Once the luggage was safely stowed, the assistant standing in the stern held a hand out to Elena, “Climb aboard, seño.” She sat down on the pier and let herself drop into the boat, which pitched violently, making her lose her balance. The assistant had to grab her around the waist to stop her toppling into the water. He was swift and agile; in a single movement he managed to catch her, set her upright and peek into her blouse. “Fuck,” he thought, “she’s not wearing a bra.” Once Elena had regained her balance, he slipped his arm from around her waist and took her by the elbow.
“Sit up front,” he said.
Elena scrabbled towards the bow of the boat. Even once she was safely sitting down, she clung to the sides of the boat.
J. sat next to her, took a bottle from his backpack and proffered it to her.
“I’m having trouble keeping breakfast down,” she said gesturing to her sternum.
“This would be good for your digestion.”
Elena took a long swig that burned her throat.
“Fancy a quick tipple?” J. asked the boatmen.
“Sure,” Julito said taking the bottle and looking at J. with laughing eyes.
Solemnly, the boat pulled away from the quay. The twin Evinrude engines purred softly. As the boat picked up speed, the wind whipped at their faces. Fifteen minutes later, as they chugged out of the harbour — or rather the filthy canal — and emerged onto the open sea, J. felt a brightness blossom in his belly.
The trip took four and a half hours. The sea was calm during the crossing and only occasionally were they splashed as the boat braved the waves.
4
“THE HOUSE right opposite that island there,” said Julito.
Elena and J. could see, not one, but three small islands lying parallel to the shore where the house was supposed to be.
“Which one, Julito?” Elena asked.
“The one with the palm trees, seño.”
It was noon and the blazing sun shimmered on the dark green water. J. was wearing a white straw hat, Elena a green cap with a visor. Gannets dived into the waters near the beach and flocks of seagulls wheeled around the islands.
As they turned into the cove, the outboard motors slowed until J. could no longer feel the forward thrust of the boat but only the rocking motion of the sea beneath them.
The house stood on terra firma at the foot of a hill. The rear of this huge, ramshackle wooden mansion was built into the side of the hill while the front was supported on brick piles. The roof had two broad wings fanning out on either side while, at the front of the house, a third extended from three metres below the roofline to cover a wide veranda that overlooked the sea. A skylight half a metre from the gable made it seem as though there was an upper floor, but in fact there was not. All five rooms in the house were directly below the corrugated iron roof; what looked like a skylight was simply a hole that had been patched with a rusty, broken screen.
They did not come ashore in front of the house. Julito explained that this stretch of beach was rocky and there was a risk that the boat might sink. Instead, they landed on a small beach with white sand and calm waters some two hundred metres from the house. Julito’s mate dropped over the side into water that scarcely came up to his knees and pushed the bow of the boat into the sand.
“Best take our shoes off before we get out,” said J.
Rolling his jeans up over his knees, J. jumped out of the boat, paddled to the shore, set down the shoes and went back to help Julito and his assistant to heave the boat ashore. “One, two, three,” called Julito, and the three men pushed. When the boat was firmly wedged in the sand, Elena jumped down onto the damp sand and quickly ran to avoid a breaking wave; once on dry land, she sat on a tree trunk and lit a cigarette. Meanwhile, J. collected their hand luggage and brought it up to the beach then went back, heaved one of the large suitcases onto his shoulder and carried it to where Elena was sitting. By the time he unloaded the second, the assistant had already brought the trunk ashore.
“What you got in here, jefe?” he asked, “a dead body?”
“Books,” said J. tersely.
Under the watchful eye of Elena, the Singer sewing machine emerged from the sea feet first like a huge lobster balanced on Julito’s shoulder.
“What do you think, Julito, will we carry the stuff up to the house?” J. asked once everything had been brought ashore.
Julito shook his head, claiming it was getting late and the sea might be rough on the return journey. J. paid him.
“Thank you, maestros,” he said, “have a safe trip back.”
“The locals will help you shift your things, jefe.”
“No problem, hermano, don’t worry. One for the road, señores?”
The boatmen gave him a grin and each man took a deep swig. Then they pushed the boat until it floated free again.
“Anything you need, jefe, you know the name: Julio Gutiérrez, your humble servant and friend.”
“Why don’t you take the dregs, Julito, I wouldn’t want you to get bored on the trip back,” J. said, tossing the bottle of aguardiente which the man nimbly caught.
The two men clambered aboard. The assistant yanked the pull start on one of the outboard motors, which began to hum gently, then he started the other. The engines rumbled as the launch roared out onto the open sea.
“Useless bastards!” said Elena.
“What do you want? You expect them to spend all afternoon fetching and carrying for us?”
J. brushed the sand from his feet using his socks, then slipped on his shoes.
“You wait here and I’ll go and find someone to give us a hand,” he said and started towards the house. Elena stood, smoking, staring out to sea and brooding furiously about the aguardiente J. had given the boatmen.
As he walked to the house sand trickled into his shoes, so J. took them off again and padded barefoot along the beach. Waves lapped at his feet. He savoured the feeling of the water, which seemed to course through his whole body. Once he had sorted out their belongings, he thought, he might take a swim.
“Hello!” he called, stepping into the hall.
“Hellooo!” a woman’s voice answered from the rear of the house.
Carrying his shoes, J. walked towards the source of the sound. At the rear of the house was a lean-to shack thatched with palm fronds. Something was boiling in a large cauldron on a wood-fired stove. J. lifted the lid and immediately dropped it, foam dripping onto the hot embers. Standing on a hotplate was a chocolate pot and a wooden pestle — a molinillo. Sitting on a stool, leaning against a pillar, her bare feet perched on the cross-piece, a black woman was breastfeeding a baby.
“Excuse me,” said J.
“Make yourself at home. Don’t mind me.”
The child, a sturdy, naked little boy, nursed placidly, his buttocks cupped by one of his mamá’s broad hands, which bore a gold ring. The woman’s knees were lustrous black, well-rounded globes, though her breasts looked shrivelled. She was young. The baby’s bald head was also a plump black glossy globe.
When J. explained who he was, the woman muttered that she had not been expecting them so soon, that Don Carlos had told them he had sold the finca to a young couple who were thinking of living here, but would probably not arrive until July.
“Mañe!” she called, “Mañeee…!”