Jimmy throws his knapsack over his shoulder, sticks his gun under his belt, puts on his baseball cap, and picks the shotgun up in his right hand.
“Let’s go.,” he says.
Clemen puts his straw hat on his head.
They go onto the terrace.
Lázaro and Marina, with the two girls, come to say goodbye.
“We’ll be back in a month,” Jimmy tells them, “to take the livestock we picked out. Thank you for everything.”
Lázaro and Marina wish them luck on their trip; the girls — snotty, barefoot, wearing a few filthy rags — point to Sóter.
Lázaro sees Don Mincho’s shotgun in Jimmy’s hand; he says nothing.
Mono Harris and the guide have started walking toward the jetty. Sóter trots along behind them.
Clemen jumps into the boat; he sits down, apprehensively, facing Jimmy.
“It’s been so nice here,” he mumbles, but nobody hears him because Mono Harris has started the motor with one pull, and Sóter is barking from the jetty. He’d rather not leave, he’s gotten used to the place, all the fear of their flight transformed into a peaceful vacation by the sea. And now, again, anxiety and fear.
“Are these the provisions?” Jimmy asks, shouting, as he rummages through a large paper bag.
The guide, curious, turns toward them from the bow; his tanned face, slanting eyes, and shaggy beard peek out from under his broad-rimmed hat.
“It’s enough food for the trip,” Mono Harris answers.
Clemen stares at the house, the silhouettes of the girls, and Sóter running on the beach as it all recedes; the bright light hurts his eyes.
“How long will it take to get there?” Jimmy asks the guide.
The boat suddenly lurches. Clemen grabs onto the side; his hat flies off his head, but Jimmy manages to catch it with a quick swipe.
“To Cosigüina?” the guide asks. “Depends on the current and the winds. If we leave before two thirty, we might catch the current.”
Jimmy looks at his pocket watch: it’s two o’clock.
“Will we get there before midnight?”
The guide shrugs his shoulders.
“Are we going in this boat?” Clemen asks, holding the hat Jimmy handed him between his knees.
“No,” Mono Harris says, “in Adrián’s canoe.”
Clemen shoots Jimmy a sidelong glance.
“You wouldn’t make it in this boat for long in the open sea,” Mono Harris explains. “Anyway, it needs to look like one of Adrián’s normal fishing trips. ”
They are advancing parallel to the coast, not far beyond the breaking waves.
Clemen realizes the house is merely a spot in the distance, a blotch against the green of palm trees, almonds, and coconut groves; then he turns and looks forward, and the sea wind blows in his face.
“The canoe is strong. It hasn’t failed me yet,” the guide says from the bow.
A flock of seagulls fly over the waves in the opposite direction.
“You think he’ll turn us in?” Clemen asks, looking at half a dozen abandoned-looking shacks lined up along the beach under the glaring sun; he’s smoking frantically, compulsively, one puff after another.
They are standing on the small broken-down jetty where Mono Harris has left them. He gave them each a hug, wished them the very best of luck, and asked them to send word once they’d reached the American base in Punta Cosigüina; then he rushed off. The guide showed them the canoe tied to the jetty, and asked them to wait; he’d go get the two oarsmen and bring the rest of the equipment needed for the crossing.
“I don’t think.,” Jimmy starts to say, carefully checking out the canoe: he wonders if it is strong enough for the high seas; he figures it’s about fifteen feet long; inside, over a net spread out on the floor of the boat, the guide has placed the bag of food, and they have put down their knapsacks and the shotgun.
“There’s something about him I don’t like,” Clemen says.
“What?”
“The guide. ”
“I told you, if you don’t want to go, you can stay here.”
A couple of young women are walking down the beach, each with a basket on her head; they’re following the line of foam the waves leave behind as they retreat, stamping their bare footprints into the wet sand.
“I don’t trust this canoe,” Clemen says, then turns to look at the women. It’s been exactly twenty days since he’s slept with someone; the night before he counted while sitting in the sand, alone, facing the dark sea, wanting to scream like a madman or jerk off. He throws the cigarette butt into the water.
“What do you know about canoes?” Jimmy asks.
The women walk toward the jetty; a gust of wind blows their white dresses tight up against their bodies. They walk past.
“Where do you think they’re going?” Clemen wonders out loud without taking his eyes off them.
“The things you think about.,” Jimmy says in a tone of reproach.
“What the hell do you want me to think about? Another week in that house and I would have ended up screwing Sóter. ”
“Here comes Adrián and the oarsmen,” Jimmy says. Then he takes out his pocket watch and mumbles, “We’re still in time to catch the current.”
They’ve appeared from between the shacks; they walk quickly toward the jetty. The guide is carrying a rolled-up sail; the two oarsmen are carrying a heavy barrel between them.
“What’re they carrying in there?” Clemen asks.
“Drinking water,” Jimmy says as he starts toward them.
Clemen turns, squinting, to the metallic blue horizon; then he looks at the clear sky. He rubs his face with both hands.
“I hope I don’t get seasick,” says Clemen, sitting on the starboard side facing the open sea, both hands clutching the side of the canoe; Jimmy is on the port side, his eyes glued on the coast, the shotgun held between his legs.
“You feel sick?” Jimmy asks him.
Clemen turns to look at the guide, who is back on the bow peeling an orange and throwing the peels into the sea.
“No,” he says, “but I’m not used to being in a boat.”
“What about when you went to Europe with your parents?”
The canoe is moving perpendicular to the coast, heading slowly out to sea, rocking as it goes.
“That was ten years ago,” Clemen says, “and this isn’t anything like an ocean liner.”
The fat oarsman looks at Clemen and smiles. The other, an emaciated man with one eye, hasn’t lifted his head; his eyes remain on the floor of the canoe.
“You think we’ll catch the current?” Jimmy asks the guide.
He has just popped half the orange into his mouth and can’t speak. He gestures with his head toward San Nicolás, the jetty they left about ten minutes before, which they can still see from this distance in spite of the glare.
Jimmy turns around and squints: a boat is approaching the jetty. The metallic shine is clear, unmistakable.
“I think we’re in luck,” the guide says then leans over the water to rinse off his hands.
Clemen turns to look. At first he’s baffled, but a few second later he understands: he blinks anxiously, swallows hard, then turns to look out to sea.
The oarsmen, their backs to the jetty, haven’t seen a thing.
“When will you raise the sail?” Jimmy asks the guide, as if nothing at all had happened.
The guide picks his teeth with his fingers, determined to get out the last pieces of orange.
“We’ve got a while yet,” he says.
Clemen leans over to Jimmy, cupping his mouth with his hands, and whispers in his ear, “What if the soldiers saw us and decide to come after us?”
“We’re too far away,” Jimmy murmurs. “You can relax.”