With all that material Tanger had been able to construct, almost step by step, the history of the emeralds and the voyage of the Dei Gloria. Padre Escobar had sailed from Valencia on November 2, unaware, paradoxically, that Abbot Gandara had been arrested in Madrid that very day. The brigantine, commanded by Captain Elezcano—brother of one of the superiors of the Society—crossed the Atlantic, arriving in Havana on December 16. There he met with Padre Tolosa, the "young, dependable, and well to be trusted" Jesuit who had been sent ahead with the mission of secretly gathering two hundred emeralds from mines the Society controlled in Colombia. These were uncut stones, the largest and best in color and purity. Tolosa had fulfilled his mission and then sailed from Cartagena de Indias aboard a different ship. His crossing was delayed by unfavorable winds between Grand Cayman and the Isle of Pines, and when finally they rounded Cape San Antonio and passed beneath the guns at El Morro castle, the Dei Gloria was already waiting in Havana Bay, at a discreet anchorage between Barrero cove and Cruz key The transfer of the cargo was undoubtedly made at night, or camouflaged amid the declared merchandise on the ship's manifest. Padres Escobar and Tolosa were listed as passengers, along with a crew of twenty-nine men that included the captain, don Juan Bautista Elezcano, the pilot, don Carmelo Valcells, the fifteen-year-old ship's boy, don Miguel Palau, an apprentice seaman and the nephew of the Valencian shipowner Fornet Palau, and twenty-six sailors. The Dei Gloria set sail from Havana on January 1. It traveled along the coast of Florida to the thirtieth parallel, continued five degrees north and sailed toward the east between just to the south of Bermuda and the Azores, and on this journey suffered the storm that damaged the rigging and made it necessary to man the pumps. The brigantine continued on her course east, avoiding the port of Cadiz— spared that obligatory call by the still-effective privileges of the Society—and passed Gibraltar between the first and second of February. The next day, after she had doubled the Cabo de Gata and had set a course northeast in search of Cabo de Palos and Valencia, the Chergui gave chase.
The part played by the corsair xebec remains an enigma that may never be clarified. Its ambush from some hidden inlet on the coast of Andalusia, or perhaps its departure from Gibraltar itself, may have been coincidental... or perhaps not. It was documented that the Chergui sailed with English or Algerine letters of marque— depending on the circumstances—and that Gibraltar was one of its usual bases, although at that time a precarious peace between Spain and England was still in effect. Perhaps it chose the Dei Gloria as its prey by chance, but the tenacity of the chase, and her presence at that precise time and place, appear too opportune to be coincidental. It was not difficult to imagine a part for the corsair in the complex game of self-interests and complicities of that era. The Conde de Aranda himself, or any of the members of the cabinet of the Pesquisa Secreta that had ordered the arrest of Abbot Gandara—who was a political adversary of Aranda—could have had information about the plan and had designs on the treasure of the Jesuits even before it was offered to him, killing two birds with one stone.
Whatever the fact, the pursuers had not counted on the tenacity of Captain Elezcano, which must have been reinforced by the presence of the two resolute Jesuits on board. He chose to fight, both ships were sunk, and the emeralds went to the bottom of the sea. The information provided by the surviving ship's boy was satisfactory, and the naval authorities charged with the initial investigation had no reason to dig deeper, a ship sunk by a corsair being routine in those days. By the time the order came from Madrid to make a more detailed inquiry, the witness had flown—a mysterious and timely disappearance, organized by the Jesuits, who had not as yet lost the cooperation of local authorities. Undoubtedly the Society studied the possibility of a clandestine recovery of the brigantine, but it was too late. The blow fell: imprisonment and diaspora. Everything was lost in the morass that followed the fall of the Order and its subsequent dissolution. The silence of Abbot Gandara, and the exile and death of those who knew the secret, cast an even heavier veil over the mystery. There was evidence of two official attempts by naval authorities to find the wreck during the time the Conde de Aranda was still in power, but neither was successful. Later, as new dramas shook Spain and Europe, the Dei Gloria was forgotten. Apart from a passing mention in a book entitled La flota negro, The Black Fleet', written by the librarian of San Fernando in 1803, there was one last and curious proposal, made two years later to Manuel Godoy, first minister to King Charles IV, requesting a search for "a certain ship said to have sunk with emeralds from Cuba," this according to Godoy s own account in his memoirs. But the plan did not flower, and in handwritten annotations in the margin of the proposal, the original of which Tanger had located in the national historical archive, Godoy's skepticism was evident: "... because of the illogic of the idea and because, as is well known, Cuba never produced emeralds." So, for nearly two centuries, the Dei Gloria had sunk back into oblivion and silence.
TANGER and Coy had stopped near the bow of a small schooner. She was looking across the bay, where the skyline of Algeciras was sharp and dear. The water was calm, a blue-green barely rippled by the breeze. There were more clouds in the sky now, moving slowly toward the Mediterranean. Opposite the port, at the foot of the massive Rock, ships at anchor dotted the water. Maybe the Chergui had sailed from this very spot on its last voyage, after lying to in the shelter of the English batteries on Gibraltar. A lookout aloft with a spyglass, a sail glimpsed on the horizon, moving west to east, an anchor quickly and stealthily weighed. And the chase.
"Nino Palermo knows there were emeralds," Tanger concluded. "Not how many or their size and quality, but he knows. He's seen some of the documents I've seen. He's intelligent, he knows his business, and he knows how to draw conclusions. But he doesn't know everything I know."
'At least he knows you deceived him."
"Don't be ridiculous. You don't deceive men like him. You fight them with their own weapons."
She turned toward the far end of the quay, where the Carpanta was tied up. Through the masts and rigging of neighboring boats, Coy could see El Piloto, who was completing some chores topside. He had arrived that morning, sleepy and unshaven, with dark skin cracked by sun, rugged hands, rough when you shook them, and eyes that always recalled a winter sea. Three days' sail from Cartagena. Steamers, he had said—El Piloto always called merchant ships steamers—had not let him get a wink of sleep the whole trip. He was getting too old to be sailing by himself. Too old.
"I worked it all out, you know," Tanger continued. 'All Palermo did was accidentally provide the mental click that fit everything into place. Set things in order that had been there, waiting... The kinds of things that for some reason you sense will have meaning someday, and that you store in a corner of your memory till that time."
Now she was being sincere, and Coy realized that. Now she had told the real story, and was still talking about it; at least with regard to concrete facts, she had nothing left to hide. Now he had the keys, the account of events. He knew what was at the bottom of the ocean and about the mystery. Even so, he was not exactly tranquil, or relieved. I will lie to you and deceive you. Some unknown, unidentifiable note was vibrating somewhere, like an almost imperceptible change in the rhythm of a diesel or the melodic insinuation of an instrument whose appropriateness is not possible to establish immediately, a deliberate or improvised line that seems mysterious until the end, when it can be properly assessed. He was remembering a piece by the Thelonious Monk Quartet, a blues classic that was called precisely that—"Misterioso."
"Intuition, Coy," she said. "That's the word. Dreams you are sure will materialize someday." She kept gazing at the sea as if replaying that dream, her skirt blowing in the breeze, hair blowing in her face. "I worked on that even before I knew where it was leading me, with a persistence you cannot imagine. I burned the midnight oil. And suddenly, one day, dick! Everything was clear."
She turned, a smile on her lips. A reflective smile, almost expectant when she l
ooked at him, squinting slightly because of the light. This was a smile that extended to the freckled skin around her mouth and cheeks, so warm he could sense the flush spreading down her neck and shoulders and arms beneath her clothing.
"Like a painter," she added, "who's carrying around a world inside, and suddenly a person, a phrase, a fleeting image, creates a painting in his head."
"She smiled in that way beautiful and wise females have, serenely self-aware. There was flesh behind that smile, he thought, uneasy. There was a curve that blended into other perfect lines, a miracle of complicated genetic combinations. A waist. Warm thighs that hid the greatest of true mysteries.
"That's my story," Tanger concluded. "It was destined for me,
and all my life, my studies, my work at the Museo Naval were lead-
ing me to it before I realized it_______ That's why Palermo is nothing more than an interloper. For him it's only a ship, one among many possible treasures." She turned her eyes from Coy to gaze again at the sea. 'Tor me, it's the dream of a lifetime."
Awkward, he scratched his unshaven chin. Then the back of his neck, and finally he touched his nose. He was looking for words. Something ordinary, everyday, that would wash the impression of that smile from his flesh.
"Even if you find it," he pointed out, "you won't be able to keep the treasure. You can't just go out and salvage a ship."
Tanger was focused on the bay. The clouds were gradually turning the water gray. A splotch of sunlight slipped past them before striking the water lapping the quay, flashing emerald.
"The Dei Gloria belongs to me," she said. 'And no one is going to take it away. It's my Maltese falcon."
IX
Forecastle Women
There is nothing I love as much as I hate this game. JOHN MCPHEE, Looking for a Ship
It's time," said Tanger.
He opened his eyes and saw her across from him, waiting. She was sitting on a teak bench in the cockpit of the Carpanta, looking at him intently. Coy was lying on the other bench with his jacket as cover, his head toward the bow and feet close to the tiller and binnacle. There was no wind, and the only sound was the gentle slapping of the swell against the sides of boats tied up at the quay in Marina Bay. Overhead, beyond the slightly swaying mast, the highest cumulus clouds were touched with soft pink.
"Right," he answered hoarsely.
Coy had the habit of waking up alert, fully lucid. An ability acquired from many early shifts on watch. Setting his jacket aside, he stretched a bit to loosen his stiff neck and went below to splash water on his face and hair. He returned and combed it back with his fingers after shaking his head like a wet dog. His beard rasped as he felt his chin; he had neglected to shave because of his long nap, which was necessary since they planned to sail at night. Tanger hadn't moved, and now she was studying the heights of the Rock with the preoccupied air of a mountain climber preparing to make an assault. She had changed from the long blue cotton skirt to jeans and a T-shirt, with a black sweater knotted around her waist. They were surrounded by the screams of gulls in the fading light. El Piloto was polishing the brightwork with a rag, his hands black. Take care of your boat, he always said, and she will take care of you. The Carpanta was a classic sailboat with a center cockpit and single mast, built in La Rochelle before plastic replaced iroko, teak, and copper.
"Piloto," he said.
The gray eyes, circled with dark wrinkles, glanced up from beneath thick eyebrows and gave Coy a friendly, tranquil wink. According to his own words, although ne wasn't much given to words, El Piloto had sailed for sixty years with the wind at his back. He had given orders on the cruise ship Canarias when one still gave orders with a cornet, and had also worked as a fisherman, sailor, smuggler, and diver. His hair was the same lead gray as his eyes, curly, and very short, his skin tanned like old leather, his skillful hands rough- Less than ten years ago he was still good-looking enough to have played a heartthrob in an action film—say a sponge diver or a pirate—with Gilbert Roland or Alan Ladd. Now he had put on a little weight, but his shoulders were as broad as ever, his waist reasonably trim, and his arms still powerful. As a young man he'd been an excellent dancer, and in those days women in the bars of Molinete had fought over a bolero or paso doble with him. Still today, mature women who rented the Carpanta to fish or swim or just sightsee in the vicinity of Cartagena felt their legs tremble when he held his arms in a little circle and invited them to take the helm.
"Everything OK?"
"Everything's OK"
They had known each other since Coy was a boy playing hooky to fool around the docks, where there were ships with foreign flags and sailors who spoke languages he could not understand. El Piloto, son and grandson of sailors who had also been called Piloto, could be found mornings outside some bar in the port, an honest man for hire, waiting for clients for his aging sailboat. Besides taking out women tourists, whose behinds he cupped to help them aboard, in those days El Piloto would dive to clear line from propellers, scrape barnacled hulls, and salvage outboard motors that had fallen into the water. In his free time he devoted himself, like everyone in those days, to small-time smuggling. Nowadays his bones were a little old to soak for too long, and he earned a living taking families out for Sunday outings, as well as crews from the tankers anchored at Escombreras, pilots on stormy days, and staggering-drunk Ukrainian sailors who tossed their cookies leeward after having drunk themselves blind in the bars. The Carpanta and El Piloto had seen it all. A vertical sun, without a breath of air, focusing laser heat on the bollards in the port. The sea really wild: God jumping and skipping. A westerly zinging in the rigging like harp strings. And those long red Mediterranean sunsets when the water looks like a mirror and the peace of that world is peace itself, and you understand that you are only a tiny drop in three thousand years of eternal ocean.
"We'll be back in a couple of hours," Coy said, shooting a glance up at the Rock, "and then shove off straightaway."
El Piloto nodded, continuing to polish a brass cleat. By his side an adolescent Coy had learned a few things about men, the sea, and life. Together they dived for Roman amphoras and quietly sold them, fished for squid at sunset on the Punta de la Podadera, caught swordfish, marrajo, and sharks on trotlines off Cope, and twenty-pound sea bass with a harpoon among the black rocks of Cabo de Palos—when there were still sea bass to fish for. In the Graveyard of Ships With No Name, to which old tubs made their last voyage, to be cut up and sold as scrap, El Piloto had taught Coy to identify each of the parts that composed a ship as they squeezed lemon juice on raw clams and sea urchins, long before Coy went off to be a seaman. And in that desolate landscape of rusted iron, superstructures beached on the sand, funnels that would never smoke again, and hulls like dead whales beneath the sun, El Piloto had pulled out a packet of unfiltered Celtas—the first cigarette in Coy's life—and lit one with a metal pocket lighter that had an acrid, burnt-wick smell.
Coy picked up his jacket and jumped to the quay. Tanger followed, the strap of her shoulder bag secure across her chest.
"What will the weather be like tonight?" she asked.
Coy took a look at the sea and the sky. A few isolated clouds were beginning to break apart, streaking the sky in several directions.
"Good weather. Not much wind. Maybe a mild sea when we round Punta Europa."
Surprise, enjoyment, a flash of vexation when she heard the word "sea." It would be funny, he thought, if she got seasick. Until that moment he had never considered the possibility of seeing her glassy-eyed like a tuna, skin yellowed, clinging weakly to the gunnel.
"You have any Dramamine? Maybe you'd better take one before we shove off."
"That's none of your business."
"You're wrong. If you get seasick, you'll be in the way. That is my business."
There was no answer, and Coy shrugged. They walked down the quay toward the Renault parked in the marinas parking lot. The setting sun, visible over Algeciras, shone red on the vertical face of the Rock,
picking out the dark hollows of the old embrasures dug out of the rock. Two battered smugglers' launches, retired from sea duty and with blue and black paint dribbled down then-sides in gobs, were rotting on sawhorses amid rusted engines and empty steel drums. The sounds of the city intensified as they got closer to the parking lot. A bored customs officer was watching television in his guardhouse. A long queue of automobiles was lined up to cross the border in the direction of La Linea de la Concepcidn.
It was Tanger who took the wheel. She drove carefully, handbag in her lap, confident and without haste, down the street that ran behind the border barriers to the bay, then left, toward the rotunda of the Trafalgar cemetery. She had not said a word until that moment. Then she stopped the car, engaged the brake, looked at her watch, and turned off the engine.