Part 18 (1/2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”Maybe three.”

”Maybe.”

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

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

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

”There are also fis.h.i.+ng boats,” El Piloto pointed out, with a segment of mandarin in his mouth. 'And Mazarr6n's pretty close.”

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

”I suppose so. We can be fis.h.i.+ng, or looking for something we've lost.”

'A motor,” El Piloto suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”Live and let live,” he said simply.

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

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

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

”I don't either.”

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

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

'And what if it's buried?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”I hope you know what you're doing.”

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

”I've done fine so for,” Tanger replied glacially. ”You two take care of finding the s.h.i.+p, and let me worry about Palermo.”

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

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

”What about them?”

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

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