Read Online Ghost Sea: A Novel (Dugger/Nello Series) by Ferenc Máté - Free Book Online
Authors: Ferenc Máté
Ads: Link
endless repetition from the first light of dawn until the place went dark.
I saw Nello coming up the ramp through the spraying water. He was a couple of inches shorter than me, but his feisty stance coupled with what he used to call my “condescending stoop” made us, in my mind, similar in height. He had his mother’s skin and straight black hair, but his father’s frail bones, held together by a flesh so hard that his veins only found room by bulging through his skin. His face was gaunt, making his blue eyes even more startling.
His movements were quick. Aboard the ketch, he would always fidget with blocks and lines, making minuscule adjustments to sheets and halyards until the sails were set to perfection, without a ripple. He was the perfect first mate except for his mouth. He would say whatever crossed his mind, consequences or reaction be damned. And he would say it to anyone’s face with his eyes riveted, softening the blow only with an occasional, “Don’t you think so too?” even when the unsaid answer was obviously no. And having embarrassed or offended, he was never apologetic. “It’s the Tuscan in me,” he’d say with a shrug, as if that somehow justified all.
He came leaning slightly forward, a worn, narrow-rimmed black hat pushed back off his forehead, in a dark seaman’s sweater with the sleeves ending halfway down the forearms to keep away from fishhooks and winches. His strong arms and big hands made him look heavier than he was. He was all of forty but his movements made him younger.
He seemed glad to see me and was about to extend his hand for a shake, but something on my face must have made him uneasy, for he suddenly diverted his hand to his shirt pocket and yanked out the stub of a cigar. He lit it, took a puff, and blew out the smoke with an agitated force as if trying to blow away a bothersome insect. “Good to see you, Cappy,” he said.
“You too,” I said.
“Something eating you, am I right?” he said, studying my eyes.
“You’re always right,” I said.
“When you’re this congenial, I’m in trouble.”
“No trouble, I promise. Just came to offer you a cruise. A vacation from flying fish guts.”
“I don’t need a vacation; I need money.”
“There’s that too. Lots of it.”
“Like the last time. You still owe me half my pay.”
“This time it’s different. Here’s what I owe you,” and I handed him some bills. “And when you step on board I’ll give you half of your share in advance.”
“You rob a bank?”
“Just got me a good trip, that’s all.”
He snubbed out his cigar. That was a good sign; he was calming down.
“How long a trip?” he asked guardedly.
“Can’t tell for sure. Maybe a week, maybe more.”
“How much more?”
“A month.”
“Forget it!” he blurted as if someone had slapped his back. “A month’s too long.”
“Two weeks’ pay in advance.”
“Still too long.”
“For what?”
He looked embarrassed. “For me to stand.”
“Stand what?”
“Your cooking. Last time you cooked flapjacks morning, noon, and night. Twenty-two goddamn days; sixty-six plates of flapjacks.”
“And sausages. The first days we had sausages. “
“Burnt to charcoal.”
“All right. A whole month in advance.”
“I’d rather be crucified. That only lasts a few hours, then you get to die,” and he turned to walk away. I had to grab him. I yanked a bunch of bills from my pocket.
“Okay. A month’s wages now and you do the cooking.”
“Tuscan men don’t cook.”
“But you’re half Indian.”
“That half don’t cook either.” And he was leaving.
“I’ll get a cook,” I blurted. “A Chinaman. The best cook in town, from Mr. Chow. You know he owes me.” Chow had already paid me back generously but this much he’d do for me. Nello turned. Considered.
“A Chinaman cook. You swear.”
“On my mother’s grave.”
“And real food; no flapjacks.”
“Not one.”
He counted the bills. “When do
I saw Nello coming up the ramp through the spraying water. He was a couple of inches shorter than me, but his feisty stance coupled with what he used to call my “condescending stoop” made us, in my mind, similar in height. He had his mother’s skin and straight black hair, but his father’s frail bones, held together by a flesh so hard that his veins only found room by bulging through his skin. His face was gaunt, making his blue eyes even more startling.
His movements were quick. Aboard the ketch, he would always fidget with blocks and lines, making minuscule adjustments to sheets and halyards until the sails were set to perfection, without a ripple. He was the perfect first mate except for his mouth. He would say whatever crossed his mind, consequences or reaction be damned. And he would say it to anyone’s face with his eyes riveted, softening the blow only with an occasional, “Don’t you think so too?” even when the unsaid answer was obviously no. And having embarrassed or offended, he was never apologetic. “It’s the Tuscan in me,” he’d say with a shrug, as if that somehow justified all.
He came leaning slightly forward, a worn, narrow-rimmed black hat pushed back off his forehead, in a dark seaman’s sweater with the sleeves ending halfway down the forearms to keep away from fishhooks and winches. His strong arms and big hands made him look heavier than he was. He was all of forty but his movements made him younger.
He seemed glad to see me and was about to extend his hand for a shake, but something on my face must have made him uneasy, for he suddenly diverted his hand to his shirt pocket and yanked out the stub of a cigar. He lit it, took a puff, and blew out the smoke with an agitated force as if trying to blow away a bothersome insect. “Good to see you, Cappy,” he said.
“You too,” I said.
“Something eating you, am I right?” he said, studying my eyes.
“You’re always right,” I said.
“When you’re this congenial, I’m in trouble.”
“No trouble, I promise. Just came to offer you a cruise. A vacation from flying fish guts.”
“I don’t need a vacation; I need money.”
“There’s that too. Lots of it.”
“Like the last time. You still owe me half my pay.”
“This time it’s different. Here’s what I owe you,” and I handed him some bills. “And when you step on board I’ll give you half of your share in advance.”
“You rob a bank?”
“Just got me a good trip, that’s all.”
He snubbed out his cigar. That was a good sign; he was calming down.
“How long a trip?” he asked guardedly.
“Can’t tell for sure. Maybe a week, maybe more.”
“How much more?”
“A month.”
“Forget it!” he blurted as if someone had slapped his back. “A month’s too long.”
“Two weeks’ pay in advance.”
“Still too long.”
“For what?”
He looked embarrassed. “For me to stand.”
“Stand what?”
“Your cooking. Last time you cooked flapjacks morning, noon, and night. Twenty-two goddamn days; sixty-six plates of flapjacks.”
“And sausages. The first days we had sausages. “
“Burnt to charcoal.”
“All right. A whole month in advance.”
“I’d rather be crucified. That only lasts a few hours, then you get to die,” and he turned to walk away. I had to grab him. I yanked a bunch of bills from my pocket.
“Okay. A month’s wages now and you do the cooking.”
“Tuscan men don’t cook.”
“But you’re half Indian.”
“That half don’t cook either.” And he was leaving.
“I’ll get a cook,” I blurted. “A Chinaman. The best cook in town, from Mr. Chow. You know he owes me.” Chow had already paid me back generously but this much he’d do for me. Nello turned. Considered.
“A Chinaman cook. You swear.”
“On my mother’s grave.”
“And real food; no flapjacks.”
“Not one.”
He counted the bills. “When do
Similar Books
