Salt Water

by Josep Pla

  “ ‘And that’s all.’

  “ ‘That’s all. What do you reckon?’

  “ ‘And what if something goes badly wrong? What do you think my skin is worth?’

  “ ‘You must nominate someone you trust completely,’ the German replied in a strange, stiff voice, ‘and there will be proper compensation. A man is worth three thousand pessetes.’

  “ ‘That’s fine. But what if, for example…?’

  “ ‘Don’t worry. It’s all taken care of. If you have to disembark, we’ll give you a wonderful reward.’

  “I thought it over for a moment and said nothing. I was rather weary of my dreary life in Begur, of walking up and down to and from its beaches. The tobacco trade had fallen away and the Majorcans seemed to have disappeared. It had been a poor summer and winter wasn’t looking flush. I was a bag of nerves because of the Guardia Civil. I immediately agreed to their proposal – at least to myself. Naturally I was slightly put off by that German’s bossy manner. It was quite different from when we were chatting on the beach! On the other hand, I’ve always been one for adventures…To hit the thing on its head I said I needed to sleep on it for a couple of nights.

  “ ‘Of course,’ chorused the two Germans.

  “ ‘And supposing I accept, when do we start?’

  “ ‘Straight away! You’ll be hearing from us.’

  “A few drops of rain started falling and we walked back. The heat was oppressive. We sped up, in silence. The huge drops were few and far between and plashed on the dusty road. We stopped in the spot where we’d met half an hour earlier. The young man who had taken the lead so far – a tall, fair, blue-eyed, muscular fellow – suddenly gave me a strange look and said: ‘The conversation we’ve just had is confidential. Do you know what confidential means?’

  “ ‘Yes, sir…’

  “ ‘At the start of our conversation, I said we held to you to be a friend we could trust one hundred percent. Do you know what a hundred percent trustworthy person is…? Yes, of course you do. I must also tell you that if there is the slightest indiscretion, you should realize what might happen…You’d pay very dearly…’

  “ ‘Of course, of course…’ I laughed quite spontaneously, though the German’s chilly tone shocked me.

  “In the meantime, the rain had gotten worse and the sky looked even more threatening. We said goodbye. I saw them continue rather stiffly along the road toward the village. I took the shortcut, put my jacket over my head and was back home in a flash.”

  * * *

  —

  “All that happened on a Tuesday. The following Sunday evening, past midnight, I was drinking a beer in the bar run by my old friend Judas Elias in L’Estartit. The café had emptied out come one o’clock. The owner said he wanted to close. ‘If you’d like to wait for the sardine fishers, I can leave you these chairs in the street and a table.’ I thanked him for his kindness, because I don’t know where I’d have found a bed at that time of night. The acetylene lamps slowly went out and everything sank into a deep silence. You could barely hear the sea. It was a still, tranquil night.

  “I don’t know how much time went by. I fell asleep; all of a sudden I noticed a man standing next to me. I blinked as I woke up and caught a glimpse of a pale, hazy dawn light over the sea. I’d been asleep longer than I’d imagined, even though summer nights are short. I heard him say: ‘Are you Miner from Begur?’

  “It was a voice I’d heard before. It was the voice of the skipper of a small fishing smack from L’Estartit, an acquaintance of mine. I’d brought tobacco ashore with him on other occasions. He was known as Genoese. We had a long chat. He gave me my first weekly wage packet. He then added that as ‘there was nothing in sight,’ I simply had to wait. There was no knowing how long the wait might be. Meanwhile, to avoid arousing suspicion, we agreed I’d sign up on the boat he skippered and we’d go and try our luck with some lobster pots near the Medes Islands. I’d lodge with Genoese’s son-in-law and that way everything would look above board. Nothing came up in our conversation that hadn’t previously been agreed upon.

  “My life in L’Estartit started to get pretty boring. Genoese’s family was very friendly. Both the skipper and his son said very little. They were people who got on with their lives, honest, hardworking types. Every week they paid me the promised weekly wage. In the early morning if the weather was good we’d go and haul up the lobster pots. We’d return in the afternoon. These forays were a pretext to familiarize me with the sea beyond the Medes. That doesn’t mean we caught nothing. There were lots of lobsters in our patch, although we lost a number of catches when the bad autumn weather began. At the equinox, with the storms from the east, we lost our markers. Then we fished longline. In fact, the main point of our comings and goings was to watch out for the submarine on which I was to embark. Week after week went by like that. In the course of our many trips to the empty sea beyond the Medes Islands, Genoese spoke to me now and then, and quite offhandedly, about the work I was involved in. I didn’t reckon he was very enthusiastic. He’d been a submarine pilot the year before. He’d refused to let his son-in-law take his place when, on the excuse that that way of life didn’t suit him, he had managed to disentangle himself. ‘I don’t know if you’ll like it,’ he’d say, as if he were talking to himself, though making sure I heard. ‘Frankly, I don’t know if you’ll like it,’ he added in that gruff, deadpan voice of his. I didn’t dare ask what was behind his views. The drowsiness of life in L’Estartit had stirred my spirit of adventure. I started to think I was capable of anything – of any escapade whatsoever. When that cautious old salt – who was perhaps past his prime – looked at me, and constantly worried about a northerly wind blowing up, I decided his views were shaped by considerations of age and that kind of work was for younger, bolder people. I tired of hearing him repeat his litany of ‘I don’t know if you’ll like it’ in such an impersonal, unpleasant tone, and one day I told him to stop worrying on my behalf. I was amazed how he reacted to my mild remarks, as if I’d issued some kind of challenge. He gave me a withering look, then chuckled under his gray mustache and didn’t say a word. I don’t know if he intended to show that he felt contempt for me. At any rate, that’s how it seemed.

  “It was a dull dead afternoon. The days had gotten shorter. We were in the middle of December. Daily life was beginning to pall. When it was fine, we went out fishing. Once we were done, we laid anchor for a couple of hours in case they turned up. If we couldn’t take the boat out, we spent hours by the fireside or dealing cards. On Sundays, a hurdy-gurdy played in an abandoned warehouse and people danced. I never managed to get off with anyone, married or single. An unfriendly lot.

  “That afternoon we sailed into the dim light of dusk. The sky was gray and low. Covered in wisps of gray, matte mist, the horizon seemed to have moved nearer. The air was heavy and humid and a light, languid southwesterly blew over a sea, which was a dirty tin color. The breeze gave you a headache and puckered up tiny, choppy waves that splashed to their death on the beach. Countless hungry, shrieking seagulls circled above the sea. The day seemed ready-made for staying by the hearth in the lethargic round of winter life. In any case, it wasn’t cold and there were no signs of gales or rain.

  “When we passed Meda Gran Island, the horizon opened before us and we saw a boat rigged up as a schooner close to land. It looked like a small coastal trader. Its sails were furled and it seemed to be at anchor. Genoese gazed at the boat looking highly intrigued, though he said nothing. Then a hint of a smile came to his lips. The schooner was less than a mile away and, although its masts were a blur in the mist, it stood out clearly enough.

  “ ‘It looks like an Italian…’ Genoese’s son suddenly blurted out.

  “ ‘An Italian?’ rasped his father. ‘Why do you say that, you fool? Don’t you recognize it?’

  “Then he added in the same tone: ‘We will dr
op anchor right here. We’ll soon have work to do…Miner, your time is up. They’ve come for you.’

  “We dropped anchor and in the meantime dusk fell. For a second the mist seemed to thicken, but it was just an effect of the vanishing light. As soon as the last long fishing line was pulled in we rowed silently toward the schooner. Meanwhile, Genoese lit a lamp he placed on the rim of the boat that flashed green. A couple of seconds later we received back a very faint signal in the same color. Then the beam from the Meda lighthouse began to swirl. The wind had dropped and the sea was lathery. It was extremely humid and the air was heavy. When we reached the beam of the schooner, we saw no signs of life: no people moving, no noise of any kind.

  “ ‘Good night,’ shouted Genoese gruffly.

  “The silhouette of what looked like a large stout man appeared over the ship’s rail and replied: ‘Aye, and a good night to you!’

  “The Majorcan let down a rope. We moored our boat to it.

  “ ‘You got the goods?’ asked the stout man.

  “ ‘He’s right here…’ answered Genoese, pointing at me.

  “ ‘He can get on whenever he likes…We’re in a hurry. We must set sail in the early hours. Have you got any fresh fish?’

  “The skipper showed him a basket of hog- and scorpionfish.

  “While he unraveled a rope ladder, I said goodbye to Genoese and his son. The Majorcan was quite surprised to see I had only one arm that was any use. We hoisted up the basket of fish. L’Estartit father and son sailed home. They appeared to leave unmoved, with no regrets.

  “The Majorcan was talkative. He wasn’t the skipper; he was the first mate. He said the crew was asleep because they’d just sailed from the northern coast of Majorca to the Medes Islands – against the current and into a driving wind – and were exhausted. The schooner was carrying a supply of fuel for the submarine. He asked after the fishermen who’d just left, whether they were to be trusted or not.

  “ ‘It’s quite OK in these waters,’ he added. ‘The Meda rocks would shield us against the northwesterly, but there’s too much traffic here, we can’t hang around. We’re also close to land. Once we’ve done the business, best scarper, right?’

  “ ‘Is that right…?’ I offered vaguely.

  “He didn’t respond but indicated I should follow him. When we reached the poop, I saw a cable extending into the water and, below, a long shape, like a giant fish. As my eyes adapted, I could make out the blur of a submarine turret in the early nighttime glow. Even though the darkness meant I saw things more with the eyes of my imagination than my real ones, I thought it was fascinating. It was obvious that was the submarine I’d been waiting for all those weeks. When I suddenly noticed the palest orange steam rising from the turret, all my doubts disappeared. The schooner was acting as a buoy for the submarine. I couldn’t tell you how long I stood on the poop deck staring down. A good long time, I expect. I only recall there was a moment when I asked the Majorcan a question, as I thought he was next to me. But nobody replied. He’d tired of waiting and I expect he’d gone off to work without telling me, respecting my natural curiosity.

  “I saw a small crack of greasy light in the galley and went over. I have to confess that we men who’ve always sailed in fishing boats without bridges are always thrilled to be on the deck of a vessel like that. Everything seems more spacious and well appointed and rather fantastic. It’s like being a child again. ‘In this ship,’ you think, ‘you could go down to Davy Jones’s locker.’ A lovely, succulent smell of fish stew wafted my way from that same crack. The cook, who heard me tramping around, invited me inside. While he stirred the potatoes with a big spoon, he told me he was from Ibiza via Oran. Then he put the rings of fish on top of the stack of potatoes, poured water over everything and stoked the fire. The small cabin was filled with an out-of-this-world aroma – from paradise. The pot had been boiling only for ten minutes when I heard footsteps on deck and immediately heard people’s voices. I expect the smell from the scorpionfish gravy had woken up the crew. They opened the door looking dreamy eyed; their faces and eyes lit up after the first sniff. It was instantaneous.

  “They carried the stew pot up to the poop deck and we sat in a circle and ate supper in complete silence. Five men and the skipper. I don’t recall their faces, because an oil lamp next to the pot gave out very little light. However, the way they stayed so quiet made me realize that they were very practical people, because of the kind of work they did. Old smugglers, no doubt. The sea demands silence and calm. Everyone was ravenous. The night was an inky black. The sea was tranquil and seemed very mysterious. The only sound – and that barely – was the small scraping noise of the hemp anchor ropes against the ship’s rail. The place was completely solitary. The Meda light burned like a firefly hanging in the air. Toward the end of supper, I thought the pale orange glow floating above the submarine turret had thickened and become more visible to the eye.”

  * * *

  —

  “After supper, they lowered the schooner’s dinghies into the water and began the operation of transferring the fuel the vessel was carrying in a mass of drums to the tanks of the submarine. Any operation at sea is tricky, but I could see at a glance that these men were highly experienced. Though they were working in the pitch dark, they transferred the liquid via the skiffs completely calmly, making almost no noise, with amazing skill and orderliness. The night was on their side: the sea was still and empty and it was humid rather than cold.

  “I didn’t take part. Smoking my pipe, I leaned on the railing and watched them hard at it. It took several hours. It was past midnight when the first mate came over accompanied by a tall man who was wearing a sailor’s cap and a leather raincoat. I didn’t immediately recognize him, but after I’d shaken his hand and looked him in the face, I saw it was the same man who had accompanied the two Germans when I met them that night in Begur. I understood almost everything he said because he spoke a smattering of Spanish. The Majorcan introduced him as the submarine’s commander. Although he seemed to be following the loading operations with a mixture of irritation and impatience, he struck me as being open and friendly. We watched them for ages from the poop, but whenever the beam from the Meda light dragged over the water and seemed to strike – or maybe that was an illusion – the submarine’s sopping wet iron frame, the commander clenched his teeth. He’d have been much happier eighty miles from land. It was as if he felt we were boxed in.

  “Finally, the transfer was completed. It was the middle of the night. A wind had blown up inland. I moved to the submarine in the last trip the dinghies made. I was traveling light – a bag with a change of clothes – and didn’t make them waste a moment. The commander was in the turret. The submarine switched on its engines, which had been on standby. The men from the schooner released their moorings. You could hear the halyards squeal as they hoisted the mainsail. The moment we moved off, I felt the iron hulk judder, first almost imperceptibly, increasing until every hinge in the vessel vibrated. From the foot of the turret we saw the schooner switch on its sidelights. The commander glanced at me and laughed. With a back wind, the sail billowing, gearing up for a sirocco, the Majorcan made rapid headway. We turned our prow eastward. We soon lost sight of the schooner. We proceeded quickly. The Meda light faded. As we forged ahead, the commander seemed to calm down.

  “When the engines were turned on, I felt as happy as a small child, as if I’d been released from the terrible boredom of the last few months. The vessel was flying at a clip and I felt I was in a really fast boat, much faster than any I’d sailed in over recent years. Hardly rippled by the wind, the sea was so still the submarine moved effortlessly forward. It was like sailing across a lake. However, after half an hour I started to feel the engine vibrating on the iron hull. It wasn’t a great din; rather, the engines turned with a muffled hum. But the juddering was so violent it seemed to penetrate the bones in your legs and climb up your body
until your teeth started to click together most unpleasantly. It felt as if someone was shaking the outside of your body. The vibrations reached into your guts. I felt forced to lock my jaws tightly together – the commander was by my side. It was exhausting. I felt anxious, increasingly so, as we continued to cut through the water. The cold took hold of me. A cold from within, as if my bone marrow had frozen. But now wasn’t the time to give in. I kept up appearances until the commander decided it was time to retire. It was dawn. To the west land hovered like an uncertain shadow, veiled in grayish mist. We’d traveled more than twenty-five miles. The sea was white and blank. Damp drops dripped on my eyelids. They rested there like a slug and made me feel colder than ever; I shivered. A time came when I didn’t know whether I was shivering from the cold or the vibrations of the submarine.”

  * * *

  —

  “We clambered down the metal-rung ladder. The lukewarm temperature immediately put me in better spirits. I thought there was less vibrating. Perhaps the submarine had slowed down. I followed the commander to a small bedroom. By the dazzling light of an electric bulb, I tried to imagine what I must look like: in poor shape, I expect. The commander filled two cups of cognac – two big aluminum cups – and silently pushed one my way. I gulped it down without flinching.

  “He then signaled to me to accompany him and we left his bedroom. The hazy glare inside the submarine would sometimes turn to an oily glow when reflected off the surface of a machine. We walked down a long corridor. Inside, the submarine was just that, a long narrow corridor with a large number of things stowed on either side, admirably tidy in their rightful places. Rather than the things themselves – for if I started on them the inventory would be endless – what struck me was the neat way they were organized. For a man like me, used to arranging stuff any old how, it seemed somewhat manic. What’s more, it was all iron and that made for an even eerier effect. As we proceeded down the corridor to the poop we walked past two or three crewmen – very young-looking lads in mechanics’ overalls. They stood to attention and saluted the commander. I thought their skins were a bright yellow and that made them look tired out, but it may have been only the greenish-yellow light floating inside.