Cataveiro

by E. J. Swift

  She turns on the radio. Tango, nice. Pulls off her boots and socks and examines her feet. Red but only a couple of blisters, despite all the walking in the desert. She takes out her maps of the Nazca Desert and studies each one, feeling the simple satisfaction of a job well done. Cartography is not about power, as some would have it. It is always an act of translation: the rendering of something unknown into something intelligible, and it has a beauty all of its own.

  She climbs into the bunk and lies flat, feeling her body slowly relax, taking deep breaths of the fresh air through the window. She feels cooped-up but safe. The feeling of safety makes her uncomfortable in other ways, reminding her that she has had this room a long time, that it is easy to become reliant. On people. On places. Even on a job.

  A spider runs across the ceiling: small-bodied, long-legged. She thinks of the spider in the Nazca Desert, and remembers how it felt to walk along the lines, the sense of a history so great it seemed present in the air around her. But not all of the glyphs can be seen. Some have been blurred by erosion; some are lost forever.

  On her left thumb, the barest of fine lines marks where the skin has healed. She is still not certain why she went. Sometimes, such as when you stand on the Nazca lines, it is easy to believe in something greater, even if it is only your own purpose. Other times, like Alé, like the unlucky ones that did not make it, it is not.

  A knock at the door interrupts her thoughts. She is surprised to see Eduardo, one hand clutched to his chest, panting.

  ‘Ramona, I forgot to give you this.’

  He holds out a letter. She takes it and examines the writing on the front. It is addressed to her, simply enough – Ramona Callejas, The Facility, Tierra del Fuego.

  ‘One of the pedlars brought it down from the highlands,’ Eduardo explains. ‘You know I don’t trust those vagabonds, but this one seemed smart enough.’

  The highlands, where Ramona and Félix grew up. It looks like Félix’s mother’s handwriting: Carla. She likes to keep in touch. Ramona feels a well of pleasure.

  ‘Thanks, Ed.’

  ‘You’re welcome. You know, you could get a telephone in this room.’

  ‘I could. But then people would call me.’

  He shuffles away, still breathing heavily from the exertion of the climb. Ramona shuts the door and sits on the bunk, her legs tucked under her. She tears the letter open.

  Dear Ramona,

  I hope this letter finds you and finds you well. I wasn’t sure where you might be so I asked the pedlar to take copies to Fuego and the garage in Cataveiro and one or two other places on his route in case you passed through.

  If one of them has reached you safely then I have to tell you your mother has been taken very sick. The doctor says it’s the jinn and she’s converting. I offered for her to stay with us down on the slopes but you know how she is. There’s not much we can do here. Perhaps you know some people from your travels that might help, or you could get her something for the pain she’s in now. Either way, I thought you should know. Inés would be angry if she found out I had written. But you know how it goes with the jinn. Any little thing might be enough to end it.

  Please, come soon.

  Your friend, Carla.

  PS – if you see Félix, give him my love.

  Ramona reads the letter several times. She thinks of Inés, her stubborn, difficult mother. She thinks of the sliding city, with its red dust and its landslides, and she sees the shack with the little veranda built by Ramona and the chair outside where Inés always sits, and the graves nearby of Paola and Camilo.

  Patagonian medicine has no cure for the jinn.

  3 ¦

  SHE KNOCKS SHARPLY on the door. There is no immediate response but she is sure she can hear someone moving about inside. She knocks again, louder.

  ‘Hello! I’m looking for the Antarctican.’

  This time there is the sound of hasty footsteps, a scuffling like furniture being shifted and a distinctive clinking noise, and then a voice calls, ‘Yes, yes, I’m coming, hold on.’

  The door opens part way. The man standing awkwardly within its frame bears a frazzled expression. Eduardo is right. He has a distinctive face: those green eyes are very light against brown skin. He is dressed in jeans and a thick jumper and he has a scarf wrapped around his neck, one end of which is fraying badly. His hair sticks up from his head as though he has been running his hands through it repeatedly.

  ‘Yes?’ he says politely. Too politely.

  She glances past the door. The Antarctican shifts slightly to block her view, and at the same time she notices the smell – a hint of burnt sweetness, trickling from the narrow aperture. She is certain then, and groans internally – of course, of course it would be – all the exiles turn to it in the end. What is it about her country? But she has no better option than this. Raoul might be out for days. She hopes this one is good at his job.

  ‘I hear you’re an engineer,’ she says.

  The Antarctican tries to smile but his fingers tighten around the doorframe. ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Eduardo told me.’

  ‘Oh. I’m afraid Eduardo heard it wrong. I am here on quite a different kind of mission. I’m here to collect specimens of flora. Seeds. Pollens. All of those things.’ His Spanish is peppered with Portuguese, strongly accented with that particular lilt that the Brazilian-Antarcticans have. It’s odd, but unlike it does Eduardo, the sound doesn’t offend her. ‘We are trialling different things in the soil, you know, to see how they take. So your friend must have made a mistake. Yes. I’m sorry about that. Very sorry.’

  He is eyeing her nervously as he rattles away, as if to check how she is taking the story. Why does Raoul have to be away today?

  Ramona folds her arms. ‘Look, I’m not the Patagonian government, I don’t care what your cover story is.’ The man winces. ‘I know you’re an engineer. And I’ve got a broken aeroplane. Can you help me?’

  ‘An aeroplane. Really?’

  She senses the spark of interest, but then his gaze slopes away to the side of her. She can tell that all he really wants to do is sit in that dark room and walk the honeyed road to oblivion.

  ‘It’s the only working aeroplane on the continent,’ she stresses.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘I know nothing about aeroplanes. I’ve never seen one.’

  ‘You’re an engineer.’

  ‘I’m a botanist,’ he says firmly.

  ‘You’re an engineer.’

  The Antarctican shakes his head slowly. ‘That was before.’ He starts to close the door.

  ‘Are you afraid you can’t fix it?’

  The barb is a low, desperate shot and Ramona doesn’t really expect it to work, but to her surprise the door inches open. The Antarctican’s face, bleary-eyed and sunken-cheeked, peers through.

  ‘Of course I can fix it,’ he says.

  On the way out he locks the door carefully behind him. He looks nervous. That makes two of us, she thinks.

  As they climb the stairs to the roof she explains that Raoul is her primary mechanic and it is he who would usually deal with this, except he is away. The Antarctican responds in that polite but vague way. He is not interested in Raoul and his family problems. It is only when she begins the story of how they applied to the knowledge banks for the plane’s schematics that he displays a flicker of curiosity. Really, the Boreal Knowledge Banks? Where else? she says, and he asks if their bid was successful, and she says no, or it never made it through the Exchange, but whichever it was, it is she and Raoul who have patched up the plane together over the years, without the schematics.

  They emerge onto the roof of the Facility. Some of the haze has cleared overhead; a brisk breeze plucks at the Antarctican’s scarf. He tucks it into his jumper and huddles deeper inside the woollen garments, shivering, although it isn’t cold. In the sudden onslaught of bright light and space he looks dazed and disorientated, perhaps unnerved by the drop over the edge of the roof and the heady view down t
o the strait. She can see the sweat on his face and the craters under his eyes quite clearly, and she thinks: Why did I bother? This is going to be a disaster.

  But then his gaze alights upon the plane, perched on the far side of the roof like an intricate armoured insect. His eyes brighten visibly. He walks up to it and around it, exclaiming and admiring. Snatches of sun glint off the plane’s tapering solar wings. Ramona looks anxiously at the sky down to the south, where cumulus clouds are building ominously, and tries not to betray her impatience. The Antarctican runs a hand over the motionless propeller. Something about the gesture is reassuring to Ramona; by it she can tell a love of the machine, an understanding, the way she loved the cars in the garage in Cataveiro. Suddenly she can glimpse the engineer in this wreck of a man.

  ‘Careful of the solar leaves,’ she warns. ‘They get dangerously hot. Actually, the battery should be charged by now. I’ll turn them off.’

  The Antarctican nods, stepping carefully under one upturned wing.

  ‘It’s a beautiful thing,’ he says. ‘Quite incredible to see. This is Neon technology?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought all South American aircraft were decommissioned during the Migration Wars. Aren’t they banned from your airspace?’

  ‘Do you need to see my licence?’

  ‘No, I – it doesn’t matter. Where did you find it?’

  Ramona thinks of the Atacama Desert, the rusting telescope array with its many ears turned to the silent, empty skies. Violeta del Torres.

  ‘That’s a long story,’ she says.

  ‘But you learned to fly it – someone taught you?’

  ‘I taught myself. You ask a lot of questions.’

  The Antarctican looks at her with undisguised curiosity, but does not query further. He tugs distractedly at an unravelling thread in the scarf around his neck.

  ‘So … tell me the problem.’

  She explains about the noise coming from the motors, the motors that should emit nothing but a low, steady whine, and today were not. She tells him about her unsuccessful attempts to investigate. He listens and taps the windshield thoughtfully. Ramona indicates the sky.

  ‘We’ve got about an hour before that comes in. Do you think that’s enough time?’

  ‘Why, do you have to be somewhere?’

  ‘I have to go north, urgently.’ She hesitates, but there is nothing to lose, and she needs him to work quickly. ‘It’s my mother. She’s very sick. It’s the jinn.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s between you and me.’

  ‘I’m a botanist, remember?’

  There are puddles of water dappled across the roof, so Ramona remains standing and watches as the Antarctican opens up the nacelle, lifting it clear to expose the motor beneath. He peers inside, and sounds something experimentally.

  ‘Was it a bad storm last night?’ she asks.

  The Antarctican twists onto his back to give himself a better angle of vision.

  ‘Bad enough. But you should see them where I come from.’ His head has disappeared inside the plane, and his voice is muffled. ‘Can you pass me a screwdriver? The smallest one you’ve got.’

  She roots through her toolbox and passes him the screwdriver, and crouches where she can see his hands. The mechanics of the plane are so delicate, and she notes a definite tremor in his hand, even if he is managing to keep his voice level.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Can you see what the problem is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Looks like it’s your bypass fan.’

  He doesn’t elaborate. Ramona crosses her fingers. Luck, she needs her luck today. She can hear the scratch of metal from inside the panel. The Antarctican’s feet are braced firmly against the roof of the building. His shoes are heavy-duty, waterproofed with thick soles, made to last. His trousers riding up his ankles reveal one yellow sock and one green.

  She checks the sky again. Down in the harbour she can see the waves crashing against the sea walls, throwing up sprays of white froth. The rain is maybe half an hour away. All across the archipelago, Patagonians will be running for cover, dragging inside anything of value and banging the storm shutters closed. Then they will pray – let the waves stay low, let the winds stay light, and the sea walls keep us safe and tight.

  That is what they say around here, the small children who hang about the harbour and poke at the fishing catch with sticks. Ramona did not grow up on Tierra del Fuego. She never sung those songs, she never said those words, and yet she thinks them now and they stick in her head the way the hawkers’ jingles do.

  She cannot go anywhere tonight. But if the plane is fixed and the storm blows out quickly, she can leave just before dawn.

  The Antarctican drops the screwdriver with a curse.

  ‘Be careful!’

  ‘I’m being careful, very careful. This is a nice motor, you know.’

  She closes her eyes briefly, wishing for Raoul. At last the Antarctican’s head emerges from the plane, his eyes squinting against the white light. He wipes sweat from his forehead, causing his hair to stand up even more raggedly.

  ‘She’s fixed.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ He frowns. ‘Simple blockage. Build-up of grit.’

  ‘Grit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure? That’s all it was?’

  ‘It happens. You want to test it?’

  ‘No offence, but yes.’

  When she tries the engine it runs smoothly and silently. She turns and catches the Antarctican laughing for the first time. She feels foolish, but gratitude wins out.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He shuts the open panel and screws it back into place. There’s a lost, longing look in his eyes that makes her feel sad.

  ‘Does she have a name?’

  ‘Colibrí.’ Ramona traces the outline of the hummingbird on the fuselage of the plane. ‘This is the Nazca glyph. I saw it for myself only a week ago, in the desert.’

  ‘I thought I recognized it – the flag, downstairs. You have temples for the Nazca, don’t you?’

  ‘Houses of the Nazca,’ she corrects him. She can see he wants to ask more questions. He probably thinks the teachings of the Nazca are a prophetic religion, something like that of the Mayans, complete with sacrificial rituals. She could tell him that the teachings are actually quite straightforward: based on principles of economy and conservation, things at which the Nazca society were adept, and especially concerning water. But she is not in the mood to explain cultural customs to foreigners. At the same time she realizes that Eduardo never told her the Antarctican’s name, and she didn’t ask. That was a discourtesy on her part.

  ‘And you? I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘It’s Taeo.’

  ‘I’m Ramona.’

  ‘I know. Ramona Callejas. You’re the cartographer, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So what came first, the mapping or the plane?’

  The question surprises her. It is not something most people would ask.

  ‘The maps,’ she says.

  ‘But everyone calls you the pilot.’

  ‘The two go together. I couldn’t go so far north without the plane.’

  ‘I didn’t think there was anything living past forty degrees.’

  Ramona opens her mouth to correct him. On the tip of her tongue are the stories of Titicaca, the Nazca Desert acolytes, or the marsh nomads with their netted boats and mistrustful eyes. Then she changes her mind. ‘There isn’t much.’

  In any case, she never hands over her maps without a slight sense of unease. She does not include everything she discovers. Sometimes it is her own decision; sometimes the villagers she finds ask her not to reveal their existence. They prefer to stay lost.

  ‘You must be very useful to the government,’ says Taeo.

  ‘Lots of people assume that.’

  ‘And are you?’
/>
  ‘Ask them.’ She isn’t going to tell him about the continual arguments with Lygia, who really wants a spy, not a cartographer. Lygia values the utilitarian: she wants to find enemies. Ramona wants to find people.

  Taeo puts his hands up. ‘Just curious.’

  ‘Anyway, where did you learn to fix things? If it wasn’t with aeroplanes?’

  ‘Oh. I built things. I built ships, actually. Not as pretty as this, it’s true.’

  ‘Well, thank you. I owe you one. Seriously, any time.’

  He nods. ‘Maybe you can give me a ride – in Colibrí. When you get back from the north, I mean.’ He looks about the roof, up at the mountains with their bare heads like uncrowned kings, down towards the harbour, where the waves are surging. ‘I’ve never been up here before. It’s quite the view.’

  ‘It’s inaccessible except through the Facility, that’s the main reason. The runway’s a little short but—’

  ‘But you’re good,’ he says. ‘I’ve heard. You should come to Antarctica. Map places that have never been mapped before.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t let anyone in?’

  ‘I suspect the Republic would make an exception for someone with your skills.’

  ‘And for my family? My mother? My friends? Would your Republic make an exception for them too? I don’t think so.’

  He looks at her for a long moment.

  ‘Is it all Antarcticans you dislike so much or just those of us who speak Portuguese?’

  ‘That is not what I said.’

  ‘No, but it’s true.’

  She hesitates. ‘There were other things – there were other opportunities that could have been taken – the reforestation movement, working to save this land, rather than run to the new one and leave us all to burn.’

  ‘I take your point, but to me that’s ancient history. This place is the past. Antarctica is my home. It’s been my parents’ home and their parents’ before them and their parents’ parents’ before them, right back to the Migration Wars. All I have left of this place is the language, and the only reason I have that is because the Republic did not want Boreal English as its primary language. The rest? I’m sorry, but it means nothing.’