Perpetual Winter: The Deep Inn (6 page)

              Shortly, his biological clock added the two o’clock alarm to his seven o’clock alarm. He took a nap in the afternoons to compensate for his short nights. After a week, his quarters in the ladies’ bathroom began to feel comfortable and even the pain in his left shoulder had disappeared. He had become very refined in reaping what seemed superfluous for the sailors and in living in counter-cycle to the crew. He appreciated the respect they had for the feminine lavatories, even in the absence of women. He felt capable of circumnavigating the world.

              He decided to set up a small library for his voyage since the ship’s saw little usage. He swiped a book about the Russo-Japanese naval war. Two civilizations crossing paths—Imperial Russia in decadence and Imperial Japan ascending—impressed him. He took note of an episode, which was probably more fictitious than real between Portugal and Russia, during the passage of ships from the Czar’s fleet at the small port of Luanda. Given the armada’s power, some ships decided to enter the foreign port without permission. Perceiving this movement, the Portuguese ordered them to halt, but they were phlegmatically ignored, so obvious was the Russian omnipotence. Then came an improbable confrontation between contenders who were asymmetrical in strength, but not in dignity. The Commandant of a small Portuguese gunboat who, seeing his orders derided by the gigantic Russian flotilla, opened fire on the empire, and the Slavic admiral, who seeing the temerity of the suicidal dwarf, respected his courage. The invincible imperial fleet came to a halt and requested formal permission to dock in the primitive port of Luanda. The Portuguese commandant’s fearlessness was courage from another time, but the Russian officer’s magnanimity was eternal. The former was a man of integrity who, in an impossible situation, decided upon fleeing to the front because he could not bear the disgrace of surrender. He was a hero imprisoned by circumstances who decided to die advancing because he could not live with retreating. Lucas knew what that was like. The latter, the Russian admiral, the giant who decided to stop when faced by an unyielding ant, showed the grandeur of a man of equal integrity, but who was not imprisoned. He was a free man who decided to retreat when he could have advanced. Being Portuguese and lamenting not being able to recognize in his country many figures with the dimensions of that naval officer in Luanda, Lucas had more admiration for the Muscovite admiral’s strange gallantry.

              Another book the sailors would not miss was an English translation of a French work about Anglo-French piracy and its effects on the Spanish armada. Colorful pirates and corsairs confronted the men seeking to fulfill the will of Catholic kings’ descendants. He also discovered an interesting monograph about lost treasures, many of them underwater, but also some on land, abandoned on the edge of a library bookcase. It seemed to him like a truly archaic gem, a manuscript by some Cliff Burton Richard. The penmanship was fabulous and it had designs and maps that were almost medieval enluminures. It was funny; the old English was almost equal to today’s, contrary to what occurs with Portuguese from other centuries. How long would the author have taken to pen a manuscript like that? Eight hundred seven pages. When he left the ship to start his new life, those three books would go with him as good luck charms.

              He knew the boat like the back of his hand. There were three large holds for transporting coal; its worn out aspect contrasted with the technology that glittered, new, in the multiple instruments visible on the bridge and on the vessel’s highest points. Lucas realized that Saturday dinner was special. The boat was semi-abandoned because the captain insisted on everyone’s presence. For a collier, that wasn’t bad.

              A week earlier, the smell of the tidbits had been, by themselves, a true banquet. Lucas looked forward with excitement to this day’s feast. The sailors would drink more than their share and their nap would be propitious for his fishing expedition. He waited, but the smell of the pomp was late in coming. Curious, he left his stateroom and went to peek in on the festivities. Everyone was lined up, wearing their Sunday best. The tables were set with china, immaculate silverware, and cloth napkins. What would be coming? Finally, two workers from the galley appeared with enormous trays full of slices of dry bread and, behind them, a cart with jars of tap water.

              A buzz arose from the crew. The captain sat up without saying a word. He looked at his aid who seemed to know what was going on and took one step forward announcing in a thundering voice:

              “Gentlemen, his Excellency, the Captain Cliff Richard.”

              The Captain was a man who, even from a distance, imposed respect and on that day he was particularly impressive, be it in his clothing, be it in his stance. He ostentatiously evaluated the crew. Then he announced, “Gentlemen, this vessel’s engines are stopped and will continue so. Rations are now dry bread and lukewarm water and will be until the fucking son of a bitch of a pirate who stole my manuscript returns it to my desk.”

Chapter 6

Trap on the Collier

“I don’t want to know who it was and I don’t want to know who it wasn’t,” his Excellency clarified. “We will remain motionless in the middle of the sea on bread and water until my labor of the last three years has been returned without a single page creased.”

              Cliff Richard. The luck of the Távoras. Lucas had been snakebitten. That archaic English was from the twenty-first century. The captain had gone for a tea and, upon returning, his opus had disappeared.

              After he left, things heated up. Everyone proclaimed infinite loyalty and everyone proposed treating the thief like a mutineer. Some sailors traded accusations and exchanged blows. They gave themselves one hour for the anti-Christ to make the sacred composition embody itself on the captain’s desk. Otherwise, the ship would be turned inside out. No stone would remain unturned, no drawer unopened, and pity the person who was caught with the work in his possession. They competed with their ideas about how to punish him. Someone even said there had to be a rat on board, since he was missing two pairs of dungarees and underwear. A stowaway, well, drown him quickly. But his idea didn’t catch on with the others—stowaways stole ham, cigars and bottles of whiskey, not dungarees, underwear, and books.

              Cliff Richard, meanwhile, returned to the bridge. Since the beginning of his voyage, he knew the collier had been followed closely by a Russian vessel and he had received confirmation that it was a very large ship, property of the Muscovite mafia tolerated by that country’s political authorities. He had, finally, been informed that they had interest in the business to which Cliff dedicated himself, which had opened the possibility of selling half of his cargo to the Russians and delivering only the other half in Canada, since those receiving it in North America weren’t sure how much he carried beneath the coal.

              Lucas decided to return the book, not in the captain’s stateroom, but in the galley, since he knew a secret access in which the risk of getting caught was minimal. He tied the book with transparent fishing line and slipped to the peep hole in the pantry ceiling. After guaranteeing that no one was there, he would lower the manuscript until it landed on the floor. But, beforehand, he could not resist penning a bit of advice to the commander, writing on the cover, in calligraphy that imitated the author’s,
“1
st
version (still containing many grammatical errors).”
Unfortunately, the line ran out before the book touched the deck and, fearing it would attract someone’s attention if it fell, he left it swaying about a meter twenty from the floor. He had to come up with more line for his traps.

             
Not one stowaway in a thousand would commit this affront to his Excellency, since it would only worsen the liquid in which they would drown him, if caught,
he thought. It still seemed like the movies, but there had been a change: he had become part of the film.

              The captain himself found the book after deciding to go to the kitchen for whatever reason. Perhaps he had wanted to eat something better than old bread and warm water. When he saw his manuscript hanging, he took it badly. When he read the advice, he was outraged. There was a man on his ship who did not respect him. The decision he made, however, was unexpected.

* * *

He called all of the sailors to the main deck and told them, sluggishly, while strolling with the book in his hands behind his back, “There is among you a little girl who is hiding behind the charm of a circus clown. A dyke in a pink baby carrier who wants to give squeals of glee while telling her girlfriends about her adventures on this ship. Very well,” he continued, tightening his disdain. “Whores have never bothered a sailor with as many years at sea as I have... as long as they stay in their place. Bathrooms will be closed and locked. You will use the girl’s rooms until we reach land. That’s in three days. There are only two bathrooms—the one in the ship’s mess and the other in the corridor of the hold. Fend for yourselves. Whoever appears smelling like a horse or needing a shave will lose the voyage’s prize.”

              Lucas had just seen his den vaporize and had reason to fear that soon he would be discovered. He had to empty out his quarters and there was only one way to do so: everything out the porthole, directly into the sea. Except nothing hit the water because, when he reached his refuge to empty it, he heard the noise of the mob that had beaten him there: “There’s a rat, there’s a rat.” One voice rose above the others:
“My dungarees. I knew it.”

              He retreated. Lucas tried entering the men’s room, but it had already been sealed under the captain’s orders. He was frightened. He saw the captain proceed to the corridor by the hold, surrounded by sailors, and realized there was only one safe place for him: the captain’s stateroom. But first, he released a lifeboat that automatically descended to the sea, on the side opposite the captain’s quarters, covered by an olive green oilcloth. He tried to enter Cliff Burton Richard’s cabin, but the door was sealed. He grabbed a rope and descended outside the hull in order to reach the porthole which, luckily, was ajar. He entered the cabin.

              The captain’s manuscript was open to page 734 and a camera was on the desk. His bed had a large drawer underneath. Lucas opened it. It was full of comforters. Most of them went overboard. He kept just one to cushion the bottom of the cabinet. He took a small katana from the top of a gun case and put it in the drawer—it would keep the drawer from being opened, wedging itself in the part below the bed and the drawer’s internal lateral defense. Having done this, he lay down and closed it using the katana. Lucas tested the blockade. It worked. He got out and turned the camera on. The captain had photographed almost the entire book. There were fewer than one hundred pages left. He photographed them two at a time. He then took out the memory card, stored it on his person, substituting it with one he found on the desk. He photographed pages 732 and 733. At that point, he heard a tremendous racket: the lifeboat had been discovered. Shots rang out, some of them in bursts. The strange sailors were armed to the teeth. And then, celebration. The boat was sinking.

              Lucas opened the drawer and lay down in it, taking a bottle of whiskey with him, one of the many scattered about. He replaced the whiskey with water. He fell asleep, only waking up when Cliff came into his quarters. The captain was laughing to himself. He picked up the camera and continued taking pictures of the book. Someone knocked at the door and entered.

              “Hey, Cliff.”

              “Yes,” responded the captain.

              “What are you doing?”

              “Making a copy of our life insurance policy.”

              “Hmm,” the voice answered him.

              “The prick must have done the same. He had enough time for that and to send everything by mail,” worried the captain.

              “Who could it be?” asked the voice.

              “I don’t know, John. I have no idea, but it was a contract job. That’s for sure.”

              “But by who?” John tried to imagine.

              “We’ve got to find out. We have to take care of this. If not, whoever it is will pull a fast one on us,” the captain synthesized.

              “If our calculations are right.”

              “Exactly,” responded Cliff.

              “The problem is that we still don’t have the money to proceed.”

              “I’m going to make some contacts,” Cliff answered him. “The Russians have a ship on the way to Newfoundland. It can’t be far. The owner of this cargo won’t ever see it.”

              “Are you crazy? If we show up with empty hands, they’ll smoke us,” John reminded him.

              “There’s a storm coming, John. If we’re quick, the ship will sink in the storm.”

              “Can we reach our rendezvous before the storm?” inquired his assistant.

              “With a little luck. Prepare the sea-cocks for opening and put another motor and whatever else we need in our lifeboat,” ordered the captain.

              “And the crew won’t talk?”

              “No, they’re up to their necks in this.”

              “And those who aren’t in the loop?”

              “Let the others take care of them. Have you got the slugs ID’s?

              “No,” John answered.

              “Take care of that now. You can’t fail me,” Cliff ordered.

              “Yes. Vive le Québec libre!” John proclaimed sarcastically.

              “Take care of the orphans and the rest.”

              “Later.”

             
Is his Excellency stupid or what?
thought Lucas.
How can he be sure that the part of the crew not involved in this scheme will be eliminated by those involved and how can he guarantee that they’ll keep quiet, like he needs? What’s in the book? Truly lost treasures? But then why wait so many years to go look for the gold? Ships have sea-cocks so they can be sunk?
Lucas realized that the ship had been stopped for several hours and there were comings and goings from the captain’s suite.

              Then the storm hit. Lucas took a chance and left the drawer. He closed the door from the inside. He went to the bathroom and shaved his sparse beard with Cliff B. Richard’s things. The captain’s aftershave was good.

              Lucas opened the door and glanced down the corridor but had to retreat. People were coming. He went in the suite’s lavatory since he didn’t have enough time to hide in the drawer. Cliff and John came in together.

              “Nobody saw you, did they?” the captain asked.

              “No,” John assured him.

              “Did they fall into the sea?”

              “Both of them.”

              “Excellent. Is our lifeboat ready?” Clifford B. Richard asked.

              “Almost,” John clarified.

              “Finish it. It’s number seven, right?”

              “Yes, only the G.P.S. is missing. The guns and money will go with us,” contemplated his aid.

              “Let’s do this. I’ll gather the crew. You open the sea-cocks.”

              They left. Lucas took the poor devils’ identification. One of them resembled him. His name was Louis Marcé. “Louis Marcé,” he repeated to himself. It suited him since his brother in Lisbon was Luís and he, too, would have the same name on the western side of the Atlantic. He also took the captain’s and John’s. He might offer them to the Canadian police. He opened a large backpack in the armchair and saw guns, ammunition, thirty-five kilos of one hundred dollar bills, the book, and the camera. The camera was heavy and went out the porthole, but the lense stayed right on the table as a paperweight.

              He left with the backpack. No one was in the corridor. He went up the stairs. Out there, in the rain, the captain was reviewing the situation with his crew. Lucas walked to the opposite side of the ship. The first boat there was inscribed with a number that could have been either seven or one. He peered in and saw nothing. A hatch on the bow was ajar and, with his owl-like vision, he spied a tenuous intermittent luminosity. He entered the boat, looked through the hatch and saw a clock bomb. It was programmed to explode in sixty-seven minutes. So the captain wasn’t really counting on the sailors’ silence. He was going to silence them with the bomb and the sea-cocks. He took it and put it in the backpack. Lucas followed the string of lifeboats until reaching number seven and glanced inside: it was full of equipment. He went back. On deck, the sailors seemed agitated. He turned back to boat number seven but, passing by the galley, he had an irresistible idea; covered by the dark, he hung the clock bomb one meter from the pantry floor, like he had the manuscript.

              He ran back to boat seven and opened the release mechanism, jumping in the vessel immediately. When it hit the sea, he was afraid the lifeboat was going to come apart, such was the shock, but it didn’t. Lucas confirmed that the boat had been released from the ship and started the motor, accelerating away from the condemned giant. When he was about three miles out, he took a Very light and fired it toward the ship. And then another. The response from the collier was not long in coming: a palisade of firearms disgorged lead at him. The latest developments were now known on the deck of that candidate for submarine service. Why did he fire the Very lights? Why? He didn’t know, but the sailors’ rage justified his initial gesture. At least aesthetically.

              In fact, the captain and his accomplice had just reached his cabin when they saw a solitary object on the table, above a sheet of paper that said, “Thanks for the money, motherfuckers,” signed Louis Marcé. At that point, they heard shouting. An obese Chinaman had come across the bomb swinging in the air. He fled immediately proclaiming that there was dynamite in the galley.

              “The boat,” Burton ordered and ran with his aid to the lifeboat. The space was there, intact, untouched, but the boat itself was missing, bobbing some three miles distant. Shortly thereafter, several sailors appeared alongside the captain, advising
“bomb, bomb.”
Cliff Burton ran to the pantry and saw one of his clock bombs hanging by a thread.