‘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 Darien 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 Colon, mon, I were over de side and runnin’ fah he cut the engines. Had me a time, too. Dat Darien 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.’
A cold uneasiness had stolen over Mingolla as Tully spoke, but he denied it and merely said that the place sounded interesting.
‘Oh, it dat all right. But dat ain’t why I told you ’bout it.’ Tully propped himself on an elbow and stared at Mingolla. ‘I got a feelin’ dat you gonna come dere someday, and dat’s de reason fah I make de map.’
‘I s’pose I might get up that way,’ Mingolla said, affecting casualness.
‘Dat ain’t my meanin’, Davy,’ said Tully. ‘You know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. I got me a real deep feelin’.’
It wasn’t until the second week of the voyage that Mingolla entered into another conversation with Ruy. He had been sitting beside Debora, who was sunning herself in a pale leakage of light through the overcast, watching the blackish green line of the Honduran coast, when Ruy came out of the wheelhouse carrying a cassette player and sat down by the door; he lit a cigarette and switched on the player. The volume was low, but Mingolla recognized Prowler’s rhythms and Jack Lescaux’s vocal style. He moved along the rail to within twenty feet of Ruy and pretended to be studying the shore, pleased to hear something familiar in all this foreign emptiness.
‘Like that music, man?’ said Ruy, cutting the volume. ‘I do.’
Mingolla said it was okay.
‘Bet the little lady down there, she like it. Maybe I invite her over to have a listen. She look so sad, I bet it cheer her up.’
‘I doubt it.’ Mingolla turned a baleful eye on Ruy.
‘That Debora, she’s a nice littte lady,’ said Ruy expansively. ‘Real nice! She tell me you in love, but I know that’s the crap you gotta hand ’em to make ’em do de backstroke.’
Mingolla hardened his stare but said nothing.
