Someone touched the Magnavox, Gutiérrez announces in a loud voice, as if to make sure everyone in the command post area can hear him. Someone touched the Magnavox, he repeats, his eyes scanning everyone closest to him to see if some gesture might give them away; we’ve lost all the data we need to sail without crashing into a rock or the ocean floor. He takes a breath and remains staring at the machine; someone who doesn’t know how it works and who has no reason to stick his hand in there, he goes on. The CO, who has been watching him the whole time without intervening, suddenly walks up to Gutiérrez; takes a look at the screen Gutiérrez shows him, and gives the order to rise to periscope depth; Calm down, Gutiérrez, we’ll work this out; he orders the engines turned off and the periscope raised, carefully observing to make sure there’s nothing in sight; then he gives the order to raise the antenna in order to reload the data onto the Magnavox, while taking advantage of the opportunity to snorkel and tune in to Radio Carve or Colonia for news. Gutiérrez is still annoyed, they don’t realize that not just anybody can touch this, because then all of us will be really fucked, not just the guy who touched it. The CO looks at him, Gutiérrez lowers his head and mutters something softly as he walks past me toward the bow. I follow him to see what’s happening. Nobrega pokes his head out of the galley, summoning him over with a crooked finger: Che, Gutiérrez, he says as he looks from side to side, I know who touched the Magnavox, but ssshhh, don’t say anything … Gutiérrrez stares at him, waiting for the revelation. It was the CO. What? whispers Gutiérrez, with contained surprise, you’re crazy; I swear it’s true, man, I saw him, but I didn’t say anything because I thought he knew what he was doing, how was I supposed to imagine he was going to erase everything? C’mere, let’s have a drink. I watch them go into the galley, then I return to the engine room; on the way I run into Albaredo, who was standing beside the radio and now also heads for the engine room; he gets there first, with me behind him. It seems the aircraft carrier Hermes broke down, he remarks to Soria, who’s standing next to the engines. Really? asks Soria; So it seems, Albaredo replies, they heard about it on Radio Carve. And you believe the Uruguayans? Soria prods him; You’ve gotta believe someone; I’m gonna get some juice, want any? Albaredo asks; No, thanks, I just had tea. If there’s a storm today, it’ll really shake up the guys on the aircraft carriers and keep them from operating with planes and choppers. They don’t see us, nobody’s seen us, nobody can see us, but they know we’re here and they think we can do them damage. This ghostly presence of ours makes them nervous, and they’re looking for us. Every so often you can hear the whirr of blades from a chopper that comes and goes, and that makes us nervous. Everything that happens seems to be duplicated in a grotesque symmetry: from the surface down, our sub; from the surface up, the helicopter. I look out toward the sonar zone. The bird is in its place; with a murmur it alerts one of the sonar operators. It returns to the same spot, flying over the sea once more, and now it pauses right above us, it doesn’t give up. These Englishmen never give up, either; they seem tireless.
We’ve been settled on the bottom from the time we finished snorkeling early this morning till now, which is around five-thirty. I know it’s five-thirty because Olivero just crossed paths with Polski at the bathroom door and asked him what time it was. I’m still lying in my bunk with my book; the animal has been startled by a noise that he listens to, unworried and smiling for the time being. Medrano passes the earphones to Cuéllar; Cuéllar nods. Then Medrano turns to the communications officer, but the animal suddenly stops smiling because it’s true, there too you can hear the buzz and try to guess where it’s coming from; they’re calling us to our battle stations: the sonar operators have heard something, so I see feet wrapped in filthy socks and others in filthy sneakers filing down the corridor to the fortified enclosure, some toward the bow, others toward the stern; the boat begins to peel off from the bottom so that the sound can be plotted; the animal goes down the corridor toward the fortified enclosure, we’re sailing to try to identify where the hydrophonic sound is coming from, the animal begins to listen, and yet what’s happening is incomprehensible to him, he becomes annoyed and confused, blinded, he listens at the walls and on the floor, at the entryway and inside, everywhere he hears the same noise, everywhere, and how much time, how much tension does it take to constantly monitor an intermittent noise. Now Elizalde sits in front of the sonar equipment, relieving Medrano; the ear grows tired and loses its ability to identify sounds. Medrano walks toward the galley, the animal searches in the excavated earth, throwing clumps of dirt into the air that crumble and fall into the darkness of the den, but the noise isn’t there; Medrano returns to the sonar equipment with two pitchers of coffee, which he passes to Cuéllar and Elizalde; the animal digs here and there, hurriedly, leaving piles of dirt that block the path and the line of sight. Medrano passes by me again and goes into the galley, exhausted; the animal falls asleep in a hole, mid-dig, one paw embedded in the earth. Medrano returns with another pitcher of coffee, Elizalde has passed the earphones to Medrano, who rests his cup next to the equipment; he puts on the earphones and confirms. Then he tells the communications officer and the communications officer tells the CO. They call us to our battle stations. Someone remarks that the noise sounds like it’s getting closer. Elizalde confirms the approximate position, the CO orders us to rise to periscope level in order to identify the enemy, the Executive Officer comes out of his cabin with a glass of whiskey in his right hand, exchanges a glance with the CO, who at that moment is giving the order to raise the combat periscope, the Executive Officer stands there watching him, turns and goes back to his cabin, the CO grabs the periscope and turns it to scan the horizon, then steps aside so that the officer accompanying him can look, too; the officer observes, then he, too, steps aside and shakes his head no, the CO orders the periscope lowered, neither of them has seen anything on the surface of the sea, but the noise continues, so we descend to a lower level again, the noise can now be heard close by, the CO orders evasive maneuvers. Elizalde confirms that the target is making strategic moves and rejects the idea that it could be an animal. Gutiérrez receives an order from the gunnery officer and goes to the head to launch a false target; it’s most likely a submarine, says someone nearby, there’s frenzied activity at the command post, they’re trying to figure out the exact position where the noise is coming from; it’s very loud right now and can be heard without any equipment, Gutiérrez ejects another decoy. Alpha target very close, Medrano announces; we all hear the noise, growing louder and louder, toward the stern and getting closer, the CO gives the order to prepare to launch an anti-sub torpedo; I turn toward the bow, there’s movement up there, a group of other guys open valves, flood compartments, close valves, Olivero confirms that the torpedo is ready; some men have started to reload torpedoes from the tubes; I turn toward the bow and see that Ghezzi is drawing a point on the brightly-lit map on the plotting chart; Data on targets adjusted, sir, Mainieri announces immediately; then the CO orders them to fire. Marini, who is sitting in front of the fire control computer, presses the launch button; from the bow Grunwald signals that the torpedo has been fired. No one speaks, everyone waits expectantly. Marini follows the data sent to the computer by the torpedo, the CO checks his watch and calculates the minutes since it’s been launched, pursuing the target we’ve never seen and may not ever see; I notice a bulge under a blanket, which has been left on the floor after taking the bunks apart; I squat, feel around, and discover that it’s the jar of capers, four minutes, someone says in a half-whisper close by to my right, I look at my grimy socks, wiggle my covered toes a little, backward and forward, and wait for the explosion to be confirmed, five minutes, asserts the same hesitant voice beside me and still there’s no news of the damned torpedo, I keep moving my toes and my toes start to move on their own again, but I still can’t feel them, and anyway I’m starting to get used to this lack of feeling, six minutes, look, it’s the Endurance, someone to my left whispers boldly, do you remember
when the Endurance was in Mar del Plata? Imagine, we ate at an asado with those guys, seven minutes, they recount to my right, and now we may have blown them all to fucking hell, those same guys who sat right opposite us at the table at the Submarine Force’s barbecue, shhh, someone a little farther forward hisses, placing his fingers against his lips like a picture of a nurse at a hospital, eight minutes, the voice announces again, and I try to recall if there was a picture of a nurse calling for silence at the place where they took me after that breakdown, but I can’t remember anything, it was right in the engine room when everything went black and I was struck with this forgetfulness of mine, nine minutes, the voice announces, softly but firmly, I remember what that boat was like when we first saw it, the whispering voice goes on, what the Endurance was and is, you know? And how those Gringos drank whiskey, the good stuff, their own, did anybody visit me when I was in the hospital, if, in fact, I ever was? Ten minutes, hey, is that the sub that’s looking for us, those dudes could’ve fucked us up instead of us fucking them, the voice goes on, and I don’t remember, I want to remember something after the breakdown but I just don’t remember, maybe someone aboard the Endurance is saying: Do you remember those Argentine submariners who welcomed us with an asado? How do you say asado in English? I bet those dudes never ate anything as good as that asado we made for them, it melts in your mouth! And how would you say in English this sensation of not feeling your feet, this wanting to remember and not being able to? Eleven minutes, who could possibly have thought of all this? Of sticking all of us in this, a tube full of Argentines here, a slightly bigger tube full of Englishmen over there, or right here, an endless, frightening sea, damaged, and… twelve minutes, the voice on my right confirms and suddenly the explosion, a tremendous burst that rocks the water and our ship as well. Sunk? We all keep silent, grabbing hold of whatever each of us can; the sonarmen, alert, wait for the temblor to pass so they can confirm what’s happened, using hydrophonic sound; no one moves from their spot: the voice to my left whispers, could it have been just the Endurance? Elizalde passes the earphones to Cuéllar; Cuéllar nods. Elizalde announces: The hydrophonic sound has disappeared, sir. The second in command opens his cabin door, comes out of his isolation, looks forward, then turns his gaze aft and heads for the command post. I return to my book; the animal has awakened and is now using dirt to cover the holes he made a while ago when searching for the noise. However, the noise that invades his den hasn’t stopped, and the animal seems confused. I raise my eyes from the book; the sonar operators are still listening; we don’t yet know what our torpedo has hit. Everything is blindness here.
They call us again to cover our combat posts, one-thirty in the morning, goddammit, says Gómez alongside me as he stands and smooths out his damp, wrinkled overalls, what’s going on with those English, don’t they ever sleep? he complains, walking away toward the torpedo area. Although my legs have become numb, I stand, too—not without a certain clumsiness—and start out for the engine room; Soria, Torres, and Albaredo are already there, but I stick around anyway. Albaredo goes out for a while; Soria and Torres look at each other, one of them bearded, the other clean-shaven, from inside their life jackets; they look like reflections of one another in a warped mirror. Albaredo comes tiptoeing back, the noise has returned, he explains in a whisper; What noise, asks Soria, also in a very quiet voice, passing his right hand over his head; The same one we heard before we launched the torpedo, Albaredo replies; But, what does that mean? Are we the same as before? No way of knowing, but there’s no propeller noise, so maybe it’s a swarm of krill. And then a memory hits me like an avalanche: once, on the Piedrabuena, someone lit a reflector on the stern to fish and the krill came toward the light, it appeared before the light as if blooming from nothing, you couldn’t see it because of how tiny it was, but minutes after lighting the reflector we found ourselves in the middle of a stain so red and thick that it looked like the boat had been stabbed and was bleeding, slowly and merrily, on the dark sea that moonless night.
We haven’t bathed in so long that the smell clinging to us must be awful, a mix of old grime and diesel oil, but we’re so covered in it that we don’t even smell it. Everyone goes around with full beards, some longer, some shorter, Soria not at all, but you don’t see anybody scratching himself anymore; the itching days have passed. Maceda, the second in command, walks by me and stops—a few steps before reaching the periscope and without taking his eyes off what’s happening at the command post—to talk to one of the officers. His mouth is a slit in the middle of the bush of reddish hair of his beard; he gestures, emphasizing his words with his hands, I have the impression he’s trying to convince him of something. It’s dawn, comments someone nearby, and the murmur reaches me crossing this spatial silence that the boat seems to be wrapped in when it’s settled at the bottom with the engines turned off. Now suddenly I see myself in my white school smock, reciting: At the bottom of the sea there’s a glass house, with a motion of my right hand drawing an imaginary sea bed for the rest of my schoolmates, to an avenue of coral … but I don’t know what coral is and I feel like I can’t go on, Señorita Elsa looks at me and her pink-painted lips stretch into an endless smile, and I wonder if she knows what coral is, and then I forget how the rest of the poem goes, my classmates look at one another, I repeat it from the beginning to see if that way I’ll be able to continue: At the bottom of the sea there’s a house … but no, after the coral there are no more words, they’ve been erased, and everyone that lives in them has disappeared, too, Señorita Elsa’s not there anymore, in her place is the Hyena, with his everlasting smile, his shaved face and his white scarf, he orders me to continue because everyone is lined up on deck waiting for me to recite so they can weigh anchor, so there I go again: At the bottom of the sea there’s a … metal house, I stammer, but at last I go on, a blind whale with its belly full of Jonahs, the water surrounds them, the abyss surrounds them, and some algae is about to entangle itself around their heads. I stop talking, lower my eyes, smooth out my smock, the Hyena applauds loudly and emotionally, he applauds and applauds and applauds, and a dense fog descends over all of us.
This numbness in some parts of my body is very strange, yet here I am, walking once more toward the table at the bow, with my beat-up little book in my right hand. Grunwald and Heredia are drinking juice; under these conditions you have to add a little sugar; I sit down at the table, open the book to the page where I had left off reading; the animal has decided to stop wandering along the corridors in search of a new source of noise, instead devoting himself to noticing the ugly holes, the nasty cracks he’s made in the walls. The Executive Officer told Nobrega that it was suicidal to go on like that with the torpedoes not working, mutters Grunwald in front of me, and he walks around saying it would be better to go back. Yes, but he’s not the CO, he’s not the one who decides, replies Heredia, who’s sitting at the head of the table, to Grunwald’s right; suddenly the animal decides to remain in some random place and concentrate on listening; I know, says Grunwald, and we’re here to fight, but the way things are … he touches his chin with a gesture that emphasizes this unexpected silence generated by the interrupted sentence and the confusion that seems to have invaded it. Just let the Executive Officer keep talking, adds Heredia, no one’s going to follow him, at least I’m not, even if I’m dying to meet my son, how am I supposed to look the kid in the face if … And I keep on making more useless discoveries, confesses the animal in his den, and it’s just that sometimes he thinks that the noise has stopped because there are long pauses. I’m distracted for a moment and cast a sidelong glance at the black curtain that separates us from the aft bunks, the few bunks that were left standing, and underneath I spy the toes of my boots, the black dent. I keep on making more useless discoveries, the animal says, and he starts to believe it would be better to find someone without cracks to confide in. Olivero has moved over to the table, appearing suddenly, nimbly, and silently, as usual; he sits down beside me and pours himself a g
lass of juice. And what he wants to do, he can’t do alone, Heredia continues, he can’t do it without us; did you get the message, too? asks Olivero; Grunwald and Heredia nod yes; the first thing that needs to be done now, my animal thinks, is to inspect the den’s defense systems. Suddenly I lift my eyes from the book; the conversation distracts me and I don’t feel like reading anymore; I close the book, and just when I’m about to rest my hand on Olivero’s shoulder in a kind of greeting, he anticipates my movement, smiles at me, and says Thanks. For what? asks Grunwald; I wasn’t talking to you, Olivero replies; Grunwald looks at Heredia, Heredia shrugs; it seems like being locked up in here is affecting all of us, Grunwald remarks; Olivero gives me a smile as he looks me in the eye, blood is pulsing in my ears and for some crazy reason I think of coral again. They call us to our battle stations; we all get up immediately, the sub lists to one side, we start to peel off from the bottom, we leave the table, and everyone heads for his assigned place: Olivero, Grunwald, and Heredia uphill toward the bow, the torpedo area; me, downhill and sternward, toward the engine room. The jar of capers rolls past me, getting ahead of me; I follow it with my gaze as I advance; I see it stop right before the CO’S cabin door, against a rolled-up blue blanket that’s lying on the floor, I reach the jar and now I’m the one who’s gaining the lead and leaving it behind; as I pass through the sonar area, I find out that the sonar operators have picked up a hydrophonic sound; now the CO orders us to set a course toward the enemy in order to shorten the distance and shoot off a torpedo; now we’re level and at full speed to try to catch up with it, but with the engine malfunction, we’re moving very slowly, and we all know that unless the enemy ship slows down or stops, it will get away. I enter the engine room and someone comes up behind me; they say it’s a sure thing they’re gonna shell Puerto Argentino or Puerto Darwin; a voice catches me off guard, and then I turn and see that it’s Torres who has just walked in. Stop the engines, the voice of the engineering officer bursts in, getting ahead of Torres; Engines stopped; understood, sir, replies Albaredo, and immediately Torres and Soria obey the order; engines are stopped, Albaredo reports to the engineering officer, who now withdraws; for sure we’ll wait here till it comes back, Soria declares softly, and here it won’t get away from us; yeah, but by the time it gets back, it’ll have done some damage, Albaredo replies, just as softly; we ought to have caught up with it, but the engines we’ve got that are still operable aren’t enough. I leave the engine room, slip behind the sonar operators, who remain on alert, since another enemy ship might appear at any moment. Egea emerges from the galley with Gutiérrez behind him, both carrying plates of food in their hands, they pass in front of me on their way sternward, it’s rice with tomatoes, I confirm, you’ve got to take advantage of this pause in the action to eat, while we wait for the ship that got away from us to come back, and maybe some other one, as well. For now, I return to the table at the bow in order to read for a while; I run into Polski, who’s coming out of the NCO’S head, he takes a few steps forward, goes into the galley, and asks what there is to eat, I keep going, the jar of capers is no longer in the place where it had gotten stuck, it must have rolled somewhere else, I reach the bow, but the table is occupied, everyone’s already eating, after all, those are the only places where you can sit on something besides the damp floor, so I take a couple of steps backward and sit on the pile of clothing and blankets where I’ve been resting lately. Look where the Remington was, Polski grumbles, coming out of the galley as he aims for a corner next to the CO’S cabin and picks up the little typewriter. I take the book out of my overalls; the dampness of the atmosphere has softened it, like my hands and everyone else’s, which, from lack of sun, are also beginning to look greenish-white.
Proceed With Caution Page 14