His thin lips pressed themselves together tightly, leaving them bloodless, as he stared at the impartial bulletin board. Sebastian had told him when they had met in Lisbon that the opportunity of a lifetime awaited him; the chance to earn a fantastic sum for a few minutes’ work. And now he was being carried helplessly away from it! He tried to force down his anger and attempt a cold calculation of his position, but it was impossible. With the scheduled detour, the ship would not arrive in Montevideo for at least another four days, and Sebastian had been very clear that he had to be in Rio de Janeiro by the sixth of the month at the latest, or to forget the entire matter. And the sixth was tomorrow! Damn! And again damn! Why in the name of the beloved Saint whose job it was to watch over such fools as himself hadn’t he left the ship in Salvador de Bahia?
He stood staring bitterly at the scrawled notice but in actuality only seeing the black turmoil of his thoughts. It was not until the hand on his arm had shaken him rather severely several times that he realized he was being addressed.
“Bad news, Steward?”
Even in his daze, Nacio recognized the other as being one of the four passengers, a small globular man with a full fat face and a hairline mustache curved under a tiny blob of a nose; a man named Dantas, or Dumas, or Dortas, or something like that; a man whose large black eyes were liquid and fathomless, and whose sparse graying hair seemed to have been painted in place. Nacio stared at him blankly.
“Senhor?”
The little man was patience itself. “I said, the notice seems to be somewhat of a shock to you.”
“The notice?” Nacio forced his mind from the fateful meaning of the scrawled words, automatically assuming the semiservility of a steward. “No, senhor. I was merely a bit surprised. It really makes no difference to me.”
The smaller man studied Nacio’s features a moment thoughtfully, and then changed his tactics. His voice became conversational. “You’re a Brazilian, are you not?”
It was impossible to deny this; Nacio’s accent betrayed him in every word, even to this little man who spoke in a Spanish that was marked with the harsh gutturals of the Rio Plate. “A Brazilian? Yes, senhor, I am.”
“And you aren’t disappointed that we shall not be stopping in Rio?”
“Disappointed?” For a moment the complete inadequacy of the word almost removed Nacio’s rigid control. He forced back a wave of bitterness and even managed at last to shrug, even to force a deprecating smile. “Naturally, senhor, to a Brazilian our lovely Rio de Janeiro must always be the only city in the world. And not to see it, when one is actually so close...”
“A pity.” The tiny fathomless eyes looked at him calculatingly. “I admire you, Steward. I admire the calm way in which you accept this — ah, this disappointment.” The small shoulders raised themselves delicately. “I think in your place I should be less brave.”
Nacio had no choice but to fall back upon a cliché. “Senhor, in this life what one cannot overcome, one must accept.” Even as he said the words, he wished he could believe them.
“Not always.” The little man dropped his eyes to the worn rug of the salon a moment and then raised them. “A person of ingenuity always seeks alternate routes to his goal. Different avenues. For example,” he continued evenly, “if I were you, I should still manage to get to Rio. Or at least to try.” He paused a moment and then added significantly, “And I should do it today...”
“Today?” Nacio studied the expression in the other’s eyes a moment. The deep liquid pools seemed to be trying to give him a message, but without success. Was the little man making fun of him? The thought induced bitterness. “How, senhor? By swimming?”
“No,” said the little man gently. “By becoming ill.”
The faint hope that the small passenger might actually have a workable plan disappeared; it was obvious that the man was merely insane. Nor in his present mood did Nacio feel like wasting the time to humor him. “If you will please pardon me, senhor—”
The tiny hand that shot out to grasp his arm and detain him was far stronger than Nacio would have imagined.
“Ill!” said the smaller man firmly. “Sick! The captain of this ship is not the type to allow a member of his crew to suffer, and possibly to die, simply because he wishes to avoid some rough weather.”
Nacio’s eyes narrowed as the words of the other slowly began to germinate. It was, indeed, an idea. Possibly, even, a good idea. “But what kind of illness?”
“Appendix, I should say.” The smaller man looked at him quite evenly; no trace of expression marked his full, fat face. “Now, tell the truth. You do not feel well, do you?”
Nacio studied the other carefully. “No, senhor. I do not.”
“Good! I mean, I’m sorry to hear it. And, of course, you also have a terrible pain in your lower groin.” Nacio’s hand went automatically to his stomach. “Over a bit and a trifle lower,” said the small passenger critically, and moved Nacio’s hand. He studied the effect. “That’s better.”
“But—”
“And nausea, of course.” Dorcas — or Dantas, or Dumas, or something like that — considered the frozen face of the steward a moment, and then nodded. “I’ve seen sicker people, but I suppose it will have to do. You’d better get to your bunk. An infected appendix can be a serious affair.”
“There’s just one thing—”
“I shall advise the officials.” The small hand came up to grasp Nacio’s arm again, urging him toward the door. Nacio held back. It was quite obvious that this Dantas — or Dumas or Dortas or something like that — had his own reasons for wanting the ship to dock in Rio, and was only using him as a Judas goat. It was true that the scheme might well serve his, Nacio’s, purposes, but still...
“Just why are you doing this, senhor?”
“Why?” The little man smiled. “Let us say that I, too, have suffered the pangs of homesickness, and I appreciate them in others. Or, if you prefer, let us say that I have a distorted sense of humor and enjoy practical jokes. Or even, let us say,” he added coldly, his smile disappearing instantly, “that I recognize illness when I see it, and in my estimation you should be lying down in your bunk. Now!”
His hand propelled Nacio closer to the door. The thin steward allowed himself to be led. Regardless of the other’s motives, the fact remained that this could well be the solution to his own problem. He assumed an expression of pain, grasped his lower groin firmly, and nodded. “If you will pardon me, senhor...”
“Of course,” said the small passenger pleasantly.
He looked after the departing figure of the steward a moment thoughtfully, sighed, and then made his way to the deck. The sky had darkened considerably, taking on a weird yellowish cast, eerie at that hour of the morning; the wind had risen, shrilling through the guy ropes of the deck cranes, heavy with the threat of coming rain. He stepped daintily across the rope-falls that snaked their way across the sloping deck, and finally located the mate. He tapped the tall young man on the shoulder a bit imperiously.
“Your steward is quite ill.” His voice was raised over the wind, but still seemed to be a trifle accusing, as if the affair were somehow the mate’s fault.
“Ill? The steward?”
Miguel was rather surprised to hear this particular passenger evoking any great interest in anything, let alone the health of a crew member. This one had kept to himself throughout the voyage, seldom if ever spoke at the dining table, avoided even the slight entertainment the ship offered, and was usually found at night leaning over the bow rail, staring out into the empty blackness.