He took a sip from the glass the receptionist had just offered him with a flirtatious glance. He wasn't good-looking. His less than average height exaggerated the width of his brawny shoulders, and he had wide, hard hands bequeathed him by a businessman father who had no luck in the chandlery trade and who in lieu of money had left him the rolling, almost clumsy stride of someone not convinced that the earth he is treading on can be trusted. The harsh lines of his wide mouth and large, aggressive nose were softened by the tranquil, dark, soft eyes that recalled certain hunting dogs when they look at their masters. He also had a timid, sincere, almost childlike smile that came often to his lips, reinforcing the impression of that loyal, slightly sad gaze, a look rewarded by the champagne and friendly overtures from the receptionist, who was walking away through the clients now, de rigueur short skirt switching above the shapely legs she believed were holding Coy's eyes.
Believed. Because at that moment, even as he lifted the glass to his lips, he was looking around for the blonde woman. For an instant his eyes lighted on the short man with the melancholy eyes and checked jacket, who nodded courteously. Coy kept searching the room until he sighted her through the crowd. Again her back was to him, and she was standing holding a glass of champagne. She was wearing a suede jacket, dark skirt, and low-heeled shoes. Gradually, he made his way toward her, curious, studying her smooth gold hair, cut high at the nape of the neck and felling on each side toward her chin in two perfect diagonal, though asymmetrical, lines. As she talked, her hair swung softly, the tips brushing cheeks Coy could appreciate only from a foreshortened perspective. And after crossing two thirds of the distance between them, he saw that the naked line of her neck was covered with freckles, hundreds of tiny little specks barely darker than the pigment of her skin, which was not terribly fair despite the blond hair—a tone that indicated sun, open skies, and outdoor life. And then, when he was but two steps away and starting to move around her casually in order to see her face, she said good-bye to the auctioneer and turned, pausing a couple of seconds in front of Coy, just long enough to set her glass on a table, sidestep him with a lithe movement of her shoulders and waist, and walk away. Their glances had crossed in that brief instant, and he had time to notice that her unusual eyes were dark, with glints of blue. Or maybe it was the other way round, blue eyes with dark glints, navy-blue irises that slid over Coy without noticing him, as he confirmed that she also had freckles on her forehead and cheeks and throat and hands. That she was covered with freckles, and that they lent her a singular, attractive, almost adolescent look, even though she must be well into her twenties. He could see that she wore a large, masculine, stainless-steel watch with a black dial on her right wrist. And that she was a few inches taller than he, and very pretty.
COY left five minutes later. The glow from the city reflected on clouds scudding through dark skies toward the southeast, and he knew that the wind was going to shift and that it might rain mat night. He stood in the doorway with his hands in the pockets of his jacket while deciding whether to head left or right, which involved a choice between a light snack in a nearby bar or a walk to the Plaza Real and two Bombay Sapphire gins with a lot of tonic. Or maybe one, he corrected himself quickly, after recalling the lamentable state of his wallet. There was very little traffic, and through die leaves on the trees, as far as he could see, a long line of stoplights was sequentially changing from yellow to red. After deliberating for ten seconds, just as the last light turned red and the nearest changed back to green, he started walking to his right. That was the first mistake of the night.
LNAM: Law of Non-Accidental Meetings. Based on Murphy's well-known law—one that had several serious confirmations recently—Coy had the habit of establishing, for private consumption, a series of colorful laws he baptized with absolute technical solemnity. LADWU: Law of Always Dance With the Ugliest, for example; or LBTAFFD: Law of Buttered Toast Always Falls Face Down, and other principles more or less applicable to the recent miserable state of his life. These laws didn't accomplish anything, of course, except to occasion a smile from time to time. At his own expense. No matter, Coy was convinced that in the strange order of the Universe, as in jazz—he was a great jazz fen—chance played a large role, like improvisations so mathematical that you had to ask yourself if they weren't written somewhere. And it was right here that his recently formulated LNAM was proved. As he approached the corner he saw a large silver-gray car parked at the curb, with one of its doors standing open. Then, near a streetlight a little farther away, he could see a man talking with a woman. He first recognized the man, who was facing him, and after a few steps, when he could see how angry he was, Coy realized that the man was arguing with a woman. Now visible in the light from overhead, she was blond, with hair cut high on the nape of her neck. She was wearing a suede jacket and a dark skirt. He felt a tingling in his stomach. Sometimes, he told himself, life becomes predictable by nature of its pure unpredictability. He hesitated a minute before adding, or vice versa. Then he reckoned direction and drift. If there was one thing he was capable of, it was instinctively to calculate these situations, although the last time he had determined a route—a rout would be much closer to fact—it had led directly to a shipping tribunal. At any rate, he altered his course by ten degrees in order to pass as close as possible to the couple. That was his second mistake. It was at odds with any sailor's common sense, which counseled maintaining sea room at any cost, or danger ahead.
THE man with the gray ponytail looked furious. At first Coy couldn't hear what he was saying because he was talking in a low voice. He did, however, observe that one hand was raised, with a finger pointing at the woman, who was standing stock-still, facing him. Then the finger moved, jabbing her shoulder with more anger than violence, and she retreated a step, as if frightened.
"... the consequences," Coy heard ponytail say. "You understand? All the consequences."
Again the finger was poised to jab her shoulder, and she took another step back. Now the man seemed to think better of it, and instead he grabbed her arm, not so much in a violent way as to convince or intimidate. She jumped, startled, and again moved back, shaking free. Ponytail made a move toward her arm again, but found himself blocked by Coy, who had slipped between them and was staring him straight in the face. Ponytail s hand froze, its rings glittering in the light, his mouth open to say something to the woman... or maybe because he didn't know where this character in the navy-blue jacket and sneakers had come from, with his sturdy shoulders and wide, hard hands hanging at either side with feigned casualness, fingers at the side seams of his well-worn jeans.
"Pardon?" said the man with die ponytail.
He had a slight, unrecognizable accent, something between Andalusian and foreign. He stared at Coy, surprised and curious, as if trying unsuccessfully to place him. His expression had changed; he was stunned, especially once he realized that he didn't know the intruder. Ponytail was taller than Coy—almost everyone that night was—and Coy saw him glance over his head toward the woman, as if expecting a clarification regarding this change in the program. Coy couldn't see her. She was behind him, and hadn't moved or spoken a word.
"What the hell..." began ponytail, but he cut himself short, his face bleak as if he had just been given bad news. Standing there before him, mouth closed and hands at his sides, Coy calculated the possibilities. Even though he was furious, the man kept his cool. He was dressed in an expensive jacket and tie, elegant shoes, and on his left wrist, above the hand with the rings, shone a very heavy, ultramodern gold watch. This guy lifts twenty pounds of gold every time he knots his tie, thought Coy. The total effect was attractive. He had good shoulders and an athletic build. But he isn't the kind, Coy concluded, to pick a fistfight in the middle of the street, not right in front of the Claymore auction gallery.
Coy still couldn't see the woman, although he could sense her eyes on him. I hope at least, he told himself, that she doesn't go running off, that she'll take time to say thank you—if I do
n't get my face bashed in, that is. For his part, ponytail had turned to his left and was staring at the window of a boutique as if expecting someone to step out carrying an explanation in an Armani handbag. In the light from the shop window, Coy could see that the man's eyes were brown. That surprised him a little, since he had remembered them being green in the auction house. But when the man turned in the opposite direction, toward the street, Coy could see that he had one eye of each color. The right one was brown, the left green, starboard and port. He also saw something more disturbing than the color of the man's eyes. The open door of the car, which was an enormous Audi, lighted the interior, where the secretary sat witnessing the scene and smoking a cigarette. It also lighted the coat-and-tie-clad chauffeur, a hulk with very curly hair, who was getting out of the car. The chauffeur was not elegant, nor did he look as if he would have ponytail s refined voice. His nose was flattened like a boxer's, and his face seemed to have been stitched and restitched a half dozen times, losing a few pieces in the process. He had a sallow, somewhat Berberish cast to his skin. Coy remembered having seen rough guys who looked like him working as doormen in whorehouses in Beirut and dance halls in Panama. They often carried a switchblade hidden in their right sock.
This was not going to turn out well, he reflected with resignation. LTLGVL: Law of Takes a Lot and Gives Very Little. Those two were going to break a couple of indispensable bones, and in the meantime the girl would run away like Cinderella or Snow White—Coy always got those two stories mixed up, because they didn't have ships in them—and he would never see her again. But for the moment she was still there, and he took note of the blue eyes with dark glints; or maybe, he remembered, it was dark with blue glints. He felt them on his back. He didn't miss the twisted humor in the fact he was about to get the holy shit beat out of him over a woman whose face he had seen for only two seconds.
"Why are you sticking your nose in something that's none of your business?" asked the man with the ponytail.
It was a good question. Ponytail's tone was focused, calm, but also curious. At least that's how it sounded to Coy, who was keeping the chauffeur in sight out of the corner of his eye.
"This is... God almighty," ponytail blurted when Coy didn't answer. "Just... get out of here."
I bet she's wishing the same thing, Coy thought. She's agreeing with this guy and saying, Who asked you to hold a candle at this funeral? Move along, and don't butt in where you're not invited. And you mumble an apology, your ears burning; you walk away, turn the corner, and slit your wrists for being a complete idiot. Now she's leaving and saying—
But she didn't say anything. She was as silent as Coy himself. Coy stood there between them, staring into the bicolored eyes opposite him, a step away and a foot above his. He couldn't actually think of anything else to do, and if he spoke he was going to lose what small advantage he had. He knew from experience that a man who keeps his mouth shut is more intimidating than one who doesn't, because it's difficult to guess what he has in mind. Maybe ponytail was of the same opinion, because he was looking at Coy thoughtfully. Finally Coy thought he saw a glimmer of uncertainty in the eyes of the Dalmatian.
"Well, well," ponytail said. "Look what we have here. A hero from a B-movie."
Coy kept staring, not uttering a word. If I move quickly, he thought, I could land a kick to his midsection before taking on the Berber. The question is the girl. I wonder what the fuck she'll do.
Suddenly ponytail exhaled, with a sigh that sounded like a sour, exaggerated laugh.
"This is ridiculous," he said.
He sounded sincerely confused by the situation. Coy slowly lifted his left hand to scratch his nose, which was itching. That always happened when he was thinking. Give him the knee, he mused. I'll say something to distract him, he thought, and before he answers I'll knee him in the balls. Then the problem will be the other guy, who will be warned. And not in the best of moods.
An ambulance passed by, flashing orange lights. Thinking that soon he was going to need one himself, Coy ventured a quick look around, without seeing anything he could use for a weapon. So he eased his fingers toward the pocket of his jeans, his thumb passing lightly over his keys to the boarding-house. He could always try to slash the chauffeur's face with the keys, as he had once done to a drunk German at the door of the Club Mamma Silvana de La Spezia—hello, good-bye—when he saw him ready to jump him. Because, as sure as sin, that's what this sonofabitch was going to do.
The man facing him ran a hand across his forehead and down the back of his head, as if he wanted to smooth the already smooth hair pulled into a ponytail, then wagged his head sideways. He had a strange, pained smile on his lips, and Coy decided he liked him much better when he was serious.
"You'll be hearing from me," he told the woman over Coy's shoulder. "You can count on that."
In the same instant he looked toward the chauffeur, who had taken a few steps in their direction. As if mat was an order, he stopped. Coy, who had glimpsed the movement and felt his muscles tense with adrenaline, relaxed with concealed relief. Pony-tail again took a long look at Coy, as if he wanted to engrave him in his memory, with subtitles for emphasis. He raised the hand with the rings and pointed his index finger at Coy's chest, just as he had earlier with the woman, but he didn't jab him. He just held the finger there, pointed like a threat, then turned and walked away as if he had just remembered a pressing engagement.
After that came a brief succession of images: a look from the secretary in the back seat of the car, the arc of her cigarette as it fell to the sidewalk, the door slamming on ponytail's side of the car after he got in beside her, and the last black look from the chauffeur standing at the curb—a long, foreboding glare more eloquent than his boss's—just before the slam of the second car door and the smooth purr as the motor started. With just what that car burns as it takes off, Coy thought sadly, I could eat like a king for two days.
"Thank you," said a woman's voice from behind him.
DESPITE appearances, Coy was not a pessimist. For that it's essential to have lost all faith in the human condition, and he had been born without any to lose. He simply viewed life on land as an unreliable, lamentable, and unavoidable spectacle, and his one desire was to stay as far away as necessary to keep the damage to a minimum. Despite everything, he still had a certain innocence in those days, a partial innocence related to things and areas outside his calling. Four months in dry dock had not been enough to wear away a candor more suited to the world of the sea, the absorbed, slightly absent distancing sailors often maintain when dealing with people who feel solid ground beneath their feet. At that time he still looked at some things from afar, or from outside, with a naive capacity for surprise not unlike what he had felt as a boy when he was taken to press his nose against the toy-shop windows on Christmas Eve. But now there was also the certainty—as much a relief as it was disillusion—that none of those exciting marvels was destined for him. In his case, knowing he was outside that perimeter, and that his name was not on the list of good boys to receive presents, was calming. It was good not to expect anything from anyone, for his seabag to be light enough that he could sling it over his shoulder and walk to the nearest port, without regret for what he was leaving behind. Welcome aboard. For thousands of years, even before Homer's hollow ships set sail for Troy, there were men with wrinkles around their mouths and rainy November hearts, men whose nature leads them sooner or later to look with interest into the black hole of a pistol barrel, men for whom the sea was a solution and who always sensed when it was time to make an exit. Even before he knew it, Coy was one of them, by vocation and by instinct. Once, in a cantina in Veracruz, a woman —it was always women who phrased this kind of question—had asked him why he was a sailor and not a lawyer or a dentist. He could only shrug his shoulders, and after a long pause, when she was no longer expecting an answer, he said, "The sea is clean." And it was true. At sea the air was fresh, wounds healed more quickly, and the silence became so intense that it
made unanswerable questions bearable and justified silence itself. On a different occasion, in the Sunderland restaurant in Rosario, Argentina, Coy had met the sole survivor of a shipwreck, one of nineteen men. Three o'clock in the morning, anchored in mid-river, a leak, all men asleep, and the ship on the bottom in five minutes. What most impressed Coy about the survivor was how quiet he was. Someone asked him how that was possible—eighteen men going down with their ship, without any warning. The man had looked at him, silent and uncomfortable, as if it was all so obvious it wasn't worth the trouble to explain, and then raised his glass of beer and drank. City sidewalks filled with people and brightly lit shop windows made Coy uneasy. He felt clumsy and out of place, like a fish out of water, or like that sailor in Rosario, who was almost as silent as the eighteen men who had been lost. The world was a very complex structure that could bear contemplation only from the sea, and terra firma took on soothing proportions only at night, while on watch, when the helmsman was a mute shadow and you could feel the soft throbbing of the engines issuing from the belly of the ship. When cities were reduced to tiny lines of lights in the distance, and land was the shimmering radiance of a lighthouse glimpsed on the swell. Flashes that alerted you, repeating again and again: careful, attention, keep your distance, danger. Danger.
The Nautical Chart Page 2
