COY took off the headphones as the distant clock on the city hall struck seven. Its dong-dong-dong seemed to sound the last notes. Sipping lemonade, he continued to watch Tanger, asleep on the mussed bed. Gray light cast faint shadows on the sheet partially covering her. She was sleeping on her side, with one hand out from her body and the other between her pulled-up knees, her back to the uncertain light of dawn. The sweep of her naked hips was a slope of light and shadow on freckled skin, dimpled flesh, chasms, and curves. Motionless in the rocking chair, Coy studied the hidden face, hair falling onto wrinkled sheets that denned the shape of shoulders and back, the waist, the expanse of hips and inner line of thighs seen from behind, the beautiful V of flexed legs, and the soles of her feet. And especially that sleeping hand whose fingers lay between her thighs, very close to the intimation of pubic hair, golden and shadowed with darker tones.
Coy stood up and walked closer to the bed, to fix the image in his memory forever. The dresser mirror on the opposite wall reflected Tanger's other hand, resting on the pillow, the tip of a knee, and Coy himself integrated into the picture, a portion of his body reflected in the quicksilver of the mirror—one arm and one hand, the line of a naked hip, the physical certainty that the image belonged to him and no other, and that it was more than a play of mirrors in his memory He regretted that he didn't have a camera to record the details. So he made an effort to engrave on his retina the half-waking, half-sleeping mystery that so obsessed him, the intuition of a mutable, all too brief moment that might perhaps explain everything. There was a secret, and the secret was in plain view, barely disguised in the obvious. It was another matter to isolate and understand it, though, and he knew he would never have enough time, and that in an instant drunken and capricious gods, unaware of their ability to create as they slept, would yawn and awake and everything would dissipate as if it had never existed. Possibly, he thought with desolation, that fleeting moment would never be repeated with such clarity, that flash of lucidity capable of placing things in their proper perspective, of balancing void, horror, and beauty. Of reconciling the man reflected in the mirror with the word "life." But Tanger began to stir, and Coy, who knew that he was on the verge of grasping the key to the enigma, felt that one-tenth of a second too late or too soon would distort the connection between scene and observer, like the fuzzy focus of an image impossible to decipher. And in the mirror, beyond the foreshortening of his own body and that of the woman lying on the bed, ships in the rain were once again reflections of black ships on a millenary sea.
Tanger awoke, and with her all the women in the world. She woke warm and lazy, her hair stuck to her face and her lips parted. The sheet slipped from her shoulders and back, uncovering the extended arm, the line of armpit to dorsal muscles, and the firm indication of a breast compressed beneath the weight of her body. The back tanned by the sun, lighter below the line of her swimsuit, appeared full length and, as Coy watched, the small of that back arched and Tanger emerged from sleep like a beautiful, tranquil animal, eyes squinting against the square of gray light in the window, discovering Coy's proximity with a smile first of surprise, then warmth. Suddenly, however, the eyes were serious and grave, aware of her nakedness and the scrutiny of which she was the object. Finally the challenge—turning, slowly and deliberately, onto her back before his eyes. Now her body was entirely free of the sheet, one leg stretched out and the other bent, one hand near her sex without hiding it, the other limp on the sheet, the lines of her stomach converging toward the inner face of her thighs like signals of no return. Motionless. And always the unwavering stare, the eyes fixed on the man observing her. After a few moments, she slid over to one side of the bed and rose to her knees before the mirror, showing him her naked back and hips. With her lips almost touching the glass, she breathed on it until it clouded over, and, without taking her eyes from the image of Coy, she left the print of her lips in the mist obscuring their reflection. Then she got out of bed, slipped into a T-shirt, and sat at the other side of the table, near the platter of fruit. She peeled an orange and began to eat it without separating the sections, biting into it, juice dripping from her lips and chin and hands. Coy sat down across from her. Tanger looked at him the same way she had when she was lying on the bed, but now with a smile. She held up her wrists and licked the juice trickling down to her elbows, and the shredded membrane and pulp in her fingers disappeared into her mouth. Coy shook his head as if he were refuting something. He sighed as if all his sadness and resignation were escaping in a moan. Very deliberately, he went around the table, took her hands, and just as she was, sitting there in a T-shirt barely covering her torso and with the taste of orange on her lips, he went in search of the road to Ithaca that lay on the other shore of the sea ancient and gray as memory.
THEY returned to the Dei Gloria as soon as the storm had passed, after the last clouds fled with dawn, streaking the horizon with red. Once again the sea was intensely blue and the sun blazed on the white houses along the coast, leading a gentle breeze by the hand. It was a shift for the better according to El Piloto. That same day, with vertical rays casting his shadow on the surface, Coy dived again, descending from a marker buoy—one of the Carpanta's side fenders—attached to an anchored one-hundred-foot line that had a knot every ten feet. He touched bottom a short distance off the port beam of the sunken vessel, more or less at the waist, and swam along the hull to check whether the grid they had laid before the storm was still in place. Then he consulted the chart he'd brought down—wax pencil on a plastic tablet—calculated distances with the help of a tape measure, and began to clear away debris on the companion, crusted with marine growth. Using an iron crowbar and a pick, he tore away rotted planking, which collapsed in a blinding cloud. He worked slowly, trying not to do anything that would increase his air intake. Occasionally he moved back a little to rest and let the sediment settle enough for him to see. He succeeded in breaking through the companion, and when the water cleared he looked inside as he'd done the day before when he peered into the hold of the bulk carrier. This time he cautiously thrust in the arm holding the light and illuminated the chaotic innards of the brigantine, where fish disoriented by the brightness darted about madly, seeking ways to escape. The light returned the natural colors to everything, annulling the monotonous green of deep water. There were sea anemones, starfish, red and white coral formations, multicolor seaweed swaying gently, and the glittering scales of fish slicing through the beam like silver knives. Coy saw a wooden stool that seemed to be well preserved. It had fallen against a bulkhead and was covered with some green growth, but he could distinguish the carved spiral legs. Straight down from the opening he'd made was something that looked like a crusted spoon, and beside it was the lower part of an oil lamp, the brass clotted with tiny snails and half buried in a small mound of sand that had filtered through the rotted deck. Shooting the beam in a half-circle, Coy saw the remains of what looked like a collapsed cabinet in one corner, and in a heap of broken planks he could identify coils of cordage covered with brown fuzz, and objects of metal and clay—tankards, jugs, a few plates and bottles, all of it covered with a very fine layer of sediment. In other aspects, however, the panorama was not very encouraging. The beams that supported the deck had collapsed in many places, and half the cabin was a jumble of wood and sand that had sifted in through the broken frame. The beam of light revealed openings large enough to enable him to move around cautiously inside, as long as the frames and beams that supported the structure of the hull did not give way. It would be more prudent, he decided, to tear away as much of the planking of the poop as possible, and work from the outside, in the open, pulling away the timberwork with the help of air flotation devices that would reduce the effort involved. That would be slower, but it was preferable to having him or El Piloto trapped in the wreckage at the first careless move.
With great care Coy removed the tank of compressed air, lifting it forward over his head. He took a large mouthful of air and set the cylinder on the
deck with the mouthpiece anchored beneath the valves. Then he pushed half his body through the open hole over the companionway, careful not to get hooked on anything, and moved toward the half-buried lamp until he could touch it. It was very light and came free from the bottom with little difficulty. At that moment he saw the eyes of a large grouper observing him open-mouthed from an opening beneath a bulkhead. He waved a hand in salute and gradually worked his way backward until he was again out on the deck, careful not to release the last bit of oxygen, which he would need to clear the mouthpiece of the regulator and start taking air again. He clamped the mouthpiece in his teeth, exhaled into the bubbling regulator, and breathed fresh air without a problem. He slipped the cylinder back over his head and tightened the harness. On his wrist, El Piloto's waterproof Seiko indicated he'd been down thirty-five minutes. It was time to go up, pausing at the knot that marked ten feet and waiting the seven minutes required by the decompression tables. He tugged five times on the line that was tied to a cleat on the Carpanta and began to swim upward, carrying the lamp in his hands, going slower than his own bubbles, seeing the water change from dark greenish shadows to green, and from green to blue. Before he got to the surface he stopped at the ten-footmark, holding onto the knot in the line, with the black shadow of the motionless sailboat sitting overhead on a surface like polished glass. The glass shattered into foam as Tanger, wearing a diving mask, her hair flowing in the water, jumped in and stroked down toward Coy. She swam around him like an exotic siren, and the light filtering from above turned her freckled skin pale, making her appear naked and vulnerable. Coy showed her the lamp from the Dei Gloria and saw her eyes widen with wonder behind the glass of her mask.
FOR four days, taking turns, Coy and El Piloto tore away part of the brigantine's deck at the level of the captain's cabin. They stripped it away, removing rotted planks from top to bottom with crowbars and picks, taking care not to weaken the structure of the frames and beams that kept the shape of the hull beneath the poop. To lift large sections of wood they called on Archimedes' principle, using a volume of air equivalent to the weight of the object to be raised. Once the heavy planks were free, they used nylon line with floats resembling plastic parachutes, which they filled with compressed air from reserve bottles tethered off the side of the Carpanta. The work was slow and tiring, and at times the cloud of sediment was so thick that they were forced to rest until the water cleared.
They found human bones. They would come across them trapped in a tangle of planking or half-buried in sand, occasionally with fragments of what had been belts or shoes. Like the skull with an entry wound in a parietal that Coy found beneath a thin layer of sediment near one of the gun ports and quickly reburied in the sand, moved by an atavistic impulse of respect. The sailors of the Dei Gloria were still there, manning their sunken ship, and as he moved around amid the ruined wood of the brigantine, his only company the sound of the regulator, Coy could feel them close by in the green semidarkness.
There was an accounting every night beneath the midship cabin light, in meetings that resembled war councils, headed by Tanger with the plans of the brigantine spread out before her, and with Coy and El Piloto in sweatshirts despite the mild temperature, to offset the cold they still felt after so many hours in the water. Then Coy would sleep a heavy sleep barren of dreams or images, and the next morning start diving again. His skin was like soaked garbanzo beans.
On the third day, as he was ascending, ready to stop at the ten-foot mark to purge his blood of dissolved nitrogen, he looked up and felt a jolt. The dark silhouette of another hull lay beside the Carpanta, rocking in the increasing swell. He came to the surface without completing the decompression, with a stab of alarm that intensified when he saw the Guardia Civil patrol boat. It had stopped by to take a look, its crew curious about the Carpanta's immobility. Fortunately, the lieutenant in command was an acquaintance of El Piloto, and the first thing Coy picked up when his head emerged from the water was a calming glance from his friend. Everything was under control. El Piloto and the lieutenant were smoking and talking, passing the wineskin back and forth between boats, while a pair of young Guardias dressed in green fatigues sent definitely unsuspicious looks at Tanger, who was reading on the stem deck in sunglasses, bathing suit, and baseball cap, apparently indifferent to what was happening. The story El Piloto had just finished telling in offhand bits and pieces was about these tourists who liked to dive and had leased his boat. For a lark they were searching for a fishing boat that had sunk a couple of years before in these same waters—the Leo y Vero, out of Torrevieja. His invention had sounded reasonable to the lieutenant, especially when he learned that the man climbing aboard the Carpanta, who looked vaguely surprised but gave him a wave after hanging his tank and harness on the stern ladder, was a native of Cartagena and an officer in the Merchant Marine. The patrol boat pulled away after the lieutenant perfunctorily checked Coys diving license and recommended he renew it, since it had lapsed a year and a half before. As soon as the boat was half a mile away, at the end of a straight white wake, and Tanger had closed the book of which she'd been unable to read a single line, and the three of them had looked at each other with silent relief, Coy jumped back into the water with the bottle of compressed air, sank to the ten-foot mark, and stayed there, surrounded by white and dark jellyfish slowly drifting by in the current, until the nitrogen bubbles formed in his blood by the precipitous rise to the surface had dissipated.
ON the fifth day enough of the brigantine's poop had been removed to allow a first serious exploration. Almost all the deck planking was gone, and the naked structure of the hull at the stern revealed part of the captain's cabin, the remains of an intact bulkhead, and a passengers' locker in the steerage. Working from outside, Coy could undertake the search by sorting through jumbled objects, splintered wood, and residue that formed a layer nearly three feet thick. He dug with gloved hands and a short-handled spade, tossing useless material over the side, away from the hull, moving back again and again to let the sediment settle. He pulled out things that normally would have piqued his curiosity, but that now he simply discarded—assorted tools, pewter jugs, a candelabrum, broken glass and pottery. He came across the large bronze hilt and enormous hand guard of a sword, with the stump of a badly corroded wide blade, a cutlass whose only purpose was to slash human flesh during a boarding operation. He also found a block of musket balls fused together in the shape of the box in which they'd sunk, though the wood itself had disintegrated Buried in sand he found half a door, complete with hinges and a key in its lock, and also balls for the four-pounder, a clump of iron nails hollowed out by rust, and bronze nails that had fared much better. Beneath the loose boards of a cupboard, Coy found Talavera pottery cups and plates that were miraculously clean and intact, so perfect he could read the mark of their makers. He found a clay pipe, two muskets covered with tiny snails, blackened disks that were probably silver coins, the cracked glass of a sand clock, and an articulated brass ruler that had once traced routes on Urrutia's charts. For reasons of security, especially following the visit from the Guardia Civil, they had decided not to bring up any object that could raise suspicion, but Coy made an exception when he unearthed an instrument encrusted with lime. It had originally been composed of wood and metal, although the wood crumbled between his fingers when he shook off the sand, leaving only an arm with metal parts on the upper portion, and an arc below. Deeply moved, he had no difficulty identifying it as the brass or bronze metal parts corresponding to the index bar and the graduated arc of an ancient octant, probably the one the pilot of the Dei Gloria had used to establish their latitude. That was a good trade, he thought. An eighteenth-century octant in exchange for the sextant he had sold in Barcelona. He set it aside where it would be easy to find later. But what truly hit him hard in the gut was what he found in a corner of the locker, fuzzy with minute dark filaments, behind the boards of a chest: a simple length of line, perfectly coiled, with a knot tightened in the last two hitches, just a
s it had been left by the expert hands of a conscientious sailor who knew his trade. That intact coil of line affected Coy more than anything he had found, including the bones of the Dei Gloria's crew. He bit on his rubber mouthpiece to contain the bitter smile of infinite sadness he felt knot in his throat and mouth the closer they came to the sailors who had died in this shipwreck. Two and a half centuries before, men like him, sailors accustomed to the sea and its dangers, had held those objects in their hands. They had calculated courses with the brass rule, coiled the line, measured the quarters of the watch by turning the sandglass, and shot the stars with the octant. They had climbed to the yards, struggling against a wind fighting to tear them from the shrouds, and had howled their fear and humble courage into the oscillating rigging as they gathered canvas in stiff fingers. They had faced the Atlantic's northwesters and the murderous mistrals and lebeches of the Mediterranean. They had battled gun to gun, hoarse from yelling and gray with powder, before going to the bottom with the resignation of men who do their job well and fight bravely to the end. Now their bones were scattered amid the detritus of the Dei Gloria. And Coy, moving slowly beneath the plume of bubbles rising straight up into that shroudlike darkness, felt like a furtive grave robber violating the peace of a tomb.
The Nautical Chart Page 43
