You won’t believe this, exclaims someone nearby, startling me awake, the Captain is smoking! I open my eyes and see Egea crossing from the CO’S cabin to the galley with a tray that holds the remnants of a meal, some cutlery, an empty glass, and some used paper napkins. I glance toward the stern and see that there are four guys standing next to the radio, all four of them intently scratching their heads, one after another, as if they were following a secret, inexplicable plan; the CO walks from his cabin to the command post with a lit cigarette squeezed between his lips. Rojas says something to Grunwald, who pops out immediately in search of Heredia; he finds him in the kitchen, serving coffee and chatting with Egea, who has emptied the tray and is wiping it down with a damp dishcloth. C’mere, man, Rojas just heard something, some news he wants to give you in person. Heredia leaves the dishcloth on top of the counter and hurries, followed by Grunwald, over to the radio equipment; he walks up to Rojas, who still has earphones on and is listening attentively, and taps him on the shoulder. Rojas holds up his hand, signaling him to wait. Grunwald stops behind Heredia, Soria passes by on the way to the engine room, carrying his tape recorder and cassettes. Rojas takes off his earphones, you’re the father of a boy, he says to Heredia; he was born two days ago, May 1. See? I told you, I knew it! Grunwald pats him on the back, while turning to Rojas to ask: Did they tell you what time the kid was born? Around three in the afternoon, Rojas replies, smiling at Heredia. See? Grunwald insists, exactly when I told you! Remember? Three o’clock, when they were firing the depth charges, see? he repeats, as he gives Heredia a hug, and he’s gonna be a worker, che, because he was born on May Day… or maybe he’ll turn out to be a lazy bum! Heredia pulls away from Grunwald a little; his eyes are filled with tears; don’t pay any attention to me, he’s gonna be a worker and support you, Grunwald tries to joke, don’t cry, che, you’ll meet him soon, you’ll see, just stick with me, ’cause I swear I’m going home, we’re going home. Rojas puts the earphones back on and returns to his job; Heredia and Grunwald walk right past me; I follow them with my eyes and watch them go into the galley, Heredia to find the half-filled cup that he left on the counter; Grunwald to pour himself some coffee. On the other side of the corridor, the CO’S cabin door is ajar and I can hear someone who isn’t the CO say that we’ll have to return to port to fix the computer. I think I recognize the voice of the Executive Officer adding: even if it’s back to Rawson, because like this, with no computer, we’re out of commission, we have no way to attack or to defend ourselves. Grunwald and Heredia come out of the galley, laughing: someone—the captain, I imagine—pushes the cabin door from inside, closing it. Of course I’ll be the godfather, and you have no idea how I’m gonna spoil him, Grunwald says to Heredia as they walk away toward the bow.
I can’t feel my feet; I’ve just realized I can’t feel my feet, I can see them, at the ends of my legs, covered by socks that used to be blue and are now a blackish brown, but I don’t feel them. I move them, my head gives the order and I can move them forward, first one, then the other, and then I walk, but I have the sensation of floating, because I can’t feel the pressure of my soles against the floor. I try to explain to myself what’s happening to me and I tell myself they must have fallen asleep from lying in an uncomfortable position, but I don’t have the usual prickly feeling, though walking like this, even if it feels strange, gets me where I want to go. And so I walk, in order to see if I can get back the lost sensation. Gathered around the table at the bow, Soria, Torres, and Albaredo have finished their shift and are eating. It looks like they’re rescuing the survivors of the General Belgrano, Torres remarks; How do you know? Soria asks; Rojas heard it on the radio; well, anyway, there must have been many dead, Albaredo cuts in, you can’t survive too long in icy water, especially if you’re wounded. I also found out that there was heavy ground fighting today on the islands, Torres adds. A voice behind me interrupts them: Che, Albaredo, Officer Garmendia is calling you; the converter is out of order and we need to activate the auxiliary. I’m coming, Albaredo replies, wiping his mouth with a napkin that he leaves on his enamel dish, he also picks up the utensils, lays them in an X across his plate, collects everything in his right hand, stands and starts walking. I decide to follow him, maybe he’ll need me, I can help too. I look at my feet; I still can’t feel them, but I give them the order and they start to move; I catch up with Albaredo just as he stops before the galley’s open door. He deposits the dish with the utensils and the used napkin in the sink and heads toward the engine room; I bring up the rear. Beside the fact that the fire control computer isn’t working, now we have to sail with the emergency converter. We sure are doing great.
Soria has come out of the engine room and is on his way to the galley in search of coffee for everyone. Torres and Albaredo are still cleaning the grease off their hands with solvent and a rag. Everything is done by hand in this kind of boat, all with manpower, human skill. The emergency converter is still working; now we’ll have to wait and hope it doesn’t get hit or we’ll be completely out of commission and exposed. Soria enters the engine room with a pitcher of coffee in one hand and two more in the other. We’ve sunk the destroyer Sheffield, he informs us, and nobody dares say a word in response as the new arrival holds out his arms toward Torres and Albaredo to distribute the coffee. I heard it when the CO was telling Ghezzi, Soria explains; they want us to go to the last location where we saw the boat and confirm the sinking. They clink the pitchers in a toast, and since they don’t need me, I’d just as soon return to my corner, my book, and my threatened animal. A naval battle, I suddenly remember as I leave the engine room, water, hit, sunk. Everything was clean then, a cross on a piece of paper, something about strategy, a little luck, a little studying the other guy’s face, but clean: pencil, a perfect grid traced with the same wooden carpenter’s square we used to take to school, boats that were just little squares drawn in pencil or ballpoint or felt-tip pen, and coming from the other side, temporary enemies who later we would play ball with on the same team. Hit, sunk, but no trace of blood, or screaming, or fire, or icy water that cuts off your breath, or fear, or death. The General Belgrano, hit, sunk. The Sheffield hit, sunk. Lieutenant Ghezzi is sitting at the chart table, his elbows resting on the smooth surface of the navigation chart spread out on top of the glass cover; the light from underneath barely brightens his face, his eyes are fixed on a point he hasn’t yet marked, he grabs his head with both hands, then stretches his arms as if trying to shake off the numbness; at last he draws the point on the shiny paper and stares at it for a while, he lays the pencil aside and squeezes his face with both hands, crumpling it like a sheet of paper that he’s about to roll into a ball and toss into the wastebasket. I don’t know why, but I think I can tell what question he’s asking himself.
They’ve withdrawn the order to rush to the area where the Sheffield is, and we return to our patrol area around the islands. We still haven’t been able to see them, no crew member has seen them, not even the CO through the periscope.
A man floats and rocks inside his orange life jacket, face up on the surface of the sea. An albatross, as though recently arrived from a cloud, perches on his belly, the man opens his eyes and doesn’t look at the bird on his body, but rather upward, he watches me, I see him as if I were suspended, as if I, too, were a heavy albatross, held up by the unusual afternoon chill. Now, after seeing his eyes, I recognize him: it’s Medina. I didn’t want to stay on land, he tells me, that’s why I became a sailor and prepared to come in case you needed me, see? And the Salta, why not on the Salta? I ask him. It was being repaired, he explains, they said it had broken parts that made noise and so it stayed there, at least till we took off. But why the cruiser? I insist. Because that was what there was; the Belgrano was about to weigh anchor and I signed up as a volunteer, he replies, and the albatross turns calmly on its legs for a change of view, but in the end I never got to see the islands, we stayed here, on the way. Well, I reply, how do we know if we’re going to see them? We’d have to win, and disembark, in order to do that, right? Yeah, sure, he says just as the albatross starts pecking at one of the silvery buckles on his orange jacket. And for us to win, we’d have to have torpedoes that work, I inform him. He opens his mouth as if to say something but then changes his mind and doesn’t answer me. A piece of ice goes floating by; from here it looks as green as an emerald. Won’t I see you anymore? I insist. You’re seeing me right now, he answers, and this is all we know, neither of us can say how this story will play out. Then I notice that both of us are gently floating southward. Without saying another word, Medina closes his eyes, the albatross flaps its wings, pushes off with its legs, takes flight, and Medina’s body begins to sink as if the albatross had been holding him up, the water covers him; I rise higher, and the visual line that joined us stretches out, until I can no longer make out his body, with all the water on top of him. So much water, so much that I have the feeling we’re the first ever to have burst into this silent sea.