THIRTY YEARS AT SEA, Captain Arráez thought, and the worst always comes when you reach land. He stood on the bridge, watching the group of men who had just climbed up the steps on the port side. They brandished their guns threateningly and pushed the crew aside, clearing the way for the man he supposed was their leader.
Arráez was one of those seamen whose skin and hair had a coppery glaze from the sun and the sea air, and whose watery eyes always seemed veiled with tears. As a young man he believed that you went to sea in search of adventure, but time had taught him that adventure was always waiting in the port, and with nefarious motives. There was nothing to fear at sea. On dry land, however, and more so in those days, he was often overcome by nausea.
“Bermejo,” he said, “grab the radio and let the port know that we’ve been detained momentarily and will be arriving with some delay.”
Next to him, Bermejo, his first mate, went pale and was hit by one of those trembling fits he’d been prone to during the recent months of bombings and skirmishes. Formerly a boatswain in pleasure cruises along the Guadalquivir, poor Bermejo didn’t have the stomach for the job. “Who do I say has detained us, Captain?”
Arráez’s eyes rested on the silhouette that had just stepped onto his deck. Wrapped in a black raincoat and sporting gloves and a fedora, he was the only one who didn’t seem armed. Arráez observed him as he walked slowly across the deck. His gait indicated a perfectly calculated calm and disinterest. His eyes, hidden behind dark lenses, skimmed across the faces of the crew, while his face was totally expressionless. At last he stopped in the middle of the deck, looked up towards the bridge, and uncovered his head to convey a greeting with his hat while he offered a reptilian smile.
“Fumero,” murmured the captain.
Bermejo, who was white as chalk and seemed to have shrunk at least ten centimetres since that individual had meandered across the deck, looked at the captain.
“Who?” he managed to articulate.
“Political police. Go down and tell the men they’re not to fool around. And then, as I said, radio the port.”
Bermejo nodded, but made no sign of moving. Arráez fixed his eyes on his. “Bermejo, I said go down. And make sure you don’t piss yourself, for God’s sake.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Arráez remained alone on the bridge for a few moments. It was a clear day, with crystal skies and clouds like fleeting brushstrokes that would have delighted a watercolourist. For a second he considered fetching the revolver he kept under lock and key in his cabin, but that naive idea brought a bitter smile to his lips. He took a deep breath and, buttoning up his frayed jacket, left the bridge and walked down the steps to the deck where his old acquaintance was waiting for him, holding a cigarette playfully between his fingers.