Read Online Pescador's Wake by Katherine Johnson - Free Book Online

hitting the back of the scraper carefully with the back of a wrench. Already a new thin film begins to form, and through it Carlos can see Eduardo’s eyes on the radar, an uncharacteristically troubled expression on his face.
    When he has finished, Carlos can no longer feel his fingers. The water and the cold have somehow worked their way in through his gloves. He grips the rails of the narrow wheelhouse deck with ice-blunted hands and guides himself back to the door, lugging it open against the wind. He flicks back his wet hood. ‘I can’t remember what it’s like to be dry,’he jokes, pulling at his clothes, which are heavy with frigid water. His eyebrows and forehead are crusted white with salt, adding decades to his appearance. He moves an already damp towel over his face.
    Eduardo is still looking at the radar, which is crowded with the fluorescent blips of wave scatter and perhaps a dozen icebergs. It could be a stellar map of the southern skies.
    â€˜You’re happy to be this far south?’ he asks Carlos.
    â€˜Happy? No. But we need to get some distance behind us. Another day or so down here, just tracing the edge of the pack, and we’ll lose the patrol, if we haven’t already.’
    â€˜You’d think so. They can’t be as stupid or as stubborn as us!’ Eduardo shakes his head, but doesn’t quite manage a laugh. ‘Mauritius is unlikely then?’
    â€˜We might have to find another port. Africa maybe.’
    â€˜Migiliaro won’t like it.’
    â€˜What choice do we have?’
    Carlos watches as Eduardo walks to the chart table, takes a sip of mate, and uses the gourd-shaped vessel containing the herbal tea to hold open the map. Using his finger, he draws a line from their current position to various alternate destinations: Mauritius, back home to Montevideo, or…Eduardo travels his finger up the west coast of Africa, and stops at Walvis Bay.
    â€˜They normally turn a blind eye to unrecorded catches in Namibia,’ he says, looking up at Carlos.
    Carlos tilts his head to the side, weighing up the risks and benefits of the proposition. ‘Maybe,’ he concedes. ‘Anyway, if you’re happy to take over, I’ll go and get some sleep.’ He shifts his attention out to sea. ‘While the weather holds.’
    â€˜That’s why I’m here,’ Eduardo says, waving Carlos to the door. ‘Go and dream of that beautiful wife of yours.’
    â€˜She’ll be worried sick.’ Carlos reaches out a gloved hand to touch the photograph of his wife. He circles his finger on her pregnant belly. ‘So will Virginia…’
    â€˜ Si ,’ Eduardo looks away from the photograph and towards the ice. ‘But they’ll be happy with what we have in our pockets. Enough money to break free of the Migiliaros of the world.’
    Carlos nods. ‘I hope that’s how it turns out.’
    â€˜It’ll be okay. Trust me.’
    â€˜ Si, Capitán !’ Carlos jokes, making a mock salute with his hand on his forehead as he leaves the wheelhouse, glad to surrender control for a couple of hours.

LOGBOOK OF EDUARDO RODRÍGUEZ TORRES
    No attempt at fine prose today. Dmitri Ivanov, our engineer, is proving a major problem. It seems I was wrong to involve him in our plan. I had not long taken over the helm from Carlos when Dmitri entered the wheelhouse and overheard a middle-of-the-night satellite call from Uruguayan Fisheries—Francisco Molteni has ordered us back to Montevideo. Dmitri had paced the floor, insisting we unload in Mauritius as planned. I’ve never seen someone so emphatic yet so blank, like a sheet of ice. The air in the room was heavier in his presence, and I was suddenly aware of the dank smell of the carpet. Clenching his teeth so hard that the muscles at his temples bulged, he claimed he’d tell Migiliaro about our arrangement to sell behind his back if I broke our deal. He