The Black Pearl (7 page)

I began to say something, but without another word the old man turned and disappeared into the darkness. I thought no more about him until morning when my father and I were walking down to the beach.

"Would Luzon allow me to search for pearls in the lagoon?" my father said.

"No, and I would not ask him."

"The voyage to Cerralvo is long," my father said. "Our last trip there gave us few pearls, though more than elsewhere. In the lagoon we might find another like the great one."

I told my father about the encounter with the old man the night before and what he had said.

"Luzon is a crazy Indian," my father replied.

"Crazy or not," I said, "it is his lagoon and he will not allow you to dive there."

T
HE FLEET SAILED
that morning for Isla Cerralvo. The boats glistened in their fresh paint and the streamers that hung from their masts still shone bright. They fluttered in a light wind that blew out of the south, and the sky was the same color as the morning sea. It was a beautiful day, as if the Madonna Herself had willed it so.

When I left for home that afternoon it was very hot, because the south wind had died away. Then the cool coromuel started to blow down from the mountains. But at supper the coromuel died too and the air was heavy and hard to breathe. Trailing clouds appeared in the sky and the palms in the courtyard began to rustle.

My mother stopped eating and went to the window and looked out. If my father was on the sea the smallest change in the weather made her fearful. If the wind did blow she was fearful. If the wind did not blow or the sky was overcast with mackerel clouds or morning dawned without haze, she was fearful.

"It is the coromuel again," I said.

"The coromuel is cool," she answered. "The wind in the palms is hot."

"It is hot because the night is hot," I said, though I knew better. I knew that it was in this way that the chubasco began, the most dreaded wind that blows on our Vermilion Sea. "I will go outside and look, but I am sure that it is the coromuel."

In the courtyard, I glanced at the sky. There were no stars and the wind had died once more. Yet I was aware that the wind that had rustled the palms was not a mountain wind. It had come from the southwest, home of the chubasco, for the air smelled strong of the sea.

I went back to my supper and tried hard to be cheerful. "The sky is clear," I said. "I have never seen so many stars. It is a fine night on the sea."

"The palms rustle again," my mother said.

The gentle sound filled the room for a time as we drank our chocolate. Then, as if the palm leaves had turned to iron, there came a sound of metal clashing against metal.

I got up and started across the room to close the door, but before I had taken two steps the door crashed shut. The candle flames moved back and forth and then were snuffed out by an unseen hand. I tried to relight the candles but failed, for through the barred window the air was being sucked from the room in great sighs.

"The wind," my mother said.

"The chubasco," my sister whispered.

I went to the window and looked out. There were no stars and the clashing of the palms could not be heard. The sound was lost in the voice of the wind that had become the screams of a thousand frightened gulls.

"The fleet had warning," I said. "It has put in at Pichilinque or one of the safe coves. There are many between here and Cerralvo."

My mother got up and tried to open the door.

"Help me," she cried.

"You could not go farther than the courtyard," I told her. "Not that far, even crawling on your hands and knees. The fleet is safe, never fear. It has the best captain on the sea and he has been through many chubascos."

The screaming of the wind became so loud that we could not hear each other. We huddled around the table in the dark room and did not try to talk. The Indians came from the kitchen and sat on the floor beside us. Two of them had husbands with the fleet.

At midnight the wind still raged, but toward morning it slackened and at dawn died away in gasps, as a wounded beast dies. We all started for the harbor, to be there when the fleet came home. In the courtyard the palms were stripped of their leaves, and tiles from the roof lay scattered around, and when we reached the plaza pieces of rooftops were lying there also.

The morning was gray and hot. As we hurried down to the beach, many people joined us. Some of them had husbands or brothers with the fleet and all had friends. The beach was strewn with sea kelp and rows of dead fish and the boats that had been anchored in the harbor were piled high on the shore. Usually, before a chubasco the boats were pulled out of the water and tied down with

rocks. But the storm had struck so fast that this could not be done.

Father Gallardo came running down to the beach shortly after we got there. His white hair stood on end and he had his robe kilted up to his knees, yet he spoke to us hopefully, telling us that the boats would soon be sailing in.

"The Madonna has watched over the fleet," he said, "and it is safe. There are no coves here at hand, so it will be afternoon before the boats can reach the harbor. Go now to your homes with hope, and with faith in our Madonna, and wait."

But no one left the beach. The morning passed and the afternoon wore on and then at sunset someone sighted a boat far out beyond the lizard's tongue. The boat came closer and rounded the lizard's tongue and I saw that it was Soto Luzon in his red canoe.

The old man pulled his canoe up the shore, far from the people who were gathered there, and sat down. I went over to him and asked him if he had seen anything of the fleet.

He rolled a cornhusk cigarette and puffed on it for a time. "I have not seen the fleet," he said.

"Nor will I ever see it again, nor will you, señor."

Anger came over me at these words. "Do you say that the manta wrecked the fleet?"

"No, señor, I do not say this. The storm wrecked the fleet and you will never see it again."

"But you mean that the manta called up the storm."

The old man did not answer. In anger I walked away and left him and went back to where the people were gathered. At nightfall he was still there on the sand, smoking his cigarettes and waiting.

We built a fire out of driftwood and all of us stood around it. The crowd grew larger and some friends brought food and water down to us from the town. And Father Gallardo came with a cross, which he placed upright in the sand as a symbol of our hope.

My mother said to him, "My husband gave the great pearl to the Madonna. Surely, father, She will bring him home."

"Yes, surely," he said. "For this was a wonderful gift."

The night wore on and many from the town drifted away. We kept the fire bright until dawn, hoping that it would help the fleet to find the harbor safely. Dawn broke clear and the sea lay quiet between the headlands and the peaks of the far-off islands seemed to float in the sky, so close that you could reach out a hand and touch them.

Soon after sunrise a boy standing on the seawall pointed to the south. I looked and saw a lone figure stumbling along the shore. At first I thought it was some drunken sailor who had strayed in from the town. He was shirtless and his face was covered with blood and he would fall, lie for a moment, and get up. But as he came closer there was something about him I remembered.

I ran down the shore. It was Gaspar Ruiz, the Sevillano, and as I reached him he fell at my feet. He raised himself and looked up at me. I have never seen the eyes of a living man that held in them so much terror.

He opened his mouth and closed it and then he said, "Lost. The fleet is lost," and fell back on the sand and began to mutter words that I could not hear.

A
MONG THE THIRTY-TWO MEN
of the Salazar fleet, driven on the rocks of Punta Maldonado, only one survived, the Sevillano.

On the fourth day after the storm, services were held for our dead. The church again was decorated with flowers and filled with people from the town and the hills, and many who could not find a place stood outside. How strange, everyone said, that in less than a month the two greatest happenings in all the history of La Paz had taken place. First it was the finding of the great pearl. Then it was the coming of the great storm that wrecked the fleet and drowned so many. Nobody could put what he thought into words, but there were those who felt that the two happenings were joined together in some mysterious way.

Of these, I was one. And as I knelt beside my mother while Father Gallardo spoke on that sad morning, I listened with only half my heart to what he said.

My eyes were fixed upon the Madonna. She stood in Her niche all dressed in white and on Her face was a smile, the sweet smile that I often had seen before. She looked out at the kneeling mourners, smiling as if nothing ever had happened to the fleet and its men on the rocks of Punta Maldonado.

Father Gallardo was speaking of my father and his generous gifts to the church, especially the gift of the beautiful pearl. At that moment a ray of light fell through a window full upon the Madonna. It shone upon the pearl She held in Her hand and set it aglow, and as I gazed at the pearl I began to wonder for the first time why such a magnificent gift had not protected my father against the storm.

I wondered about this as I filed out of the church with the others, and as I stood in the plaza and talked to some of my friends, and when the Sevillano came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder, I was still wondering why the Madonna and Her pearl had failed to stay the coming of the storm.

"The big Pearl of Heaven," the Sevillano said, "did not bring us luck."

Always before I had paid no heed to his scoffing, but now his words somehow echoed what I was thinking. And yet I drew myself up and spoke to him sharply.

"The Pearl brought
you
luck," I said. "Or else you would not be here among the living."

"It was not the pearl," he said. "I am here because I am a good swimmer."

While we stood there, now saying little to each other, I saw at a distance the old man walking quietly up and down. He kept casting a glance over the departing throng and toward the church, but never at me, as if he did not know that I was there. And yet when I left the Sevillano I heard steps and turned to see him not three feet away.

"I tell you this once more," the old man said, "the pearl belongs to the Manta Diablo. And I tell
you
because it is
you
who found the pearl."

I made no reply to him and soon lost myself in the crowd. I did not go home as I had planned to do to be with my mother and sister, but went back to the church instead. I thought I would talk to Father Gallardo and tell him of the doubts that had overtaken me. He was not in his cell behind the altar, nor could I find him anywhere.

As I came to the niche where the Madonna stood I knelt and closed my eyes, but all I could think of was the boats lying broken on the rocks of Maldonado and my father dead and the old man's warning. I opened my eyes and looked up at the Madonna. I looked at the pearl She held in her hand, outstretched as if She wished me or someone to take it.

I rose and glanced around the church. It was deserted. I called Father Gallardo's name, but got no answer. Then quickly I reached out, grasped the pearl, lifted it from the Madonna's hand, thrust it deep inside my pocket, and walked softly down the aisle.

I had closed the big door when I came in and now as I opened it and took two steps, I found myself face to face with the Sevillano.

"I go back to get my sombrero" he said, "if someone in this town of thieves has not already stolen it."

I stepped aside for him to pass. He drew back and looked at me. It was only a fleeting look, but as I walked on I asked myself if in that quick-glance he had not seen the bulge the pearl made in my pocket.

I crossed the plaza, turning around several times, for I half-expected the old man to be following me, and as I reached the gate I looked for him to step out from the trees.

The great pearl was found missing early that evening by an altar boy. I knew that someone had discovered the theft for the big bell in the church began to toll.

At the first sound of the bell my mother who was writing a letter dropped her pen and looked at me.

"What does the bell mean?" she asked.

"It calls the town to prayer."

"This is not the hour for prayer."

"Then some boys are playing around in the belfry," I said.

The bell went on tolling and in a short time Father Gallardo came to the door, out of breath.