shakes his head and says, “I don’t know. It was all those things, maybe, or none of them.” He pauses, and struggles to find a way to say what he reallyfeels. “When I looked into the eyes of the officers,” he says, “I saw a coldness there. I saw they were without God.”
A few seconds pass.
“Yes,” Broas says, “you’re right. I saw that too …”
“So what do we do?” Juanito asks.
“We wait. There’s nothing else we can do.”
“Does this mean we’ll do something later on? Does this mean we’ll do something eventually?” the fitter asks.
Broas pauses for a moment, as if to think.
“Yes,” he says. “We will.”
The meeting breaks up around eleven, shortly before Broas starts his evening watch in the engine room. Rodolfo goes to his cabin. Though he’s as quiet as possible, he cannot stop the door from creaking as he makes his way to his bunk. Manuel opens an eye against the light that widens, and then narrows, over the room.
“Bose,” he says, “why are you late?”
“Shhh, my brother. Go to sleep.”
“Where were you?”
“Shhh, Manuel. Sleep.”
“Is something happening?”
“No, brother, nothing …”
Rodolfo pulls off his clothes and folds down the blanket in a crisp triangle. He crawls in, pulling the blanket to his chin. The two men lie in darkness, the moon casting a circle of dim, silvery light on the floor between them. Neither can sleep. Manuel asks if he can smoke, and when Rodolfo says, “Sure, it doesn’t bother me,” he lights a cigarette. Rodolfo listens to him rhythmically draw smoke into his lungs, the room filling with the barley scent ofAmerican tobacco. As a sailor, he’s grown accustomed to the smells encountered on a big ship—to diesel fuel and unwashed bedding, to cooking oil and burning tobacco, to the acrid smell of a city, carried by breezes, as they near the harbour of a poor country.
He soon finds himself thinking of home, as though he were looking at snapshots on a child’s viewfinder. He thinks of his favourite noodle stand, of the places he’ll take his little ones when he returns, and of the small gifts he’ll buy for Maripaz when they’re together again. He then thanks God for allowing him to have such comforting thoughts. There are men on board, he knows, who’ve not been so lucky—who have divorced, who have lost children to illness, who did not have enough to eat when they were growing up. After a time, his thoughts slow, and time begins to curl in on itself. He sleeps, soundly, for the first night since
the incident
, his dreams occuring in deserts, and forests, and other places without water.
The next day, around mid-afternoon, Rodolfo is on deck. The sea is strong, a steady rolling of waves pushing against the progress of the ship. The list lights mounted on the stack keep flickering from white to red to white to green, a constant visual reminder of the sea’s unsteadiness. He can see the officers conferring on the bridge, so he steals along the starboard side, his path obscured by a bank of containers. He reaches the accommodation, and takes the stairs to the seamen’s deck. Once there, he walks to the oiler’s cabin. He knocks, and Juanito answers, looking surprised.
“Bosun …” he says.
A moment passes, both men fidgeting.
“Oiler … it’s about Manuel.”
“Yes?”
“I think he’d like to join us. I think it would help him. He has been …well, he’s been as upset as any of us.”
Juanito eyes him for a moment, and then shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he answers. “My room is crowded already. I should have a talk with Ariel. I don’t know, Bosun.”
Rodolfo’s eyes flicker from left to right. He feels naked, being in the hallway, having this conversation. He lowers his voice. “One of the stowaways,” he says, “kissed Manuel’s feet.”
Again, Juanito shakes his head. Rodolfo says nothing, for he knows full well what is running through the oiler’s head—the young stowaway,
A few seconds pass.
“Yes,” Broas says, “you’re right. I saw that too …”
“So what do we do?” Juanito asks.
“We wait. There’s nothing else we can do.”
“Does this mean we’ll do something later on? Does this mean we’ll do something eventually?” the fitter asks.
Broas pauses for a moment, as if to think.
“Yes,” he says. “We will.”
The meeting breaks up around eleven, shortly before Broas starts his evening watch in the engine room. Rodolfo goes to his cabin. Though he’s as quiet as possible, he cannot stop the door from creaking as he makes his way to his bunk. Manuel opens an eye against the light that widens, and then narrows, over the room.
“Bose,” he says, “why are you late?”
“Shhh, my brother. Go to sleep.”
“Where were you?”
“Shhh, Manuel. Sleep.”
“Is something happening?”
“No, brother, nothing …”
Rodolfo pulls off his clothes and folds down the blanket in a crisp triangle. He crawls in, pulling the blanket to his chin. The two men lie in darkness, the moon casting a circle of dim, silvery light on the floor between them. Neither can sleep. Manuel asks if he can smoke, and when Rodolfo says, “Sure, it doesn’t bother me,” he lights a cigarette. Rodolfo listens to him rhythmically draw smoke into his lungs, the room filling with the barley scent ofAmerican tobacco. As a sailor, he’s grown accustomed to the smells encountered on a big ship—to diesel fuel and unwashed bedding, to cooking oil and burning tobacco, to the acrid smell of a city, carried by breezes, as they near the harbour of a poor country.
He soon finds himself thinking of home, as though he were looking at snapshots on a child’s viewfinder. He thinks of his favourite noodle stand, of the places he’ll take his little ones when he returns, and of the small gifts he’ll buy for Maripaz when they’re together again. He then thanks God for allowing him to have such comforting thoughts. There are men on board, he knows, who’ve not been so lucky—who have divorced, who have lost children to illness, who did not have enough to eat when they were growing up. After a time, his thoughts slow, and time begins to curl in on itself. He sleeps, soundly, for the first night since
the incident
, his dreams occuring in deserts, and forests, and other places without water.
The next day, around mid-afternoon, Rodolfo is on deck. The sea is strong, a steady rolling of waves pushing against the progress of the ship. The list lights mounted on the stack keep flickering from white to red to white to green, a constant visual reminder of the sea’s unsteadiness. He can see the officers conferring on the bridge, so he steals along the starboard side, his path obscured by a bank of containers. He reaches the accommodation, and takes the stairs to the seamen’s deck. Once there, he walks to the oiler’s cabin. He knocks, and Juanito answers, looking surprised.
“Bosun …” he says.
A moment passes, both men fidgeting.
“Oiler … it’s about Manuel.”
“Yes?”
“I think he’d like to join us. I think it would help him. He has been …well, he’s been as upset as any of us.”
Juanito eyes him for a moment, and then shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he answers. “My room is crowded already. I should have a talk with Ariel. I don’t know, Bosun.”
Rodolfo’s eyes flicker from left to right. He feels naked, being in the hallway, having this conversation. He lowers his voice. “One of the stowaways,” he says, “kissed Manuel’s feet.”
Again, Juanito shakes his head. Rodolfo says nothing, for he knows full well what is running through the oiler’s head—the young stowaway,
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