I open my eyes, I’m in my bunk, there’s a faint glow from the night lights, and so I realize that it must be nighttime outside. I lie still in bed, a slight panting invades my space and I think I can tell that it’s coming from the bunk above mine; this is another way I can see that we’re heading back: people have started to think about things nobody thought about during those dangerous days. The panting grows in rhythm and intensity, and I wonder if I’m the only one who hears it; some of the bunk curtains are closed, others are open; I can see a few of the others from here, they’re sound asleep; I might be the only one who hears the sighs, the slight friction produced by the regular movement of the mattress against the upper bunk, like an owl’s shush, a shh, shh that repeats, shh, shh, and repeats. I close my eyes and little by little the noise turns into light, a light that grows brighter and more enveloping, and then I see the sub as if I were outside, flying above it, it’s skimming along the surface of the water, the crests of the waves forming to port and starboard glisten with phosphorescent edges that contrast with the black boat and the black sky, a milky wake that shines like a beam from an immeasurable lighthouse. I plunge into the light, I am the ship itself, making its way among the waters, through the pure, intense radiance; I let myself be carried along, as if the light sustains me, floating above it effortlessly, but now, suddenly, the sea recovers its dense, ordinary appearance and I am no longer the boat, I’m a man out here, standing in the conning tower, a man who turns his head and can see behind the boat and behind himself, all the way to the horizon, how the sky reflects the luminescence of the water that remains farther and farther behind us, slowing yielding to the darkness. I open my eyes, the night navigation light outlines my bunk and I realize that the panting has ended; a little creak—which I recognize as the curtain of the upper bunk being opened—suggests that the guy up there is going to come down; now I see a pair of feet wrapped in dark socks dangling a few inches from my face, but I choose to close my eyes in order to recapture that image I had of the outside. I try and try, but I can’t do it; it seems there’s nothing left; I persist, but I can’t get back, there’s not even a trace left of that calming, enveloping light, only the black void of what just a moment ago were empty glimmers.
I’ve just awakened, curled up in a ball, I stretch to loosen up, retrieve the book from under my pillow, stick it in my overall pocket and get down from the bunk with some difficulty. No sooner do I start walking than I run into Almaraz and notice his long, thick beard full of white fuzz; a moment’s hesitation and then we’re both on our way, him heading aft and me forward, now I cross paths with Polski, also with his beard full of fuzz, and automatically I bring my hand to my face: maybe I have a beard full of fuzz too, but I don’t feel my beard or my hand; I’ll have to go into the head and look at myself in the scratched steel mirror, but I’d rather keep going forward and see if I can read for a while. A couple of men are there, around the table, I walk over to them, make a place for myself, and sit down. Anybody know where this book came from? one of them asks, waving a tattered, yellowed book, identical to mine, in his right hand, so identical that reflexively I pat my overall pocket to make sure it’s still there, but I don’t feel it; then I wonder: If it’s the same book, how the hell did it get there if I was so sure I had put it in my pocket? Let me see, says another one, reaching out his hand so the guy who had waved it in the air can pass it to him; now that I’ve got it closer to me I see that it’s the one I’ve been reading, the one about the animal in the den; the guy who received it flips through the pages and remarks: You can’t understand this thing, what language is it in? Grunwald says it’s German, the first guy replies, even though he doesn’t understand anything, he says he’s sure it’s German. How could it be written in German, I say to myself, if I don’t know any German and I’m reading it; then Olivero comes over from the torpedo launchers, takes the book from the one who’s been leafing through it; to Groppa, the oldest NCO of the crew, the book came in one of the containers that held submarine parts, Olivero explains, when they sent it from Germany to assemble it in the Buenos Aires shipyards, one of the assemblers found it and decided that if it had come with the boat, it would stay on the boat, so from the time they began assembling the San Luis, the book has never left here. And does anybody know what it’s about? asks the guy who was waving the book in the air a few moments ago; I could explain it to them perfectly, but I keep quiet and listen: they say an officer who knew a little German read part of it once, Olivero adds, on a campaign, but I don’t know who the officer was, or if he said what it was about, it’s just a rumor, but the book stays on board for luck; it goes around and around, from hand to hand, from stem to stern and from stern to stem, it’s part of the boat, all boats hide a secret and this must be ours, Olivero concludes, as he lays the book on the table and returns to his post beside the torpedo launchers. The others who were seated stand up, carrying their empty glasses, but I stay here, watching the book; I sit down at the table, open it and search—with difficulty because of how clumsy my hands are—for the page where I had left off reading, German, I don’t know what they’re talking about. I start to read: deep silence, says the animal, how lovely it is to be here, no one is worried about my den, each one has his tasks, which have nothing to do with me.
We’re approaching Puerto Belgrano, everything on board is movement, preparations, and enormous expectations, as nobody knows what we’re going to find outside, nobody knows where the rest of the fleet might be, how they’re managing, how things back there on the islands have been going, when our computer will be fixed so we can set sail again. The only thing we know is that ever since we’ve adapted to the new sense of balance that being at sea all this time has inflicted on our bodies, for a day or two it’ll be hard for us to walk on terra firma, to regain the stability the others have, those who stayed behind. The same thing will happen with the light, after so many days of being closed up inside under fluorescent bulbs, the sunlight will be unbearable, it’ll take us a few days to get used to it. Thirty-nine days of patrol and eight hundred sixty-four hours of immersion, Heredia remarks as he passes in front of me on his way to the torpedo area. Some people calculate everything, I say to myself, and I see Soria heading astern, toting a broom; I follow him with my eyes; he stops at the command post and says something to Officer Rabellini, who in turn walks toward the CO and almost certainly passes on what Soria, waiting for a reply, has told him. The CO nods; Rabellini returns to the spot where Soria, broom in hand, waits for him; he motions to Gómez, who’s coming out of the galley, Gómez goes over to Rabellini, who seems to explain something to him or give him an order; then Soria hands the broom to Gómez, who takes it in his right hand, walks toward the periscope area, and stops beneath the hatch leading to the sail; the sub has slowed down, one of the others opens the hatch, and Gómez starts to climb up, broom in hand, till he disappears inside the hole that leads upward and outward; that’s what they told us, says Grunwald, wearing his fake wire glasses, to tie the broom to the conning tower to show we’ve swept the area, so that’s where Gómez is going. But we didn’t hit anybody, Nobrega protests as he passes by: well, yeah, but the Brits did beat it out of there a couple of times; we messed things up for them—with no results, Grunwald argues. Yeah, I’m not denying that, Nobrega agrees and continues on his way; then I remember my boots, decide to go look for them and organize my things a little. I reach the table at the bow, where some of the others are eating, I draw open the curtain slightly that separates the bunks from this sector. Polski is asleep; he’s really tall, and since he doesn’t fit anywhere, he sleeps on the diagonal, half lying across the cot, with his feet sticking out into the corridor; there are my boots, I stand there for a moment looking at the indentation that distinguishes them, I grab them together by the upper edge, pinching them with my right hand, close the curtain again, and stop to look at the others, but it seems they’re looking away so as not to bother me, so I continue on to my bunk, trying to remember where I could have l
eft the book I want to finish reading; I cross paths with Grunwald, who’s heading forward again, and Gutiérrez, who’s coming from the command post, grumbling under his breath and carrying a ream of fresh paper in his hands; I leave the boots on my bunk; it looks like docking maneuvers are about to begin. I climb into my bed, shove the boots aside and down toward my feet, find the book tumbled among the covers, hide it under the pillow, and close my eyes with the illusion that on this return everything might return to the way it was in the old days.
We’re entering Puerto Belgrano, on batteries, in complete silence; it’s nighttime, and from below I see the black hole of the sky outlining the open hatch up there. The CO, Ghezzi, Maineri, and Polski are up at the sail, the rest are all down here, not yet feeling the fresh air from outside. Someone goes down the ladder, judging by his great height, it must be Polski; yes, it’s Polski, who’s just come down and is heading sternward. I follow him, he stops next to Almaraz, who’s acting as maneuvers helmsman to steer us into port. Everybody’s here, Polski says; Everybody who? asks Almaraz; The whole damn combat fleet; Really? Yeah, even the aircraft carrier; The aircraft carrier? Almaraz repeats in disbelief; the aircraft carrier, and listen to this, the Salta! But how can that be? Why? I don’t know, Polski replies angrily, but what I do know is that we’re the only dumb asses who are still here. I return to my bed, I don’t want to keep listening. Soria passes me and goes into the galley; now, without his life vest, he looks different. When I get to my bunk I see that my boots aren’t there, and I don’t feel like keeping up with that game anymore, I forget the whole business, climb up and lie down; from the row of bunks on the other side of the corridor a whisper reaches me, Cuéllar has the Bible open and is moving his lips; I close my eyes, trying to remember my mother’s face, but I can’t.
I wake up. I don’t know how long I was asleep, but it’s obvious that the boat is stopped and silent. I have the feeling no one’s around, that I’m here alone. I try to stand, but I still have that strange lack of feeling all through my body; I stand up, look around: the bunks are empty. I walk toward the forward ladder, look up, and see that the hatch is open. The sky is still dark, so I assume it’s still nighttime, or it’s a different night, how can I tell with that heavy drowsiness I feel. I climb up slowly, reach one of the last rungs and look out through the round opening of the hatch: all the others are on deck, many of them smoking—I see the little red lights of their cigarette tips coming and going from their invisible mouths into the night; some of them are talking quietly. The aircraft carrier and the other boats that surround us look huge and are thick and black, like a deep hole. A voice orders the men to come down, saying we’re going to spend the night here because we still don’t have permission to disembark. Some of them complain as they start moving, they’re a bunch of shadows among the shadows. I start to come down in order to leave the ladder free for the others to follow. I head for my bunk; from behind me comes the sound of boots landing on the narrow metal rungs, boots descending, voices entering. I climb into my bed, some people go by silently, walking astern, others are still complaining as they scramble into their bunks and get comfortable. I’m already in bed; little by little things settle down; in the lower bunk of the opposite row, Cuéllar closes his eyes and clutches the Bible resting on his chest. My lids feel heavy and I drift off to sleep.
A noisy sonar ping awakens me, awakens us, I jump out of my bunk, the others do the same, no doubt each one of them thinking about covering his combat post. Then someone stops and says: Guys, the ladder is open, we’re not sailing, we’re in Puerto Belgrano. The confusion freezes us in place: no one dares to say or do anything. Nobrega, who apparently went outside to smoke or look around, is climbing down the ladder and explains loudly that what we heard was a sonar ping, produced by one of the corvettes that are in port to keep enemy divers away from the dock. It’s just five o’clock, says someone over there. Little by little everyone returns to their bed. And so do I.
We’re in formation, standing against the bunks, on both sides of the central corridor and toward the stern, skirting the periscopes in silence, because they’ve just announced that the Commander of the Submarine Force, the Hyena, is in Puerto Belgrano and is coming to greet us. Then we see our Commander, standing in the torpedo area, raise his face toward the ladder at the bow. A pair of shiny new boots appears in everybody’s line of sight, and behind them a pair of spotless white pants, without a single wrinkle, and then a navy blue gabardine jacket and a shaved nape and a white cap that turns to reveal that face with its eternal, familiar grimace of a smile. Then, I don’t know why, I get the idea of looking at my feet, maybe because the Hyena’s gesture reminds me of the dent in my boots, I look at my feet and realize I’m not wearing shoes; all my shipmates have changed clothes, but I’m still dressed in the same pair of overalls and grubby socks. The situation embarrasses me, so I try not to look at the Hyena or at our Commander, I know it seems like a ridiculous thing to do, that it’s impossible that no one will notice my socks among so many pairs of boots, but I do it anyway, I lower my head and avoid looking at them, hoping they’ll continue on their way and ignore me, that the Hyena will give his welcome speech and get done with this stuff once and for all, even though it occurs to me that the best thing might have been to explode into a thousand pieces and never come back; that way we’d be victims or heroes, not this living proof of something that doesn’t work, of something wrong, of failure. The Hyena keeps talking, I pay no attention to what he’s saying, but he keeps talking, out of the corner of my eye I see everybody looking in his direction, I don’t want to listen, so I concentrate on trying to remember something, whatever, something that happened after the day of my incident, something from my recovery, something from the hospital, but there’s no hospital, there’s no recovery, there’s nothing till that day when I woke up on the floor of the engine room; and there’s nothing now, either, except this jumble of words flying up and down the ship, trying to get into our ears.
The speech ended a while ago, and the Hyena has left us; some men went to have dinner on the Santiago del Estero, which left Mar del Plata after we took off and just barely managed, without submerging, to get here; at this point she’s our mother ship and she welcomes us aboard to eat. Other men—those who had dinner at the first seating—are asleep; still others went up on deck, to smoke, no doubt, everybody smokes now, those who always smoked, those who had given it up, those who never did it; everybody smokes except Soria and me. Polski is walking forward now, from my bunk I can see him climb the ladder and disappear; you can hear voices coming from there, and suddenly, maybe when they discover that a lot of guys are sleeping, they lower their voices; a couple of men climb down and head for their bunks. I can’t fall asleep, so I decide to follow behind Polski: I climb the ladder and remain standing on the top rung, looking out on deck through the hatch opening. Polski is outside, with his head raised like an animal sniffing the night; someone in a long black cape approaches, not a crew member from the San Luis, and gives Polski a hug that looks intense and emotional: What are you doing? What do you need? Do you guys need anything? the new arrival asks, moving away a little with his arms extended, but keeping his hands on Polski’s shoulders; I can’t exactly see, but I think I recognize Morán’s voice, the electrician from our replacement crew, who stayed behind here in Puerto Belgrano. Smokes, Polski replies in his thick, hoarse voice, and that word, “smokes,” echoes in the air as if it had been pronounced in a cave. I’m coming, says Morán, who’s just broken the embrace, turns, and moves away till he blends into the shadows. Someone else approaches along the deck, greets Polski, and gets in line for the hatch, so I move aside to let him climb down. Now I look in Polski’s direction again, a black shape comes closer with something dangling from his hand; it’s Morán, wrapped in his black cape and advancing toward Polski; he stops, picks up the package with both hands; it looks like a carton of cigarettes; Forty-Three Seventy Darks, says Morán; and I know they’ll be too strong for Polski,
who I’ve always seen smoking Jockey Club Lights. Morán signals with his hand and Polski follows him, I follow them too—but with my eyes—and watch them go down to the dock, walk a few steps till I lose them in a blur of darkness and then see them reemerge in the shimmery, hazy circle of light silhouetted against the pavement by a street lamp. I hear voices, the group that had gone to the Santiago del Estero for dinner is returning, so I go down to make room for them and stand next to the torpedoes, waiting for everyone to descend. The men in here are now whispers that disperse, each one to his own thing, one to the head, another possibly to the galley for coffee, others to bed. I climb up again, look out on deck. Morán and Polski are still at the dock, sitting on the ground in the circle of light, their backs resting against a wall. Morán has placed the carton of cigarettes between them and at this moment is tugging on the paper wrapper; he struggles a little till he tears it and pulls out a pack, which he hands to Polski, then he takes one for himself and starts to open it while Polski opens his own; the scene plays out symmetrically. Morán takes out a lighter at the same time Polski takes out a lighter. Morán lights his cigarette at the same time Polski tries to light his, but as it turns out, he fails in his effort and for a moment the symmetry is broken. It’s humid, how strange, huh? and he smiles at Morán as he stashes his useless lighter in his pants pocket. Morán offers him his own lighter, which Polski accepts in his gigantic hands, he lights his cigarette on the first try and returns it to Morán; both of them puff now, and white plumes, as thick as the fog that was with us throughout our crossing, rise in incredibly parallel corkscrews. They smoke, talk, laugh, talk some more, and it all reaches me like a lost echo. I stand there looking up, a light breeze stirs, sweeping a cloud away and allowing me to see a star, and who knows why it occurs to me that it’s the last one, though I don’t know of what, maybe just the last and only star this night, because now a line of clarity tints the horizon over the sea behind me and dawn begins to break. I turn my attention back to Polski and Morán. There are several empty packs of cigarettes rolled up in a ball on the floor in the space that separates one from the other; a lot of time must have gone by without my realizing it. Now they get up clumsily, they must be numb from this cold May night, the extended calm, the hard ground. They bend down, pick up the empty packs, go over to a trash can a few steps away from the light post and throw them in there, light another couple of cigarettes with Morán’s lighter and start walking away from the sub. They walk away slowly, along the path that leads to the Stella Maris Chapel. They’re going to pray, no doubt, they’re going to talk some more and smoke some more. And then they’ll come back and they’ll say goodbye at the dock, and Polski will go up to the deck of the sub and down the ladder, and Morán will stay on the dock for a while looking at the dark outline of the San Luis, trying to understand what this business of being in a war must be like.
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