The Nautical Chart

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  He hadn't waited. In truth, he didn't want to wait, or know any reason why the hell he should wait, why he should do anything other than exactly what he did do: walk eight or ten steps, adrenaline pumping, take several deep breaths along the way, grab the little man by the lapels and shove him against the nearest wall, under the yellow light of a street lamp. He needed desperately to do that, and to smash the man's face before he got away from him as he had at the service station in Madrid. Which is why, ignoring Tanger, he lifted the dwarf onto his tiptoes and, pinning him to the wall with one hand, he raised the other, making a fist. Between the gleam of gelled hair and the thick black mustache, a pair of dark protruding eyes stared at him intently. He didn't resemble a pleasant little frog now. There was surprise in those eyes, Coy thought. Even pained reproach.

  "Coy!" Tanger called again.

  Hearing the click of a switchblade, low and to his left, he glanced down, and saw the reflection of naked steel dose to his side. An uncomfortable thrill shot through his groin; a knife-thrust upward, at such dose quarters, was the worst way to end this. In such a situation the definitive argument would normally be Anchors aweigh! with a no-return ticket. But others had tried to knife Coy before, so before reflecting on this turn of events, he had instinctively jumped back and chopped down on the other's arm, as if a cobra had leaped from his pocket. "Come and get it, asshole," he said.

  Naked fists against a knife; that had a good sound. Of course he was bluffing, but he was angry enough to see it through. He had whipped off his jacket the way Tucuman Torpedoman had taught him once in Puerto Principe, wrapping it a couple of times around his left arm, waiting for his adversary, crouched, the arm with the jacket held out to protect his belly and the other poised to deliver a knockout punch. He was furious, and he felt the muscles of his shoulders and back knot, tense and hard, with his blood pounding rhythmically through his veins. Just like the old days.

  "Come and get it," he repeated. "So I can bust your balls."

  The dwarf was holding the switchblade aloft, his eyes glued on Coy, but he seemed uncertain. With his short stature, his hair and clothing disheveled, his skin pale in the yellow light, he was somewhere between sinister and grotesque. Without the knife, Coy decided, he wouldn't have a chance. He watched as this nameless so-and-so straightened his jacket and ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it back. He put his weight on one foot, then the other, rose up to his full height, and lowered the hand with the knife.

  "Let us negotiate," he said.

  Coy measured the distance. If he could get close enough to kick him in the groin, the dwarf wouldn't feel like negotiating with his own whore of a mother. He moved a little to the side and his opponent stepped back, prudent. The blade shone in his hand.

  "Coy," said Tanger.

  She had come up behind him, and now was at his side. Her voice was serene.

  "I know him," she added.

  Coy gave a quick nod, without taking his eyes from the little man, and in the same instant kicked with all his strength; the man with the knife escaped the worst because he had anticipated Coy's move and scooted backward to get out of range. Even so, he took a vicious hit on the knee, stumbled, and spun around, catching himself against the wall. Coy seized the opportunity to go on the attack, first with the arm wrapped in the jacket, then with a punch that struck his adversary at the base of the neck, dropping him to his knees. "Coy!"

  The cry increased his rage. Tanger tried to grab his arm, but he shook her off roughly. Go to hell. Someone had to pay, and this guy was the right person. Later she could say whatever she wanted, explanations he wasn't sure he wanted to hear. As long as he was fighting, there was no opportunity for words, so he kicked the so-and-so a second time, but he slithered round in an impossibly small space, and Coy felt the knife slice like lightning against the jacket-wrapped arm. He had underestimated the dwarf, he realized suddenly. He was quick, the little bastard. And very dangerous. So he retreated two steps and caught his breath, sizing up the situation. Easy does it, sailor. Calm down or not even a can of spinach will get you out of this one. Forget that he's small; any man, no matter how short, is tall enough to sever an artery. And besides, on one occasion he'd seen a real dwarf, an authentic Scots dwarf) sink his teeth into the ear of an enormous stevedore and hang on like a leech as his victim ran screaming down the dock in Aberdeen, unable to shake him off. So caution is the watchword, he told himself. There's no enemy, short though he may be, and no knife that can't fuck you for good. He was panting for breath, and between inhaling and exhaling he could hear the other man breathing hard. Then he saw him hold up the knife, as if to show it to him, and slowly raise his left hand, palm open, in a conciliatory gesture.

  "I bring a message," the dwarf said.

  "Well, you can stick it up your ass."

  The dwarf's head moved slightly. You don't seem to hear what I'm saying, the gesture said.

  "A message from Senor Palermo."

  So that was it. A meeting of old acquaintances. The social club of seekers of lost ships was complete. That explained a few things, but muddied others. He breathed once, twice, and took a step toward his adversary, fist cocked again, ready to strike.

  "Coy."

  Suddenly Tanger stepped in front of him, blocking his way, and stared straight into his eyes. She was dead serious, hard as he'd never seen her. He opened his mouth to protest, but then just stood there with a stupid expression. A man in a fog. Indecisive, because she was touching his face the way someone tries to calm a raging animal, or a child that is beside itself. And over her shoulder, through the gold tips of her hair, he saw the melancholy dwarf closing the knife blade.

  COY didn't touch his beer. With his jacket over his shoulders, his hands in his pockets, and leaning back in his chair, he watched the man seated across from him drink. "I was thirsty," the man repeated.

  They were on the way from the alley to the plaza, after Tanger had restrained Coy and he had finally yielded, mechanically, with the sensation of moving through a surreal mist. The melancholy dwarf had again smoothed his hair and straightened his clothing. Except for a slight rip in the upper pocket of his jacket, which he had discovered with pained eyes and an accusing look, he appeared respectable again, if a lirde eccentric, his own southern European and bizarrely English composite.

  "I have a proposal from Senor Palermo. A reasonable proposal."

  His Argentine accent was so strong it seemed affected. Horacio Kiskoros, he had said once the streams were back within their banks. Horacio Kiskoros, at your service. He'd said that with a nod of the head, and in a courteous tone completely free of irony, as he and Coy were getting their breath back. He expressed himself in the scrupulous and slightly anachronistic Spanish spoken by some Latin Americans, using words that on the eastern side of the Atlantic sounded old-fashioned. He had said "at your service" as he was checking his disordered clothes and adjusting the bow tie that had twisted to one side in his contortions. Beneath his jacket he was wearing strange suspenders with stripes that were white down the middle and blue on each side.

  "Serior Palermo wishes to reach an accord."

  Coy turned to Tanger. She had walked with them without saying a word. He was aware that she was avoiding looking at him, at the face she had touched for the first time only a few minutes before, perhaps to escape giving the inevitable explanations.

  'An accord," Kiskoros reiterated, "with terms that are reasonable for everyone." He studied Coy and pointed toward his nose with his thumb to remind Coy of the scene at the Palace. "With no hard feelings."

  "No reason to have an agreement with anyone about anything."

  Tanger had spoken at last, as if her voice were filtered through ice cubes, Coy observed. She was looking directly into Kiskoros s sad, protruding eyes, her right hand resting on the table. The stainless-steel watch lent an unexpectedly masculine flavor to the long fingers with the short, rough nails.

  "That is not what he believes," the Argentine replied. "He has access to
resources you lade technical equipment, experience____ Money."

  A waiter brought a platter of squid a la romana and fried roe, and the mdancholy dwarf said thank you with impeccable good manners.

  'A lot of money," he repeated, examining the contents of the platter with interest.

  'And what does he expect in return?"

  Kiskoros had taken a fork and was delicately spearing a cirde of squid.

  "You have done a lot of research." He chewed the mouthful with delight, but didn't speak until his mouth was empty. "You have valuable facts. Is that not true? Details that Senor Palermo has not as yet acquired. That has led him to believe that a partnership would be advantageous for both parties."

  "I don't trust him," said Tanger.

  "Nor does he trust you. You can work together."

  "I don't even know what I'm looking for."

  Kiskoros seemed to be hungry. He had tried the roe, and now returned to the squid between sips of beer. For an instant he half-turned, listening to the guitar music from the steps of the cathedral, then smiled, pleased.

  "Perhaps you know more than you think you do," he said. "But those are details you should discuss with him. I am merely a messenger, as you are aware."

  Coy, who until that point had not opened his mouth, spoke to Tanger.

  "How long have you known this jerk?"

  She took exactly three seconds to turn toward him. The hand on the table had closed into a fist. She lifted it slowly from the table and put it in her lap.

  "For some time," she said calmly. "The first time Palermo threatened me, Kiskoros was with him."

  "That is true," Kiskoros confirmed.

  "He has been using him to pressure me."

  "That too is true."

  Coy ignored the Argentine. He was hanging on her words.

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  Tanger s sigh was audible.

  "You agreed to play by my rules."

  "What else haven't you told me?"

  She stared at the table, and then at the plaza. Finally she turned toward Kiskoros again.

  "What does Palermo propose?"

  'A meeting." The Argentine looked at Coy before going on, and Coy thought he detected a gleam of irony in the frog eyes. "To negotiate. On terms you consider suitable. He is currently in his office in Gibraltar." He took a card from his pocket and pushed it across the table. "You can find him there."

  Coy got to his feet. He left his jacket on the back of his chair and, without looking at either of them, walked across the plaza in the direction of the cathedral steps. His brain was buzzing, and in a rage he squeezed his fists in his pockets. Without planning it, he ended up near the group of young people with the guitar. There were two girls and four boys, almost surely students. The one with the guitar was thin, with gypsy good looks and a cigarette smoldering at the corner of his mouth. One of the girls was following the beat of the music, swaying in place, her hand on his shoulder. The other focused on Coy, smiling, and handed him a bottle of beer. He took a drink, thanked her, and stood there, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He then sat down on the steps. The guitarist was not accomplished, but the melody sounded fine at that hour of the night in the half-empty plaza, with the palm trees and the lights of the cathedral overhead. Coy stared at the ground. Tanger and Kiskoros had left the table in the bar and were approaching the plaza. She had Coy's jacket doubled over her arm. Sweet Jesus, he thought. I'm up to my neck in goddamn shit.

  'A beautiful city," said Kiskoros, smiling at the young people. "It reminds me of Buenos Aires."

  Tanger was silent, standing beside Coy. He did not get up.

  "I believe you are a sailor, is mat not correct?" the melancholy dwarf asked. "I, too, was a sailor. The Argentine Navy. Retired CPO Horatio Kiskoros." His brow furrowed with nostalgia, as if listening to a distant, familiar sound he could not recapture. "I was also in the Malvinas, with the amphibious commandos."

  "So what the hell are you doing so for from home?"

  The melancholy in the protruding eyes intensified. He had slipped his hand into a pocket, exposing his suspenders, and suddenly Coy understood the significance of those blue and white stripes—the Argentine flag. The sonofabitch was wearing suspenders with the colors of the Argentine flag.

  "Things changed in my beloved country."

  He sat down beside Coy, but first he pulled up the legs of his trousers at the knee, carefully; to keep the crease sharp.

  "Have you heard about the dirty war?"

  Coy's lips twisted with sarcasm.

  "Of course. The tupamaro

  terrorists and all that."

  "The montoneros," Kiskoros lectured, wagging a finger. "The tupamaros were in Uruguay."

  Coy heard him sigh with emotion. Impossible to know if he lamented the whole thing or missed it.

  "The fact is," he added after a moment, "that there was a war in Argentina, even though it wasn't official. Do you understand? I fulfilled my obligation. Some do not accept that."

  "So why are you telling me?" Coy asked.

  Kiskoros did not seem discouraged by Coy's hostility.

  "I found it necessary to travel," he continued. 'And I have experience as a diver. I met Senor Palermo during the recovery efforts on the Agamemnon, Nelson's ship that went down in the River Plate."

  Coy turned away rudely.

  "I don't give a fart about your life."

  The frog eyes blinked, injured

  "Very well, senor. Just a little while ago, back in that alley, I was on the verge of killing you. I thought..." "So kill me, and blow it out your ass."

  Kiskoros said nothing, mulling over the insult Coy stood up. Tanger was watching him. "He killed Zas," she said.

  There was a long silence as Coy remembered the Labrador's warm breath on his arm. He could see—it had been only a week— his moist muzzle and loyal gaze. Then, darkly, came the image of the motionless dog on the rug, his glassy, half-open eyes. Something turned over inside him; he felt a strange anguish and he scanned the plaza uneasily, the lights of the cathedral and the street lamps. Beside him, the notes of the guitar seemed to be sliding down the steps. The girl who had smiled at him was kissing one of the boys. One of the young men set the beer bottle on the ground.

  "Well, that's true." Kiskoros also got to his feet, brushing off his trousers. "And believe me, I regret that, senor. I am fond... Let me assure you. I am fond of domestic animals. Why, I have a Doberman of my own."

  Thicker silence. The Argentinean assumed a circumspect expression.

  "In my own way," he insisted, "I am still a military man. Do you understand? I had orders. And that included the senora's home."

  He set his face in a sad rictus: accept responsibility; and all that. "Mendieta," he said suddenly. "My dog is named Mendieta." In the meantime, Coy's eyes went to the bottle, which was at his feet on the steps. For a second, he calculated the possibilities of shattering it over the other man's head. When he looked up he met the melancholy eyes of the Argentine.

  "You seem to be a very impulsive man," said Kiskoros in an amiable tone. "That has its problems. The senora, on the other

  hand, seems to have a more gentle character. Whatever the case, it is not a good thing for a lady to be wandering around this shady part of town. I recall an instance in Buenos Aires. A montonera killed two of my fellows when we went to look for her. That woman defended herself like a lioness, and we could only subdue her by throwing grenades. Then it turned out that she had a baby hidden under the bed__ "

  He paused and clicked his tongue thoughtfully. Beneath his mustache was a mouth that may have been smiling.

  "There are women who are very macho, I assure you," he continued "Although later, things went soft in ESMA. You know what I'm referring to." He analyzed Coy carefully. "No, I don't think you do. Regio. Cool. It may be better that way."

  Coy's eyes met Tanger's, but she wasn't seeing him, as if she had just contemplated distant horrors. Within seconds, coming back to hersel
f, her eyes seemed to focus on reality, though a vacant darkness remained. She pressed Coy's jacket to her breast, as if suddenly she felt cold.

  "ESMA," she said, "was the Escuela de Mecanica de la Armada.... The Navy's torture center during the military dictatorship."

  "True," Kiskoros conceded, gazing around with a distracted air. "I fear some ill-informed fools refer to it in that manner."

  SHELLY Manne on the brushes had softly introduced "Man in Love," and Eddie Heywood was launching into the first solo at the piano. Standing bare-chested at the open window of his room in the Hotel de Francia y Paris, in his mind Coy leaped ahead to another phrase of the melody. He was wearing headphones, and when he heard the expected passage, he nodded in time to the music. Three floors below, the small plaza was in shadow. The two large central street lamps had been turned off, the foliage of the orange trees was dark, and the awning of the Cafe Parisien was rolled up. Everything seemed deserted, but Coy wondered if Horacio Kiskoros was still hanging around. In real life the bad guys take a rest too, he thought. In real life things don't happen the way they do in novels and films. Maybe now the Argentine was snoring like a buzz saw in some hotel or boarding-house close by, with those suspenders carefully draped over a clothes rack. Dreaming of happy times of sausage, 348 Corrientes, and 1,500-volt currents in the cellars of ESMA.

  Pum-pum, pum. The second solo was ending, and Coy expectantly awaited the entrance of the third: the tenor sax of Coleman Hawkins, which was the best thing on that cut, with its half time and quick time and strong-light, and corresponding rhythmic surprises when that cadence was broken with the expected unexpectedness. "Man in Love." He had just thought about the title, and that made him smile into the shadows of the plaza before he glanced up to the ceiling. Tanger was there, on the fourth floor, in the room right above his. Maybe she was sleeping, maybe not. Perhaps she was awake at the window like him, or sitting at the table with her notes, reviewing the information she'd been given by Lucio Gamboa. Going over the pros and cons of Nino Palermo's proposal.