"Hey, I'd forgotten. The hero of the Malvinas."
He put the identification and credit cards back in the wallet, added the clipping, kept the money, and dropped the billfold on Kiskoros's chest.
"So, talk to me. Come on."
"I don't have anything to tell."
"What does Palermo want? Is he here?"
"I don't ha..."
He stopped when Coy hit him again in the face. It was a dispassionate blow, almost reluctant, and Coy stood watching as the Argentine, who was holding his hands over his face, wriggled like an earthworm. Then Coy sat down on the sand again, never taking his eyes off Kiskoros. He had never treated anyone this way, and he was amazed that he didn't fed sorry for him. He knew, however, who that man on the ground was. He couldn't forget Zas, lying dead on the rug, poisoned, and he knew the fate women like Tanger had suffered at the hands of CPO Horado Kiskoros and company. So as far as he was concerned, that sonofabitch could roll up his Malvinas clipping and carefully stick it up his asshole.
"Tell your boss that I don't give a fart about the emeralds. But if anyone touches her, I'll kill him."
He said that with unusual simplicity, almost modestly, as if he didn't want it to sound like a threat. It was merely information, absent any emphasis or overtones. A bulletin for sailors. At any rate, even the least attentive listener would have understood that, in Coy's case, such information was reliable. Kiskoros grunted darkly and turned onto his side. He groped for the wallet and put it in a pocket with clumsy hands.
"You are a fuck-up," he muttered. "You're greatly mistaken about
Senor Palermo, and me_ And you are mistaken about her, too."
He paused to spit blood. He was looking at Coy through wet, dirty hair strung over his face. The frog eyes were not sympathetic now; they gleamed with hatred and hunger for revenge.
"When my turn comes..."
He smiled a horrible smile with his swollen mouth, but a fit of coughing left the threatening and grotesque words in the air.
"Fuck-up," he repeated with rancor, and again spit blood.
Coy kept staring at him as he got to his feet slowly, almost grumbling. I can't do anything more to him, he told himself. I can't beat him to death, because there are things I'm afraid to lose, and freedom and my life still matter to me. This isn't a novel or a movie, and in the real world there are police and judges. There's no boat waiting, at the end to carry me off to the Caribbean to take refuge in Tortuga among the Hermanos de la Costa, and from there defy the English and take twenty prizes. Today those privateers have been recycled and are building condos, and the governor of Jamaica gets apprehend and arrest warrants by fax.
That was his state, frustrated and undecided, considering whether to punch Kiskoros in the face again, when he saw Tanger standing by the side of the road under a yellow street lamp. She was quietly watching them.
AT the far end of the bay, the beam of the lighthouse was circling horizontally into the warm drizzle. The luminous intervals resembled narrow cones of fog as they swung around again and again, in each circuit picking out the slender trunks and motionless fronds of palm trees weighed down by water and reflections. Coy glanced at Kiskoros before setting off along the beach after Tanger. The Argentine had managed to reach the car, but he didn't have the key, so he was sitting on the ground, propped against a wheel, water-soaked and sandy, watching them go. He hadn't opened his mouth since Tanger appeared, nor had she, even when Coy, who was still a little revved up, asked if she didn't want to take the opportunity to send greetings to Nino Palermo. Or maybe, he added, she might draw pleasure from interrogating the g.d. sudaca. That's what he said—interrogate the goddamn South American —knowing that no matter how many kicks he gave him, no one was going to get a word out of Kiskoros. She started off down the beach. So Coy, after a brief hesitation, took one last look at the battered assassin and followed her.
He was furious not because of the Argentine, who had been a welcome target for pouring out the bile scalding his stomach and throat, but because of the way she seemed to turn her back, whenever it pleased her, to reality. Hello. I don't like this. So long. Any time something didn't fit into her plans—unforeseen appearances, difficulties, threats, the intrusion of reality into the daydream of her adventure—it was denied, put off, or set aside as if it never existed. As if the mere consideration of it was an assault on the harmony of a whole whose true dimensions only she knew. This woman, he concluded as he walked along the beach nursing his bad humor, defends herself against the world by refusing to see it. Although he was hardly the one to criticize her for that.
And yet, he thougjht as he caught up to her and grabbed her arm, whipping her around in the murky light, never in his whole damn life had he known eyes that saw so deep and so far when they chose. His grip on her arm was close to brutal, forcing her to stand there as he examined her wet hair, the reflections in her eyes, the drops of rain multiplying her freckles.
"This whole thing,'* he said, "is crazy. We'll never be able..."
All at once, to his surprise, he realized that she was frightened. Her half-open lips were trembling and a shudder shook her shoulders as the beam of the lighthouse slipped over them. He saw all that in the light, and a couple of seconds later the next flash showed that the warm drizzle had intensified to heavy rain, and she stood there trembling as the sudden downpour fell on her hair and face, pasting her wet blouse to her body and pelting Coy's shoulders and arms as, without even thinking, he opened them to take her in. Warm flesh, shivering in the night and the rain, came to the haven of his body, consciously and deliberately. Came directly to him and pressed against him, and for an instant Coy held his arms open, not yet enfolding her in them, more surprised than hesitant. Then he closed them, holding her softly against him, feeling her muscles . and blood and flesh throb beneath the wet blouse, her long, firm thighs, the slim body shaking against his. And the parted lips, so close, lips whose quivering he calmed with his own in a long, long kiss, until they weren't shivering anymore and became warm and soft and opened wider, and then it was she who tightened her arms around Coy's strong back. He put his hand at the nape of her neck, a strong, square hand supporting her head, his hand beneath hair streaming water in the heavy rain. Now their mouths sought each other avidly, with unexpected ardor, as if starved for saliva and oxygen and life; teeth bumped together and impatient tongues touched and thrust. Until finally Tanger drew back to catch her breath, her wide-open eyes staring into his, untypically confused. Then it was she who threw herself on him with a long moan like that of an animal in pain. And he stood there waiting for her, squeezing her so tight he was afraid he would break her bones, and then staggered blindly with her in his arms until they realized that they had walked into the sea, that the rain was beating down, deafening, solid, erasing the outlines of the landscape, the drops popping as if the bay around them were boiling. Their bodies beneath wet, Hinging clothes sought each other violently, collided in strong embraces, desperate, hungry kisses. They licked water from each other's faces, their mouths tingling from the taste of rain and wet skin on warm flesh. And she kept breathing into Coy's mouth the interminable moan of a wounded animal.
THEY returned to the Carpanta streaming water, tripping through the darkness, clinging clumsily to each other. Arms entwined, they kissed with every step, frantically, as they neared their goal leaving a trail of water on the ladder and deck of the cabin. El Piloto, sitting smoking in the dark, saw them come down the companionway and disappear toward the stern cabins, and he may have smiled when they turned to the glowing ember of his cigarette to wish him a good evening. Coy was guiding Tanger, steering her before him, hands on her waist, as she turned with every step to kiss him greedily on the mouth. Coy tripped over a sandal she had managed to kick off, and then the other, and at the door of her cabin she stopped and pressed against him, and they embraced, crushed against the teak bulwark, hands stroking in the shadows, exploring bodies beneath the clothing they were undoing for one another
—buttons, belt, skirt falling to the floor, unbuttoned jeans slipping down Coy's hips, Tanger's hand between jeans and skin, her warmth, the triangle of white cotton almost ripped from her thighs, the jangle of the metal ID tag. The lusty male vitality, rapt mutual appreciation, her smile, the incredible softness of bared breasts, silky, aroused. Man and woman, face to face, their panting close to challenge. Her inciting moan and his guiding her toward the bunk across the narrow cabin, wet clothes thrown everywhere, tangled beneath still-wet bodies, soaking the sheets, mutual invitation for the thousandth time, eyes locked to eyes, smiles absorbed, shared. I'll kill anyone who gets in the way now, thought Coy. Anyone. His skin and his saliva and his flesh were effortlessly entering flesh ever moister and more welcoming, deep, very deep, there where the key to all enigmas lies hidden, and where the centuries have forged the one true temptation in the form of an answer to the mystery of death and life.
MUCH later, in the dark, rain drumming on the deck overhead, Tanger turned on her side, her face buried in the hollow of Coy's shoulder, one hand between his thighs. He, half-asleep, felt the naked body plastered to his, felt Tanger's warm, relaxed hand upon enervated flesh still wet, still smelling of her. They fit so perfectly that it was as if they had always been looking for one another. It was good to feel welcome, he thought, and not simply tolerated. That immediate, instinctive alliance was good, a recognition that needed no words to justify the inevitable. That way each had led in his or her part of the journey, with no false modesty. Sensing the unspoken "do this," the intimate, wordless, panting, intense duel that had very nearly cleared away the bad times, equal to equal, with no need for excuses or justifications for anything. No who pays for this, no equivocation, no conditions. No adornment or remorse. It was good that finally all that had happened, exactly as it should have.
"If anything happens," she said suddenly, "don't let me die alone."
He lay quiet, eyes open in the darkness. Suddenly the sound of the rain seemed sinister. His state of drowsy happiness was suspended and once again everything was bittersweet. He felt her breath in the hollow of his shoulder, slow and warm.
"Don't talk about that," he murmured.
He felt her shake her head.
"I'm afraid of dying alone in the dark."
"That isn't going to happen."
"That always happens."
Her hand was still between Coy's thighs, quiet, her face in his shoulder, her lips whispering against his skin. He felt cold. He turned and buried his face in her wet hair. He couldn't see her face, but he knew that at that moment it was the face in the framed snapshot. All women, he knew now, had that face sometime.
"You're alive," he said. "I feel your pulse. You have flesh, and blood circulating through it. You are beautiful, and you're alive."
"One day I won't be here any longer."
"But you are now."
He felt her burrow closer against him. Her lips touched his ear.
"Swear... that you won't... let me die alone."
She said it very slowly, and her voice was barely a murmur. For a while Coy lay motionless, his eyes dosed, listening to the rain. Then he nodded.
"I won't let you die alone."
"Swear it."
"I swear."
He felt her naked body swing astride him, her spread thighs gripping his hips, her breasts brushing against his chest, her lips seeking his. Then a hot tear fell onto his face. He opened his eyes, surprised, and saw a face made of shadows. Confused, he kissed the moist, open lips. Again he heard a slight sigh, and the long, suffering, female moan of a wounded animal.
XIII
The Master Cartographer
Erring due to the vagaries of the sea is not the worst thing. Some err by using bad information. JORGE JUAN, Compendio de navegacion para guardiamarinas
The Dei Gloria wasn't there. Coy was gradually coming to that conclusion as they swept the grid marked on the chart without finding anything. At depths from sixty-five to two hundred feet, the Pathfinder had imaged nearly the entire relief of the two square miles in which they should have found what remained of the brigantine. The days passed, each warmer and calmer than the last, and the Carpanta, to the incessant purr of the motor, was sailing along at two knots across a sea as flat and shining as a mirror, tacking north and south with geometric precision, and with continuous satellite position readings. Meanwhile, the beam of the sounder swept the floor beneath the keel as Tanger, Coy, and El Piloto, bathed in sweat, relieved one another before the liquid crystal screen. The colors indicating the composition of the ocean floor—soft orange, dark orange, pale red —marched by with exasperating monotony. Mud, sand, seaweed, shingle, rocks. They had covered sixty-seven of the seventy-four projected tracks, and made fourteen dives to reconnoiter suspicious echoes, without finding the least sign of a sunken ship. Now hope was fading with the last hours of the search. No one had spoken the ominous verdict aloud, but Coy and El Piloto were exchanging long looks, and Tanger, sitting obstinately before the sounder, was growing increasingly irritable and uncommunicative. Failure was in the air.
The eve of the last day they were anchored with one hundred feet of chain in twenty-three feet of water, between the point and La Cueva de los Lobos island. El Piloto stopped the motor, and the bow of the Carpanta slowly rode around the anchor and pointed west. The sun was hiding behind the dark, jagged mountains, illuminating clumps of thyme, palmettos, and prickly pears with tones of gold and russet. At the foot of the escarpment the sea was almost still, lapping softly on rocks and the narrow fringe of sand gleaming whitely amid tangles of seaweed.
"It isn't here," Coy said in a low voice.
He wasn't speaking to anyone in particular. El Piloto had just furled the mainsail on the boom and Tanger was sitting on the steps at the stern, her feet in the water, staring at the sea.
"It has to be," she replied.
Her gaze was unfaltering; she was focused on the imaginary rectangle where they had sailed, almost without respite, for two weeks. She was wearing one of Coy's T-shirts—so big it came to the top of her thighs—and was slowly kicking her feet, splashing like a child on the shoreline.
"This is crazy, all of it," Coy commented.
El Piloto had gone below to the cabin, and through an open porthole came the sounds of his dinner preparations. When he came back up on deck to open the chest that held the butane bottle and to connect the gas for the galley, his grave eyes met Coy's. This is your affair, sailor.
"It has to be," Tanger repeated.
She was still kicking her feet in the water. Coy was slouched against the binnacle, looking for something adequate to say, or do. Since he couldn't think of anything, he went to get a diving mask and jumped from the bow to check out the anchorage. The water was clean, warm, and pleasant, and the waning light allowed him to follow the line of the chain stretched across the bottom of sand and scattered rocks. The anchor, a fifty-five-pound CQR, was in the correct position, free of the seaweed that might have let it drag if the wind freshened during the night. He went down a little farther to see dearly, and then slowly came to the surface and swam to the sailboat on his back, paddling with his feet, unhurried, enjoying the water. He wanted to postpone as long as possible having to face Tanger again.
Once on board, he dried himself with a towel, contemplating the arc of the coast stretching eastward. Now totally red from the setting sun, it was the route of marble, Roman legions, and the gods. This time, however, he drew no pleasure from the view. He hung the towel to dry and went down into the well, where he sat on the last step of the ladder. El Piloto was busy with pots and pans in the galley, preparing a platter of macaroni, and Tanger was sitting in the cabin with the nautical charts spread out on the main table.
"There's no possibility of error," she assured Coy before he could say anything.
She had her pencil in hand and was pointing out the coordinates of latitude and longitude on various charts, determining miles on the scales in the margins, and transferring them
with the compass onto the graphed rectangle, just as he had taught her to do.
"You checked the figures yourself," she added "From Mazarron to the headland of Las Viboras, to Punta Percheles, to Cabo Tinoso." She was bent over, showing him the results, like a serious student trying to convince her professor. "37°32' north of the equator and 4° 51' east of Cadiz on Urrutia's nautical chart corresponds to 37°32,N and 1°21'W relative to the Greenwich meridian. You see?"
Coy pretended to review the numbers. He had done that operation so many times that he knew them by heart. The charts were covered with annotations in his hand.
"There could be an error in the conversion charts."
"There isn't." She shook her head energetically. "I've already told you they came from Nestor Perona s Aplicaciones de Cartografia Historica. Even that error of seventeen minutes in the Cadiz longitude relative to Greenwich on the Urrutia charts is corrected there. Every minute and every second is precise. It's thanks to these tables that they found the Caridad and the Sao Rico two years ago."