His initial impression of her had been that she was more than pretty, but he subtracted from that impression the exotic bauble embedded in her eye. You were drawn first to look at the eye, only then at the rest of her, and it seemed that the surreal beauty of the rose had created an illusion of beauty, that she was in reality quite ordinary. This secondary impression was enhanced by her doglike obedience to Ruy’s whims. Once, for instance, he had her dress in black pumps and an evening gown, pile her hair high and fix it with glittering jeweled pins that resembled bunches of tiny flowers, and set her to scrubbing the decks, a chore that took her most of the night and left her dress in tatters. She went about with her head down, rarely speaking to anyone, and would flinch at the sound of Ruy’s step.
But one night as Mingolla walked along the companionway belowdecks, heading for his cabin, he heard Corazon’s voice coming from Tully’s door, which was cracked an inch open. ‘No, I don’t feel nothin’,’ she was saying.
‘Hell you don’t,’ Tully said. ‘Can’t fool me ’bout dat.’
Through the door, Mingolla saw Corazon standing by Tully’s bunk, wearing only panties. Lantern light flashed off the rose in her eye.
‘Why you want me to feel?’ she said. ‘Feelin’ don’t mean nothin’. I don’t wanna feel.’
‘Dat’s horseshit,’ said Tully. ‘Dat’s just how Ruy want you to be… he like you to be dat way. And for some reason I can’t unnerstan’, you t’ink dat’s upful.’
‘I have to go.’ She shrugged into her blouse.
Tully, hopeless-sounding: ‘You be back?’
Mingolla didn’t wait for the answer, ducking into the vacant cabin next door. When he heard Corazon’s footsteps retreating, he crossed to Tully’s door and pushed on in. ‘You’re playing with fire, man,’ he said. ‘We don’t need trouble with Ruy.’
‘Ain’t gonna be no trouble,’ said Tully, lying back on his bunk. ‘And if dere is, den we fix he head for him.’
‘I just as soon not scramble the brains of a man who’s sailing reef waters,’ said Mingolla.
‘Don’t be worryin’.’ Tully heaved a forlorn sigh. ‘Mon know alla ’bout me and Corazon. Fact it were his idea, her comin’ to me. He like to have her tell ’bout how it is wit’ ot’er men.’ He slammed his fist into the mattress.
‘What’s the matter?’
The lines on Tully’s face appeared to be etched deeper than before, like cracks spreading through his substance. ‘Damn fool, me,’ he said. ‘To get taken wit’ some squint at my age… ’specially one dat ain’t even taken wit’ herself.’ He made the muscles of his forearm bunch and writhe, watched their play. ‘She enjoy t’inkin’ ’bout herself like she a doorstop or somethin’. And the damn t’ing is, I know she feel fah me, ’cept she won’t ’mit it.’
‘Maybe she doesn’t feel anything,’ Mingolla suggested. ‘Maybe you’re kidding yourself.’
‘Naw, she feel it all right. She just shamed by the feelin’. Goddamn women, dere feelin’s is most all de power dey got, so dey likes to go fuckin’ ’round wit’ ’em, y’know. See how fuckin’ twisted dey can make ’em, and den get a mon all cotched up in dem.’ He hit the mattress again. ‘Can’t figger how she got dat way.’
‘Could be Ruy’s doing.’
‘I don’t t’ink so. De woman been t’rough de therapy, she got no reason to bow down to Ruy. Naw, ut strike me she been like dis awhile.’ Tully held up his fist to the light, examined it: like an alchemist inspecting a strange root in the rays from his alembic. ‘But, mon, I could have fun fah a few minutes alone wit’ dat son of a bitch.’
‘That wouldn’t be real smart,’ Mingolla said. ‘We need him right now.’
‘What “smart” got to do wit’ anyt’ing?’ Tully glowered at Mingolla. ‘You t’ink it’s smart de way you carryin’ on wit’ dat Cifuentes woman? T’ink dat don’t ’fect your judgments?’
‘Least she’s not spoken for.’
‘Naw, but Ruy he gotta yearnin’ fah her.’
‘He’s just flirting.’
‘Dat not what Corazon say, she say de mon have fall hard.’
‘Then that’s his tough luck.’
Tully snorted, stared at the ceiling. ‘You sure as shit still gotta lot to learn, Davy.’
Mingolla perched on the edge of the bunk. ‘So tell me ’bout Panama, man. This place you talking ’bout.’
‘Dat’ll keep.’
‘What you got better to do… brood?’
Tully said nothing for several seconds, but finally sat up. ‘Guess you gotta point. All right, I tell you. Dere’s dis little village name of Tres Santos up in de Darién Mountains. Here’—he grabbed pencil and paper from the table by the bunk—‘I draw a map.’ He kept talking as he drew. ‘It ’bout four, five hours from Panama City… less dere’s mist. Den you could be a week gettin’ dere. Or maybe you take de coast road ’long de Pacific and come at Tres Santos from de west. Less mist dat way.’
‘What’s there?’ Mingolla asked.
‘Not’in’ ’cept Indians. But in case t’ings go to hell in Panama City, Tres Santos be a good place to start a run.’
‘Shit, they’d find us there.’
‘Dat’s true… Tres Santos open to the sky. But from dere you can cotch a trail dat lead into de cloud forest. And once you up in de clouds, you can’t be stayin’ dere, neither. But you can hide your tracks. De Indians dey be helpful and you say to dem my name. Dey show you de secret ways, and no matter who will follow, you take dem ways and you will be far away ’fore de dogs can trace your scent.’ He held up the paper, studied it. ‘Dere… you hang on to dat ’case t’ings don’t work out in Panama.’
Mingolla tucked the map into his shirt pocket. ‘What were you doing up in the mountains? Thought you were fishing.’
‘I were fishin’ all right… fishin’ under de meanest mot’erfucker dat ever put on a braided cap. We hit Colón, mon, I were over de side and runnin’ fah he cut the engines. Had me a time, too. Dat Darién some wild country.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Most of it just wilderness, but de cloud forest now, dat’s somet’in unusual fah true.’ Tully folded his arms behind his head. ‘Dere’s villages up dere where de sun never comes… even on de brightest day dere’s mist, and the air look like it fulla some kinda shiny atoms, y’know. And when you see a mon walkin’ toward you, wit’ de mist swirlin’ ’round him and de sun givin’ him a halo, it make you t’ink you gone to Jesus. And it’s quiet. Every sound’s muffled by de mist, and you cannot judge de distances ’tween t’ings. You get de feelin’ dat de place is made of mist, and dat de distances is always changin’. You will hear wings beatin’ and see only shadows, and de jungle ’pear like it movin’ slow, all de vines writ’in and twistin’ like snakes. And dere’s brujos. Witch men. You can see dere fires in de night, bloomin’ out in de solitudes, in de high places. Hear dere chantin’. And when de chantin’ cease, dere may come a black dog strollin’ t’rough de village, a dog dat belong to nobody, and dey say if you look in he eye, den you will learn of de mysteries.’