“What the hell do you want me to think about? Another week in that house and I would have ended up screwing Sóter . . .”
“Here comes Adrián and the oarsmen,” Jimmy says. Then he takes out his pocket watch and mumbles, “We’re still in time to catch the current.”
They’ve appeared from between the shacks; they walk quickly toward the jetty. The guide is carrying a rolled-up sail; the two oarsmen are carrying a heavy barrel between them.
“What’re they carrying in there?” Clemen asks.
“Drinking water,” Jimmy says as he starts toward them.
Clemen turns, squinting, to the metallic blue horizon; then he looks at the clear sky. He rubs his face with both hands.
“I hope I don’t get seasick,” says Clemen, sitting on the starboard side facing the open sea, both hands clutching the side of the canoe; Jimmy is on the port side, his eyes glued on the coast, the shotgun held between his legs.
“You feel sick?” Jimmy asks him.
Clemen turns to look at the guide, who is back on the bow peeling an orange and throwing the peels into the sea.
“No,” he says, “but I’m not used to being in a boat.”
“What about when you went to Europe with your parents?”
The canoe is moving perpendicular to the coast, heading slowly out to sea, rocking as it goes.
“That was ten years ago,” Clemen says, “and this isn’t anything like an ocean liner.”
The fat oarsman looks at Clemen and smiles. The other, an emaciated man with one eye, hasn’t lifted his head; his eyes remain on the floor of the canoe.
“You think we’ll catch the current?” Jimmy asks the guide.
He has just popped half the orange into his mouth and can’t speak. He gestures with his head toward San Nicolás, the jetty they left about ten minutes before, which they can still see from this distance in spite of the glare.
Jimmy turns around and squints: a boat is approaching the jetty. The metallic shine is clear, unmistakable.
“I think we’re in luck,” the guide says then leans over the water to rinse off his hands.
Clemen turns to look. At first he’s baffled, but a few second later he understands: he blinks anxiously, swallows hard, then turns to look out to sea.
The oarsmen, their backs to the jetty, haven’t seen a thing.
“When will you raise the sail?” Jimmy asks the guide, as if nothing at all had happened.
The guide picks his teeth with his fingers, determined to get out the last pieces of orange.
“We’ve got a while yet,” he says.
Clemen leans over to Jimmy, cupping his mouth with his hands, and whispers in his ear, “What if the soldiers saw us and decide to come after us?”
“We’re too far away,” Jimmy murmurs. “You can relax.”
The one-eyed oarsman has a bout of coughing, but he doesn’t stop rowing or look up.
Soon the boat and the jetty have become a blur, quivering through the mist and the shimmering glare.
“What did you think of Don Mincho’s livestock?” the guide asks as he moves toward the center of the canoe and the barrel of drinking water. “That orange was too sweet,” he says as he takes the drinking gourd filled with water out of the barrel.
Clemen again grabs hold of the sides of the canoe, which is rocking sharply from the guide’s movements.
“Good stock,” Jimmy says, “though we still haven’t decided what to buy.”
The guide gives him a sly look of complicity.
The coast has turned into a brown line. Jimmy shoots a parting glance at the jetty and San Nicolás, where only a few spots of color still sparkle.
“I want some water, too,” Clemen says. “You guys want?” he asks the oarsmen.
“Too soon for them,” the guide responds quickly.
The fat oarsman smiles again.
“Those shitfaces make me nervous,” Clemen whispers in Jimmy’s ear, looking at the oarsmen out of the corner of his eye. “They haven’t opened their mouths since we left.”
“Not everybody’s a big mouth like you,” Jimmy answers.
A breeze begins to blow; the canoe picks up speed.
The guide raises his hand and stretches out his palm; then he licks his palm and raises it again, swiveling it around to find the direction of the wind.
“Time to raise the sail,” he says, moving toward the middle of the canoe. Clemen and Jimmy make room for him.
“Careful . . . ,” Clemen cries, tense, again grabbing onto the side of the boat.
The guide and Jimmy lift the mast and unfurl the sail.
For the first time the one-eyed oarsman looks up; he smiles, toothless. The fat oarsman turns around, looks at the sail, and also flashes a smile. They say nothing, but they decrease the rhythm of their rowing.
The canoe moves forward faster, as if it were skimming over the water.
Jimmy lets out a shout of joy.
“Take it easy, pirate . . . ,” Clemen cries, without letting go of the side, without even relaxing his grip.
The guide stays next to the mast, manipulating the sail; Clemen and Jimmy have moved to the bow.
“We got away from them . . . ,” Jimmy says, a big smile on his face, raising and dropping his eyebrows several times in jest.
The breeze turns into a strong wind; the sail swells.
The guide repeats that they’ve got luck on their side; he looks off into the metallic blue sky, the immense and empty horizon, where there is no other boat anywhere in sight.
Jimmy glances at his pocket watch: it’s five to three.
“At this rate we’ll be there before eight,” Jimmy guesses.
The canoe glides over the water with only the merest hint of swaying.
Clemen lets go of the boat with his right hand, takes a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, and with a practiced move pulls one out with his lips. Then he takes some matches out of his trouser pockets.
“You can let go,” Jimmy tells him. “Don’t be afraid. You’re not going to be able to light it with one hand.”
“I’m not afraid,” Clemen says irritably. He lets go with the other hand.
But the wind is interfering with his efforts to light the cigarette. Jimmy leans over to help him shield the match with his cupped hands.
Clemen smokes, relaxed.
“Have you been to Cosigüina many times?” he asks Jimmy.
Jimmy says yes and assures him they will be warmly welcomed; two of his best friends, officers who graduated with him in Fort Riley, are stationed at that base.
“Now I feel like a whiskey,” says Clemen, and he asks the guide to pass him his knapsack.
“Careful you don’t get seasick,” Jimmy warns him.
Clemen stares at him, annoyed.
“Too bad we don’t have any ice,” he says as he takes out the bottle.
At that moment, a gust of wind makes the canoe shudder and begin to lurch.
“It’s getting choppy,” the guide says.
Clemen puts the bottle back in his knapsack and again grabs hold of the side of the boat. Another gust, stronger than the previous one, carries Clemen’s hat off into the waves.
“Shit, what was that!?”
The guide is trying to maneuver the sail, which is now being slammed with one gust after another.
“Strange wind, with clear skies and no storm in sight,” Jimmy says as he gets up to help the guide.
The canoe rocks back and forth with each blast.
The sea has suddenly gotten very rough: the waves slam against the sides, sending walls of water into the boat.
The oarsmen are rowing with more effort.
“Is this a current?” Clemen asks, his face ashen, unable to hide his fear.
“It’ll pass,” says the guide, grabbing onto the mast with one hand and the barrel of water with the other, looking around as if for an explanation for this squall.
The fat oarsman has stopped smiling; his face clouds over
with fear. The one-eyed oarsman, his head down, rows more vigorously.
Then several gusts of wind hit them from the front: the canoe founders.
“Pull down the sail,” the guide shouts.
Jimmy tries to help him.
“Let’s turn back!” Clemen cries.
The fat oarsman moves his head wildly up and down in agreement.
“It’s no big deal,” Jimmy says sternly, as if rebuking Clemen for his fear; they manage to fold up the sail.
The guide insists that very soon they’ll pass through this gale.
“It’s as if we’re being attacked from all sides!” Clemen exclaims.
The canoe lurches forward; the waves are getting stronger and higher.
Clemen finds himself suspended in the air. When the boat slams down on the water, the boat shudders; the water barrel crashes down. Jimmy and the guide quickly set it right.
Another wave hits hard against the side of the canoe, drenching them with water.
“Turn around!” Clemen shouts.
The fat oarsman has stopped rowing and is holding onto the sides of the boat in terror.
“We can hold out a little longer!” Jimmy exclaims.
The wind whips around them.
The guide is bewildered: he looks at the oarsmen, then at Jimmy. And then, stunned, he sees the swell.
“Careful!” he shouts.
The canoe capsizes.
2. NIGHT
“Fuck! . . . Jimmy! . . . Jimmy! . . .”
“Calm down.”
“Where are we?”
“You fell asleep.”
“I can’t see anything.”
“Stop squirming around so frantically, you’re going to flip over the boat.”
“I’m sitting down . . .”
“I know, but first you’d better get used to the dark. You’ve been sleeping for about three hours.”
“I can’t see you, Jimmy. Where are you? Where’s the lamp?”
“Here, next to me.”
“Light it, so I can see where I am.”
“You don’t need it. Close your eyes then open them slowly. Soon you’ll be able to see in the dark.”
“Quit giving me advice and hand me the god damn lamp.”
“We’re not going to light it unless there’s an emergency, a real danger. It’s too risky . . . You’re sitting down now, there’s nothing to see that you didn’t see before it got dark.”
“You never stop giving orders, do you, asshole? You can’t get it through your head that I’m not your corporal . . .”
“Sergeants have corporals. We captains have lieutenants. Ignoramus . . .”
“It’s horrible to wake up in the dark.”
“It’d be more horrible to not wake up.”
“What? What did you say?”
“Look at the sky. I’m always amazed at how many stars . . .”
“Where are my smokes?”
“You missed an amazing sunset.”
“Jimmy, did you see my cigarettes?”
“The sky turned lilac.”
“Oh, yeah, the sky . . . Cut out the sissy crap and light the lamp, I’ve got to have a smoke . . .”
“Look in your pockets.”
“Hand me the lamp, Jimmy, please, before I lose my patience.”
“You’re a moron, Clemen.”
“And you’re a pain in the ass. Give me the damn lamp . . .”
“There’re your cigarettes, look . . .”
“Where?”
“From here I can see the reflection of the package next to the carboy of water.
“Oh, you’re right . . . Shit. I’ve only got half a pack left. Let me count . . . Eleven cigs . . . Let’s hope Mono Harris comes tomorrow and bring us more supplies.”
“Let’s hope.”
“He promised.”
“He said he’d return tomorrow if the National Guard had quit snooping around the island.”
“What if they stay? We’ve only got enough provisions for one day.”
“We’ve got to be careful, Clemen. Use the least . . .”
“What a drag to have to eat canned sardines and drink water after the fresh seafood and whiskey we had at Don Mincho’s house. And you were thinking we’d be in Punta Cosigüina by now. . .”
“I don’t think the soldiers will hang around for long. It’s a private island. They’ll finish their search tomorrow then leave.”
“Unless the caretaker or his wife or daughters rat on us, or they go to the hamlet and the guide and oarsmen open their fat traps. Then they’ll stay and look for us, Mono Harris won’t be able to bring us provisions, and we’ll go straight to Hell in a handbasket . . .”
“Stop torturing yourself with what-ifs. If they rat on us, they rat on themselves. Nobody’s going to say anything.”
“The shipwreck this afternoon was a tragedy, Jimmy. I lost all my cigarettes and the bottle of whiskey.”
“We lost the shotgun, the gun, our shoes, the money. We very nearly drowned. And all you think about is your whiskey? Be grateful we’re still alive.”
“A drink would do me so much good at this moment.”
“Me, too.”
“It’s your own fault, and the guide’s . . . You think Mono Harris will pay him?”
“Of course . . .”
“Why should he? He didn’t get us to Punta Cosigüina, which was the deal, and he almost got us drowned. And it was his fault, when we capsized we lost the money we were going to pay him with when we got there.”
“It wasn’t his fault, it was the weather.”
“The weather?! The shipwreck was your and the guide’s fault, you were so determined to keep going when the waves were already dangerous. I warned you we should turn around. But since you’re a stubborn ass . . . Don’t now start pretending to be all nice and understanding.”
“We had to try to leave when we had the opportunity . . . Don’t be such an ingrate. You should thank the guide for going to get Mono Harris while we waited on the beach after the wreck . . .”
“. . .”
“It was all so weird, Clemen: that squall, those swells, they appeared out of nowhere. There was no storm anywhere, the sky was completely clear. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
“What, now you think the sea has to give you an explanation? Don’t give me this shit, Jimmy. There weren’t any clouds but that wind was very strong. There are none so blind as those who will not see, as my grandmother used to say.”
“Pass me the water. I’m thirsty.”
“Pass me the lamp, and I’ll pass you the water.”
“What do you want the lamp for?”
“What do you want the water for?”
“Look, Clemen, it’s about time you started acting like a grown-up.”
“You, too. Pass me the lamp. You know very well I don’t like the dark.”
“I don’t understand what I’m doing with you. It’s like some kind of a punishment.”
“I tell myself the same thing.”
“Pass me the god-damn water!”
“Don’t shout at me, you turd!
“Don’t call me a turd!”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“Jimmy, what was that?”
“What?”
“That splashing. Over here, on my left.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Shh . . . You hear?”
“You’re right.”
“What the fuck is it, Jimmy?”
“A fish.”
“Fish are in the water, not out of it. It’s probably a snake.”
“Here, Clemen, take the lamp. Turn it on and move it to that side . . . careful.”
“You got the gun ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You see something?”
“Nothing.”
“I think we’re too close to the mangroves, Jimmy. A snake, or all kinds of other creatures, can jump down on us from the branches. We should move the
boat more into the middle of the canal.”
“We’re about ten feet from the branches. And if we go more to the middle, we run the risk of being seen by a fisherman or the soldiers. Here we’re more hidden: in an emergency, we can slip into the swamp and disappear.”
“I’m afraid a snake or a monkey is going to jump on my neck.”
“You and your dramas. Turn off the lamp and pass me the water.”
“Let’s leave it on for a while.”
“We’re using up the kerosene just for the hell of it.”
“No, we aren’t. The light scares off the creepy crawly things.”
“On the contrary: look at the tons of mosquitoes. They’re going to eat us alive. Turn it off, you’ll be more afraid when we’ve got the soldiers on top of us.”
“You think they’re going to be poking around at night in these swamps?”
“Better not be overconfident.”
“It’s that asshole with the gold tooth who wanted to confess to you who’s after us. Mono Harris himself said he was a motherfucker. By now he must have realized we took him for a ride . . .”
“Too bad I didn’t have a chance to confess him; it would have been a hoot.”
“They must have wired our photos from the capital, and he recognized us.”
“Mono Harris would have said something, but all he said was that the National Guard is inspecting the island, just like they inspect all properties; he didn’t say they knew we were hiding there.”
“We were doing so well at Don Mincho’s, like a vacation . . . The best ten days I’ve spent in a long time. The only thing missing were girls.”
“Look: a shooting star . . .”
“Where?”
“There, just above Mars.”
“Let’s make a wish.”
“My only wish is to leave this country as soon as possible.”
“We could also wish the soldiers don’t catch us, and that they leave the island and don’t come back, so we can get out of these swamps and return to Don Mincho’s house.”
“What then? We’re going to spend the rest of our lives waiting till they just happen to drop in on us?”
“I’d rather that than drown. No way in hell I’m getting back in a canoe and back out onto the high seas. If you want to try it again, you can go to Punta Cosigüina alone . . .”
“. . .”
“It’s true, right, you learned your lesson, too?”
“It was a miracle, Clemen . . .”
Tyrant Memory Page 17