“That easy,” said Eddie Alvarez.
“Yep.” Cañabota was looking at Santiago, and the sweat ran down his nose again. “That easy.”
She woke before dawn, and Santiago wasn’t there. She lay for a while between the wrinkled sheets. September was on the way out, but the temperature was the same as on the summer nights that were behind them. A humid heat like the heat in Culiacán, softened just at dawn by the breeze through the open windows: an offshore breeze that came down the river in the early morning, just before sunrise. She got up, naked—she always slept naked with Santiago, as she had with Güero Dávila—and when she stood in front of the window she felt the coolness of the breeze. The bay was a black semicircle dotted with lights: the boats anchored off Gibraltar, with Algeciras on one side and the Rock on the other, and nearer in, at the end of the beach the house sat on, the towers of the refinery reflected in the motionless water close to the shore. It was all very lovely, and still, and the sun had not yet begun to turn the horizon blue and pink, so she picked up the pack of Bisontes on the night table and lit one as she leaned on the windowsill. She remained there awhile, doing nothing, just smoking and looking at the bay while the breeze cooled her skin and her memories. The time that had passed since Melilla. Dris Larbi’s parties. Colonel Abdelkader Chaib’s smile when she laid the thing out for him. A friend would like to do some business, et cetera. And you will be a part of it? the Moroccan had asked—or said—in his friendly voice, the first time. I make my own deals, she replied, and the man’s smile intensified. An intelligent type, the colonel. Cool and correct. Nothing, or almost nothing, had happened with respect to the personal margins and limits set by Teresa.
But that had nothing to do with anything. Santiago hadn’t asked her to go, nor did he forbid it. He, like all of them, was predictable in his intentions, in his awkwardness, in his dreams. He was also going to take her with him to Galicia, he said. When all this was over, they’d go to O Grove. It’s not as cold as you think, and the people don’t say much. Like you. Like me. There’ll be a house you can see the ocean from, and a roof you can hear the rain and wind on, and a fishing skiff tied up on the shore, you’ll see. With your name on the bow. And our kids will play among the mussel barges with radio-controlled model speedboats.
By the time she put out the cigarette, Santiago was still not back. He wasn’t in the bathroom, so Teresa pulled the sheets off the bed—her fucking period had started during the night—put on a T-shirt, and crossed the darkened living room toward the sliding doors that opened onto the beach. She saw a light, and she stopped, still inside the house, to look out. Híjole. Santiago was sitting on the porch, in shorts, his torso naked, working on one of his model boats. A gooseneck lamp on the table illuminated the skillful hands that sanded and fit the wood pieces before gluing them. He was building an antique sailboat. Teresa thought it was beautiful: the hull formed by strips of different-colored wood made even more striking by the varnish, all perfectly curved—he wet them and curled them with a soldering iron—and tin nails; the deck like the real thing; and a miniature wheel, built stick by tiny stick, now positioned very near the stern, alongside a small hatch with a door and everything. Whenever Santiago saw a photograph or drawing of an old boat in a magazine, he would cut it out carefully and put it in a thick file, which was where he got ideas for his models, all perfect down to the last detail. From the living room, very quietly, so he wouldn’t know she was there, she watched him—his profile as he leaned over the pieces, the way he picked them up to study them closely, in search of imperfections, before applying a drop of glue and setting them in place. So neat—so wonderful, she meant. It seemed impossible that those hands Teresa knew so well—hard, rough, with nails always stained with grease—possessed that remarkable dexterity. Working with your hands, she had heard him say once, makes you a better man. It gives you back things you’ve lost or you’re about to lose. Santiago was not much of a talker, or one to make fine-sounding phrases, and he had not much more culture than even she did. But he had common sense, and since he was almost always so quiet, he looked and learned and had time to turn ideas over in his head.
She felt a deep tenderness for him as she watched from the dark living room. He seemed both a child busy playing with a toy and a man loyal to his dreams. There was something in those wooden models that Teresa didn’t fully understand, but that she sensed was close to profundity, the hidden keys to the silences and ways of life of the man whose woman she now was. Sometimes she would see Santiago stop, sit motionless, not opening his mouth, looking at one of those models that he had invested weeks or even months of work on, and that were now everywhere—eight in the house, or nine, counting the one he was working on—in the living room, the hall, the bedroom. Studying them with a strange look on his face. It gave the impression that working on them for so long was the equivalent of having sailed on them in imaginary times, on imaginary seas, and that now he found in their small painted and varnished hulls, under their miniature sails and lines, echoes of storms, boardings, desert islands, long journeys he had experienced in his mind as those little ships took form. All human beings dream, Teresa concluded. But not in the same way. Some go out to risk their necks on the ocean in a Phantom, or in the sky in a Cessna. Others build models as compensation. Others just dream, period. And some build models, risk their necks, and dream. All at once.
As she was about to step out onto the porch she heard the roosters crowing in the yards down in Palmones, and suddenly she was cold. Since Melilla, the crowing of roosters had been linked in her memory with the words “sunrise” and “solitude.” A band of brightness lay low in the east, silhouetting the towers and smokestacks of the refinery, and that part of the view was turning from black to gray, the same color as the water along the shoreline. Soon it will be day, she told herself. And the gray of my grimy sunrises will be illuminated first with golds and reds and then with blue, and sunlight will spread across the beach and the bay, and I will once more be safe, until tomorrow’s dawn.
Those were her half-thoughts when she saw Santiago raise his head to the lightening sky, like a hunting dog sniffing at the air, and then sit there absorbed, his work suspended, for a long time. Finally he stood up, stretching his arms to wake himself a bit, turned off the light, and removed his shorts, stretched his shoulders and arms, tensed his muscles as though he were about to embrace the whole bay, and walked down to the shore, wading out into water that the breeze made hardly a ripple on—water so still that the concentric circles in it could be seen from far away. He toppled forward and waded out slowly, to where the water was too deep to stand in, and then he turned and saw Teresa, who had pulled off her T-shirt as she stepped off the porch and was now wading out into the water, because it was much colder back there, alone in the house or on the sand that the sunrise had turned steely gray. And so they met, the water up to their chests, and her naked, goosebump-covered skin grew warm at its contact with the man, and when she felt his hard member press first against her thighs and then her belly, she opened her legs, holding it between them while she kissed his mouth, felt his salty tongue, and, half weightless, put her legs around his hips as he entered her, deeply, and emptied himself inside her slowly, unhurriedly, as Teresa stroked his wet hair and the bay grew lighter around them and the whitewashed houses of the shore turned gold in the morning light and a few early-rising seagulls flew in circles above them, cawing, as they came down from the marshes. And then it struck her that life was sometimes so beautiful that it didn’t seem like life at all.
It was Óscar Lobato who introduced me to the helicopter pilot. The three of us met on the terrace of the Hotel Guadacorte, very close to the place where Teresa Mendoza and Santiago Fisterra had lived. There were a couple of first communions being celebrated in the banquet rooms, and the lawn was full of well-dressed children chasing each other under the oaks and pines.
“Javier Collado,” the reporter said. “Helicopter pilot for Customs. Born hunter. From Cáceres. Do
n’t offer him a cigarette or alcohol, because he doesn’t smoke and all he drinks is orange juice. He’s been at this for fifteen years and he knows the Strait like the palm of his hand. Serious, but a good guy. And when he’s up there, as heartless as the mother that bore him. He does things with that whirlygig that I’ve never seen anybody else do in my whole goddamn life.”
The pilot laughed. “Don’t listen to him,” he said. “He exaggerates.” Then he ordered a lemon slush. He was tanned, good-looking, forty-something, thin but broad-shouldered, a little reserved—introverted, I wanted to say. “Exaggerates like hell.” He seemed uncomfortable at Lobato’s praise. At first, when I made an official request through Customs headquarters in Madrid, he had refused to talk to me. “I don’t discuss my work,” was his reply. But the veteran reporter was a friend of his—I asked myself whether there was a man, woman, child, or stray dog in the province of Cádiz that Lobato didn’t know—and he offered to put a word in. “I’ll bring him around,” Lobato had said. And there we were.
As for the pilot, I’d made inquiries, so I knew that Javier Collado was a legend in his world—one of those guys who could walk into a bar full of smugglers and they’d elbow each other, mutter, “Jesus fuck, look who’s here,” under their breath with a mixture of resentment and respect. The modus operandi of smugglers had changed some over the last few years, but he was still flying six nights a week, on the prowl for hashish like some big-eyed owl after mice. A professional—that word made me think that sometimes it all depends on which side of the fence, or the law, fate has put you on.
“Eleven thousand hours of flight time in the Strait,” Lobato said. “Chasing bad guys. Including, of course, your Teresa and her Gallego. In illo tempore.”
And so we talked about that. Or to be more precise, about the night that Argos, the Customs BO-105, was flying at surveillance speed over a reasonably flat sea, scanning the Strait with its radar. A hundred and ten knots. Pilot, copilot, observer. Routine flight. They’d taken off from Algeciras an hour earlier, and after patrolling a sector off the Moroccan coast known in Customs slang as the Econo-Mat—the beaches between Ceuta and Punta Cires—they were now flying without lights toward the northeast, far off the coast but following the Spanish shoreline. There were warships, Collado remarked, NATO maneuvers west of the Strait. So the patrol that night centered on the eastern side, watching for a target to pass off to the turbocraft, which was also running without lights, fifteen hundred feet below. A night of hunting like any other.
“We were five miles south of Marbella when the radar picked up a couple of blips down below, without lights,” Collado said. “One lying motionless and the other headed for land. . . . So we gave their position to the HJ and started to drop down on the one that was moving.”
“Where was it going?” I asked.
“It was headed toward Punta Castor, near Estepona,” Collado said, turning to look east, beyond the trees that hid Gibraltar, as though he could see it from there. “A good place to beach, because the Málaga highway passes by there. No rocks, and you can put the bow right up on the sand. . . . With guys waiting for you on the beach, you can unload in three minutes.”
“You said there were two blips.”
“Yeah. The other one was sitting farther out, about fifteen hundred yards offshore. Like it was waiting. But the one that was moving was almost to the beach, so we decided to go for it first. The infrared was giving us a wide blast every time it hit the water. . . . ” When he saw the confused look on my face, Collado laid his hand on the table, then raised and lowered it to imitate the movement of a speedboat. “A wide splash indicates that the boat is loaded. If they’re not loaded, they hit easier, so the spray doesn’t spread out so wide—all that hits the water is the tail of the engine. . . . So anyway, we went for that one.”
I saw that he was showing his teeth, the way a predator draws back its lips and shows its fangs when there’s prey in sight. This guy, I thought, is enjoying this—he gets off remembering that night. Suddenly, somehow, he was different, transformed. “Just leave it to me,” Lobato had said. “He’s okay, and if you trust him, he relaxes.”
“Punta Castor,” Collado went on, “was a regular drop-off point. Back then the smugglers didn’t have GPS, so they steered by sightlines. The spot was easy to hit because you left Ceuta on a course of seventy or ninety, and when you lost sight of the lighthouse light you just turned north-northwest, sailing by the glow of La Línea, which lies abeam—straight out perpendicular. . . . Out front you’ll immediately spot the lights of Estepona and Marbella, but there’s no way to get confused, because you see the Estepona lighthouse first. Pushing it, you’re on the beach in an hour.
“Ideally, you catch ’em in the act, along with the accomplices waiting for them onshore. . . . I mean, when they’re right on the beach. Because before that, they’ll throw the bales overboard and then run like hell.”
“Run like hell,” Lobato echoed, nodding—he had ridden along on several of these pursuits.
“Yeah. And it’s as dangerous for them as it is for us.” Now Collado was smiling a little, and this accentuated the air of hunter about him—the danger seemed to spice up the chase for him. “That’s the way it was back then, and that’s the way it still is.”
He enjoys this, I decided. This cabrón enjoys his work. That’s why he’s spent the last fifteen years going out on night hunts, and has those eleven thousand hours Lobato was talking about. There’s really not much difference between the hunter and the hunted, after all. Nobody jumps into a Phantom just for the money, and nobody hunts it down just out of a sense of duty.
That night, Collado went on, the Customs chopper dropped down slow and easy, heading for the blip closest to the coastline. The HJ—Chema Beceiro, the skipper, was an efficient guy—was closing in on it at fifty knots, and would be there in about five minutes. The chopper descended to five hundred feet. It was getting set to maneuver over the beach, to drop the copilot and observer if it came to that, when all of a sudden, lights came on down below. There were vehicles illuminating the beach, and they could see the Phantom for a second right along the shoreline, black as a shadow, before it cut hard to port and took off like lightning, leaving a cloud of white spray. So Collado put the chopper right on his tail, turned on the spotlight, and took off after him, three feet off the surface of the water.
“Did you bring the picture?” Óscar Lobato asked Collado.
“What picture?” I asked.
Lobato didn’t answer; he was looking at Collado tauntingly. The pilot was playing with his glass of lemon slush, twirling it in half-circles, as though he hadn’t quite made up his mind.
“Come on,” Lobato insisted, “it was ten years ago.”
Collado still hesitated. Then he laid a brown envelope on the table.
“Sometimes,” he explained, gesturing toward the envelope, “we photograph the people in the speedboats during the pursuits, so we can identify them later. . . . It’s not for the police or the press—just for our files. And it’s not always easy, with the spotlight swinging back and forth and up and down, and the water and all that. Sometimes the shots come out and sometimes they don’t.”
“This one came out,” Lobato said, laughing. “Go on, show it to him.”
Collado took the photograph out of the envelope and put it on the table, and when I saw it my mouth went dry. Eighteen by twenty-four, black-and-white, and the quality not perfect: very grainy, and a little out of focus. But the scene was clear enough, given that the shot had been taken from a helicopter flying three feet above the water at fifty knots, in the midst of the cloud of spray raised by a speedboat going full-out—a helicopter skid in the foreground, darkness all around it, white spots and splatters multiplying the flash. And through all that you could see the central part of the Phantom from port, and in it the image of a dark-skinned man, his face dripping water, looking out into the darkness over his bow, leaning over the wheel. Behind him, kneeling on the deck of the speedb
oat, her hands on his shoulders as though indicating the movements of the helicopter that was chasing them, was a young woman dressed in a dark windbreaker or slicker that gleamed from the water running off it, her hair pulled back into a ponytail and wet from the spray, her eyes very wide, the light reflected in them, her lips clenched and firm. The shutter had snapped just as she was turning to look to one side and up slightly, toward the chopper, and her face was whitened by the nearness of the flash, her expression startled by the burst of light. Teresa Mendoza at twenty-four.
It had stunk from the beginning. First the fog, as soon as they left the Ceuta lighthouse behind. Then the delay in the arrival of the fishing skiff they were waiting for out on the open sea, in the middle of the hazy darkness with no references, no landmarks, nothing to tell them where they were, and the screen of the Furuno covered with blips from merchantmen and ferries, some dangerously close. Santiago was antsy, and although Teresa couldn’t see anything of him but a dark mass in the darkness, she could tell he was not his usual calm self by the way he moved from one side of the Phantom to the other, checking to see that everything was in order. The fog covered them enough for her to dare to light a cigarette, so she ducked under the dashboard, cupped the lighter in her hands, and made sure to hide the lit end of the cigarette in her palm. And she had time to smoke three more.
Finally the Julio Verdú, a long shadow on which silhouettes were moving about like ghosts, materialized out of the darkness, just as a glow from the east shredded the fog into long cottony tatters. And then the cargo wasn’t right—as the men on the fishing boat passed them the twenty bales wrapped in plastic and Teresa stowed them in the hold, Santiago remarked how surprised he was that they were larger than he’d expected. They’re the same weight, but more bulk, he said. And that means that they’re not the good stuff, they’re the other—regular chocolate, lousy quality, instead of hashish oil, which was purer, more concentrated, more expensive. And in Tarifa, Cañabota had talked about oil.
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