When it seemed he’d finished that, the man went to the bow, and, opening the locker, he leaned in to his waist. He finally backed out with a canvas-covered demijohn. He glanced at him and smiled again. He turned the bottle over and unpicked the canvas sheath, which sprouted yet more watches. Then, clowning about, he pulled out the rubber stopper and took a drink of water. It had a false bottom. Another clever dodge.
The rumour of the engine and the swelter of the day began to send them all to sleep. Cabecita screamed a bit, rejoicing in the trick. Watches on the bottom, water on the top.
They came on to the open sea.
They sailed along the channel now, and felt the sombre pressure of the water underneath them. The day was clear and bright. The sun shone overhead, the most intense life in this vastness. It seemed extremely close, and the light it shed immersed them in a soporific buzzing.
They didn’t cross a single boat. They saw some on the channel, dark and very large, and sailing in a convoy to the west. But these were out of sight now and the River Plate surrounded them, flat and bright and lonely. A river built of glass, or rather, wood glue used by carpenters, with millions of hardened pleats that didn’t appear to move.
They came alongside buoy K40, black and lit up, and the man told them to tie the Aldebarán up to the turret. They gathered all the watches in a single canvas bag, and passed them to the little fellow, who’d jumped down into their rowing boat.
‘Don’t go touching anything,’ the man said to them all. ‘It isn’t worth your while.’
He’d piled the couchette blankets in the centre of the cabin, together with the demijohn and all the other lifebelts. He brought a can of petrol from the locker in the stern, and poured some on the blankets.
‘Get into the rowing boat,’ he said.
They jumped across.
The man used what was left inside the can to douse the cabin walls. Boga saw the bloke there when he looked in through the portholes, still stretched out on the floor, with his ruined, bloody face.
The man came out and stood up in the cockpit. He saw his shadow, short and black, frozen for a moment in the tall light of the morning.
He was working very quickly, but nimbly and precisely.
A Cessna 172 passed a long way overhead, grazing against the sky as it travelled on north-west.
The man leaned over the gunwale, holding out the empty can. He dipped it in the water and then waited as it filled. Then he spread his fingers and allowed the can to drop down to the bottom. Boga fancied it would go down with a gentle sway. It wouldn’t go down vertically, but drifting on a bit, transported by the current.
The warm sun made him sleepy. He held on to the oars as if to hold on to reality. The man jumped on the boat, and then he was awake. Something he transmitted wiped away their peace of mind. He made them tense and nervous. He had a strip of canvas soaked in petrol in his hand.
‘Untie her now,’ he said.
Rubia untied the rope that held the Aldebarán to the turret of the buoy. The man still held the gunwale of the larger of the vessels, to keep the small boat with it.
‘Hold on to her now,’ he said, when Rubia had finished.
Rubia held the boat in place, helped by Cabecita. They were drifting and the larger boat was crossing into their path. The man remained standing. He looked around them, out into the distance. There was nothing to be seen. It was a thick and silent moment, governed by the river and the light.
‘Right,’ he said.
He struck a match and played the flame against the length of rope. Then, and with a flick, propelled it through a cabin porthole, thrusting hard against the boat to push the two apart.
‘Let’s get out of here!’
He hadn’t rowed many metres when he saw the first small glimmer. It rose and fell according to the rhythm of the oars, and with the man in front of him, it gleamed above his shoulders. He still felt he was quiet, in some way. The pair of portholes lit up as if someone was inside, and had just switched on a light.
They were quite a way off now and the light grew up and flickered. A pair of yellow tongues abruptly danced out through the portholes. Cabecita screamed. The flames leapt out still further.
‘Stop screaming, you fucking little shit!’ said Rubia from the bow.
‘Don’t shout,’ the man said, mildly.
The flames were four long plumes that were swaying rather nervously.
‘What do you see now, boys?’ said the man, and lit his cigarette. He was watching them with eyes half-closed, watching him and Rubia, the match close to his face, where he held it.
It was Rubia who answered.
‘It looks like something’s burning.’
Cabecita gave a scream and slapped his hands together.
‘I’ve told you not to shout. What were you saying?’
‘I’m sure that something’s burning.’
‘A fire on board’s the worst thing that can happen to a man.’ He said it calmly, squatting in the bottom of the boat. ‘It’s not everyone who understands that… you’re straying off course.’
They’d now come to the sandbank off Isla Zárate. The Aldebarán was drifting fast towards the black and unlit buoy. Its cabin roof was burning.
‘It’s going to hit the buoy,’ said Rubia.
The flames began to riot as they reached around the mast. It rather looked as if the boat was crossing through a bonfire, instead of being the source of the bonfire. The stern and bow emerged from either end, calm and white. He felt he heard the constant rustle coming from the flames, urged on by a secret rage, as if their brilliant light was dictated by their brevity.
‘What the hell does Aldebarán mean, anyway?’
‘No idea. I’ve never thought.’
‘I’ve no idea what most of these names mean.’
‘What about the Ale?… What was it?’
‘Aluya.’
‘No, Aleluya.’
‘No idea.’
‘What does Chino mean?’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Does it have a meaning?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Every thing has its name. It’s enough for me they sound nice.’
‘I’m not sure that I like it.’
‘It does have something, though.’
‘I don’t know…’
Then something more intense and brilliant shot up from the flames, and erased the boat completely. A second after that, as if the two bore no relation, they heard a sound like the long dark bang of thunder.
The man didn’t even turn to look, just signalled his farewell.
‘I don’t think it’s going to hit it,’ Rubia said.
‘Who wants to do some rowing?’
‘You’ve only just started.’
‘Yeah, and I’m fed up with it.’
‘We’ll all be fed up, soon.’
‘Someone take over.’
‘Is it going to hit or not?’
‘Come on, one of you!’
‘You’re straying off course.’
‘We’re all fed up with it.’
‘That’s funny.’
‘I’ll row.’
He changed places with the man.
The Aldebarán had gone. It was just a little bonfire that was moving with the water. It looked extremely odd.
‘What’s it going to look like from a distance?’
‘We are quite a distance.’
‘No. A greater distance.’
‘Then you won’t be able to see it.’
They were coming to the island.
After the business with the Aldebarán, they made their way along the coast. They didn’t go back to the boat.
They wondered if they ought to and the man at last said no.
‘It’s better if we don’t, for now.’
‘I was counting on it, going back.’
‘We will go back.’
‘To get some things, at least.’
‘No, it isn’t worth it.’