Pescador's Wake by Katherine Johnson Page A

Sooner if we have to. Namibia is probably the best option to avoid the Australians. Are you happy to do any repairs in Walvis Bay?’
    â€˜I would prefer Mauritius, but if that is not possible, then Namibia is okay.’ Dmitri gives Eduardo a firm nod as he departs. As always, it seems that the engineer prefers to communicate with Eduardo, and Carlos assumes it is because his friend speaks Russian.
    â€˜Seems like Plan B is falling into place, mi amigo ,’ Carlos says to Eduardo. ‘And we don’t even need to ask him to lie for us. Are you sure you don’t want to be capitán ?’
    â€˜No. That honour is all yours.’
    Carlos laughs quietly and whispers behind his searoughened hand, ‘He’s a serious fellow isn’t he? Those Russians must have only been allocated a set number of smiles at birth. A good character for your novel, maybe?’
    â€˜Probably,’ Eduardo says, but a sudden slowdown in the boat’s speed interrupts the conversation. The Pescador has entered the pack again, and the ice is thicker than both men had anticipated.
    The steady irregular rapping against the hull has become a steady groan. ‘Seems we might have to head north now anyway,’ Carlos observes. ‘If we stay here much longer, we’ll be staying here for good. A well-preserved feature of the Antarctic landscape.’
    â€˜There has to be an easier way to look young forever!’ Eduardo teases, as if relieved to finally be changing course.
    In under half an hour, they’re free of the pack once again but are exposed to the waves a new gale has whipped up.
    â€˜Watch out,’ Carlos shouts too late as a sudden shift in wind direction pushes the starboard side of the Pescador into an iceberg. The boat shudders with the impact, but Eduardo manages to move it away from the berg and into open seas.
    Minutes later, with the iceberg behind them, Dmitri is back in the wheelhouse, waving a damaged hand, which he has wrapped in a greasy rag and bound with duct tape.
    â€˜I demand you head this boat north. Immediately! No more delays,’ the Russian shouts. He faces Eduardo directly, continuing in Spanish. ‘I play no more games. You tell Carlos, or I will!’
    Carlos looks to Eduardo for an explanation but the first mate directs his attention only to the Russian.
    â€˜Enough,’ Eduardo commands.
    Carlos is struck by the hardness in Eduardo’s voice. He watches as the first mate holds up his hand in front of Dmitri’s face, silencing him.
    â€˜We’ve already changed course. Look!’ Eduardo points to the compass.
    Dmitri reads the direction, but says nothing.
    â€˜What happened to your hand?’ Carlos asks the Russian.
    The veins have risen in Dmitri’s neck. ‘The spanner slipped. Cut me,’ he replies in Spanish before turning to face Eduardo and switching to Russian. Carlos doesn’t understand the sudden barrage of words, but cannot miss seeing Dmitri slice a finger across his throat in Eduardo’s direction.Dismayed, he looks to the first mate who seems to know how to manage the truculent engineer. They need Dmitri back on side.
    â€˜Go and clean it before it gets infected,’ Eduardo says, his monotonal words delivered as if a threat. Carlos feels the heat of the anger in his friend’s eyes.
    When Dmitri has left the wheelhouse, Carlos faces Eduardo, incredulous, his unspoken earlier misgivings about the Russian vindicated. But there is something else—an unwelcome concern that he has been insulated, by language, from discussions with Dmitri, perhaps even shielded by Eduardo from the worst of their engineer. Carlos wonders whether, because Eduardo had been the one to recommend the Russian, the first mate feels he must wear the consequences of that decision too. ‘What was he going to tell me? Why is he so angry?’
    â€˜I have no idea.’

J ULIA
Montevideo, Uruguay
24 September 2002
    Julia