He got to the left corner. Lucas repeated to himself, Stupid, you’re stupid. A policeman was smoking, standing up with his back turned to him, next to his house’s door. The other was sleeping in the car. He took his shoes off and closed in on the smoking policeman’s back. He gave him a quick chop to the back of his neck and he didn’t fall helplessly only because Lucas held him. The feline’s claws, hidden in the slippers, had come out. It had to be about four in the morning. He put his shoes back on. When the policeman woke up, he would knock at his door and force his way into his room, immediately sealing it, according to protocol. His mother wouldn’t be tormented by seeing the gun from the crime and the doubt that he was, in fact, the murderer. But his uneasiness was not pacified by a ninety-nine percent certainty. His minority soul needed, as far as it depended on him, at least one hundred point zero percent probability. And if he had killed the policeman with his blow? And if his mother, in the meantime, went to see if he was resting, like she did when he was sick? And if Luís woke up?
He looked at the police car. The agent was profoundly asleep at the wheel. Lucas drew closer. The keys were in the ignition but the door was locked. He wrapped the scarf around his right hand, looked intently at the collar of the policeman’s coat and pulled him out through the window, throwing him to the ground. The gray eyes, back there, ground his Cyrillic teeth. Lucas opened the door and the motor started on his first try. The wheels left tracks as he heard, evermore distantly, shouting and gunshots.
He roared with the laughter of drunken pleasure: whoever had left the pistol in his room and the signal emulator on his parapet had not expected that escape. He laughed again. He did not follow the path prepared for him, he was following his own. Temperance.
He drove to the river. Lucas stopped the car next to the Tagus and pushed it down the ramp, watching it sink into the water. It seemed like a movie. His sleepiness returned as did his nausea. His shoulder throbbed. His eyes hurt. All curses walk hand in hand. He went to a fountain and washed his face. Nothing doing. His nausea improved, but his fatigue was getting worse.
“You brought your pajamas but you’re not going to sleep out on the lawn now, are you, you idiot?” the fountain asked him in an affected voice.
Now everything talks, Lucas thought. He looked around. He was going to sleep. The question was where. In the background, he saw a dirty black ship with an almost bleached out Canadian flag. He jumped the port fence with effort and approached the ship unsteadily, but it was impossible to get in there. His drowsiness was befuddling him. That was not normal. It was poison. He tried climbing in an open bulk container hooked to a crane, but it was difficult. He looked like a crippled old man or a hypnotized baby. He finally succeeded—it was full of coal. He rolled the scarf and covered himself in coal. Lucas went to sleep.
When he woke up, the container was in the air. Lucas crawled out of the coal and peeked over the edge, squatting, realizing that he was flying en route to the ship’s hold. He felt better. The coal floor opened up and he fell more than five meters into a ravine in a mountain of lignite, accompanied by a ton of soot. He rolled to that enormous pyramid’s base without a scratch. He was as black as a crow, but hale and hearty. The feeling of being old had left his body. The crane returned several times with coal it dumped on the mountain’s flanks. The ship’s motors awakened and Lucas realized that the boat was going to leave—he didn’t know where to, and he was a stowaway. If the doors to the hold closed, would the air be breathable? He didn’t know.
Lucas knew nothing. Neither where he was going, nor the length of the voyage, nor how he would eat or drink. He looked around and saw a hatch a third of the way from the top of the hold. A ladder built into the deposit’s wall gave access to the hatch. The hold cover began to close, making it nighttime. Never, since he was young, had he been afraid of the dark. Perhaps because he could see equally well on a night of the new moon as in the light of a summer day. In his childhood, the other kids would exclude him from blind man’s bluff in a dark room—after all, he wasn’t blind in the dark. He stumbled toward the ladder but could no longer see when the hold’s cover was sealed. Even an owl’s eyes need a grain of light to see at night. He groped the walls until he found the first step. He climbed blindly searching from time to time for the hatch. His left shoulder wasn’t helping. Luckily, he found the handle and opened it on his first try. The small door squeaked loudly and he remained immobile. From the other side, a tenuous light without the shadow of a living soul appeared. They must all be getting the ship ready for departure, he thought.
He opened the door again, and again it squeaked. Lucas waited one or two minutes of three hundred seconds each. Nothing. He opened it again enough to slip through. He entered a narrow, poorly lit corridor with battered paint and rusty rivets. A stairway let him either go up or down. He descended, stepping as if his feet were cotton. He had gone down two decks when he heard laughter and human voices. The laughter was coming down the steps to meet him and the voices coming up. He was the ham in a sandwich. On the first landing, he escaped down the corridor, seeking shelter. At the end, he saw a women’s bathroom. He went in. It wasn’t occupied. It was reasonably spacious inside and had a small porthole looking out, from which he could see that the ship was moving away from the port of Lisbon. With his tension, he had barely heard the growing rumble of the engines that now seemed deafening. He opened the porthole and tossed all of his documents and credit cards into the river, as well as his cell phone. He only kept his money, in bills, and his grandfather’s pocket watch. In his hands, he strangely felt his ex-girlfriend’s warm skin and in his sight the expectant look with which Luís observed everything that he did still remained. He’d once gone with his parents to Badajoz, in Spain, but this was different. He’d passed the point of no return. Goodbye Lisbon. Behind, in the city’s hills, he had left a past without future and in front of him, en route to the lake-filled plains of Canada, he went in search of a future without a past. He would only have to dissolve himself in the vastness of humanity and pass by unseen. If he had no problems with the law, he would never be deported.
He was hungry and thirsty. Lucas locked the restroom from the inside. He drank water and washed his clothes, black from coal. He established a routine. At two-thirty in the morning, he would leave the restroom, camouflaged with soot, seal it from the outside, and explore the ship in the most barefooted of silence. He was the dark shadow of a black cat in a collier’s unilluminated darkness. Invisible to the human eye. He always took note of nooks to hide in along the way in case of danger.
He would let his hair grow and would begin wearing a short ponytail. It was easier to comb like that, even if it meant he were less of a clean cut warrior.
From its smell, he found the galley and left it provisioned with bread, crackers, chocolate, oranges, sausages, various types of knives, forks, plates, glasses, candles and matches, towels, soap, paper and fishing line. But why would they have fishing line in the kitchen? In one or another key site, he would set up set up nocturnal traps with transparent line that he would take down on his return. He realized there were no women on board, which explained the sailors’ behavior when they guffawed loudly watching sex films. It took him a few days to arrange for some clothes in the laundry that fit him, but he managed to come up with a minimal wardrobe.
Shortly, his biological clock added the two o’clock alarm to his seven o’clock alarm. He took a nap in the afternoons to compensate for his short nights. After a week, his quarters in the ladies’ bathroom began to feel comfortable and even the pain in his left shoulder had disappeared. He had become very refined in reaping what seemed superfluous for the sailors and in living in counter-cycle to the crew. He appreciated the respect they had for the feminine lavatories, even in the absence of women. He felt capable of circumnavigating the world.
He decided to set up a small library for his voyage since the ship’s saw little usage. He swiped a book about the Russo-Japanese naval war. Two civilizations crossing
paths—Imperial Russia in decadence and Imperial Japan ascending—impressed him. He took note of an episode, which was probably more fictitious than real between Portugal and Russia, during the passage of ships from the Czar’s fleet at the small port of Luanda. Given the armada’s power, some ships decided to enter the foreign port without permission. Perceiving this movement, the Portuguese ordered them to halt, but they were phlegmatically ignored, so obvious was the Russian omnipotence. Then came an improbable confrontation between contenders who were asymmetrical in strength, but not in dignity. The Commandant of a small Portuguese gunboat who, seeing his orders derided by the gigantic Russian flotilla, opened fire on the empire, and the Slavic admiral, who seeing the temerity of the suicidal dwarf, respected his courage. The invincible imperial fleet came to a halt and requested formal permission to dock in the primitive port of Luanda. The Portuguese commandant’s fearlessness was courage from another time, but the Russian officer’s magnanimity was eternal. The former was a man of integrity who, in an impossible situation, decided upon fleeing to the front because he could not bear the disgrace of surrender. He was a hero imprisoned by circumstances who decided to die advancing because he could not live with retreating. Lucas knew what that was like. The latter, the Russian admiral, the giant who decided to stop when faced by an unyielding ant, showed the grandeur of a man of equal integrity, but who was not imprisoned. He was a free man who decided to retreat when he could have advanced. Being Portuguese and lamenting not being able to recognize in his country many figures with the dimensions of that naval officer in Luanda, Lucas had more admiration for the Muscovite admiral’s strange gallantry.
Another book the sailors would not miss was an English translation of a French work about Anglo-French piracy and its effects on the Spanish armada. Colorful pirates and corsairs confronted the men seeking to fulfill the will of Catholic kings’ descendants. He also discovered an interesting monograph about lost treasures, many of them underwater, but also some on land, abandoned on the edge of a library bookcase. It seemed to him like a truly archaic gem, a manuscript by some Cliff Burton Richard. The penmanship was fabulous and it had designs and maps that were almost medieval enluminures. It was funny; the old English was almost equal to today’s, contrary to what occurs with Portuguese from other centuries. How long would the author have taken to pen a manuscript like that? Eight hundred seven pages. When he left the ship to start his new life, those three books would go with him as good luck charms.
He knew the boat like the back of his hand. There were three large holds for transporting coal; its worn out aspect contrasted with the technology that glittered, new, in the multiple instruments visible on the bridge and on the vessel’s highest points. Lucas realized that Saturday dinner was special. The boat was semi-abandoned because the captain insisted on everyone’s presence. For a collier, that wasn’t bad.
A week earlier, the smell of the tidbits had been, by themselves, a true banquet. Lucas looked forward with excitement to this day’s feast. The sailors would drink more than their share and their nap would be propitious for his fishing expedition. He waited, but the smell of the pomp was late in coming. Curious, he left his stateroom and went to peek in on the festivities. Everyone was lined up, wearing their Sunday best. The tables were set with china, immaculate silverware, and cloth napkins. What would be coming? Finally, two workers from the galley appeared with enormous trays full of slices of dry bread and, behind them, a cart with jars of tap water.
A buzz arose from the crew. The captain sat up without saying a word. He looked at his aid who seemed to know what was going on and took one step forward announcing in a thundering voice:
“Gentlemen, his Excellency, the Captain Cliff Richard.”
The Captain was a man who, even from a distance, imposed respect and on that day he was particularly impressive, be it in his clothing, be it in his stance. He ostentatiously evaluated the crew. Then he announced, “Gentlemen, this vessel’s engines are stopped and will continue so. Rations are now dry bread and lukewarm water and will be until the fucking son of a bitch of a pirate who stole my manuscript returns it to my desk.”
Chapter 6
Trap on the Collier
“I don’t want to know who it was and I don’t want to know who it wasn’t,” his Excellency clarified. “We will remain motionless in the middle of the sea on bread and water until my labor of the last three years has been returned without a single page creased.”
Cliff Richard. The luck of the Távoras. Lucas had been snakebitten. That archaic English was from the twenty-first century. The captain had gone for a tea and, upon returning, his opus had disappeared.
After he left, things heated up. Everyone proclaimed infinite loyalty and everyone proposed treating the thief like a mutineer. Some sailors traded accusations and exchanged blows. They gave themselves one hour for the anti-Christ to make the sacred composition embody itself on the captain’s desk. Otherwise, the ship would be turned inside out. No stone would remain unturned, no drawer unopened, and pity the person who was caught with the work in his possession. They competed with their ideas about how to punish him. Someone even said there had to be a rat on board, since he was missing two pairs of dungarees and underwear. A stowaway, well, drown him quickly. But his idea didn’t catch on with the others—stowaways stole ham, cigars and bottles of whiskey, not dungarees, underwear, and books.
Cliff Richard, meanwhile, returned to the bridge. Since the beginning of his voyage, he knew the collier had been followed closely by a Russian vessel and he had received confirmation that it was a very large ship, property of the Muscovite mafia tolerated by that country’s political authorities. He had, finally, been informed that they had interest in the business to which Cliff dedicated himself, which had opened the possibility of selling half of his cargo to the Russians and delivering only the other half in Canada, since those receiving it in North America weren’t sure how much he carried beneath the coal.
Lucas decided to return the book, not in the captain’s stateroom, but in the galley, since he knew a secret access in which the risk of getting caught was minimal. He tied the book with transparent fishing line and slipped to the peep hole in the pantry ceiling. After guaranteeing that no one was there, he would lower the manuscript until it landed on the floor. But, beforehand, he could not resist penning a bit of advice to the commander, writing on the cover, in calligraphy that imitated the author’s, “1st version (still containing many grammatical errors).” Unfortunately, the line ran out before the book touched the deck and, fearing it would attract someone’s attention if it fell, he left it swaying about a meter twenty from the floor. He had to come up with more line for his traps.
Not one stowaway in a thousand would commit this affront to his Excellency, since it would only worsen the liquid in which they would drown him, if caught, he thought. It still seemed like the movies, but there had been a change: he had become part of the film.
The captain himself found the book after deciding to go to the kitchen for whatever reason. Perhaps he had wanted to eat something better than old bread and warm water. When he saw his manuscript hanging, he took it badly. When he read the advice, he was outraged. There was a man on his ship who did not respect him. The decision he made, however, was unexpected.
* * *
He called all of the sailors to the main deck and told them, sluggishly, while strolling with the book in his hands behind his back, “There is among you a little girl who is hiding behind the charm of a circus clown. A dyke in a pink baby carrier who wants to give squeals of glee while telling her girlfriends about her adventures on this ship. Very well,” he continued, tightening his disdain. “Whores have never bothered a sailor with as many years at sea as I have... as long as they stay in their place. Bathrooms will be closed and locked. You will use the girl’s rooms until we reach land. That’s in three days. There are only two bathrooms—the one in the ship’s mess and the other in the corridor of the hold. Fend for yourselves. Who
ever appears smelling like a horse or needing a shave will lose the voyage’s prize.”
Lucas had just seen his den vaporize and had reason to fear that soon he would be discovered. He had to empty out his quarters and there was only one way to do so: everything out the porthole, directly into the sea. Except nothing hit the water because, when he reached his refuge to empty it, he heard the noise of the mob that had beaten him there: “There’s a rat, there’s a rat.” One voice rose above the others: “My dungarees. I knew it.”
He retreated. Lucas tried entering the men’s room, but it had already been sealed under the captain’s orders. He was frightened. He saw the captain proceed to the corridor by the hold, surrounded by sailors, and realized there was only one safe place for him: the captain’s stateroom. But first, he released a lifeboat that automatically descended to the sea, on the side opposite the captain’s quarters, covered by an olive green oilcloth. He tried to enter Cliff Burton Richard’s cabin, but the door was sealed. He grabbed a rope and descended outside the hull in order to reach the porthole which, luckily, was ajar. He entered the cabin.
The captain’s manuscript was open to page 734 and a camera was on the desk. His bed had a large drawer underneath. Lucas opened it. It was full of comforters. Most of them went overboard. He kept just one to cushion the bottom of the cabinet. He took a small katana from the top of a gun case and put it in the drawer—it would keep the drawer from being opened, wedging itself in the part below the bed and the drawer’s internal lateral defense. Having done this, he lay down and closed it using the katana. Lucas tested the blockade. It worked. He got out and turned the camera on. The captain had photographed almost the entire book. There were fewer than one hundred pages left. He photographed them two at a time. He then took out the memory card, stored it on his person, substituting it with one he found on the desk. He photographed pages 732 and 733. At that point, he heard a tremendous racket: the lifeboat had been discovered. Shots rang out, some of them in bursts. The strange sailors were armed to the teeth. And then, celebration. The boat was sinking.
Perpetual Winter: The Deep Inn Page 5