her face, kissed her eyes, her lips, her hands, had he not assumed that his action would have been gready misinterpreted. He would have sunk with her to the rug, put his lips to her ear, and whispered his thanks for having made him smile the way he used to when he was a boy. For being a beautiful woman, and for being so fascinating. For reminding him that there was always a sunken ship, an island, a refuge, an adventure, a place somewhere on the other side of the ocean, on that hazy boundary where dreams blend into the horizon.
"This morning," she said, "you told me you knew that coast well. Is that true?"
She looked at him questioningly, one hand still cupping an elbow, the cigarette held high between her fingers. I would like to know, he thought, how she gets that hair cut to be so asymmetrical and so perfect at the same time. I would like to know how the hell she does that.
"Is that the first of the three questions?"
"Yes."
He lifted his shoulders slightly. "Of course it's true. When I was a boy I swam in those coves, and later I sailed that shore hundreds of times, both very close and farther out to sea."
"Would you be able to determine a location using old charts?"
Practical. That was the word. This was a practical woman, with her feet on the ground. One might say, he considered with amusement, that she was about to offer him a job.
"If you mean the Urrutia, every miscalculation of a minute in latitude or longitude can translate to an error of a mile." He raised his hand and moved it before him, as if referring to an imaginary chart. "At sea everything is always relative, but I can try."
He sat mulling over what she had said. Things were beginning to fall in place, at least some of them. Zas again gave him a big lick when he reached for the glass on the small table.
'After all"—he took a sip—"that's my profession."
She had crossed her legs, and was swinging one of her black-stockinged feet. Her head was to one side, and she was looking at him. By now Coy knew that this posture indicated reflection, or calculation.
"Would you work for us?" she asked, watching him intently through the smoke of her cigarette. "I mean, we'd pay you, of course."
He opened his mouth and counted four seconds. "You mean the museum and you?" "That's right."
He set down the glass, contemplated Zas's loyal eyes, then glanced around the room. Outside, on the far side of the Repsol gas station and Atocha terminal, he could see, lighted at intervals, the complex of tracks.
"You seem unsure," she murmured, before smiling with disdain. "What a shame."
She bent down to flick ash into an ashtray, and the motion tightened her sweater, molding her body. God in heaven, thought Coy. It almost hurts to look at her. I wonder if she has freckles on her tits, too.
"It isn't that," he said. 'It's just that I'm amazed." His lip curled. "I didn't think that captain, your boss..."
"This is my game," she interrupted. "I can choose the players."
"I can't imagine that the Navy is short on players. Competent people who don't ground their ships."
He watched her reaction closely, and said to himself: This is as far as you go, mate. Get up and button your jacket, because the lady is going to give you the bum's rush. And you deserve it, for being a clown and a big mouth. For being short on brains, an imbecile.
"Listen, Coy." It was the first time she had spoken his name, and he liked hearing it from her mouth. "I have a problem. I've done the research, it's my theory, I have the data. But I don't have what it takes to carry it out. The sea is something I know through books, movies, going to the beach— Through my work. And there are pages, ideas, that can be as intense as having lived through a storm on the high seas, or having been with Nelson at the Nile or Trafalgar. ... But for this I need someone with me. Someone who can give me practical support. A link to reality."
"I understand what you're saying. Wouldn't it be easier, though, for you to
"This morning," she said, "you told me you knew that coast well. Is that true?"
She looked at him questioningly, one hand still cupping an elbow, the cigarette held high between her fingers. I would like to know, he thought, how she gets that hair cut to be so asymmetrical and so perfect at the same time. I would like to know how the hell she does that.
"Is that the first of the three questions?"
"Yes."
He lifted his shoulders slightly. "Of course it's true. When I was a boy I swam in those coves, and later I sailed that shore hundreds of times, both very close and farther out to sea."
"Would you be able to determine a location using old charts?"
Practical. That was the word. This was a practical woman, with her feet on the ground. One might say, he considered with amusement, that she was about to offer him a job.
"If you mean the Urrutia, every miscalculation of a minute in latitude or longitude can translate to an error of a mile." He raised his hand and moved it before him, as if referring to an imaginary chart. "At sea everything is always relative, but I can try."
He sat mulling over what she had said. Things were beginning to fall in place, at least some of them. Zas again gave him a big lick when he reached for the glass on the small table.
'After all"—he took a sip—"that's my profession."
She had crossed her legs, and was swinging one of her black-stockinged feet. Her head was to one side, and she was looking at him. By now Coy knew that this posture indicated reflection, or calculation.
"Would you work for us?" she asked, watching him intently through the smoke of her cigarette. "I mean, we'd pay you, of course."
He opened his mouth and counted four seconds. "You mean the museum and you?" "That's right."
He set down the glass, contemplated Zas's loyal eyes, then glanced around the room. Outside, on the far side of the Repsol gas station and Atocha terminal, he could see, lighted at intervals, the complex of tracks.
"You seem unsure," she murmured, before smiling with disdain. "What a shame."
She bent down to flick ash into an ashtray, and the motion tightened her sweater, molding her body. God in heaven, thought Coy. It almost hurts to look at her. I wonder if she has freckles on her tits, too.
"It isn't that," he said. 'It's just that I'm amazed." His lip curled. "I didn't think that captain, your boss..."
"This is my game," she interrupted. "I can choose the players."
"I can't imagine that the Navy is short on players. Competent people who don't ground their ships."
He watched her reaction closely, and said to himself: This is as far as you go, mate. Get up and button your jacket, because the lady is going to give you the bum's rush. And you deserve it, for being a clown and a big mouth. For being short on brains, an imbecile.
"Listen, Coy." It was the first time she had spoken his name, and he liked hearing it from her mouth. "I have a problem. I've done the research, it's my theory, I have the data. But I don't have what it takes to carry it out. The sea is something I know through books, movies, going to the beach— Through my work. And there are pages, ideas, that can be as intense as having lived through a storm on the high seas, or having been with Nelson at the Nile or Trafalgar. ... But for this I need someone with me. Someone who can give me practical support. A link to reality."
"I understand what you're saying. Wouldn't it be easier, though, for you to
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