Part 23 (1/2)

It was true. They had been reviewing the doc.u.ments, the rescued boy's declaration, and the official report, and there was not a single contradiction. The s.h.i.+p's boy had been firm about the lat.i.tude and longitude. And he had the paper in his pocket as proof.

”He was a fine boy,” Tanger added. ”Loyal as they come.”

”So it seems.”

'And clever. You remember his testimony? He talks about the cape to the northeast, but doesn't name it. From the position he gave, everyone believed it was Tinoso. But he was careful not to correct them. He never said what cape it was.”

Again Coy looked out at the sea through the porthole.

”I suppose,” he said, ”it was his way of carrying on with the fight.”

The sun was well up by now and the mist was burning off. The dark outlines of the coast were becoming clear off their port. Punta de la Chapa emerged with its white lighthouse east of Portman Bay, the Portus Magnus of old, with the slag of abandoned mines on the old Roman highway and silt clogging the cove where s.h.i.+ps with eyes painted on their bows had loaded silver ingots before the birth of Christ.

”I wonder what became of him?”

He was referring to the boy's disappearance from the naval hospital. Tanger had her own theory, which she sketched out, leaving Coy to fill in the blank s.p.a.ces. In early February of 1767, the Jesuits could still rely on money and power everywhere, including the maritime district of Cartagena. It was not difficult to bribe the right people and a.s.sure the discreet removal of the s.h.i.+p's boy from center stage. All that was needed was a coach and horses and a safe pa.s.sage to get past the city gates. No doubt agents of the Society arranged for him to leave the hospital before a new interrogation, taking him far away, out of reach, the day after his rescue at sea. ”Unauthorized leave,” was how it had been noted in the file, which was somewhat irregular for a very young merchant seaman being questioned by the Navy. But that ”unauthorized leave” had later been corrected by an anonymous hand and replaced with ”approved discharge.” And there the trail ended.

It was easy, Coy thought as he listened to Tanger's story. It all fit together, and it took no effort to imagine the night. The deserted corridors of the hospital, the light of a candle, sentinels or guards, their eyes closed by gold, someone arriving, heavily cloaked and with precise instructions, the boy surrounded by trusted agents. Then the empty streets, the clandestine council in the city's Jesuit convent. A serious, quick, tense interrogation, and scowls that eased as it was ascertained that the secret was well guarded. Perhaps claps on the back, approving hands on his shoulder. Good lad. Good, brave lad. Then again the night, and people signaling from a shadowy corner; no hitch in the plan. The coach and horses, the city gates, the open country and star-filled skies. A fifteen-year-old sailor dozing in the coach seat, accustomed from boyhood to far worse jouncing, his sleep watched over by the ghosts of his dead comrades. By the sad smile of Captain Elezcano.

”However,” Tanger concluded, ”there's something... maybe interesting...maybe strange. The s.h.i.+p's boy was named Palau, Miguel Palau, remember? He was the nephew of Luis Fornet Palau, the Valencian outfitter of the Dei Gloria. Dei Gloria. Maybe it's only a coincidence...” She held up a finger, as if requesting a moment's attention, and then went through the doc.u.ments in the drawer of the chart table. ”Here. Look at this. When I was checking names and dates, I consulted some later s.h.i.+pping lists in Viso del Marques, and I came upon a reference to the hoy Maybe it's only a coincidence...” She held up a finger, as if requesting a moment's attention, and then went through the doc.u.ments in the drawer of the chart table. ”Here. Look at this. When I was checking names and dates, I consulted some later s.h.i.+pping lists in Viso del Marques, and I came upon a reference to the hoy Mtdata, Mtdata, of Valencia. In 1784 that s.h.i.+p had a battle with the English brig of Valencia. In 1784 that s.h.i.+p had a battle with the English brig Undaunted, Undaunted, near the straits of Formentera. The brig tried to capture her, but the hoy defended herself very well and was able to escape- And do you know what the Spanish captain's name was? M. Palau, the reference said. Like our s.h.i.+p's boy. Even the age is right-fifteen in near the straits of Formentera. The brig tried to capture her, but the hoy defended herself very well and was able to escape- And do you know what the Spanish captain's name was? M. Palau, the reference said. Like our s.h.i.+p's boy. Even the age is right-fifteen in 1767, 1767, thirty-two or thirty-three in 1784.” thirty-two or thirty-three in 1784.”

She handed Coy a photocopy, and he read the text. ”Notice of the events of the fifteenth day of the present month, regarding the engagement between the hoy Mulata Mulata commanded by captain don M. Palau and the English brig commanded by captain don M. Palau and the English brig Undaunted Undaunted off Los Ahorcados island.” off Los Ahorcados island.”

”If it's the same Palau,” said Tanger, ”he didn't give up that time either, did he?”

”It is reported before the maritime authority of this port of Ibiza that following a course from Valencia to this locality, when heading for the main channel of the straits at Formentera and in the vicinity of Las Negras and Los Ahorcados, the Spanish hoy Mulata, Mulata, of eight guns, was attacked by the English brig of eight guns, was attacked by the English brig Undaunted, Undaunted, of twelve, which had approached under false French colors and attempted to seize her. Despite the difference in size she sustained heavy fire but with great damage to both sides, and also an attempt to board by the English, who succeeded in getting three men aboard the hoy, there being then three dead heaved into the sea. The vessels separated and very b.l.o.o.d.y combat ensued for the s.p.a.ce of half an hour, until the of twelve, which had approached under false French colors and attempted to seize her. Despite the difference in size she sustained heavy fire but with great damage to both sides, and also an attempt to board by the English, who succeeded in getting three men aboard the hoy, there being then three dead heaved into the sea. The vessels separated and very b.l.o.o.d.y combat ensued for the s.p.a.ce of half an hour, until the Mulata, Mulata, despite an unfavorable wind, was able to pa.s.s to this side of the straits thanks to a maneuver of notorious risk, consisting of slipping through the middle strait, with only four despite an unfavorable wind, was able to pa.s.s to this side of the straits thanks to a maneuver of notorious risk, consisting of slipping through the middle strait, with only four brazas brazas below and very near the reef of La Barqueta; a most uncommonly skillful maneuver that left the English on the other side, their captain not daring to proceed due to conditions of the wind and the uncertainty of the bottom, and the below and very near the reef of La Barqueta; a most uncommonly skillful maneuver that left the English on the other side, their captain not daring to proceed due to conditions of the wind and the uncertainty of the bottom, and the Mulata Mulata able to arrive in this port of Ibiza with four men dead and eleven wounded without further occurrence-” able to arrive in this port of Ibiza with four men dead and eleven wounded without further occurrence-”

Coy handed the copy of the report back to Tanger. Years before, on a sailboat with minimal length and draft, he had pa.s.sed through the middle strait at that very place. Four brazas brazas was less than twenty-two feet, in addition to which, depths diminished rapidly from the center to each side. He remembered well the sinister sight of the bottom through the water. A hoy fitted with guns might have a draft of ten feet, and a contrary wind would make sailing on a straight course very difficult; so whether the s.h.i.+p's boy Miguel Palau and Captain M. Palau were the same man, whoever was captaining the was less than twenty-two feet, in addition to which, depths diminished rapidly from the center to each side. He remembered well the sinister sight of the bottom through the water. A hoy fitted with guns might have a draft of ten feet, and a contrary wind would make sailing on a straight course very difficult; so whether the s.h.i.+p's boy Miguel Palau and Captain M. Palau were the same man, whoever was captaining the Mulata Mulata had very steady nerves. had very steady nerves.

”Maybe the name is just a coincidence.”

”Maybe.” Tanger was quietly rereading the photocopy before replacing it in the drawer. ”But I like to think it was him.”

She was quiet for a moment, and then turned to the porthole to focus on the line of the coast revealed by the rising mist, clean and free off the port bow, with the sun s.h.i.+ning on the dark rock of Cabo Negrete: ”I like to think that that s.h.i.+p's boy went back to sea, and that he continued to be a brave man.”

FOR eight days they combed the new search area with the Pathfinder, track by track from north to south, beginning at the eastern edge, in depths from two hundred sixty to sixty feet. Deeper and more open to winds and currents than Mazarr6n cove, the sea was rough, complicating and slowing their job. The bottom was uneven, rock and sand, and both El Piloto and Coy had made frequent dives-necessarily brief because of the depths-to check out irregularities picked up by the sounding device, including an old anchor that had raised their hopes until they identified it as an Admiralty model with an iron shank, one used later than the eighteenth century. By the end of the day, exasperated and exhausted, they would drop anchor near Negrete on nights with little wind, or, if sheltering from levanters and eight days they combed the new search area with the Pathfinder, track by track from north to south, beginning at the eastern edge, in depths from two hundred sixty to sixty feet. Deeper and more open to winds and currents than Mazarr6n cove, the sea was rough, complicating and slowing their job. The bottom was uneven, rock and sand, and both El Piloto and Coy had made frequent dives-necessarily brief because of the depths-to check out irregularities picked up by the sounding device, including an old anchor that had raised their hopes until they identified it as an Admiralty model with an iron shank, one used later than the eighteenth century. By the end of the day, exasperated and exhausted, they would drop anchor near Negrete on nights with little wind, or, if sheltering from levanters and lebeches, lebeches, in the small port at Cabo de Palos. The weather dispatches had announced the formation of a center of low pressure in the Atlantic, and if the storm didn't take a turn to the northeast its effects would take less than a week to arrive in the Mediterranean, forcing them to suspend the search for some time. All this was making them nervous and irritable. El Piloto went entire days without opening his mouth, and Tanger maintained her stubborn watch at the screen in a somber mood, as if each day that went by tore away another shred of hope. One afternoon Coy happened to see the notebook where she had been recording the results of the exploration. There were pages filled with incomprehensible spirals and sinister crosses, and on one the hideously distorted face of a woman, the lines scrawled so hard that in some places the paper was ripped. It was a woman who seemed to be screaming into a void. in the small port at Cabo de Palos. The weather dispatches had announced the formation of a center of low pressure in the Atlantic, and if the storm didn't take a turn to the northeast its effects would take less than a week to arrive in the Mediterranean, forcing them to suspend the search for some time. All this was making them nervous and irritable. El Piloto went entire days without opening his mouth, and Tanger maintained her stubborn watch at the screen in a somber mood, as if each day that went by tore away another shred of hope. One afternoon Coy happened to see the notebook where she had been recording the results of the exploration. There were pages filled with incomprehensible spirals and sinister crosses, and on one the hideously distorted face of a woman, the lines scrawled so hard that in some places the paper was ripped. It was a woman who seemed to be screaming into a void.

Nights were not much more pleasant. El Piloto would say good night and close his door at the bow, and they would bed down, weary, skin smelling of sweat and salt, on mats in one of the cabins at the stern. They came together in silence, seeking each other with an urgency so extreme it seemed artificial, their union intense and brutal, quick and wordless. Each time Coy would seek to prolong the encounter, holding Tanger in his arms as they leaned against the bulkhead, trying to control the body and mind of this unknowable woman. But she would struggle, escape, try to hasten along their lovemaking, investing only breath and flesh, her mind far away, her thoughts unreachable. Sometimes Coy thought she was with him, as he listened to the rhythm of her breathing and felt the kisses of her parted lips, the pressure of her naked thighs around his waist. He would kiss her neck or b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hold her very tight, capturing her wrists, feeling the beat of her pulse on his tongue and groin, thrusting deep inside her, as if he hoped to touch her heart, to saturate it and make it as soft as the moistness he felt inside her. But she would draw back, a prisoner trying to escape his embrace. In the end she refused him the thought he was striving to capture. Her gleaming, remote eyes, boring into him in the shadows, would become absent, somewhere far beyond Coy and the s.h.i.+p and the sea, absorbed in arcane curses of loneliness and blackness. And then her mouth would open to scream, like the woman he had glimpsed in the drawing, a scream of silence that echoed in Coy's gut like the most galling insult. He felt that lament pounding through his veins, and he bit his lips, holding back an anguish that flooded his chest and nose and mouth, as if he were drowning in a viscous sea of sorrow. He wanted to cry the large, copious tears he had wept as a child, incapable of warming the cold s.h.i.+ver of such loneliness. It was a weigjht too heavy to bear. All he had done was read a few books, sail a few years and know a few women. He believed that was why he lacked the right words and the right moves, and he also believed that even his silences were sullen. But he would have given his life to get deep inside her, to filter through the cells of her flesh and slowly, softly, lick that center of her being with all the tenderness he could offer, to clean away the painful and malign tumor left there like ballast by hundreds of years, thousands of men, and millions of lives. That was why each night they were together, once she stopped moving and lay quiet, recovering her breath after the last of her shudders, Coy tenaciously insisted, forgetting himself and lashed by desperation, that he loved her more than anyone or anything. But she had gone away, too far away, and he did not exist; he was an intruder in her world and her instant. And that, he thought with pain, was how it would end. Not with noise, but with a nearly imperceptible sigh. In that moment of indifference, punctual as a verdict, everything in her died, everything was held in suspense as her pulse recovered its normal beat. Again Coy would be aware of the porthole open to the night, and of the cold creeping in from the sea like a biblical curse. He would fall into a desolation as barren as a vast, perfect, polished marble surface. A terrifyingly motionless Sarga.s.so Sea, a nautical chart with names invented by those ancient navigators: Deception Point, Bay of Solitude, Bitterness Bay, Island of G.o.d-Help-Us-AU- Afterward she would kiss him and turn her back, and he would lie on bis back, wavering between loathing for that last kiss and disgust for himself. Eyes staring into the darkness, ears tuned to the water lapping against the Carpanta's Carpanta's hull and to the wind rising in the rigging. Thinking how no one would ever be able to draw the nautical chart that would allow a man to navigate a woman. And with the certainty that Tanger was going to walk out of his life before he possessed her. hull and to the wind rising in the rigging. Thinking how no one would ever be able to draw the nautical chart that would allow a man to navigate a woman. And with the certainty that Tanger was going to walk out of his life before he possessed her.

IT was about that time that I heard from them again. Tanger called me from El Pez Rojo, a restaurant at Cabo de Palos, to ask me about a technical problem that involved an error of half a mile of east longitude. I cleared up the question and inquired with interest as to their progress. She told me everything was going well, many thanks, and that I would be hearing from them. In fact, it was a couple of weeks before I had news of them, and when I did it was from the newspapers, leaving me to feel as stupid as nearly everyone else in this story. But I don't want to get ahead of myself. Tanger made the telephone call one noontime that found the was about that time that I heard from them again. Tanger called me from El Pez Rojo, a restaurant at Cabo de Palos, to ask me about a technical problem that involved an error of half a mile of east longitude. I cleared up the question and inquired with interest as to their progress. She told me everything was going well, many thanks, and that I would be hearing from them. In fact, it was a couple of weeks before I had news of them, and when I did it was from the newspapers, leaving me to feel as stupid as nearly everyone else in this story. But I don't want to get ahead of myself. Tanger made the telephone call one noontime that found the Carpanta Carpanta put up alongside the quay in that old fis.h.i.+ng town converted into a tourist haven. The storm in the north Atlantic was still stationary, and the sun was s.h.i.+ning on the southeast Iberian Peninsula. The needle of the barometer was high, without crossing over the dangerous vertical to the left, and that was, paradoxically, what had brought them to the small port that stretched around a wide black sand cove, dangerous because of the reefs just below the surface and presided over by the lighthouse tower rising high on a rock set out in the sea. That morning the heat had triggered the appearance of some anvil-shaped, gray, and threatening c.u.mulo-nimbuses that were boiling higher by the minute. A wind of twelve to fifteen knots was blowing in the direction of those clouds, but Coy knew that if this c.u.mulonimbus anvil kept building, by the time the gray ma.s.s was overhead strong squalls would be unleashed on the other side. A silent exchange of glances with El Piloto, whose squint in the same direction deepened the wrinkles around his eyes, was enough for the two sailors to understand one another. El Piloto brought the put up alongside the quay in that old fis.h.i.+ng town converted into a tourist haven. The storm in the north Atlantic was still stationary, and the sun was s.h.i.+ning on the southeast Iberian Peninsula. The needle of the barometer was high, without crossing over the dangerous vertical to the left, and that was, paradoxically, what had brought them to the small port that stretched around a wide black sand cove, dangerous because of the reefs just below the surface and presided over by the lighthouse tower rising high on a rock set out in the sea. That morning the heat had triggered the appearance of some anvil-shaped, gray, and threatening c.u.mulo-nimbuses that were boiling higher by the minute. A wind of twelve to fifteen knots was blowing in the direction of those clouds, but Coy knew that if this c.u.mulonimbus anvil kept building, by the time the gray ma.s.s was overhead strong squalls would be unleashed on the other side. A silent exchange of glances with El Piloto, whose squint in the same direction deepened the wrinkles around his eyes, was enough for the two sailors to understand one another. El Piloto brought the Carpanta's Carpanta's bow around to face Cabo de Palos. So there they were, on the whitewashed porch of the Pez Rojo, eating fried sardines and salad, and drinking red wine. bow around to face Cabo de Palos. So there they were, on the whitewashed porch of the Pez Rojo, eating fried sardines and salad, and drinking red wine.

'A half a mile more,” said Tanger, returning to her seat.

She sounded irritated. She picked up a sardine from the tray, looked at it a minute as if hoping to attribute some portion of responsibility to it, and threw it down with disgust.

”One d.a.m.ned half-mile more,” she repeated.

From her lips, that ”d.a.m.ned” was almost a curse. It was strange to hear her speak that way, and much stranger to see her lose control. Coy observed her with curiosity.

”It isn't all that serious,” he said.

”It's another week.”

Her hair was dirty and matted from salt.w.a.ter, her skin s.h.i.+ny from too much sun and not enough soap and water. El Piloto and Coy, after several days without shaving, presented no better picture, and they were equally as sunburned and sweaty. They were all wearing jeans, faded T-s.h.i.+rts and sweats.h.i.+rts, and sneakers, and signs of their days at sea were clear.

”One whole week,” Tanger repeated. 'At least.”

She stared somberly at the Carpanta, Carpanta, still lit by the sun and tied up below them at the Muelle de la Barra dock. The gray anvil was gradually darkening the cove, as if someone were slowly drawing a curtain that doused the sun's reflection on small white houses and cobalt-blue water. She's losing hope, Coy thought suddenly. After all this time and all this effort, she's beginning to accept the possibility of failure. Where we're searching now it's deeper, and that may mean that the wreck will be beyond our recovery even if we find it. On top of that, the time allotted for the search is running out, and so is her money. Now, for the first time since who knows when, she knows the feeling of doubt. still lit by the sun and tied up below them at the Muelle de la Barra dock. The gray anvil was gradually darkening the cove, as if someone were slowly drawing a curtain that doused the sun's reflection on small white houses and cobalt-blue water. She's losing hope, Coy thought suddenly. After all this time and all this effort, she's beginning to accept the possibility of failure. Where we're searching now it's deeper, and that may mean that the wreck will be beyond our recovery even if we find it. On top of that, the time allotted for the search is running out, and so is her money. Now, for the first time since who knows when, she knows the feeling of doubt.

He looked at El Piloto. The sailor's gray eyes were silently seconding his conclusions. The adventure was beginning to verge on the absurd. All the data had been verified, but the main thing was missing-the sunken s.h.i.+p. No one doubted it was somewhere out there. From the slight elevation of the restaurant they may even have been looking at the very spot where the brigantine and the corsair had gone down. Maybe they had sailed several times above where it lay beneath yards of mud and sand. Maybe the whole effort had been nothing more than a series of errors, the first one being that hunting treasure was not compatible with lucid adult rationality.

”We have a mile and half still to explore,” Coy said gently The minute he had spoken those words, he felt ridiculous. Him, giving a pep talk? The truth was, all he wanted to do was put off the final act. Put it off, before going back to being on his own, an orphan clinging to Queequeg's coffin. To the launch of the Dei Gloria. Dei Gloria.

”Right,” she replied blankly.

Elbows on the table, hands crossed under her chin, she kept staring toward the cove. The gray anvil was above the Carpanta Carpanta now, turning the sky black over its bare mast. The wind died, the sea flattened around the dock, and the sailboat's halyards and flag drooped limply. Then Coy watched as across the cove the reefs and rocks along the sh.o.r.e became streaked with white, lines of foam breaking as a darker color spread like an oil stain across the surface of the water. There was still sunlight on the restaurant porch when the first gust of wind rippled the water on the bay. On the now, turning the sky black over its bare mast. The wind died, the sea flattened around the dock, and the sailboat's halyards and flag drooped limply. Then Coy watched as across the cove the reefs and rocks along the sh.o.r.e became streaked with white, lines of foam breaking as a darker color spread like an oil stain across the surface of the water. There was still sunlight on the restaurant porch when the first gust of wind rippled the water on the bay. On the Carpanta Carpanta the flag suddenly stood straight out and the halyards cracked against the mast, jingling furiously as the boat tilted toward the quay, pus.h.i.+ng hard against her fenders. The second gust was stronger, thirty-five knots at least, Coy calculated. The bay was filled with whitecaps and the wind howled, climbing the scale note by note around the hollow chimneys and eaves of the rooftops. the flag suddenly stood straight out and the halyards cracked against the mast, jingling furiously as the boat tilted toward the quay, pus.h.i.+ng hard against her fenders. The second gust was stronger, thirty-five knots at least, Coy calculated. The bay was filled with whitecaps and the wind howled, climbing the scale note by note around the hollow chimneys and eaves of the rooftops.

Now everything was somber and fnghteningly gray, and Coy was happy to be sitting there eating fried sardines.

”How long will this last?” Tanger asked.

”Not long,” said Coy. ”An hour, maybe. Could be a little longer. It will be over by dark. It's just a summer storm.”

”The heat,” El Piloto added.

Coy looked at his friend, smiling inside. He feels as if he needs to console her too, he thought. After all, that's really what has brought us to this point, although El Piloto doesn't rationalize that kind of thing. Or at least I don't think he does. At that moment the sailor's eyes met Coy's. They were as tranquil and serene as always, and Coy had second thoughts. Maybe he does rationalize such things.

”Tomorrow we'll have to include that additional half mile,” Tanger announced. ”To forty-seven minutes west.”

Coy didn't need a chart. He had 464 engraved on his brain from having studied it so long, and he knew the search area down to the last detail.

”Well, the good news,” he said, ”is that the depth decreases to between fifty-nine and seventy-nine feet on that side. Everything will go much easier.”

”What's the bottom like?”

”Sand and rock, right, Piloto? With clumps of seaweed.”

El Piloto nodded. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and stuck one in his mouth. Since Tanger was looking at him, he nodded again.

”There's more seaweed the closer you get to Cabo Negrete,” he said. ”But that area is clean. Rock and sand, like Coy says. With a little s.h.i.+ngle where you find the green lobsters.”

Tanger, who was taking a sip of wine, stopped, holding the gla.s.s to her lips, and focused on El Piloto.

”What is that about green lobsters?”

El Piloto was concentrating on lighting his cigarette. He made a vague gesture.

”Well, just that.” Smoke escaped from between his fingers as he spoke. ”Lobsters that are green. It's the only place you find them. Or used to. n.o.body catches lobsters around here anymore.”

Tanger had set her gla.s.s down. She placed it carefully on the cloth, as if afraid of spilling it. She was staring hard at El Piloto, who calmly wound up the wick in his lighter.