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Authors: Martin Cruz Smith
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didn’t go to the dance because I was in the wardroom with Marchuk and Morgan trying to show them where to trawl. Sometimes I don’t think the Russians and Americans are after fish at all.”
Slava and Arkady descended to the galley, where the crew had assembled for a meal of salt cod and wine, hardly the midday fare on a Soviet ship. Fishing was arduous work, but again Arkady was struck by the amenities on the
Merry Jane
: the big range with sliding bars to keep food from flying in heavy seas, the table covered by antiskid pads, the cushioned banquette, the coffee machine with its pot strapped in place. There were homey touches: hanging from a lamp cord, a wooden model of a sailing boat with eyes painted on the bow; a poster of a whitewashed village on a beach. Very different from the galley of the inland trawler Arkady had served on off the coast of Sakhalin. There the crew ate with no room to take off their coats, and everything—groats, potatoes, cabbage, tea—tasted of mildew and fish.
As they ate, the Portuguese watched a videotape. Aside from a polite nod, all interest in their guests was gone. Arkady understood. If someone was coming to ask them questions, he should speak their language. After all, when Russians were mucking around in rowboats the Portuguese had an empire that circled the world. On the screen was the hysterical narration and languid action of a soccer match.
“Zina Patiashvili?” Slava asked. “Does anyone hereknow Zina? Does … do you … have you?” He turned to Arkady. “This is a waste of time.”
“Football,” Arkady said as he sat down.
The Diego next to Arkady poured him a tumbler of red wine. “
Campeonato do Mundo
. You?”
“Goalie.” Twenty years ago, Arkady realized.
“Forward.” The fisherman pointed to himself, then to the other Diego and Marco. “Forward. Back.” He aimed his finger at the television. “Portugal white,
inglês
stripe. Bad.”
As all three fishermen winced, a figure in a striped jersey broke away and scored. How many times had they already seen the tape of this game, Arkady wondered—ten times, a hundred? Over a long voyage, men tend to tell the same tale over and over. This was the more refined torture of high technology.
While Diego averted his eyes from the television Arkady showed him the snapshot of Zina and Dynka.
“You stole that,” Slava said. “Zina.” Arkady watched the fisherman’s eyes slide from woman to woman equally. He shrugged. Arkady showed the picture to the other two crewmen and got the same reaction, but then the first Diego asked to see the photo again.
“No baile,”
he told Arkady.
“A loura da Rússia. A mulher com os americanos.”
He became passionate.
“Entende? Com americanos.”
“She danced with the Americans. That’s what I thought,” Arkady said.
“Beba, beba.”
Diego refilled his glass.
“Thank you.”
“Muito obrigado,”
Diego instructed him.
“Muito obrigado.”
“Meo pracer.”
Arkady held on to the center bar as the transport cage swung down to the second trawler. Slava was looking more and more miserable, like a bird caged with a cat.
“This is upsetting the work schedule.”
“Look on it as a holiday,” Arkady said.
“Ha!” Slava soberly regarded a gull hovering outside a bilge hole of the
Polar Star
waiting for slops to drop. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“What?” Arkady was mystified.
“That since I was onstage I could see who Zina was with. Well, you’re wrong. When you’re onstage playing, the lights are right in your eyes. Ask the other members of the band; they’ll tell you the same thing. We couldn’t see anyone.”
“You ask,” Arkady said. “You’re in charge.”
The
Eagle
was smaller than the
Merry Jane
, red and white, lower to the water, sporting a side crane and a gantry with a single reel. Another difference was that not a single fisherman was on deck to greet them. They stepped out onto wooden planks empty except for the dregs
Slava and Arkady descended to the galley, where the crew had assembled for a meal of salt cod and wine, hardly the midday fare on a Soviet ship. Fishing was arduous work, but again Arkady was struck by the amenities on the
Merry Jane
: the big range with sliding bars to keep food from flying in heavy seas, the table covered by antiskid pads, the cushioned banquette, the coffee machine with its pot strapped in place. There were homey touches: hanging from a lamp cord, a wooden model of a sailing boat with eyes painted on the bow; a poster of a whitewashed village on a beach. Very different from the galley of the inland trawler Arkady had served on off the coast of Sakhalin. There the crew ate with no room to take off their coats, and everything—groats, potatoes, cabbage, tea—tasted of mildew and fish.
As they ate, the Portuguese watched a videotape. Aside from a polite nod, all interest in their guests was gone. Arkady understood. If someone was coming to ask them questions, he should speak their language. After all, when Russians were mucking around in rowboats the Portuguese had an empire that circled the world. On the screen was the hysterical narration and languid action of a soccer match.
“Zina Patiashvili?” Slava asked. “Does anyone hereknow Zina? Does … do you … have you?” He turned to Arkady. “This is a waste of time.”
“Football,” Arkady said as he sat down.
The Diego next to Arkady poured him a tumbler of red wine. “
Campeonato do Mundo
. You?”
“Goalie.” Twenty years ago, Arkady realized.
“Forward.” The fisherman pointed to himself, then to the other Diego and Marco. “Forward. Back.” He aimed his finger at the television. “Portugal white,
inglês
stripe. Bad.”
As all three fishermen winced, a figure in a striped jersey broke away and scored. How many times had they already seen the tape of this game, Arkady wondered—ten times, a hundred? Over a long voyage, men tend to tell the same tale over and over. This was the more refined torture of high technology.
While Diego averted his eyes from the television Arkady showed him the snapshot of Zina and Dynka.
“You stole that,” Slava said. “Zina.” Arkady watched the fisherman’s eyes slide from woman to woman equally. He shrugged. Arkady showed the picture to the other two crewmen and got the same reaction, but then the first Diego asked to see the photo again.
“No baile,”
he told Arkady.
“A loura da Rússia. A mulher com os americanos.”
He became passionate.
“Entende? Com americanos.”
“She danced with the Americans. That’s what I thought,” Arkady said.
“Beba, beba.”
Diego refilled his glass.
“Thank you.”
“Muito obrigado,”
Diego instructed him.
“Muito obrigado.”
“Meo pracer.”
Arkady held on to the center bar as the transport cage swung down to the second trawler. Slava was looking more and more miserable, like a bird caged with a cat.
“This is upsetting the work schedule.”
“Look on it as a holiday,” Arkady said.
“Ha!” Slava soberly regarded a gull hovering outside a bilge hole of the
Polar Star
waiting for slops to drop. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“What?” Arkady was mystified.
“That since I was onstage I could see who Zina was with. Well, you’re wrong. When you’re onstage playing, the lights are right in your eyes. Ask the other members of the band; they’ll tell you the same thing. We couldn’t see anyone.”
“You ask,” Arkady said. “You’re in charge.”
The
Eagle
was smaller than the
Merry Jane
, red and white, lower to the water, sporting a side crane and a gantry with a single reel. Another difference was that not a single fisherman was on deck to greet them. They stepped out onto wooden planks empty except for the dregs
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