The Nautical Chart Part 15

The revolver, a heavy, snub-nosed .357 magnum that Coy had never seen in Tanger's possession, helped Palermo digest those words without making too bad a face. What about the deal, he'd said then. I have to think about it, was her response. At the moment, she added, she couldn't tell him yes or no.

Palermo, who seemed to have recovered the use of his 'th's', told her that she and the mother who bore her could blow it out their a.s.s. That was exactly what he said: she and the mother who bore her, and this time he seemed truly apoplectic. You're not going to lead me down the garden path, b.i.t.c.h, he spat at her from the railing, visibly regaining lost ground before the silent approval of his chauffeur. All that, vocalized several feet from a pocket cannon with six acorn-size bullets in the cylinder, placed Palermo at a creditable, almost admirable, level for bra.s.s. Though fuzzy-headed and with a face like a road map, Coy could appreciate the performance out of pure masculine solidarity. "I will send you my answer," she said, looking like a model of propriety with the black sweater tied around her waist. She would have given the impression that she had never broken so much as a plate if she hadn't had that threatening piece in her hand. He remembered that Palermo had said Tanger was the kind of woman who could sink her teeth in you without opening her mouth. Now she was holding these twenty-eight ounces of iron without aiming, arm at her side, barrel to the ground, almost as if wis.h.i.+ng she were elsewhere; and that, curiously, gave her more credibility than if she were adopting a stance from a detective flick. I will tell you whether or not we have a deal she said. Just give me a few days. And Palermo, who still didn't believe her and maybe never would believe her, or maybe had caught her sarcasm, let fly with a string of extremely baroque and Mediterranean curses, no doubt related to his Maltese blood. The mildest among them was that he was going to trim the rigging of her lunatic sailor. All that was floating in the air behind Tanger as she walked to the Renault, after putting a hand on Coy's shoulder and getting a grant in answer to her question of how he felt.

"Like s.h.i.+t," he said, when Tanger asked a second time, on the road down. Suddenly she burst out laughing. The laugh of a light-hearted, self-contained happy child that he heard with amazement as he examined her profile with his one good eye.

"You are truly incredible," she said. "You nearly blew everything, but you are are incredible." She laughed again, and was still laughing, with admiration, when she turned and shot him a quick glance of sympathy. "Sometimes I think I love watching you fight." incredible." She laughed again, and was still laughing, with admiration, when she turned and shot him a quick glance of sympathy. "Sometimes I think I love watching you fight."

The reflection of the headlights laid a lamina of steel in her eyes, but that steel shone as if in bright sunlight. She took her hand from the gears.h.i.+ft and rested the backs of her fingers on Coy's neck, touching the stubble of his unshaved chin, puffy now from the fists of Palermo and the Berber. And Coy, exhausted and surprised, leaned back against the headrest. He felt a warmth where her fingers lay, and also in the place where soap operas say the heart is. He would have smiled like a goofy kid, had his swollen lips permitted.

FREE of the last line, the of the last line, the Carpanta Carpanta parted slowly from the quay. Then the deck vibrated softly while the sailboat sat motionless in the light reflected in the water, until El Piloto revved the motor and the boat gradually moved forward. The port lights marched slowly by, more quickly as the boat picked up speed, bow pointed toward the open sea. In the distance the lights of La Linea, the San Roque refinery, and the city of Algeciras marked the outline of the bay. Coy finished coiling the line in the bow, secured the end, and moved back to the c.o.c.kpit, holding onto the shrouds when-now they were outside the protection of the port-the boat began to pitch in the slight swell. The lights of Gibraltar still illuminated the parted slowly from the quay. Then the deck vibrated softly while the sailboat sat motionless in the light reflected in the water, until El Piloto revved the motor and the boat gradually moved forward. The port lights marched slowly by, more quickly as the boat picked up speed, bow pointed toward the open sea. In the distance the lights of La Linea, the San Roque refinery, and the city of Algeciras marked the outline of the bay. Coy finished coiling the line in the bow, secured the end, and moved back to the c.o.c.kpit, holding onto the shrouds when-now they were outside the protection of the port-the boat began to pitch in the slight swell. The lights of Gibraltar still illuminated the Carpanta, Carpanta, silhouetting El Piloto at the wheel, the lower part of his face red in the glow of the binnacle, where the needle of the compa.s.s was turning gradually toward the south. silhouetting El Piloto at the wheel, the lower part of his face red in the glow of the binnacle, where the needle of the compa.s.s was turning gradually toward the south.

Coy breathed the air with pleasure, sniffing the proximity of open sea. From the first time he had stepped onto the deck of a s.h.i.+p, the moment of leaving port had produced in him a sensation of singular calm, something very like happiness. The land lay behind, and everything he could need was traveling with him, circ.u.mscribed by the tight limits of the s.h.i.+p. At sea, he thought, men traveled with their houses on their backs, like the knapsack of an explorer or the sh.e.l.l that moves with the snail. All you needed was a few gallons of diesel and oil, sails, and a favorable wind, for everything that dry land provided to become superfluous, dispensable. Voices, noises, people, smells, the tyranny of the clock had no meaning here. To sail out until the coast fell far behind the stern-that was one goal met. Facing the menacing and magical presence of the omnipresent sea, sorrow, desire, sentimental attachments, hatreds, and hopes dissolved in the wake, dwindling until they seemed far away, meaningless, because the ocean brought people back to themselves. There were things that were unbearable on sh.o.r.e-thoughts, absences, anguishes-could only be borne on the deck of a s.h.i.+p. There was no painkiller as powerful as that. He had seen men survive on s.h.i.+ps who would have lost their reason and tranquillity forever anywhere else. Course, wind, waves, position, the day's run, survival; out there only these words had meaning. Because it was true that real freedom, the only possible freedom, the true peace of G.o.d, began five miles from the nearest coast. "Everything OK, Piloto "Everything's OK. In half an hour we'll clear Punta Europa."

Motionless at the stern, Tanger was watching the lights they were leaving behind. She had put on her sweater and was holding one of the backstays beside the lazily flapping pennant. She was looking up toward the top of the dark ma.s.s of the Rock, as if she couldn't leave behind things that were worrying her. The bow of the Carpanta Carpanta was now pointing directly south, and behind them on the port side were the luminous garlands of the main port, the s.h.i.+ps moored at the docks, the black line of the breakwaters, and the white flashes, one every two seconds, of the large beacon on the south dock. was now pointing directly south, and behind them on the port side were the luminous garlands of the main port, the s.h.i.+ps moored at the docks, the black line of the breakwaters, and the white flashes, one every two seconds, of the large beacon on the south dock.

El Piloto maneuvered to avoid a large anch.o.r.ed merchant s.h.i.+p and then set the engine at 2,500 rpms. In the binnacle the needle of the electronic log established their speed as five knots, and the pitching became more p.r.o.nounced. Coy went to the cabin to turn on the radio, Sailor VHP. He set channels 9 and 16 to transmit and receive. Then he went to the stern to join Tanger. The stern light suffused the straight line of the boat's wake with phosph.o.r.escence.

"Palermo's right," said Coy.

"Don't start," she replied.

And said nothing more. She was still focused on the heights of the huge dark rock, which looked like a threatening cloud hovering over the city.

"He can squash us if he puts his mind to it," Coy insisted. 'And it's true that he has ways to locate the Dei Gloria. Dei Gloria. His offer..." His offer..."

"Look...." She was profiled in the light they were leaving to port, towards the fin of the sailboat. "I did all the work. Let's see if you can get that in your head. That s.h.i.+p is mine."

"Ours. That s.h.i.+p is ours. Yours and mine." Coy pointed to El Piloto. 'And now it's his, too."

Tanger seemed to mull that over.

'All right," she said after a second. "He needs to do his thing, and you do yours_____ But Palermo isn't your business."

"If there are problems, Palermo will be everyone's business."

"If anyone's causing problems, it's you. You and your macho fits." She laughed, but not pleasantly. "The only time you seem happy is when someone's bas.h.i.+ng your face in."

Well now, he thought. LOE: Law of Opposing Enticements. One a carrot and the other a stick. Now you're not putting your hand against my neck, beautiful, or smiling. Not right this minute. Not when you're cool as you are now, and you start thinking that my blunders alter your plans.

All Coy said was, "You still think you can handle everyone, don't you?"

"I still think I know exactly what I'm doing."

Her eyes were back on something high on the dark rock. Coy took a look for himself. Farther down on the side, a tiny blue spark seemed to be climbing upward, while higher up something glowed red, like a bonfire. I hope, he thought, that the Berber has driven the car over the side and they're both sizzling like popcorn.

"Where did you get that gun?" As he said the word "gun" he felt a twinge of irritation. "You shouldn't be carrying something like that around."

"I can if I choose to."

Coy touched his injured eye and turned toward the luminous wake of the Carpanta, Carpanta, trying to think of an adequate answer. At the first opportunity, he decided, that bit of equipment is going overboard. He didn't like handguns, or guns in general. He didn't even like knives, though El Piloto's unused Wichard was still in the back pocket of his jeans. A person who carries that kind of utensil, he thought, does so with the clear intention of piercing, stabbing, or slas.h.i.+ng. Which means that he's either very frightened or not a very nice guy. trying to think of an adequate answer. At the first opportunity, he decided, that bit of equipment is going overboard. He didn't like handguns, or guns in general. He didn't even like knives, though El Piloto's unused Wichard was still in the back pocket of his jeans. A person who carries that kind of utensil, he thought, does so with the clear intention of piercing, stabbing, or slas.h.i.+ng. Which means that he's either very frightened or not a very nice guy.

"Weapons," he concluded aloud, "always create problems."

"They also get you out of them when you act like a fool."

He half-turned. Wounded.

"Hey. You said you like to see me fight."

"I said that?"

Now the glow of the distant city and the stern light in the wake revealed the angle of a smile forming beneath the s.h.i.+ning tips of her windblown hair. Coy felt his irritation draining away into other feelings.

"Easy," she said, and laughed. "I'm not planning to use it against you."

THE southern lighthouse was visible now off the port beam -five seconds of light and five seconds of darkness. The swell was making the southern lighthouse was visible now off the port beam -five seconds of light and five seconds of darkness. The swell was making the Carpanta Carpanta pitch more violently, and atop the mast, weakly sketched by the running lights, the wind vane and the blade of the anemometer were spinning intermittently, at the whim of the swaying boat and the absence of wind. By instinct Coy, back in the c.o.c.kpit, calculated their distance from land, and glanced toward the starboard quarter, where a merchant s.h.i.+p that had been closing on them from the east was now in a free lane. With his hands on the helm-a cla.s.sic six-spoke wooden wheel nearly three feet in diameter, located in the c.o.c.kpit behind a small cabin with a winds.h.i.+eld and canvas awning-El Piloto was gradually changing course, heading east and keeping the lighthouse in his peripheral vision. Without needing to consult the lighted repeater of the GPS over the binnacle beside the automatic pilot, or the patent log or the echo sounder, Coy knew they were at 366'N and 520'W He had drawn courses toward or away from that lighthouse too many times on nautical charts-four of the British Admiralty and two Spanish-to forget the lat.i.tude and longitude of Punta Europa. pitch more violently, and atop the mast, weakly sketched by the running lights, the wind vane and the blade of the anemometer were spinning intermittently, at the whim of the swaying boat and the absence of wind. By instinct Coy, back in the c.o.c.kpit, calculated their distance from land, and glanced toward the starboard quarter, where a merchant s.h.i.+p that had been closing on them from the east was now in a free lane. With his hands on the helm-a cla.s.sic six-spoke wooden wheel nearly three feet in diameter, located in the c.o.c.kpit behind a small cabin with a winds.h.i.+eld and canvas awning-El Piloto was gradually changing course, heading east and keeping the lighthouse in his peripheral vision. Without needing to consult the lighted repeater of the GPS over the binnacle beside the automatic pilot, or the patent log or the echo sounder, Coy knew they were at 366'N and 520'W He had drawn courses toward or away from that lighthouse too many times on nautical charts-four of the British Admiralty and two Spanish-to forget the lat.i.tude and longitude of Punta Europa.

"What do you think of her?" he asked El Piloto.

He didn't look at Tanger. She was still clinging to the backstay and contemplating the black Rock behind them. El Piloto took a while to answer. Coy didn't know whether he was considering the question or consciously delaying the answer.

"I suppose," El Piloto said finally, "you know what you're doing."

Coy twisted his lips in the darkness. "I'm not asking for my sake, Piloto. I'm asking for her." "She's one of those people who's worth more when they stay ash.o.r.e."

Coy was about to say the obvious: But she hasn't stayed ash.o.r.e. He could also have added: She's the kind all sailors tell about or invent for their pals, in the cabin or in those old-time forecasdes. The kind that all of them had met in some port somewhere. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't say it. Instead, he stared at the black sky above the swaying mast. Most of the stars must be out, though the glow from the coast obscured them. "We could run into problems, Piloto."

El Piloto didn't answer. He kept correcting the course, spoke by spoke, keeping a wide berth between them and the point. Only after several minutes did he tip his head a little, as if he were checking the echo sounder.

"There are always problems at sea," he said.

"This time it won't only be the sea."

El Piloto's silence communicated his concern.

'Any risk of losing the boat?"

"I don't think it will go that far," Coy rea.s.sured him. "I'm referring to problems in general."

El Piloto seemed to think it over.

"You said there might be some money," he said finally. "That would be welcome. There's not a lot of work around." "We're going after treasure."

El Piloto didn't react to that revelation. He kept his focus on the helm and the lighthouse.

"Treasure," he repeated at last in a neutral tone.

"That's right. Emeralds from a long time ago. They're worth a bundle."

His friend nodded, implying that all old emeralds must be worth a bundle, but that he wasn't thinking about that. He released the wheel long enough to reach for the wineskin hanging from the binnacle, throw his head back, and take a long drink. Then he gripped the wheel again, wiping his mouth with the back of the other hand before pa.s.sing the wineskin to Coy.

"Remind me some time," he said, "to tell you the stories I've heard about treasures."

Coy repeated Piloto's motions, holding up the wineskin, gauging the rocking of the boat to prevent spilling wine on himself. He recognized it. An aromatic, fresh red wine from near Cartagena.

"This story is pretty convincing," he said before taking his last swallow. 'And I think we can locate the wreck."

"Wreck from when?"

"Two hundred and fifty years ago." Coy put the stopper in the skin and hung it up. "Mazarron bay. Not down very far." El Piloto shook his head, skeptical.

"She must have broken up. Fishermen spend their lives snagging their nets on old wrecks________ Sand will have covered everything. What there was to find has already been found, or is lost for all time."

'Ah, you're a man of little faith, Piloto. Like your soul mates at the Sea of Galilee. Until they saw the man walk on water they didn't take him seriously."

"I don't see you walking on water."

^No, I guess not. Or her either."

They both looked at Tanger, motionless at the stern, still outlined against light from the coast. El Piloto had taken a cigarette from his jacket and put it in his mouth.

"Besides," he said, seemingly on a tangent, "I'm getting old."

Or maybe it wasn't a tangent. El Piloto and the Carpanta Carpanta were getting old in the same way that schooner in the port of Barcelona was rotting away, that in the Graveyard of s.h.i.+ps With No Name the frames of merchant s.h.i.+ps cut up for sc.r.a.p were rusting in the rain and sun, corroded by salt, licked by waves on the dirty sand. Just as Coy himself had been rotting as he wandered around the port, tossed up on the sh.o.r.e from a rock in the Indian Ocean that wasn't on any chart. Although, as El Piloto himself-though maybe he wasn't the same Piloto now-had told him more than twenty years ago, men and s.h.i.+ps should always stay out to sea, and sink there with dignity. were getting old in the same way that schooner in the port of Barcelona was rotting away, that in the Graveyard of s.h.i.+ps With No Name the frames of merchant s.h.i.+ps cut up for sc.r.a.p were rusting in the rain and sun, corroded by salt, licked by waves on the dirty sand. Just as Coy himself had been rotting as he wandered around the port, tossed up on the sh.o.r.e from a rock in the Indian Ocean that wasn't on any chart. Although, as El Piloto himself-though maybe he wasn't the same Piloto now-had told him more than twenty years ago, men and s.h.i.+ps should always stay out to sea, and sink there with dignity.

"I don't know," Coy said, sincerely. "The truth is, I don't know. It may be that in the end we'll end up with a fistful of nothing. You and me, Piloto. Maybe even her."

El Piloto gave a slow affirmative nod, as if that conclusion seemed the most logical. Then he took his lighter from his pocket, struck the wheel on his open palm, blew on the wick, and held it to the tip of the cigarette in his mouth.

"But it isn't the money, is it?" he murmured. 'At least you're not here for that."

Coy smelled tobacco mixed with the acrid scent of the wick, which the breeze, beginning to freshen from behind Punta Europa, rapidly carried west.

"She needs..." He stopped suddenly, feeling ridiculous. "Well. Maybe 'help' isn't the word." .

El Piloto took a long pull on his cigarette.

"You're the one who needs her, is more like it."

In the binnacle, the compa.s.s needle showed 070 . El Piloto touched the corresponding key on the repeater of the automatic pilot, transferring the course to it.

"I've known women like that," he added. "Um-hmmm. I've known a few."

'A woman like that... What do you mean, like that? You don't know anything about her, Piloto. There are still a lot of things I don't know myself."

El Piloto didn't answer. He had abandoned the wheel and was checking the automatic pilot. Beneath his feet he felt the hum of the direction system correcting the course degree by degree in the swell.

"She's bad, Piloto. Real b.i.t.c.hing bad."

The master of the Carpanta Carpanta shrugged and sat down on the teak bench to smoke, protected from the breeze blowing stronger from the bow. He turned toward the motionless figure at the stern. shrugged and sat down on the teak bench to smoke, protected from the breeze blowing stronger from the bow. He turned toward the motionless figure at the stern.

"Well, she must be cold, with only that jersey."

"She'll put something on."

El Piloto sat smoking in silence. Coy was still standing, leaning against the binnacle, leg slightly spread and hands in his pockets. The night dew began to collect on the deck and seep through the ripped seams in the back of his jacket, the collar and lapels of which he had turned up. In spite of everything, he was relis.h.i.+ng the familiar rocking of the boat, his only regret was that the headwind was preventing them from setting the sails. That would lessen the motion of the boat and eliminate the annoying sound of the engine.

"There aren't any bad women," El Piloto suddenly announced. 'Just like there aren't any bad boats... It's the men on board who make them one way or the other."

Coy said nothing, and El Piloto fell silent again. A green light was swiftly slipping up between them and the land, approaching the port quarter. Against the light from the lighthouse Coy recognized the long, low silhouette of an HJ turbolaunch run by Spanish customs. Based in Algeciras, this was a routine patrol to interdict has.h.i.+sh from Morocco and smugglers from the Rock.

"What are you looking for in her?"

"I want to count her freckles, Piloto. Have you noticed? She has thousands, and I want to count all of them, one by one, trace them with my finger as if she was a nautical chart. I want to trace a course from cape to cape, drop anchor in the inlets, and sail every inch of her skin, hugging the coast the whole time. You understand?"

"I understand. You want to get her in bed."

From the customs launch a light exploded, casting for the name of the Carpanta, Carpanta, for the registration number and port of registry on her sides. From the stern, Tanger asked what they wanted. Coy told her. for the registration number and port of registry on her sides. From the stern, Tanger asked what they wanted. Coy told her.

'Jack-offs," El Piloto murmured, cupping his hands above his eyes, dazzled by the spot.

He never had anything bad to say, and Coy had rarely heard him swear. He had the old upbringing of humble, honorable people, but he couldn't abide customs officers. He had played cat and mouse with them too often back in the days when he would row his little lateen-rigged sailboat, the Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia, to round off the day's work by picking up boxes of blond tobacco thrown overboard from merchant s.h.i.+ps to people signaling with a flashlight, hidden outside Es...o...b..eras island. One part for him, another for the Guardia Civil on the quay, and the main portion for the people who hired him and never ran the risks. Tobacco could have made El Piloto rich had he worked for himself, but he was always satisfied with enough for his wife to have a new dress on Palm Sunday, or to get her out of the kitchen and invite her to a fish fry in one of the cafes around the port. Sometimes, when friends pushed hard and there was too much blood boiling and too many devils to get rid of, the fruit of one whole night's risk and labor fighting a murderous sea would be shot in a few hours' time, on music, drinks, and commercial a.s.s in the dives of Molinete. to round off the day's work by picking up boxes of blond tobacco thrown overboard from merchant s.h.i.+ps to people signaling with a flashlight, hidden outside Es...o...b..eras island. One part for him, another for the Guardia Civil on the quay, and the main portion for the people who hired him and never ran the risks. Tobacco could have made El Piloto rich had he worked for himself, but he was always satisfied with enough for his wife to have a new dress on Palm Sunday, or to get her out of the kitchen and invite her to a fish fry in one of the cafes around the port. Sometimes, when friends pushed hard and there was too much blood boiling and too many devils to get rid of, the fruit of one whole night's risk and labor fighting a murderous sea would be shot in a few hours' time, on music, drinks, and commercial a.s.s in the dives of Molinete.

"That isn't it, Piloto." Coy couldn't take his eyes off Tanger, lit now by the customs spotlight. 'At least, it isn't just that."

"Of course it is. And until you go to bed with her you'll never clear the decks____ Supposing you ever get anywhere with her."

"This woman's got b.a.l.l.s. I swear."

"They all do. Think of me. When I have a pain, it's my wife who takes me to the doctor's office. 'Sit right here, Pedro, the doctor's coming....' You know her. But let me tell you, she would bust before she'd say a word. There are women who if they were heifers would give birth to nothing but bulls for the ring."

"It isn't just that. I saw an old snapshot. And a dented silver cup. And a dog licked my hand, and now it's dead."

El Piloto took the cigarette from his mouth and clicked his tongue.

"Out here, anything you can't put in a logbook is useless," he said. "You have to leave all the rest on sh.o.r.e. If you don't, you lose s.h.i.+ps and men."

Its inspection complete, the customs launch changed course. The green light on its side turned to white at the stern, and then red when it swerved and showed its port side before cutting all lights and getting on more discreetly with the night's hunt. Seconds later, it was nothing more than a shadow moving rapidly west in the direction of Punta Carnero.

The Carpanta Carpanta gave a heavy roll, and Tanger appeared in the c.o.c.kpit. In the rolling of the swell she was moving at the pace of a toddler, trying to get a careful grip and maintain her balance before taking each step. As she moved past them, she put her hand on Coy's shoulder, and he wondered if she was getting seasick. For some perverse reason, the thought amused the h.e.l.l out of him. gave a heavy roll, and Tanger appeared in the c.o.c.kpit. In the rolling of the swell she was moving at the pace of a toddler, trying to get a careful grip and maintain her balance before taking each step. As she moved past them, she put her hand on Coy's shoulder, and he wondered if she was getting seasick. For some perverse reason, the thought amused the h.e.l.l out of him.

"I'm cold," she said.

"There's a slicker below," El Piloto offered. "You can use it." "Thank you."

They watched her disappear down into the well. El Piloto continued to smoke for a while in silence. When finally he spoke, it was as if he were renewing an interrupted conversation.

"You always read too many books- That can't lead to any good."