The Nautical Chart Part 8

She didn't ask if his friend was trustworthy. She just looked at Coy as if his word were a guarantee.

"Besides," Coy said, "El Piloto was a professional diver. If you guarantee him enough salary to cover his costs, and a reasonable percentage if there are profits, we can count on him."

"Of course I'll guarantee it. As for you___ "

He looked into her eyes, expecting her to continue, but though she held his gaze she said nothing. There is the spark of a smile hiding inside there, he told himself. She can smile because now she has two sailors and a s.h.i.+p and a rectangle of one mile by two drawn on a nautical chart. Or maybe...

"We already talked about my share," said Coy. "For the present you're covering my expenses, right?"

She stood motionless, looking at him with the same expression and the little spark that seemed to dance in the depths of her navy-blue irises. It's just an effect of the light, he thought.' Maybe the twilight, or the reflection of the lamp.

"Of course," she said.

HE decided to sleep there, and did so without either of them saying much about it. They worked till very late, and finally she thrust back her elbows and rolled her head as if her neck pained her. She smiled a little at Coy, exhausted and distant, as if everything on the table beneath the cone of lamplight-the navigational charts, the notes, the calculations-had ceased to interest her. Then she said, I'm tired, I can't do any more, and got up, looking around her oddly, as if she had forgotten where she was. Her eyes came to a stop, however, and darkened when she came to the spot where the corpse of Zas had lain. She seemed to remember then, and unexpectedly, in the same way someone carelessly half-opens a door, Coy saw her stumble forward, and he captured the s.h.i.+ver that traveled across her skin as if a current of cold air had blown through the window, the supporting hand on a corner of the table, the helpless look that darted from object to object, seeking someplace to shelter until she composed herself, just before her eyes reached Coy. By then she seemed master of herself again, but he had already opened his mouth to suggest, I can stay if you want, or, Maybe it would be better not to leave you alone tonight, or something like that. He froze, mouth open, because at that moment she moved her shoulders in an almost questioning way, searching his eyes. Still he said nothing, and she repeated the gesture, the deliberate way she had of shrugging her shoulders that she seemed to reserve for questions whose answers were unimportant. Then he did say, "Maybe I should stay," and she said, "Yes, of course," in a low voice, with her usual coldness, and nodded her head as if she thought the suggestion appropriate, before going to her bedroom and returning with a military sleeping bag-an authentic green military sleeping bag that she unrolled on the sofa, placing a cus.h.i.+on beneath it for a pillow. With a minimum of words, she explained where he would find a clean towel, before going to her room and closing the door. decided to sleep there, and did so without either of them saying much about it. They worked till very late, and finally she thrust back her elbows and rolled her head as if her neck pained her. She smiled a little at Coy, exhausted and distant, as if everything on the table beneath the cone of lamplight-the navigational charts, the notes, the calculations-had ceased to interest her. Then she said, I'm tired, I can't do any more, and got up, looking around her oddly, as if she had forgotten where she was. Her eyes came to a stop, however, and darkened when she came to the spot where the corpse of Zas had lain. She seemed to remember then, and unexpectedly, in the same way someone carelessly half-opens a door, Coy saw her stumble forward, and he captured the s.h.i.+ver that traveled across her skin as if a current of cold air had blown through the window, the supporting hand on a corner of the table, the helpless look that darted from object to object, seeking someplace to shelter until she composed herself, just before her eyes reached Coy. By then she seemed master of herself again, but he had already opened his mouth to suggest, I can stay if you want, or, Maybe it would be better not to leave you alone tonight, or something like that. He froze, mouth open, because at that moment she moved her shoulders in an almost questioning way, searching his eyes. Still he said nothing, and she repeated the gesture, the deliberate way she had of shrugging her shoulders that she seemed to reserve for questions whose answers were unimportant. Then he did say, "Maybe I should stay," and she said, "Yes, of course," in a low voice, with her usual coldness, and nodded her head as if she thought the suggestion appropriate, before going to her bedroom and returning with a military sleeping bag-an authentic green military sleeping bag that she unrolled on the sofa, placing a cus.h.i.+on beneath it for a pillow. With a minimum of words, she explained where he would find a clean towel, before going to her room and closing the door.

Below, in the distance, through darkness that stretched beyond the station, the long chains of train lights moved with deceptive slowness. Coy went to the window and stood there quietly, watching the muted glow from the farthest suburbs, the streetlights below him, the headlights of a few cars traveling along the deserted street. The sign on the gas station was still illuminated, but he saw no one except the attendant, who was stepping out of his little cubicle to serve a customer. Neither the melancholy dwarf nor the treasure hunter was in sight.

Tanger had left the tape playing. It was a sad, slow melody Coy had never heard. He went to the player and checked the t.i.tle: "Apres la pluie." "Apres la pluie." He didn't know anything about this E. Satie- maybe some friend of Justine's-but the t.i.tle seemed appropriate. Yes, after the rain. The music made him think of the wet deck of a s.h.i.+p becalmed on a gray sea where concentric circles of the last drops of rain lingered on the water, small undulations resembling the movement of jellyfish on the surface, or minute waves of radar, and of someone watching all that whose hands rested on a wet gunnel as somber clouds, low and black, receded on the line of the horizon. He didn't know anything about this E. Satie- maybe some friend of Justine's-but the t.i.tle seemed appropriate. Yes, after the rain. The music made him think of the wet deck of a s.h.i.+p becalmed on a gray sea where concentric circles of the last drops of rain lingered on the water, small undulations resembling the movement of jellyfish on the surface, or minute waves of radar, and of someone watching all that whose hands rested on a wet gunnel as somber clouds, low and black, receded on the line of the horizon.

He felt nostalgic as he looked up, vainly hoping to see a star. The glow of the city veiled the sky. He made a s.h.i.+eld of one hand, which he lined up beneath his eyes, and when they adjusted he could see one or two tiny, weak points glinting in the distance. Above cities, when you could see anything at all, the stars always seemed dull, different, stripped of their brilliance and meaning. Above the sea, however, they were useful references, highways, companions. Coy had spent long hours of his watch on the flying bridge watching Sirius disappear in the springtime, and the seven Pleiades drop from the evening sky in the west and reappear on the other end of the night in the east in the early-morning summer sky. He even owed his life to the stars and, during a brief and intense period in his youth, they had helped him avoid imprisonment in Haifa. Before dawn one dreary morning, about to enter Lebanese waters on board the Otago, Otago, a small cargo s.h.i.+p navigating without lights between Larnaca and Saida in order to run the Israeli blockade, and before reaching the lighthouse at Ziri-one flash every three seconds, visible at six miles-Coy, as he awaited the appearance of Castor and Pollux on the eastern horizon, had sighted the black silhouette of a patrol boat lurking in the shadow of the dark line of the coast toward which they were sailing. Their three-thousand-ton s.h.i.+p-registered in Monrovia, with a Spanish owner, a Norwegian captain, and a Greek and Spanish crew- which officially transported salt between Torrevieja, Trieste, and Piraeus, cut her engines and lay to while Captain Raufoss, with night binoculars at his eyes and Viking curses on his lips, confirmed that it was indeed a patrol boat. Slowly he changed course, hard to starboard and easing forward, with not so much as a cigarette lighted on board in order to slip away discreetly in the darkness, an anonymous echo on the Israeli radar, and head back toward Cape Greco. The visual acuteness of the young second navigating officer with the ink not yet dry on his license had been rewarded by Raufoss with a bottle of Balvenie malt and a clap on the back that Coy felt for a week. Sigur Raufoss, stocky, sanguine, redheaded, and an excellent sailor, had been his first captain as an officer. Like most men of his nationality, he lacked the arrogance of English captains and surpa.s.sed them in professional competence. He didn't trust pilots unless they had gray in their hair, was capable of threading his s.h.i.+p through the eye of a needle, and was never sober when docked or drunk when sailing. Coy served with him in the Mediterranean for three hundred and seven days, and then he changed s.h.i.+p just in time, two voyages before Captain Raufoss's luck ran out. Carrying loose sc.r.a.p from Valencia to Ma.r.s.eilles, the a small cargo s.h.i.+p navigating without lights between Larnaca and Saida in order to run the Israeli blockade, and before reaching the lighthouse at Ziri-one flash every three seconds, visible at six miles-Coy, as he awaited the appearance of Castor and Pollux on the eastern horizon, had sighted the black silhouette of a patrol boat lurking in the shadow of the dark line of the coast toward which they were sailing. Their three-thousand-ton s.h.i.+p-registered in Monrovia, with a Spanish owner, a Norwegian captain, and a Greek and Spanish crew- which officially transported salt between Torrevieja, Trieste, and Piraeus, cut her engines and lay to while Captain Raufoss, with night binoculars at his eyes and Viking curses on his lips, confirmed that it was indeed a patrol boat. Slowly he changed course, hard to starboard and easing forward, with not so much as a cigarette lighted on board in order to slip away discreetly in the darkness, an anonymous echo on the Israeli radar, and head back toward Cape Greco. The visual acuteness of the young second navigating officer with the ink not yet dry on his license had been rewarded by Raufoss with a bottle of Balvenie malt and a clap on the back that Coy felt for a week. Sigur Raufoss, stocky, sanguine, redheaded, and an excellent sailor, had been his first captain as an officer. Like most men of his nationality, he lacked the arrogance of English captains and surpa.s.sed them in professional competence. He didn't trust pilots unless they had gray in their hair, was capable of threading his s.h.i.+p through the eye of a needle, and was never sober when docked or drunk when sailing. Coy served with him in the Mediterranean for three hundred and seven days, and then he changed s.h.i.+p just in time, two voyages before Captain Raufoss's luck ran out. Carrying loose sc.r.a.p from Valencia to Ma.r.s.eilles, the Otago's Otago's cargo s.h.i.+fted during a force 10 winter mistral in the Gulf of Leon. The s.h.i.+p capsized, going to the bottom with fifteen men aboard, leaving no trace other than an SOS picked up by the sh.o.r.e radio at Mont Saint-Loup over channel 16 VHF: cargo s.h.i.+fted during a force 10 winter mistral in the Gulf of Leon. The s.h.i.+p capsized, going to the bottom with fifteen men aboard, leaving no trace other than an SOS picked up by the sh.o.r.e radio at Mont Saint-Loup over channel 16 VHF: Otago Otago in 4225'N and 353.5'E. Lying to at sea, listing badly. Mayday. Mayday. Afterward, not a sc.r.a.p floating, not a life jacket, not a marker buoy. Nothing. Only silence, and the impa.s.sive sea that hides its secrets for centuries. in 4225'N and 353.5'E. Lying to at sea, listing badly. Mayday. Mayday. Afterward, not a sc.r.a.p floating, not a life jacket, not a marker buoy. Nothing. Only silence, and the impa.s.sive sea that hides its secrets for centuries.

HE looked at his watch: not yet midnight. The door of Tanger's room was closed and the music had stopped. Coy felt the silence that followed rain. He ambled aimlessly around the room, appraising the Tintins on their shelf, the carefully aligned books, the postcard of Hamburg, the silver cup, the framed snapshot. That Coy was not a brilliant fellow, and that he knew it, is clear. Nevertheless, he had a unique sense of humor, a natural ability to make fun of himself and his clumsiness. He had a Mediterranean fatalism that permitted him to cut a deal and warm himself at any fire. That awareness, or certainty, may have made him less stupid than another man would have been in the identical situation. That, added to his training in observing the sky and the sea and the radar screen for signals to interpret, had sharpened a certain kind of instinct or intuition. In that context, every single thing in that house seemed filled with meaning. They were, he decided, revealing milestones in a biography that was apparently straightforward, solid, free of fissures. And yet, some of those objects, or the fragile aspect of their owner they revealed like the tip of an iceberg, could also inspire tenderness. Unlike the att.i.tudes, words, and maneuvers she flourished to achieve her goals, in the small signs spread about the apartment, in her equivocal irrelevance, in all the circ.u.mstances that involved Coy as witness, actor, and victim, the absence of calculation was evident. Those dues were not exhibited in any deliberate manner. They were part of a real life, and had a lot to do with a past, with memories that were not explidt but that undoubtedly sustained all the rest-the little girl, the soldier, the dreams, memory. In the frame, the blonde girl was smiling within the protective tanned arm of the man in the white s.h.i.+rt. The smile had an obvious relations.h.i.+p with others Coy knew, including the dangerous ones, but it also registered a marked freshness that made it different. Something luminous and radiant. Life filled with unrevealed possibilities, highways to travel, perhaps even happiness. It was as if in that photo she was smiling for the first time, in the same way the first man awakened on the first day and saw around him the newly created world, when everything was still to be lived, starting with a unique zero meridian, and there were no cell phones or black seas or AIDS virus or j.a.panese tourists or police. looked at his watch: not yet midnight. The door of Tanger's room was closed and the music had stopped. Coy felt the silence that followed rain. He ambled aimlessly around the room, appraising the Tintins on their shelf, the carefully aligned books, the postcard of Hamburg, the silver cup, the framed snapshot. That Coy was not a brilliant fellow, and that he knew it, is clear. Nevertheless, he had a unique sense of humor, a natural ability to make fun of himself and his clumsiness. He had a Mediterranean fatalism that permitted him to cut a deal and warm himself at any fire. That awareness, or certainty, may have made him less stupid than another man would have been in the identical situation. That, added to his training in observing the sky and the sea and the radar screen for signals to interpret, had sharpened a certain kind of instinct or intuition. In that context, every single thing in that house seemed filled with meaning. They were, he decided, revealing milestones in a biography that was apparently straightforward, solid, free of fissures. And yet, some of those objects, or the fragile aspect of their owner they revealed like the tip of an iceberg, could also inspire tenderness. Unlike the att.i.tudes, words, and maneuvers she flourished to achieve her goals, in the small signs spread about the apartment, in her equivocal irrelevance, in all the circ.u.mstances that involved Coy as witness, actor, and victim, the absence of calculation was evident. Those dues were not exhibited in any deliberate manner. They were part of a real life, and had a lot to do with a past, with memories that were not explidt but that undoubtedly sustained all the rest-the little girl, the soldier, the dreams, memory. In the frame, the blonde girl was smiling within the protective tanned arm of the man in the white s.h.i.+rt. The smile had an obvious relations.h.i.+p with others Coy knew, including the dangerous ones, but it also registered a marked freshness that made it different. Something luminous and radiant. Life filled with unrevealed possibilities, highways to travel, perhaps even happiness. It was as if in that photo she was smiling for the first time, in the same way the first man awakened on the first day and saw around him the newly created world, when everything was still to be lived, starting with a unique zero meridian, and there were no cell phones or black seas or AIDS virus or j.a.panese tourists or police.

Basically, that was the question. Once I smiled like that, too, he thought. And those modest objects scattered around-the dented cup, the photograph of the girl with the freckles-were the remains of the s.h.i.+pwreck of her smile. To sense that was to feel something turn inside him, as if the music no longer playing had slowly seeped through his gut to suffuse his heart. Then he saw himself, forsaken, as if it were he and not Tanger who smiled in the snapshot with the man in the white s.h.i.+rt. No one can ever protect another person. He recognized himself in that image, and that made him feel as if he were orphaned, loyal, and furious. First came a feeling of personal desolation, of extreme loneliness that rose from his chest to his throat and eyes, and then a clear, intense anger. He looked at the place where Zas had lain, and then his eyes fell on Nino Palermo's card, ripped in two and left on the table. He stood stock-still. Then he consulted his watch again, matched the two pieces, and picked up the telephone. He dialed the number, taking his time, and after a while heard the voice of the seeker of sunken s.h.i.+ps. He was in the bar of his hotel, and of course he would be happy to meet Coy in fifteen minutes.

As the uniformed doorman saw Coy come through the gla.s.s double doors and enter the vestibule of the Palace Hotel, he stared with suspicion at his sneakers and the frayed jeans below the uniform jacket. Coy had never been there before, so he went up the steps, walked across the rugs and white marble floor, then stopped, indecisive. To the right was a large antique tapestry and to the left the door to the bar. He walked toward the center rotunda and paused beneath the columns that encircled the area. In the rear, an invisible pianist was playing "Cambalache," "Cambalache," and the music was m.u.f.fled by the quiet hum of conversation. It was late, but there were people at nearly all the tables and sofas, well-dressed people; men in jacket and tie, bejeweled, attractive women, impeccable waiters gliding soundlessly by. A small cart displayed several bottles of champagne chilling on ice. All very elegant and correct, he could appreciate. Like a movie. and the music was m.u.f.fled by the quiet hum of conversation. It was late, but there were people at nearly all the tables and sofas, well-dressed people; men in jacket and tie, bejeweled, attractive women, impeccable waiters gliding soundlessly by. A small cart displayed several bottles of champagne chilling on ice. All very elegant and correct, he could appreciate. Like a movie.

He walked a few steps into the rotunda, ignoring a waiter who asked if he would like a table, and steered a direct course toward Nino Palermo, whom he had glimpsed sitting on a sofa beneath the large central chandelier suspended from the gla.s.s cupola. Palermo was accompanied by the secretary Coy had seen at the auction in Barcelona, now dressed in a short dark skirt, legs revealed to mid-thigh, knees modestly together and inclined to one side, high-heeled shoes. The model of the perfect secretary on a night out with the boss, dress code page five. She was sitting between Palermo and two Nordic types. The seeker of sunken s.h.i.+ps did not see Coy until he was very close. Then he stood, b.u.t.toning his double-breasted jacket His ponytail was tied with a black ribbon, and he was wearing a dark-gray suit, silk tie against a pale-blue s.h.i.+rt, and black shoes; the gold chains and watch glittered more brightly than his smile. The ring with the ancient coin also gleamed when he reached out to shake Coy's hand. Coy ignored it "It's good that you've come to your senses..." Palermo said.

The friendly tone froze on his lips in mid-sentence, his outstretched hand disregarded. He looked at it, amazed to see it untouched, and slowly pulled it back, confused, inquisitively studying Coy with his bicolored eyes.

"You've gone too far," said Coy.

The other's confused grimace intensified to arrogance.

"So you're sticking with her?' he asked coldly.

"That's beside the point."

Palermo seemed to reflect. He made a show of looking sideways at the two men waiting on the sofa.

"You said yesterday that you were... Didn't you? Out of it. And when you telephoned a while ago... G.o.d almighty I thought you were agreeing to work for me."

Coy drew a deep breath. Palermo was more than a head taller than he. Coy stood looking up at him, his large hands hanging threateningly at his sides. He rocked a little on his toes.

"You've gone too far," he repeated.

The pupil in the greenish eye was more dilated than the other, but both seemed icy. Palermo again looked toward his companions. His mouth twisted scornfully.

"I never dreamed you were coming to make a scene," he said. "You're... an a.s.s. That's it. You're making an a.s.s of yourself."

Coy nodded slowly. Twice. His hands were a little farther now from his sides, and he felt the muscles of his shoulders, arms, and stomach tense as tight as the knots of a fisherman, well tied. Palermo had begun to turn away, as if to end the conversation.

"I can see," he said, "that the b.i.t.c.h has her hooks in you good."

With those last words, he made a move toward the sofa, but that's all it was, a move, because Coy had already made a quick calculation. He knew that Palermo was taller, and that he wasn't weak, or alone, and that it was best to hit a man while he's still talking because his reflexes are slower then. So again Coy rocked on his toes, composed a quick smile to give Palermo a sense of confidence, and in the same instant kneed him in the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, so brutally that a second later, when Palermo was bent over with the breath knocked out of him and his face congested, Coy was able without much trouble to deliver a second blow, a head b.u.t.t to Palermo's nose, which crunched beneath his forehead as if someone had broken a piece of furniture. Coy had learned that move with ch.o.r.eographic precision during a dustup in the port of Hamburg. The third move, in the improbable case that the adversary was still in the game, consisted of another knee to the face; and as a finale, all your tricks and a few of the pipe-fitters' thrown in. But he saw that it wasn't necessary: Palermo had dropped to his knees, white and loose as a sack of potatoes, his face against Coy's thigh, staining his jeans with the shockingly red blood streaming from his nose.

In the next five seconds, all h.e.l.l broke loose. The secretary began to scream and scooted back in the sofa, so unnerved in her scrambling that she showed her panties, which were black. The two foreigners, at first stupefied, jumped up to help the downed man. As for Coy, he could see out of the corner of his eye that all the waiters in the room, and a few of the customers, were running toward him, and he found himself tackled, pinned by strong hands that lifted him off the ground and hustled him toward the door as if they intended to lynch him before the indignant and astonished eyes of employees and clients. The gla.s.s doors opened, someone shouted something about calling the police, and at that moment Coy saw, in succession, the illuminated facade of the building of the Cortes, the green lights of the taxis parked at the door, and to their mutual surprise, the melancholy dwarf, staring at him from the nearest traffic light. Coy was unable to see more, because someone had a tight grip on his hair, but even so he caught a glimpse of the Berber chauffeur's tough face-everyone in the cast seemed to be at the Palace that night-before he felt a furious tug that snapped his head back and then came one, two, three, four, professional punches to the solar plexus that took his breath away. He fell to the pavement, gasping for air and his mouth working like a fish out of water. LNA: the Law of No Air, or... you're never there when I need you. At that point he heard a police siren and said to himself: You've torn it now, sailor. You'll get six years and a day for this, and the girl will have to dive by herself. Then after several fruitless attempts to catch his breath he was able to get some air, although when he did it hurt as it rasped in and out of his lungs. His lower ribs seemed to move of their own accord, and he thought one was broken. Sonofab.i.t.c.h. He was still on the ground, face down, when someone handcuffed his wrists-d.i.c.k-d.i.c.k- behind his back. He was consoled by the thought that for the next few days, Nino Palermo, every time he looked in the mirror, would remember Tanger Soto, him, and poor Zas. He was pulled to his feet as a whirling blue light hit him full in the face. He missed Gallego Neira, the Tuc.u.man Torpedoman, and the rest of Crew Sanders. But these were different times, and different ports.

6.

Of Knights and Knaves There is a wide variety of puzzles about an island in which certain inhabitants... always tell the truth and others... always lie. RAYMOND M M. SMULLYAN SMULLYAN, What Is the Name of This Book! What Is the Name of This Book!

The gypsy went away after insisting a little longer, and Coy thought as he watched her go that perhaps he should have let her read his palm and tell his fortune. She was a woman of middle age, her dark-skinned face furrowed with an infinity of wrinkles^ her hair pulled back with a silver comb. Big-boned, fat, the hem of her skirt whirled as she swung her hips gracefully, stopping to offer sprigs of rosemary to the travelers returning along the palm-shaded avenue that spilled down behind the castle of Santa Catalina in Cadiz. Before she left, peeved by Coy's refusal to take the rosemary in exchange for a few coins, or to allow her to tell his fortune, the gypsy murmured a curse, half joking, half serious, that he was now mulling over. "You will have only one journey without cost." Coy was not a superst.i.tious sailor- in this day of the Meteosat and the GPS, few of his calling were -but he maintained certain apprehensions appropriate to life at sea. Maybe for that reason, when the gypsy disappeared beneath the palms on Avenida Duque de Najera, Coy contemplated his left palm uneasily, before sneaking a look at Tanger, who was sitting at the same table on the terrace talking with Lucio Gamboa, the director of the San Fernando observatory, where the three of them had spent part of the day. Gamboa was a captain in the Navy, but he was in civilian clothes-checked s.h.i.+rt, khaki pants, and very old and faded canvas espadrilles. Cordial but unkempt, nothing about him betrayed his military affiliation. He was chunky, bald, and loquacious, with a scruffy, graying beard and the light eyes of a Norman. He had been talking for hours, showing no signs of fatigue, as Tanger asked questions, nodded, or took notes.

Only one journey without cost. Coy again regarded the lines in his hand, telling himself once more that maybe he should have let the gypsy read his palm. If he didn't like the prediction, he thought, he could change the lines with a razor blade, any way he wanted, like that comic pen-and-paper sailor, Corto Makes, tall, handsome, gold earring in one ear, whom he wouldn't have minded in the least looking like every time he noticed Tanger's eyes fixed on him. Eyes that at times stopped paying attention to Gamboa s explanations to fall on Coy for a moment, expressionless, serene-confirming that he was still there and that everything was under control.

Coy felt a stab in the lower ribs of his left side, still painful from the Berber chauffeur's punches. The incident had been resolved with thirty-two hours in the jail of the de Retiro police station and charges of disturbing the peace and a.s.sault and battery, which would come to trial in a few months' time. Nothing stood in the way, therefore, of his traveling to Cadiz with Tanger. As for Nino Palermo, after leaving the clinic where he was given emergency treatment for his nose, which the doctor on call diagnosed as badly bruised but not broken, he had made the interesting decision not to go to his lawyers to file legal proceedings. That was far from rea.s.suring though, because, as Tanger had said when Coy left the police station and found her waiting at the door, Palermo was the kind of man who didn't need police or courts to settle his affairs.

Again he studied his hand. Unlike Tanger, who had a long, clean line crossing her palm, his life, death, and love lines, and whatever the h.e.l.l the others were, crisscrossed in a wild tangle like the halyards of a sailing vessel after a difficult maneuver in strong winds and high seas, as if someone had shaken them in a dice cup and thrown them out every which way. This made him smile inside. Not even the sharpest gypsy in the world could have made any sense out of those lines. The keys to the voyage, whether without cost or with prompt payment, were hidden not in those lines, but in the eyes that fell on him from time to time. That, he concluded with resignation, was the real journey Athena had arranged for him.

He looked under the table. Tanger s legs were crossed beneath her full blue skirt, and she was slowly swinging a leather-sandaled foot He observed her freckled ankles, and then her profile, which at that moment was bent over the little notebook in which she was jotting notes with her silver pencil. Behind her, so golden it turned the tips of her hair almost white, the sun was an hour and a half from falling below the line of the Atlantic horizon beyond La Caleta beach, precisely between the castles that stood at either end. Coy contemplated the ancient walls, their empty embrasures, the turrets with rounded cupolas set into the corners, the black track of water that at high tide was licking at rocks worn by centuries of waves. Maintaining a prudent distance from the San Sebastian shoals, a sailboat was moving slowly in the distance, heading north, pushed by a fresh southwester. Force 5, he calculated, as he noted the whitecaps that rippled the sea and dashed small sprays of spindrift onto the isthmus that joined the land with the castle, its enormous lighthouse rising tall behind the battlemented walls of ancient batteries. Sky and water were impeccably blue, so luminous they hurt the eyes, though soon they would begin to be streaked with the reddish tones that were the prelude to sunset.

'A couple of things," said Gamboa, "are most unusual about our story."

Coy stopped looking at the sea and paid attention to the conversation. Because of their professions, Tanger and the director of the observatory had previously exchanged a number of calls. They had gone to see him at San Fernando as soon as they arrived from Madrid-a train to Seville and then a rented car to Cadiz -so he could provide some doc.u.mentation on the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria and the corsair and the corsair Chergui, Chergui, and clear up a few obscure points. Afterward, Gamboa had taken them to the old city and treated them to shrimp omelettes at Ca Felipe, on calle La Palma, where fresh fish were displayed to customers under the sign "Nearly all these fish were extras in the films of Captain Cousteau." They had ended up by the ocean, on the terrace at La Caleta. and clear up a few obscure points. Afterward, Gamboa had taken them to the old city and treated them to shrimp omelettes at Ca Felipe, on calle La Palma, where fresh fish were displayed to customers under the sign "Nearly all these fish were extras in the films of Captain Cousteau." They had ended up by the ocean, on the terrace at La Caleta.

"I wish it were only a couple of things," sighed Tanger.

Gamboa, smoking a cigarette, laughed, and his Nordic eyes made his bearded face seem boyish. His teeth were crooked and stained by nicotine, with a gap between the incisors. He had an easy laugh for the least thing and nodded his head as he did, as if every pretext were welcome. Despite his Merchant Marine prejudices regarding the Navy, Coy liked Gamboa. Even his pleasant, open way of flirting with Tanger-a gesture, a look, a way of offering her the cigarettes she refused-was inoffensive and likable. When they had called on him late that morning at his office, Gamboa had been happy to discover, as he said with no beating around the bush, how pretty his colleague from Madrid was, and how it was his misfortune that until now he had known her only by telephone and letter. Then he looked Coy over closely before shaking hands, retaining the hand in his grasp, as if touch might allow him to calculate the nature of the relations.h.i.+p between his colleague from the Museo Naval and this unexpected, quiet, short, broad-shouldered individual with large hands and a clumsy gait who was escorting her. She had simply introduced him as a friend who was helping her with the technical aspects of her problem. A sailor with a lot of free time.

"That brigantine," Gamboa continued, "came from America without escort-And that's strange, considering that because of the English, the corsairs, and the pirates, it was mandated that every merchant s.h.i.+p cross the Atlantic in convoy."

As he spoke, he nearly always addressed Tanger, although at times he turned to Coy, perhaps to avoid making him feel replaced. I gather you don't mind, the gesture said. I don't know your role in this story, friend, but I suppose it won't bother you if I talk to her and smile at her. Get this straight: you two are here for only a short while, and she's attractive. A sailor with free time, or complete dedication, or whatever you are... I don't know what there is between you, but I just want to enjoy her a while. A couple of beers and a laugh or two, you know, to charge my batteries. That's what I plan to collect for my services. Before long, she'll be yours again, or whatever part you get, and you can go on testing your luck. After all, life is short, and it isn't often that a woman like this comes along. At least I don't run into them.

"They weren't at war with England at that moment," Tanger pointed out. "Maybe the escort wasn't necessary."

Gamboa, who had just lighted his umpteenth cigarette, exhaled smoke between his front teeth and nodded in agreement. In addition to his military appointment, he was a naval historian. Before being a.s.signed to the observatory, he had been in charge of the historic heritage of the Navy in Cadiz.

"That could be one explanation," he conceded. "But it still seems strange___ In 1767, Cadiz had a monopoly on commerce with America. It wasn't until eleven years later that Charles III issued a decree liberalizing trade, changing the rule that designated Cadiz as the only port for a s.h.i.+p returning directly from America. So the voyage of that brigantine from Havana was slightly illegal, if we read the royal orders strictly. Or at least it was irregular." Reflecting, he took long drags on his cigarette. "The normal thing would have been to call in here before continuing on to Valencia, or whatever the final destination was." Another drag. 'And apparently that didn't happen."

Tanger had an answer. In feet, Coy had realized, she seemed to have answers for almost everything. It was as if more than researching new information, she was trying to confirm what she already had.

"The Dei Gloria," Dei Gloria," she explained, "had the benefit of special status. Don't forget she belonged to the Jesuits, and they had certain privileges. Their s.h.i.+ps had specific exemptions; they sailed to America and the Philippines using the Society's captains, navigators, courses, and nautical charts, and they were surrounded by what today we would call fiscal opacity.... That was one of the matters brought against them in the trial for expulsion that was being prepared in secret." she explained, "had the benefit of special status. Don't forget she belonged to the Jesuits, and they had certain privileges. Their s.h.i.+ps had specific exemptions; they sailed to America and the Philippines using the Society's captains, navigators, courses, and nautical charts, and they were surrounded by what today we would call fiscal opacity.... That was one of the matters brought against them in the trial for expulsion that was being prepared in secret."

Gamboa was listening attentively.

"So it was the Jesuits, eh?"

"Exactly."

"That would explain several inexplicable things."

She has spent hours, Coy said to himself, in that house I know across from Atocha station, going over and over all this. She has spent days and months lying on that bed I glimpsed once, sitting at the table covered with books and doc.u.ments, tying up loose ends in that cool head of hers, the way someone plays a game of chess having planned all the moves in advance. Setting courses for all of us. I'm convinced that this conversation, this bearded, smiling man, the landscape here at La Caleta, and maybe even the hours of high tide and low tide, were calculated ahead of time. All she's doing now is outfitting her s.h.i.+p carefully, nailing down every last detail before setting out to sea. Because she is one of those women who don't forget anything on sh.o.r.e. She may never have sailed, but I'm sure that in her imagination she has already dived dozens of times on the wreck of the Dei Gloria. Dei Gloria.

"At any rate," said Gamboa, "it's a pity we don't have more doc.u.mentation." He turned a little toward Coy. "The archive here in Cadiz is the only one that wasn't sent to the general marine archives at Viso del Marques, where they centralized nearly all the important doc.u.ments in El Ferrol and Cartagena, postdating what was conserved in the Archivo de Indias in Seville. Here, a pigheaded admiral refused to let go of them. As a result the complete collection was destroyed in a fire, all the papers from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, including some original cartographical plates of Tofifio."

Gamboa took another drag and chortled jovially.

"Bound to happen, no?" he said to Tanger. "The obligatory fire. But I suppose that lends the charm of adventure to your job."

"Not everything was lost," she replied.

"Not everything, that's true. Some of it had been misplaced. No one knows what we have lying around here. The plans of the Dei Gloria, Dei Gloria, for example, were forgotten, and in a totally illogical place-under mountains of dusty papers in the storeroom for for example, were forgotten, and in a totally illogical place-under mountains of dusty papers in the storeroom for nautical instruments in the naval dockyard at La Carraca_______ Thrown in with stuff from sc.r.a.pped s.h.i.+ps, logbooks, charts, and a thousand things that have never been catalogued. I saw them by chance about a year ago, when I was looking for something else. And when I got your telephone call, I remembered- It was pure luck that the s.h.i.+p was built here."

In fact, Gamboa clarified to Coy, it wasn't the plans for the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria herself, but the herself, but the Loyola, Loyola, her twin, because both were built in Cadiz between 1760 and 1762, within a short period of time. But Lady Luck didn't favor either of them. The her twin, because both were built in Cadiz between 1760 and 1762, within a short period of time. But Lady Luck didn't favor either of them. The Loyola Loyola was lost in 1763 in a violent storm near Sancti Petri, before her sister s.h.i.+p went down. Funny how things turn out. Very dose to the place where she'd been launched only a year before. Some s.h.i.+ps are just bad-luck s.h.i.+ps, as Coy undoubtedly knew from professional experience. And those two brigantines had a bad star. was lost in 1763 in a violent storm near Sancti Petri, before her sister s.h.i.+p went down. Funny how things turn out. Very dose to the place where she'd been launched only a year before. Some s.h.i.+ps are just bad-luck s.h.i.+ps, as Coy undoubtedly knew from professional experience. And those two brigantines had a bad star.

Gamboa had provided Tanger with a copy of the plans after he had showed the two of them around the observatory-white facade with columns and cupola s.h.i.+mmering in the sunlight, whitewashed corridors with showcases of antique instruments and nautical and astronomy books, a line on the floor indicating the exact delineation of the Cadiz meridian, and the magnificent library of dark woods and overflowing shelves. There, on a vitrine table that contained works by Kepler, Newton, and Galileo, the Viaje a la America Meridional Viaje a la America Meridional and the and the Observaciones Observaciones of Jorge Juan and Antonio de Ulloa, as well as other books on eighteenth-century expeditions for measuring a degree of the meridian, Gamboa had unfolded various plans and doc.u.ments. Some copies were meant for Tanger, and the rest, originals difficult to reproduce, she photographed one by one with a small camera she had in her leather purse. She had taken two rolls of thirty-six exposures, her flash reflecting in the paintings on the wall and in the gla.s.s of the showcases, while Coy, out of professional curiosity, took a look at the ancient tables of nautical ephemerides and precision instruments scattered around the room, vestiges of a time when the San Fernando observatory was the essential reference in the Europe of the Enlightment: a Spencer octant, a Berthoud watch, a Jensen chronometer, a Dollond telescope. As for the of Jorge Juan and Antonio de Ulloa, as well as other books on eighteenth-century expeditions for measuring a degree of the meridian, Gamboa had unfolded various plans and doc.u.ments. Some copies were meant for Tanger, and the rest, originals difficult to reproduce, she photographed one by one with a small camera she had in her leather purse. She had taken two rolls of thirty-six exposures, her flash reflecting in the paintings on the wall and in the gla.s.s of the showcases, while Coy, out of professional curiosity, took a look at the ancient tables of nautical ephemerides and precision instruments scattered around the room, vestiges of a time when the San Fernando observatory was the essential reference in the Europe of the Enlightment: a Spencer octant, a Berthoud watch, a Jensen chronometer, a Dollond telescope. As for the Dei Gloria, Dei Gloria, Coy was presented to her when Gamboa, after a deliberate and theatrical pause, pulled out four plans on a scale of 1:55 that he'd had photocopied for Tanger. A slim brigantine ninety-eight feetrin length and with a twenty-six foot beam, she had two masts, square sails, a gaff sail on the mainmast, and was armed with ten iron four-pounders. Those copies were there before them now, spread on a table on the terrace. Coy was presented to her when Gamboa, after a deliberate and theatrical pause, pulled out four plans on a scale of 1:55 that he'd had photocopied for Tanger. A slim brigantine ninety-eight feetrin length and with a twenty-six foot beam, she had two masts, square sails, a gaff sail on the mainmast, and was armed with ten iron four-pounders. Those copies were there before them now, spread on a table on the terrace.

"She was a good s.h.i.+p," said Gamboa, contemplating a distant sail that had pa.s.sed the beach and was disappearing beyond the castle of Santa Catalina. 'As you can appreciate on the plans, she had clean lines and was very seaworthy. A modern s.h.i.+p for her time, constructed of heart of oak and teak, with the usual flush deck and guns mounted on it; five gunports on each side. Swift and trustworthy. If a xebec could catch her, she must have suffered a lot of damage during the Atlantic crossing. Otherwise..." Now the observatory director was looking at Tanger with smiling intensity. "That's another point of the mystery. Why she didn't put into Cadiz for repairs?"

Tanger didn't answer. She was playing with her silver pencil, focused on the white cupolas of the resort to their left, built on pilings in the sand.

'And the Chergui" Chergui" Coy asked. Coy asked.

Gamboa, who was watching the woman, turned slowly. Oh, the matter of the corsair was clear, he answered. And they were in luck, because among the new doc.u.ments was valuable material. For instance, a copy of the description of the Chergui, Chergui, the original of which had been located in the Privateering and Prizes section in Viso del Marques. Unfortunately, there were no plans for that s.h.i.+p, but he had found one for a xebec of similar characteristics, the the original of which had been located in the Privateering and Prizes section in Viso del Marques. Unfortunately, there were no plans for that s.h.i.+p, but he had found one for a xebec of similar characteristics, the Hakonero, Hakonero, which was very close in length, armament, and rigging. which was very close in length, armament, and rigging.

"We don't know the place or year of construction," Gamboa explained, taking a folded piece of paper from his s.h.i.+rt pocket, "but we do know that she operated using Algiers and Gibraltar as bases. There are also detailed descriptions of what she looked like, given by her victims or by people who saw her in ports when she was flying British colors-which she changed as the occasion demanded, since she was fitted out by an Algerian businessman and by a Maltese located on Gibraltar. We have evidence that doc.u.ments the Chergui's Chergui's fortunes between 1759 and 1766. The most meticulous, however," the observatory director consulted his notes, "was that of don Josef Mazarrasa, captain of a small coastal boat, the fortunes between 1759 and 1766. The most meticulous, however," the observatory director consulted his notes, "was that of don Josef Mazarrasa, captain of a small coastal boat, the Podenco, Podenco, which succeeded in escaping a xebec he identified as the which succeeded in escaping a xebec he identified as the Chergui Chergui in September 1766, after a skirmish near Fuengirola. Since they were on the point of being boarded, he was able to observe her, much to his displeasure, at close quarters. There was a European on her quarterdeck, whose description may coincide with that of an Englishman known as Slyne, or Captain Mizen, and the rather numerous crew seems to have been composed of Moors and Europeans-the latter undoubtedly English." Again Gamboa consulted his notes. "The in September 1766, after a skirmish near Fuengirola. Since they were on the point of being boarded, he was able to observe her, much to his displeasure, at close quarters. There was a European on her quarterdeck, whose description may coincide with that of an Englishman known as Slyne, or Captain Mizen, and the rather numerous crew seems to have been composed of Moors and Europeans-the latter undoubtedly English." Again Gamboa consulted his notes. "The Chergui Chergui was a xebec with a jib boom and cla.s.sic high p.o.o.p, polacre-rigged main and mizzen masts, and a lateen-rigged foremast; she was relatively swift among s.h.i.+ps of her cla.s.s, some one hundred and fifteen feet in length and with a twenty-six or thirty-foot beam. According to this Captain Mazarrasa, who sustained five dead and eight wounded in the encounter, she was carrying four long six-pounders, eight four-pounders, and at least four was a xebec with a jib boom and cla.s.sic high p.o.o.p, polacre-rigged main and mizzen masts, and a lateen-rigged foremast; she was relatively swift among s.h.i.+ps of her cla.s.s, some one hundred and fifteen feet in length and with a twenty-six or thirty-foot beam. According to this Captain Mazarrasa, who sustained five dead and eight wounded in the encounter, she was carrying four long six-pounders, eight four-pounders, and at least four pedreros, pedreros, devices for throwing rock and sc.r.a.p iron. It seems she had been fitted out in Algiers with good bronze pieces, old but efficient, off a captured French corvette, the devices for throwing rock and sc.r.a.p iron. It seems she had been fitted out in Algiers with good bronze pieces, old but efficient, off a captured French corvette, the Flamme. Flamme. That armament made her fearsome against s.h.i.+ps of lesser tonnage and more fragile lines, like the That armament made her fearsome against s.h.i.+ps of lesser tonnage and more fragile lines, like the Podenco Podenco and the and the Dei Gloria.... Dei Gloria.... Supposing, that is, she did in fact meet up with your s.h.i.+p." Supposing, that is, she did in fact meet up with your s.h.i.+p."

"Of that much I'm sure," said Tanger. "They met."

She had stopped gazing at the domes of the resort and was frowning slightly, with a stubborn set to her jaw. Gamboa folded the paper and gave it to her. Then he raised a hand, as if he was not contesting her conviction.

"In that case, the captain of the* Dei Gloria Dei Gloria had to be a pretty cool customer. Not just anyone would have stood up under the pursuit, chosen not to take shelter in Cartagena, and engaged the had to be a pretty cool customer. Not just anyone would have stood up under the pursuit, chosen not to take shelter in Cartagena, and engaged the Chergui Chergui in almost yardarm-to-yardarm combat. And that voyage from Havana without port calls..." Gamboa studied Coy and then the woman, smiling knowingly. "I guess that's what it's all about. Nor in almost yardarm-to-yardarm combat. And that voyage from Havana without port calls..." Gamboa studied Coy and then the woman, smiling knowingly. "I guess that's what it's all about. Nor Coy leaned back in the chair over which he had draped his jacket. Why are you asking me, his gesture said She's the one in charge.

"There are things I want to dear up," said Tanger after a brief silence. "That's all."

Very carefully she put the paper with Gamboa's notes into her handbag. Gamboa sent her a penetrating look. For a moment the observatory director's placid expression seemed to lose its innocence.

"A pretty piece of work, anyway," he said, cautious. "Besides, maybe there was something on board- I don't know."

He reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Coy observed that he took more time than necessary, as if he had something in mind he wanted to say.

'Although the truth is," he said finally, "that neither the s.h.i.+p, nor the route, nor the period are good indicators if you're looking for treasure."

"No one's talking about treasure," Tanger said very slowly.

"Of course not. Nino Palermo wasn't talking about that either."

Dead silence. They heard the voices of the fishermen below, working on boats in dry dock, or rowing among the small craft anch.o.r.ed bow to the wind. A dog was racing along the beach, barking at a gull that planed undisturbed before winging off in the direction of the open sea.

"Nino Palermo was here?"

Tanger watched the gull grow smaller in the distance, and she voiced her question only when the bird was nearly out of sight. Gamboa bent his head to light a new cigarette, protecting the flame of the match in both hands. The breeze filtered smoke between his fingers as his pale eyes sparkled with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Of course he was here. To pick my brain, like you two."

THE southwester had freshened a couple of knots, Coy calculated. Enough to splash seafoam on the breakwater that ran along the ancient south wall of the city. Gamboa told his story slowly, enjoying the telling. It was obvious he liked the company and was in no hurry. He smoked as he walked between his two companions, pausing from time to time to gaze at the sea, the houses in the barrio of La Vina, the fishermen sitting like statues beside fis.h.i.+ng poles lodged among the rocks, contemplating the Atlantic. southwester had freshened a couple of knots, Coy calculated. Enough to splash seafoam on the breakwater that ran along the ancient south wall of the city. Gamboa told his story slowly, enjoying the telling. It was obvious he liked the company and was in no hurry. He smoked as he walked between his two companions, pausing from time to time to gaze at the sea, the houses in the barrio of La Vina, the fishermen sitting like statues beside fis.h.i.+ng poles lodged among the rocks, contemplating the Atlantic.

"He came to see me about a month ago_____ He came, as they all come, everything very ambiguous, lots of smoke and mirrors. Asking about this s.h.i.+p and that doc.u.ment, various things that prevent you from getting a good idea of what they're really looking for." At times Gamboa smiled at Tanger, and the gap in his teeth accentuated the smile. "He brought a very long shopping list, and on it, in eighth or ninth place, camouflaged among other things, was the Dei Gloria. Dei Gloria. I already knew you were on that trail, because we'd talked several times by phone. It was obvious that this Palermo was panting after a fresh clue." I already knew you were on that trail, because we'd talked several times by phone. It was obvious that this Palermo was panting after a fresh clue."

He fell silent, watching a fish struggle at the end of a line. A bream. The fisherman, a skinny type with bushy sideburns and wearing a white s.h.i.+rt and suspenders, delicately removed it from the hook and tossed it into a pail, where it lay weakly flicking its tail among other silvery reflections.

"So as soon as Palermo mentioned the Dei Gloria, Dei Gloria, I put it together." Gamboa started walking again. "Then I let him invite me to eat at El Faro, where I listened attentively, nodded, made four or five general comments, gave him information about what I thought were the least important things on his list, and got rid of him." I put it together." Gamboa started walking again. "Then I let him invite me to eat at El Faro, where I listened attentively, nodded, made four or five general comments, gave him information about what I thought were the least important things on his list, and got rid of him."

"What did you tell him about the Dei Gloria?' Dei Gloria?' Tanger asked. Tanger asked.

The wind pasted the light cloth of her skirt to her thighs and whipped the open neck of her blouse. She was very well favored, but she didn't play the part of the beautiful girl. Or act helpless. Coy liked that. She seemed cool, competent. Talking like old friends with Gamboa: being colleagues, why should we hide anything from each other? Let's talk friend-to-friend. We're civil servants in a hostile world, et cetera, et cetera, and what can I tell you that you don't know? Life is hard and everyone navigates through it as best he can. Of course I'll keep you informed. I owe you that.

She's clever, Coy decided. She's very clever, or maybe so intuitive that it's almost sick, with a sharp sense of ways to manipulate men. He remembered the commander in the Museo Naval in Madrid, his expression as he talked with Tdnger in the hallway outside her office. She's obviously one of ours, Admiral. And it came to mind that things were going the same way with the observatory director. One of ours.

Now Gamboa was smiling again, as if her question was unnecessary.

"I told him what I should," he said. "That is, nothing. Whether he believed me, now that I don't know.... At any rate, he was very guarded." He turned toward Coy, as if he expected confirmation of his words. "I suppose you know Nino Palermo."

"He knows him well," she said.

Too quick to point that out, Coy thought. He looked at Tanger, and she was aware he did, because she turned with exaggerated attention toward the ocean. I may know Palermo, he said to himself, but not all mat well. You said that a little too fast though, darling. You said that probably a second too soon. And that's not good. Not in a clever girl like you. Too bad that at this point you're still making that kind of mistake. That or you take me for a fool.

"Not that well," Coy answered Gamboa. "In fact, I don't know the guy as well as I'd like to."

"Well, you must be the only one in this business."

"He isn't in this business," said Tanger.

The observatory director stood looking at diem. Again he seemed to reflect upon the relations.h.i.+p between them. Finally he spoke to Coy.

"Gibraltarian, with a Maltese father and an English mother... that is, one hundred percent pirate genes. I've known Palermo for a long time, since the time I worked cla.s.sifying archives in the museum in Cadiz. He made one of the attempts to salvage the Santisima Trinidad, Santisima Trinidad, maybe the most serious. In her time the maybe the most serious. In her time the Trinidad Trinidad was the largest wars.h.i.+p in the world, a s.h.i.+p of the line was the largest wars.h.i.+p in the world, a s.h.i.+p of the line with four decks and a hundred and forty guns; she sank after the Battle of Trafalgar as the English were trying to tow her into Gibraltar." He pointed somewhere out to sea, toward the south.

"She's out there still, a little off Punta Camarinal. He tried to do what the Swedes did with the Wasa, Wasa, or the English with the or the English with the Mary Rose, Mary Rose, but the attempt, like most of these things, foundered because of the Spanish administration's lack of enthusiasm, that is " but the attempt, like most of these things, foundered because of the Spanish administration's lack of enthusiasm, that is "

"Like the dog in the manger," Tanger interjected.