The Nautical Chart (50 page)

That wasn't hard to imagine either, Coy thought, looking at the line of drift on the chart marked with recorded depths. The boy, alone in this little drifting boat, dazed and bailing water. The sun and the thirst, the immense sea and the coast growing fainter and fainter in the distance. The restless sleep, face down so the gulls wouldn't peck his face, his head lifted occasionally to look around, then total hopelessness—nothing but the impassive sea and all the secrets stored in its depths. Up on the surface rippled by the breeze, he was another Ishmael floating on the blue tomb of his comrades.

"It's strange he didn't give the true position of the
Dei Gloria,"
Tanger said. "A boy like him couldn't have been aware of all the implications."

"He wasn't so young. I've mentioned before that boys went to sea when they were just kids, but after four or five years at sea, they matured in a hurry. By then they were men in their own right. True sailors."

She nodded, convinced.

"Well, even so," she said, "it's amazing how he kept his mouth shut. He was an apprentice, and had to know that the longitude didn't refer to the Cadiz meridian___ Yet he knew not to say anything, and he fooled the investigators. There's nothing in the report that indicates the least doubt."

It was true. They had been reviewing the documents, the rescued boy's declaration, and the official report, and there was not a single contradiction. The ship's boy had been firm about the latitude and longitude. And he had the paper in his pocket as proof.

"He was a fine boy," Tanger added. "Loyal as they come."

"So it seems."

'And clever. You remember his testimony? He talks about the cape to the northeast, but doesn't name it. From the position he gave, everyone believed it was Tinoso. But he was careful not to correct them. He never said what cape it was."

Again Coy looked out at the sea through the porthole.

"I suppose," he said, "it was his way of carrying on with the fight."

The sun was well up by now and the mist was burning off. The dark outlines of the coast were becoming clear off their port. Punta de la Chapa emerged with its white lighthouse east of Portman Bay, the Portus Magnus of old, with the slag of abandoned mines on the old Roman highway and silt clogging the cove where ships with eyes painted on their bows had loaded silver ingots before the birth of Christ.

"I wonder what became of him?"

He was referring to the boy's disappearance from the naval hospital. Tanger had her own theory, which she sketched out, leaving Coy to fill in the blank spaces. In early February of 1767, the Jesuits could still rely on money and power everywhere, including the maritime district of Cartagena. It was not difficult to bribe the right people and assure the discreet removal of the ship's boy from center stage. All that was needed was a coach and horses and a safe passage to get past the city gates. No doubt agents of the Society arranged for him to leave the hospital before a new interrogation, taking him far away, out of reach, the day after his rescue at sea. "Unauthorized leave," was how it had been noted in the file, which was somewhat irregular for a very young merchant seaman being questioned by the Navy. But that "unauthorized leave" had later been corrected by an anonymous hand and replaced with "approved discharge." And there the trail ended.

It was easy, Coy thought as he listened to Tanger's story. It all fit together, and it took no effort to imagine the night. The deserted corridors of the hospital, the light of a candle, sentinels or guards, their eyes closed by gold, someone arriving, heavily cloaked and with precise instructions, the boy surrounded by trusted agents. Then the empty streets, the clandestine council in the city's Jesuit convent. A serious, quick, tense interrogation, and scowls that eased as it was ascertained that the secret was well guarded. Perhaps claps on the back, approving hands on his shoulder. Good lad. Good, brave lad. Then again the night, and people signaling from a shadowy corner; no hitch in the plan. The coach and horses, the city gates, the open country and star-filled skies. A fifteen-year-old sailor dozing in the coach seat, accustomed from boyhood to far worse jouncing, his sleep watched over by the ghosts of his dead comrades. By the sad smile of Captain Elezcano.

"However," Tanger concluded, "there's something... maybe interesting...maybe strange. The ship's boy was named Palau, Miguel Palau, remember? He was the nephew of Luis Fornet Palau, the Valencian outfitter of the
Dei Gloria.
Maybe it's only a coincidence..." She held up a finger, as if requesting a moment's attention, and then went through the documents in the drawer of the chart table. "Here. Look at this. When I was checking names and dates, I consulted some later shipping lists in Viso del Marques, and I came upon a reference to the hoy
Mtdata,
of Valencia. In 1784 that ship had a battle with the English brig
Undaunted,
near the straits of Formentera. The brig tried to capture her, but the hoy defended herself very well and was able to escape— And do you know what the Spanish captain's name was? M. Palau, the reference said. Like our ship's boy. Even the age is right—fifteen in
1767,
thirty-two or thirty-three in 1784."

She handed Coy a photocopy, and he read the text. "Notice of the events of the fifteenth day of the present month, regarding the engagement between the hoy
Mulata
commanded by captain don M. Palau and the English brig
Undaunted
off Los Ahorcados island."

"If it's the same Palau," said Tanger, "he didn't give up that time either, did he?"

"It is reported before the maritime authority of this port of Ibiza that following a course from Valencia to this locality, when heading for the main channel of the straits at Formentera and in the vicinity of Las Negras and Los Ahorcados, the Spanish hoy
Mulata,
of eight guns, was attacked by the English brig
Undaunted,
of twelve, which had approached under false French colors and attempted to seize her. Despite the difference in size she sustained heavy fire but with great damage to both sides, and also an attempt to board by the English, who succeeded in getting three men aboard the hoy, there being then three dead heaved into the sea. The vessels separated and very bloody combat ensued for the space of half an hour, until the
Mulata,
despite an unfavorable wind, was able to pass to this side of the straits thanks to a maneuver of notorious risk, consisting of slipping through the middle strait, with only four
brazas
below and very near the reef of La Barqueta; a most uncommonly skillful maneuver that left the English on the other side, their captain not daring to proceed due to conditions of the wind and the uncertainty of the bottom, and the
Mulata
able to arrive in this port of Ibiza with four men dead and eleven wounded without further occurrence—"

Coy handed the copy of the report back to Tanger. Years before, on a sailboat with minimal length and draft, he had passed through the middle strait at that very place. Four
brazas
was less than twenty-two feet, in addition to which, depths diminished rapidly from the center to each side. He remembered well the sinister sight of the bottom through the water. A hoy fitted with guns might have a draft of ten feet, and a contrary wind would make sailing on a straight course very difficult; so whether the ship's boy Miguel Palau and Captain M. Palau were the same man, whoever was captaining the
Mulata
had very steady nerves.

"Maybe the name is just a coincidence."

"Maybe." Tanger was quietly rereading the photocopy before replacing it in the drawer. "But I like to think it was him."

She was quiet for a moment, and then turned to the porthole to focus on the line of the coast revealed by the rising mist, clean and free off the port bow, with the sun shining on the dark rock of Cabo Negrete:

"I like to think that that ship's boy went back to sea, and that he continued to be a brave man."

FOR
eight days they combed the new search area with the Pathfinder, track by track from north to south, beginning at the eastern edge, in depths from two hundred sixty to sixty feet. Deeper and more open to winds and currents than Mazarr6n cove, the sea was rough, complicating and slowing their job. The bottom was uneven, rock and sand, and both El Piloto and Coy had made frequent dives—necessarily brief because of the depths—to check out irregularities picked up by the sounding device, including an old anchor that had raised their hopes until they identified it as an Admiralty model with an iron shank, one used later than the eighteenth century. By the end of the day, exasperated and exhausted, they would drop anchor near Negrete on nights with little wind, or, if sheltering from levanters and
lebeches,
in the small port at Cabo de Palos. The weather dispatches had announced the formation of a center of low pressure in the Atlantic, and if the storm didn't take a turn to the northeast its effects would take less than a week to arrive in the Mediterranean, forcing them to suspend the search for some time. All this was making them nervous and irritable. El Piloto went entire days without opening his mouth, and Tanger maintained her stubborn watch at the screen in a somber mood, as if each day that went by tore away another shred of hope. One afternoon Coy happened to see the notebook where she had been recording the results of the exploration. There were pages filled with incomprehensible spirals and sinister crosses, and on one the hideously distorted face of a woman, the lines scrawled so hard that in some places the paper was ripped. It was a woman who seemed to be screaming into a void.

Nights were not much more pleasant. El Piloto would say good night and close his door at the bow, and they would bed down, weary, skin smelling of sweat and salt, on mats in one of the cabins at the stern. They came together in silence, seeking each other with an urgency so extreme it seemed artificial, their union intense and brutal, quick and wordless. Each time Coy would seek to prolong the encounter, holding Tanger in his arms as they leaned against the bulkhead, trying to control the body and mind of this unknowable woman. But she would struggle, escape, try to hasten along their lovemaking, investing only breath and flesh, her mind far away, her thoughts unreachable. Sometimes Coy thought she was with him, as he listened to the rhythm of her breathing and felt the kisses of her parted lips, the pressure of her naked thighs around his waist. He would kiss her neck or breasts and hold her very tight, capturing her wrists, feeling the beat of her pulse on his tongue and groin, thrusting deep inside her, as if he hoped to touch her heart, to saturate it and make it as soft as the moistness he felt inside her. But she would draw back, a prisoner trying to escape his embrace. In the end she refused him the thought he was striving to capture. Her gleaming, remote eyes, boring into him in the shadows, would become absent, somewhere far beyond Coy and the ship and the sea, absorbed in arcane curses of loneliness and blackness. And then her mouth would open to scream, like the woman he had glimpsed in the drawing, a scream of silence that echoed in Coy's gut like the most galling insult. He felt that lament pounding through his veins, and he bit his lips, holding back an anguish that flooded his chest and nose and mouth, as if he were drowning in a viscous sea of sorrow. He wanted to cry the large, copious tears he had wept as a child, incapable of warming the cold shiver of such loneliness. It was a weigjht too heavy to bear. All he had done was read a few books, sail a few years and know a few women. He believed that was why he lacked the right words and the right moves, and he also believed that even his silences were sullen. But he would have given his life to get deep inside her, to filter through the cells of her flesh and slowly, softly, lick that center of her being with all the tenderness he could offer, to clean away the painful and malign tumor left there like ballast by hundreds of years, thousands of men, and millions of lives. That was why each night they were together, once she stopped moving and lay quiet, recovering her breath after the last of her shudders, Coy tenaciously insisted, forgetting himself and lashed by desperation, that he loved her more than anyone or anything. But she had gone away, too far away, and he did not exist; he was an intruder in her world and her instant. And that, he thought with pain, was how it would end. Not with noise, but with a nearly imperceptible sigh. In that moment of indifference, punctual as a verdict, everything in her died, everything was held in suspense as her pulse recovered its normal beat. Again Coy would be aware of the porthole open to the night, and of the cold creeping in from the sea like a biblical curse. He would fall into a desolation as barren as a vast, perfect, polished marble surface. A terrifyingly motionless Sargasso Sea, a nautical chart with names invented by those ancient navigators: Deception Point, Bay of Solitude, Bitterness Bay, Island of God-Help-Us-AU— Afterward she would kiss him and turn her back, and he would lie on bis back, wavering between loathing for that last kiss and disgust for himself. Eyes staring into the darkness, ears tuned to the water lapping against the
Carpanta's
hull and to the wind rising in the rigging. Thinking how no one would ever be able to draw the nautical chart that would allow a man to navigate a woman. And with the certainty that Tanger was going to walk out of his life before he possessed her.

IT
was about that time that I heard from them again. Tanger called me from El Pez Rojo, a restaurant at Cabo de Palos, to ask me about a technical problem that involved an error of half a mile of east longitude. I cleared up the question and inquired with interest as to their progress. She told me everything was going well, many thanks, and that I would be hearing from them. In fact, it was a couple of weeks before I had news of them, and when I did it was from the newspapers, leaving me to feel as stupid as nearly everyone else in this story. But I don't want to get ahead of myself. Tanger made the telephone call one noontime that found the
Carpanta
put up alongside the quay in that old fishing town converted into a tourist haven. The storm in the north Atlantic was still stationary, and the sun was shining on the southeast Iberian Peninsula. The needle of the barometer was high, without crossing over the dangerous vertical to the left, and that was, paradoxically, what had brought them to the small port that stretched around a wide black sand cove, dangerous because of the reefs just below the surface and presided over by the lighthouse tower rising high on a rock set out in the sea. That morning the heat had triggered the appearance of some anvil-shaped, gray, and threatening cumulo-nimbuses that were boiling higher by the minute. A wind of twelve to fifteen knots was blowing in the direction of those clouds, but Coy knew that if this cumulonimbus anvil kept building, by the time the gray mass was overhead strong squalls would be unleashed on the other side. A silent exchange of glances with El Piloto, whose squint in the same direction deepened the wrinkles around his eyes, was enough for the two sailors to understand one another. El Piloto brought the
Carpanta's
bow around to face Cabo de Palos. So there they were, on the whitewashed porch of the Pez Rojo, eating fried sardines and salad, and drinking red wine.