“My mother warned me about men in uniform the way other mothers warn their children about mean alley cats.”
Suddenly he turns to me, looks me in the eye and says,
“You’re setting off again and once again you’re letting everything happen. You’re defiling your own temple.”
He rubs his hand across his face, his beard.
“I’ve been watching you. You’re nothing but talk. Your indignation is a fart. You let off steam, you shoot your mouth, but otherwise you’re just like all the others, no, you’re worse, because you understand, and you sell your knowledge for a few pieces of silver.”
I don’t contradict him, and that makes him even more furious.
“Anyone who just accepts what can be avoided is a scoundrel.” He’s practically screaming. And then he shows me the heavy door.
As if I were half made of moraine, that’s the nightmare I have every night.
Tomorrow the passengers come on board. Day one: embarkation. A day like any other. We have yet to set sail. The impending departure makes me uneasy, I wasn’t born a sailor, on the contrary, my home was the mountains, before I was chased away. The first time I saw the ocean was at the mouth of a glacier, the glacial tongue was practically licking the beach, the glacial stream was running ahead of me, I was in my early twenties and confident, so confident I purposely got lost in the rainforest between the beach and the glacier. Today that glacier has melted away and its phantom tongue visits me in my sleep to mock me and I am powerless against my nightmare’s minions. Paulina is already slumbering away, she falls asleep quickly, more quickly if we’ve made love. Tomorrow we set out. One more tour. My fourth year.
It is written.
We let ourselves be comforted by demeaning sentences such as this. Nothing is written: it is being written. By every single one of us. Just like everyone contributes his little bit to all the poisoned ruins on this earth. Hence this notebook, hence my decision to describe what has happened, what will happen. I shall be the word-keeper of my own conscience. Something has to happen. There’s no time to waste.
Measurements to die for check her out I tell you, nobody gives a hoot, you can kiss it goodbye, grab yours now while supplies last. Sir, we’re picking up a distress signal on 406 MHz. Screw up your courage, measurements to die for, you’ll be licking your lips afterward, thirteen months of sunshine, welcome to paradise, and it rained every single day. Distress beacon? Yes sir. Which ship? It isn’t clear, sir. The chapel’s been closed for a week now, the frescoes are being renovated, no it won’t open again until the fall, I’m sorry you’ve come all this way in vain, we can’t allow ourselves to be pressured, a question for your guest, all you have to do is switch a few letters and contribution becomes retribution, something’s stuck, something always gets stuck. I have a fix, sir at 43°22’ S and 64°33’ W. All ravens are black, I’ve had it up to here, the apparent temperature was higher, measurements to die for, she’ll make better speed on the lee side, cut to the chase, it’s a done deal. Something isn’t right, sir, we’ve lost radio contact with the Hansen. What about their radio officer? He’s not responding, sir. Hey hey hey get your fingers off it’s my turn, the bra’s all mine, ok Charlie hold your breath, ready one two and come on damn hooks got snagged, there’ll be better days to come. Radar? Moving north-northwest. You’ve tried all channels? Yes, sir. Keep trying, I’m calling the Argentine coast guard. I’d like to ask your guest a question, if I understand correctly we’re all either going to heaven or else to hell, but one way or other we’re all going somewhere, so does that mean we’re essentially immortal? Prefectura Naval Argentina? Sí … sí … Her last position given was 54°49’ S 68°19’ W, no we haven’t had any contact with the Hansen since then. No doubt about it, they’re going to shoot that bird down, don’t take it so to heart, go ahead and catch your breath, take a deep breath, measurements to die for, we’re doing what we can, and there is something we can do BREAKING NEWS ACCIDENT IN THE ANTARCTIC? BREAKING NEWS ACCIDENT IN THE ANTARCTIC? and nevertheless
2. 55°05′0″S, 66°39′5″W
BEFORE WE PUT out to sea, all passengers must prove they are healthy (not in perfect health, just healthy enough). They make their way upstairs or downstairs to Deck 4—those with medical restrictions use the elevator — and line up in front of the dapper Brazilian doctor with his vaunted head of curls. The man looks incredibly taut and trim in his uniform, the result of spending every free minute in the coffin-sized fitness room, listening to heavy metal from São Paulo, his eyes fixed on the emergency exit. I’ve never been able to talk to him. All those declared fit proudly brandish their medical clearance like a coveted concert ticket, they introduce themselves, exchange ideas, they’ve been to this place and that, well we’re generally up for anything, but the heat, and what about the insurgents, on the other hand, there are so many places we’d like to see it’s impossible to choose where to go next, of course first we have to survive this little adventure. For present purposes everyone is healthy enough, though they might be mere heartbeats away from a coronary or a stroke.
We set sail at last light. Our leave-taking is perfunctory: no one waves goodbye, not from the deck and not from the dock. Virtually no one is staying behind in Ushuaia, at least no one we’ll miss. I enjoy standing on the topmost deck, musing over the silhouettes. I loathe sunsets because they reduce such a wealth of possibilities to a single effect. No one tries to engage me in conversation, the guests don’t know me yet, neither the lecturers nor the expedition leader will be introduced until tomorrow after breakfast. We cast off without fanfare and are heading east through the Beagle Channel at approximately seven knots, according to my estimation, which after a few seasons on board is fairly accurate. Take a look at that cliff, a passenger calls out, like a giant with a sixpack. The group pounds its laughter into the twilight. And once again out come the camcorders and once again nature is diminished in the zoom of their lenses. I retreat to the port side.
“Hey there! Don’t run away!” The pianist is heading straight toward me, in his wake a visage emerges from the darkness, and beneath the festive lights I am able to make out a less-than-shipshape face. “Allow me to introduce you. Mrs. Morgenthau, this is our new expedition leader, a perfect model of a gentleman”—the pianist is British—“I’m certain he can answer your question satisfactorily, our expedition leader can provide a satisfactory answer to any question.” Our pianist passes for a great wit.
“That’s kind of you, very kind, as a matter of fact I was just asking about that mountain, it’s so dramatic the way it simply rises up there, surely it has a name?”
“Mount Misery.” My answer is geographically correct, but the American’s disbelieving look is virtually an accusation. The pianist grins at his well-played practical joke.
“Please, Madam, don’t be shy about asking the expedition leader whatever you fancy in the course of our passage, whenever you feel the need. As for the evening concert I myself am happy to take requests, otherwise I just plunk along, as I’m sure you’ll hear.”
“The people who used to live in this region,” I continue, “were aquatic nomads, they had many names for the mountains, the rivers, the forest. They developed a rich vocabulary for describing what surrounded them without wanting to possess it. Their name for this strait was something like ‘the water that stabs through the twilight.’”