God Carlos (5 page)

“There is one thing about the Indians,” de Morales said thoughtfully, breaking the silence, “but it is a little thing. After you have lain with one of the women, it is likely that you will receive a boil on your organ. It is a small sore, but a harmless one that soon goes away. When I was last in the Indies, some years ago, I received a sore that went away. After that, I received no more. It is a strange thing. A man told me that the cause was the first mingling of unfamiliar humors.”

The
Santa Inez
was ghosting along to a slacking breeze, for at sea the wind usually dies down with the coming of night. Sailors who had the eleven o'clock watch wandered off to find a favorite spot to sleep.

“I don't think this boil is such a harmless thing,” old Hernandez said.

“I have had no further trouble with it,” de Morales replied coolly. “It is nothing.”

“It would be wonderful to be regarded as a god,” Carlos said dreamily.

“Only if you are one,” Hernandez said after a moment of thought. “Otherwise you will be a disappointment.”

The cabin boy named Pedro, who came from a village in the foothills of the Pyrénées, chuckled. “I wonder what they would do to a man they found out was only a man and not a god.”

“Perhaps they would kill him,” old Hernandez said.

“These Indians do not kill men easily,” proclaimed de Morales. “Their weapons are suitable for fish, but not for killing men.”

“I think I would make a wonderful god,” Carlos blurted out without thinking, carried away by his fantasy.

The men looked at him as if they could not believe their ears. De Morales guffawed. Pedro grinned but not in an unfriendly way. Old Hernandez made a tutting sound like a disapproving aunt.

“Of course,” Carlos amended quickly, “it is an impossible thing. But if I were born a god, I would be a good one.”

“That is impious,” old Hernandez scolded gently. “Men at sea must not think such things.”

“I think I would be a good god too,” the boy Pedro gushed.

“I would make a better devil,” said a taciturn sailor who sat on the edge of the group listening, but up to now had put in no opinion.

A few of the men chuckled.

“It is not a laughing matter,” old Hernandez said. “When we are at sea, we must not vex God, or He will send us sea monsters or bad weather.”

An uneasy silence fell over the men. It was broken by de Morales.

“God Carlos,” he sneered. “That is your name, isn't it?”

Carlos's face became hard, his voice thin and sharp like a freshly stropped razor. “Carlos Antonio Maria Eduardo Garcia de la Cal Fernandez,” he said coldly. “What of it, señor?”

“There will never be a God Carlos,” de Morales said scornfully. “It is too funny to even think of.”

“This discussion has gone too far,” old Hernandez interposed quickly. “We must speak of brighter things.”

Carlos stood up, still staring hard at de Morales. “Goodnight,” he said to the other men, many of whom were squirming at the sudden tension.

As he walked away, Carlos upbraided himself for talking too much, for exposing too much of his heart to fools. Yet at the same time he was seething with a quiet rage at the mocking tone de Morales had used when he said, “There will never be a God Carlos.”

Those insulting words were still ringing in his ears when Carlos woke up in a dark spot under the overhang of the quarterdeck, where he usually slept. His heart was suppurating hate as if infected by an abscess.

Chapter 6

God Carlos:
that was the mocking nickname the crew, at the instigation of de Morales, began to secretly call Carlos behind his back. But the
Santa Inez
was a small ship alone on a big sea, and it was easy to misread malice, malignity even, in every gesture and sidelong look.

One morning as he was strolling near the mainmast where some men were gathered talking, he heard the name God Carlos muttered in a contemptuous tone for the first time. When the men saw him, they immediately fell quiet and feigned an indifferent innocence.

Carlos walked past them, headed for his customary spot on the vessel near the bow, and though he nodded at every man with whom he made eye contact, he had to struggle to keep his face expressionless as if he'd heard nothing.

The dolphins were playing on either side of the bow as the ship cut through the small furrowed waves with a tearing sound. Carlos was in a wretched mood and throbbing with such hate that though he tried to hide what he felt, the rage shadowed his every look and gesture. On a small ship at sea there was no way to withdraw with dignity, to remove himself from the taunts and sly looks. Everywhere Carlos went he was conscious that sailors might be whispering about him, and even if they were not, the very thought that they might be was enough to make him enraged.

He particularly hated using the
jardines
—the seats hung over the fore and aft rails for the men to relieve themselves. He refused to sit on these during the daylight while other men were present on deck unless he could not help it. Instead, he would wait until darkness had fallen and only a skeleton crew was on watch. Then he would use the most forward jardine where he would be out of sight to anyone on the quarterdeck and barely visible to the lookout in the crow's nest.

For the next few days, he was morose and quiet and avoided any gathering of men. He kept away from everyone with such persistence that hardly anyone sought him out for companionship and lighthearted talk. Old Hernandez was the only one who would regularly drift to where he was standing and exchange a few words with him. The boy Pedro would also occasionally wave from across the deck, and one Sunday morning he sat nearby on the bow of the ship and talked idly about the life he had lived in the foothills of the Pyrénées.

Carlos listened without a change of expression, making no remark in return no matter what the boy said. It was only because he did not wish to offend that Pedro did not simply get up and leave in the face of this impassive treatment. Instead, he stayed sitting where he was and told his story bravely as though Carlos was listening intently to every word. When he was done, the boy got up and said goodbye and ambled away.

 

* * *

 

The hideous nickname of God Carlos soon reached the ears of de la Serena and made him worry. He had once been young and hot-blooded himself, and understanding the nature of seamen well, he feared what would happen next.

But he said nothing to Carlos. And though on an impulse, he had summoned de Morales to his cabin for a chastising talk, he changed his mind at the last minute and said nothing about the conflict. Boys would be boys, and men would be men, and de la Serena only hoped that neither man would push the other too far.

The
Santa Inez
had been at sea now for twenty-one days, scudding to the trade winds with a bone in her teeth. Every day had been mild and glorious, with fleecy white clouds sprinkled throughout a clear blue sky. The wind blew out of the northeast at a steady fifteen knots, making perfect sailing weather. Rolling gently to a quartering wind, the
Santa Inez
made a susurration of contentment.

The fresh sparkling days that had followed one another in unvarying succession made the men eager to awaken in the mornings and gaze upon the splendors of the ocean. No rain fell for a whole week, and then for several afternoons came a brief shower that rinsed the salt off the men and the ship and left everyone feeling refreshed. The nights were cool, and the constellations spangled overhead with a breathtaking clarity.

It was all that a mariner could ask for, and de la Serena in his morning and evening prayers made a point of thanking God for the gentleness He had shown the ship.

One night Carlos was on the midnight watch, standing beside the compass on the quarterdeck. Around him the ship slumbered, with shadowy humps of men scattered over the deck, asleep. The wind had slackened, and the
Santa Inez
was barely making steerage speed.

De la Serena stepped onto the quarterdeck, cast a glance at the night sky, looking for the North Star. Then he recognized Carlos.

“Ahh, Carlos,” he greeted, “is all well with the ship?”

“All is well, señor,” Carlos said mechanically.

De la Serena stared hard at the sky and shook his head. “Beautiful, beautiful,” he said in a husky whisper. “What a pity there is no God.”

Carlos was so shocked that he could only sputter, “Señor?”

“Oh, it is a secret, naturally. Only the pope knows. And, of course, I know. There is no God.”

“But señor,” Carlos protested, waving at the vast, star-sprinkled heaven, “then who made all this?”

“No one. It has always been here. It is we who are new.”

“I do not understand,” Carlos mumbled. “How can you pray every day if you do not believe in God.”

“I do it to comfort my crew. But no one is listening to our prayers. Because there is no one up there,” and he jabbed a finger at the sky.

Carlos fell silent. He was not prepared to say that there was no God. That his own captain should say this to him was so unexpected that it left him speechless. He did not waste his time thinking about abstract things. Moreover, all around him were the mariner's principal treasures—a calm sea and a clear sky—and they could not have always been there. He stared into the dark sea and felt uncomfortable.

Finally, as if he had just awakened, he said in a small helpless voice, “But, señor, your prayers are so convincing!”

“It is because of all my practice,” de la Serena sighed. “A rich man must constantly pray before others. It is expected of him. If he is poor, no one expects him to perform in public as though he were a bishop. But let him be rich, and he is forced to become a spectacle. If you are a religious man, pray that you never become rich.”

None of this did Carlos understand. He did not understand irony, so it did not occur to him that perhaps de la Serena did not exactly mean what he had just said. What troubled him most was why the older man was telling him these perplexing things.

“So, if someone calls you God Carlos, it is not a bad thing. You might as well be God, since there is no other.”

Carlos frowned and turned away in the darkness so the older man could not see his displeasure. Now it was clear to him why de la Serena was bringing up such a strange topic. He had gotten wind of Carlos's nickname, and he was trying to make light of it.

“That is why I need a new world, so I can name part of it after me. When I die, I die forever. No one will even know that I was ever here. That fraud, that bumbler, Amerigo Vespucci, will be remembered by the generations to come because his name has been given to a continent. I knew the man. He does not deserve to have even a sandbar named after him. Yet in a planisphere that came out a few years ago, two continents—two, I say, not one—were named for him. Does that sound like the fairness one would expect in a world created by a god?”

Carlos did not know what to say, so he said nothing, but pretended to be engrossed in reading the compass by the dim light of the cresset. He rapped on the open hatch to attract the helmsman's attention.

“Helmsman,” he barked louder than he meant to, “steer five degrees to starboard.”

“She has no steerage way,” the helmsman grumbled. “The wind is too light.”

“It will pick up with daylight,” Carlos said. “Just hold the course as steady as you can.”

De la Serena, meanwhile, was leaning over the rail of the quarterdeck and staring at the dark, calm sea that caressed the rounded hull of the ship.

After a long silence, Carlos stirred and muttered, “I do not deserve this trouble. I am a peaceful man.”

“It is the sea that vexes men's souls and leaves them hating each other,” de la Serena murmured sympathetically.

Carlos walked over to the ampolleta, whose sand had almost run out, and stared intensely. He inverted the hourglass just as the final grains of sand tumbled out of one side, while de la Serena silently watched.

Around them could be heard the gurgling sounds of a wooden ship adrift in a calm night sea. With every slight correction of the rudder came the loud groan of wood against wood. The sails were flapping listlessly in the windless sea, and the cobwebby rigging of the ship was heavy with glittering stars.

The men had nothing more to say to each other. De la Serena said, “It is a bright night, though there is no moon.”

“Yes,” Carlos mumbled. “It is bright.”

“Goodnight, then,” de la Serena said, heading down the hatch for his private quarters.

“Goodnight, señor,” Carlos replied, flicking his gaze over the sails of the ship.

 

* * *

 

The next day, with the
Santa Inez
becalmed in an unusual stillness for this latitude, many of the crew spontaneously decided to swim. Several dove overboard and frolicked beside the drifting ship while one man climbed the crow's nest to look out for sharks. Most of the men owned only the clothes on their backs, so they swam naked, some even taking advantage of the unnatural calm to wash the only pair of pantaloons and linen shirt they owned.

Carlos was off the morning watch, having been on duty from three a.m. to five, but his natural modesty inclined him not to swim. He thought that later on, if there was still no wind after darkness had fallen, he would wash his only clothes. In the meantime, he wanted to find a place on deck where he could snatch a brief nap.

He was amidships, passing a group of frolicking naked men when de Morales, who was fully clothed and had not been swimming, jeered, “Will God Carlos not go for a swim among humans?”

Some of the men laughed. Others fell eerily silent, sensing the spore of menace in the moment, that what had been spoken was not a harmless taunt, but carried a deadlier threat. It was inconceivable that such poisonous words would not be sharply answered.