doc.u.ments in the archives of the university.

I invited them to come in, ignoring the sullen students waiting in the corridor. It was exam period and work was piled on my desk in the lion's cage I have for an office. I took books off chairs so they could sit down, and listened to their story. To be more precise, I listened to her, because it was she who did nearly all the talking, and I listened to as much of the story as she was willing to tell at that time. They had come from Cartagena, only half an hour by car on the main highway, and the whole affair could be summed up as a sunken ship, the information that could make it possible to find it, a few previous unfruitful attempts, and exact coordinates of lat.i.tude and longitude that for some reason had turned out to be inexact. Same old story. I am, after all, accustomed to inquiries of this nature. Although for personal reasons I sign my articles and my books with the same name and modest t.i.tle I use on my calling card- below the anagram, common in my profession, of a T inside an O: Nestor Perona, Master Cartographer-I have held the chair of cartography at the Universidad de Murcia for a long time. My publications mean something in the scientific world, and I must often respond to questions and problems posed by inst.i.tutions and individuals. It is curious indeed that at a time when cartography has undergone the greatest revolution in its history-given aerial photography, satellite maps, and the application of electronics and informatics- and has progressed light-years beyond the rudimentary maps drawn by early explorers and navigators, scholars find it increasingly necessary to maintain the fragile umbilical cord that joins modern times to past eras of science, which are now little more than proven myth. Difficulties already existed in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, when advanced Flemish cartographers were faced with the daunting task of attempting to reconcile the contradictory lore left by authors of old with the new discoveries of Portuguese and Spanish navigators. And the process continued through successive generations. So today, without people like myself-you will forgive that minor, if legitimate, vanity-the ancient world would vanish and many things would lose their meaning in the cold neon light of modern science. Which is why, every time someone needs to look to the past and understand what he sees, he comes to me. To the cla.s.sics. I consult with historians, librarians, archaeologists, hydrographers... seekers of treasure in general. You may recall the discovery of the galleon Sao Rico off Cozumel, the search for Noah's ark on Mount Ararat, or that famous National Geographic television special on locating the Virgen de la Caridad near Santona in the Bay of Biscay, and the recovery of eighteen of her forty bronze guns. Those three episodes-although the quest for the ark ended in grotesque failure-were made possible by the correction tables developed by my team here at the university. And another familiar figure in this story, Nino Palermo, once paid me the dubious honor of consulting me-though the matter went no farther- when he was on the trail of 80,000 ducats that had gone down with a Spanish galley in 1562 near the tower of Velez Malaga. Now, then. For more details, I refer you to my articles in the journal Cartographica, and to several of my books-the aforementioned Aplicaciones, for example, or my study on loxodromics, derived from the Greek loxos and dromos, as you are aware, in Los enigmas de la proyeccion Mercator. You may also consult my work on the twenty-one maps in the unfinished atlas of Pedro de Esquivel and Diego de Guevara, or my biographies of Father Ricci (Li Mateu: The Ptolemy of China) Mateu: The Ptolemy of China) and Torino and Torino (The King's Hydrographer), (The King's Hydrographer), the the Catalogo Hidrografico Antiguo, Catalogo Hidrografico Antiguo, which I compiled in collaboration with Luisa Martin-Meras and Belen Rivera, and my monographs, which I compiled in collaboration with Luisa Martin-Meras and Belen Rivera, and my monographs, Cartografos jesuitas en el mar, Cartografos jesuitas en el mar, and and Cartografos jesuitas en Orients. Cartografos jesuitas en Orients. All these works were written in my study, naturally. But certain things, such as boyhood dreams, must be visited in person, and only when you are young. In our mature years, postcards and videos are imprinted upon our senses, and we find ourselves in Venice, not in splendor but in humidity. All these works were written in my study, naturally. But certain things, such as boyhood dreams, must be visited in person, and only when you are young. In our mature years, postcards and videos are imprinted upon our senses, and we find ourselves in Venice, not in splendor but in humidity.

But back to the matter at hand. That morning in my office at the university, my two visitors laid out their problem. Rather, she laid it out while he listened discreetly, seated among the piles of books I had set aside so he could sit down. I must confess that I took an immediate liking to that quiet sailor. It may have been the way he listened in the background, or perhaps it was his rough good looks. In any case, he looked like a good man. I liked that frank way he had of meeting your eyes, the way he touched his nose when disconcerted or perplexed, the shy smile, the jeans and sneakers, the strong arms under the white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He was the kind of man whom you sense, rightly or wrongly, you can trust, and his role in this adventure, his intervention in the puzzle and its unraveling, is the princ.i.p.al reason I am eager to tell this tale. In my youth I too read certain books. Besides, I tend to call on extreme courtesy-each of us has his own method-as a superior expression of scorn for my fellow man. The science to which I devote myself is a means as efficient as any other to hold at bay a world populated with people who on the whole irritate me, and among whom I prefer to choose with total impartiality, according to my sympathies or antipathies. As Coy himself would say, we deal the way we can. So for some strange reason-call it solidarity or affinity-I feel the need to justify this sailor exiled from the sea, and that is my motive for telling you his story. After all, narrating his adventure at the side of Tanger Soto is a little like a Mercator projection. In attempting to represent a sphere on a flat sheet of paper, you must slightly distort surfaces in the upper lat.i.tudes.

That morning in my office, Tanger Soto gave me the general outline of the matter, and then set out the specifics of the problem: 3732'N and 451'E on Urrutia's nautical chart. A ship had been sunk there during the last third of the eighteenth century and that location, after the proper corrections had been made with the help of my own cartographical tables, corresponded to the modern position of 3732,N and 121'W. The question posed by the visiting pair was whether that transposition was correct. After brief consideration, I said that if the tables had been properly applied, then quite possibly it was.

"Nonetheless," she said, "the ship isn't there."

1 looked at her with reasonable reserve. In these kinds of situations I always distrust absolute affirmations, and women, pretty or ugly who are exceedingly clever. And many of them have pa.s.sed through my lecture halls.

'Are you sure? A sunken ship does not go about shouting its location."

"I know that. But we have done exhaustive research, starting on land."

So perhaps they got their feet wet, I deduced. I was trying to situate the couple among the species I have catalogued, but it was not easy. Amateur archaeologists, avid historians, treasure hunters. From behind my desk, beneath the framed reproduction of Peutinger's Tabula Itineraria Tabula Itineraria-a gift from my students when I was given the chair-I devoted myself to studying them carefully. Physically, she fit the first two categories, he the third. a.s.suming that archaeologists, avid historians, and treasure hunters have have a specific appearance. a specific appearance.

"Well, I don't know," I said. "All that occurs to me is the most elementary answer. Your original data are erroneous. The lat.i.tudes and longitudes are incorrect."

"That's unlikely." She shook her head with certainty, an action that caused her blond hair, which I observed to be cut with curious asymmetry, to brush her chin. "I have solid doc.u.mentary evidence. In that sense, only a relative margin of error would be acceptable, and that will lead us to a second, and broader, area of search. But first we want to discard any other possibility."

I liked the lady's tone of voice. So competent and sure. Formal.

"For example?"

'An error on our part when we applied your tables. I would be grateful if you would review our calculations."

Again I looked at her for an instant and then glanced at him; he was still listening quietly, sitting still, his large hands resting on his thighs. My curiosity had its limits. I had heard many such stories of searches. But the students waiting outside my door were stifling, the day was too splendid for correcting exams, she was most uncommonly attractive-without being a true beauty because of her nose when seen in profile, although perhaps beautiful precisely because of that-and I liked him a lot. So, pourquoi pas?' pourquoi pas?' I asked myself, in the manner of Commander Charcot. This was not something that would take much time. The cardboard tube contained several rolled-up charts, which Tanger Soto spread out on my desk. Among them I recognized a fine reproduction of one of Urrutia's nautical charts. I knew that one, naturally, and studied it with affection. Not as beautiful as Torino's, of course. But magnificent drypoint engraved on plates of beaten and polished copper. Very precise for its period. I asked myself, in the manner of Commander Charcot. This was not something that would take much time. The cardboard tube contained several rolled-up charts, which Tanger Soto spread out on my desk. Among them I recognized a fine reproduction of one of Urrutia's nautical charts. I knew that one, naturally, and studied it with affection. Not as beautiful as Torino's, of course. But magnificent drypoint engraved on plates of beaten and polished copper. Very precise for its period.

"We shall see," I said. "The date of the shipwreck?"

"1767. Southeast coast of Spain. Position from land bearings almost simultaneous to the moment of sinking."

"Tenerife meridian?"

"No. Cadiz."