The Ordinary Seaman (45 page)

He finally gets across the bridge and turns up onto the FDR, traffic still slow and blaring. Bernardo doesn’t even seem to stir, but he can hear his dry, rasped breathing. They’ll cure him. And then maybe he’ll just be deported, an illegal alien who somehow snuck into the country in just his underpants with a burnt and infected leg. Or maybe there’ll be no one who cares enough to ask him anything, in New York you ought to be able to count on that.

He parks illegally, of course, and sees ambulances pulled up outside the emergency entrance, and people all over the place, some of them in medical uniforms. Someone should be able to help. And he decides, no. And begins wrestling the old man out of the front seat, into his arms, shouting, “Stay, Miracle!” Holding Bernardo like a fainted bride in his arms, he kicks the door shut, doesn’t even lock it, anyone wants to steal the dog that badly they can fucking have him. And he carries Bernardo in his arms towards the emergency room entrance, cringing inwardly against his stink and infirmity and the intimacy of his flesh, astonished by how little the old man weighs.

He sets him down on the floor in front of the reception desk while the nurses, black and Asian, glare at him. Right down on the floor. And the words just come tumbling out, he hadn’t even rehearsed them:

“Look, I just found this guy in my doorway. He’s really in bad shape, look at his leg, I mean, I think it’s infected. I don’t know his name. I don’t who he is—”

“You just can’t bring him in here like that,” the Asian nurse is waspishly saying. “You should have called an ambulance. This hospital is overcrowded as it is, sir—”

“I did the right thing,” he yells, telling himself, Go ahead, lose it. “I’m helping the guy. I saved you the trouble, didn’t I? What, he should die? I’m supposed to just leave him? Yeah, yeah, because this is New York, right?”

“We do not have the room. We cannot accept—”

“Look, I’m going. Take him somewhere else then. You’re
sworn
to help him. Don’t you take an
oath
or something?”

And he’s turning to leave.

“You have to sign him in, sir. You can’t just—”

Someone’s waving a clipboard at him.

“I don’t have time,” he shouts. “My name’s Mark Baker, OK?” Why’d he tell them that? He feels his chest heaving as if he wants to cry. “My address is 529 Grand Street!” That just popped out, Elias’s address. Well, good. But he doesn’t see any of the nurses writing it down, they’re just glaring at him. And he’s already walking out the door while a nurse yells for a guard, but Mark pushes through, shouting furiously about how he’s done the right thing and leave him goddamned alone, and before he knows it he’s outside in the cool autumn air again and jogging to his car; he looks back and sees a bunch of people standing outside the entrance just staring, and he gets in and drives off.

When he gets home, he leaves a message on Elias’s answering machine: “Elias, I took the old guy to a hospital. He was in really bad shape. I guess it’s over, Doc. Your medicine didn’t work so well. Sorry, man.” And he hangs up. Let Elias explain
that
to Kate.

That night Mark, with Miracle sedated in a portable kennel, his carry-on bag stuffed with traveler’s checks, boards a flight out of Kennedy, to the Yucatán, via Cancún. He was smart, he’s kept his personal credit cards out of all
Urus
transactions. He’ll rent a little place on a beach. Chill until it’s all in the past. Maybe even learn Spanish. Look, he can live with the lost investment, and feel lucky he got out without
having to sink in another cent. Mark, you stood up. You’re a hero, man. Wonder boy, kept your soul clean! Sort of. Sure, he’ll take headphones, what’s the movie? Already seen it, sucks, what the hell. And another double Jim Beam on the rocks, please. Did the right thing today. Probably saved the old guy’s life. Elias was willing to just let the guy die. Elias can go to hell.

ELIAS ASSEMBLES THE CREW AS SOON AS HE COMES OUT OF THE ENGINE ROOM
. They can’t be too surprised that he went right down into the engine room carrying the two circuit breaker boxes as soon as he arrived, can’t be surprised that he flipped out when they didn’t fit. But now he has to pull himself together. Casual, he tells himself. Smooth, this is no big deal. Of course, you feel a little hurt, a little humiliated that your remedies didn’t work, that the old man had to resort to the allopaths, and so, adopt an air of wounded but generous dignity, cabrón. Anyway, it was
their
fault … Some of these kids are starting to look pretty bad, completely spaced and lethargic.

“Bernardo is doing very well, and sends all of you his regards and an abrazo,” Elias says. “He’s cured of his infection. I’m afraid the infection was caused by those dirty rags you cleaned him with the night it happened, güeyes. But luckily, no lasting harm was done, aside, por supuesto, from the hospital bills. These are astronomical! The health system in this country is
mierda
. They didn’t have to amputate, thank God, another day and they might have. But Bernardo is still quite weak, and we’ve decided that it’s best that he go home to Nicaragua. He’ll be flying home as soon as the doctors think he’s well enough to, in another few days, hopefully. So, if some of you could collect and pack his things, including his passport, very important, and bring them to me, please.”

Necessary touch, that—leave the possibility of a few days, in case the old man suddenly comes back to the ship. And then he’ll have to make something else up.

Esteban says he wants to visit Bernardo in the hospital. Where did he get that haircut?

“Esteban, you can’t, cabrón.” He smiles. Keep it casual, Elias. Don’t get uptight. Remember, this is
good
news: the old guy’s OK. No big deal, an injured seaman going home, happens all the time. “I’ve told you
over and over, you are an illegal alien whenever you set foot onshore. Bernardo has permission because of his injury. You want to go on and off the ship like you’ve been doing, Esteban, it’s your risk. But if they catch you at the hospital, I’ll be in trouble too. Nice haircut.” He smiles. “Muy guapo!”

See? A few of them even grin. They seem relieved to hear that the old waiter is going to be OK, maybe even jealous that he gets to go home.

“What hospital is he in?” asks Esteban.

“New York Hospital. But you’re not going there. That’s an order from your capitán.”

“Are you going to pay him before he goes home?” asks Esteban.

“I should think so,” says Elias. “The owner will have to pay him, yes.”

“He won’t take the hospital expenses out of his pay?” asks Esteban.

“No. Look, I won’t lie to you, I’m sure he’d like to! But I’ll make sure that he doesn’t. OK? Really, don’t worry about it, Esteban,” and he claps the kid on the shoulder.

“Maybe the hospital wouldn’t have charged so much if you’d taken him there right away instead of trying to cure him yourself,” says Esteban, eyes smoldering. “It should come out of
your
pay.”

“I didn’t clean his leg with a dirty rag! Maybe it should come out of
all
of your pay!” he says vehemently, trying to stare the kid down. Christ! Stay cool, Elias.

“We have an inspection in a few days…,” Elias continues, changing the subject. Which is true. The Panamanian Registry is sending someone by for the annual checkup, left a message on Miracle Shipping’s answering machine, time to disconnect that thing. The guy at the shipyard thought the breaker boxes would probably match but he couldn’t guarantee it. But they didn’t fit. If it weren’t for this other problem, he probably would have started weeping right there in the engine room. As it was, he practically kicked in the control panel. He’ll tell the inspector the ship’s still under repair, nowhere near ready to sail.

When he’s finished telling them about the inspection and what needs to be done beforehand, Elias leans on the rail, stares out at the cove. Two black grebes have settled on the water, they dive under like seals, stay under for such a long time, bob back up fifty yards away. A smell of charred steak somehow lingering in the air. Where’s it coming from? The swept, blackened circle of soot on the deck from their cooking fires seems to have widened.

Where the hell is Mark? Sue hasn’t heard a thing from him, nor has Moira. Maybe he killed himself, the little wanker.
Which
fucking hospital, Mark, you
cunt.
After he got back from L.A. last night and heard the wanker’s message, he phoned every hospital in Brooklyn to ask if they had a patient named Bernardo Puyano, in for a burn. Luckily he still had the crew list Constantine Malevante had faxed him (used a stationery store’s fax), had all their last names and passport numbers (still owes Malevante the hiring fees). And then he started in on the Manhattan hospitals.

So what else to do but wait? A crisis. Separates the man from the boys. Rapid response. Deal with it, cabrón. Been in worse scrapes. Well, no, probably haven’t. Police or harbor authorities might come driving onto the pier any moment. Maybe he should get to work on trying to sell the ship, as is, where is, whatever he can get. Maybe there’s no time even for that. Tell Kate that Mark absconded with all the money. He can file for bankruptcy when the old man talks and sues. Oh, someone will tell him he can sue, someone
will.
Confess all to Kate, hire a good lawyer himself. Or take off too. Then, when the old man talks and sues, maybe they won’t be able to find him, even if they want to. A lot depends on what Mark told at the hospital. But if he takes off too, he loses everything. Baby coming in December. Otherwise, he’d cut out. Maybe I should fly to Japan and scour scrap yards …

Driving home that night with Bernardo’s suitcase on the seat beside him, he thinks of pulling over to throw it into the harbor, like he did with some of their mail, months ago now. But Bernardo will probably turn up back at the ship—unless he can find him first, send him
home, bribe him, I don’t know. Think! The prudent thing is to keep it. Yes, keep the suitcase. When he parks the car, he locks the battered cowhide suitcase in the trunk. But what if Kate looks inside? Better steal her copy of the trunk key.

Elias sits in his lab late into the night, phoning hospitals, looking for a patient with a burned leg named Bernardo Puyano. Finally he gives up and sits staring at the floor between his feet with his head cradled in his hands.

THE GERMAN TRACKING DOG IS LEADING THE LONG COLUMN OF TROOPS
through the jungle. The chavalo is telling him about it: how they had to move along so slowly, how they were used to relying on their own senses and intuition but now they were dependent on this hija de puta dog named Ana, and so everyone was in a bad mood. Every half hour or so, and even more frequently when the compa holding Ana’s leash said the enemy must be close, the entire column had to stop while soldiers fanned out into the dense jungle and crept ahead, searching for ambushers. So they moved through the jungle slowly, but la contra were moving slowly too, because they were carrying wounded. A campesino admitted to having seen them go by, and to having given them platanos. They found the scattered sticks of lean-tos they’d built the night before, a single, wet rolling paper draped over a weed. Then it rained, and they marched all day, grateful for the coolness of rain, and like always when it rained like that they marched along feeling made of jungle and rain, the rain vibrating off broad leaves, vibrating inside them too, following the dog that followed the scent. Up ahead in a small clearing, a wounded contra sat up on his dropped litter and Ana broke the boy’s grip on her leash and charged the poor hijo de puta—those near the front of the column who survived said later they’d just had time to see the blood spurting from the contra’s neck when the shooting broke out and the dog fell away dead from his neck.

And Bernardo is shouting, “Ya! Basta! Puta, qué bárbaro! Brother killing brother is bad enough! And now letting this foreign cannibal dog loose on your brothers—”

He wakes on his gurney, staring up at tubes of sizzling, grayish fluorescent lighting in a dark ceiling, barely radiating. He looks over at Esteban’s bed and sees nothing but darkened wall painted a dull shade of yellow. Where is Esteban? And then remembers this: Esteban with
a haircut leaning over him. And he raised his arms and clasped the chavalo’s head in his hands, pulled him towards him and gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then everything went dark … Or was that just another delusion?

Now, with great effort, he lifts his head a little and sees gurneys like the one he’s on lining both sides of the long corridor, some with IV bottles and rigging at their sides. He drops his head from the pain in his neck. Santísima Virgen, where am I? He hears screaming, the most horrible screams ever, and then scolding, angry voices answering the screamer in English.

He closes his eyes. He’s never had such a headache. But his leg feels numb. He has no strength in his limbs. Pitaya juice cools his parched, caked mouth. He hears someone treading by softly like a walking breeze and tries to call out, but he can’t, his throat feels full of hot sand. Clarita always merely said, “Qué tal, Bernardo,” when he came home from the sea, as if he was a friend she hadn’t seen for a few days instead of a husband away nearly a year; and then he’d have to ignite her love again. Qué tal! Ve? I’ve brought back two chicken incubators! From now on I’m just going to sit in this chair on my porch and be old. I made a friend, a good chavalo, he was my cabin mate on the
Urus
, you should try to get him to marry you, Freyda, bueno, he’ll be by one of these days … Pues, qué tal, Clarita. He left the ship at Puerto Cabezas and boarded a bus, setting out on one of those journeys that lasted days, through stifling heat, by bus and then the Rama ferry and bus to Managua just to hear Clarita say, Qué tal, Bernardo. There was an old Indian woman on the bus, Miskito probably, and she stank so badly, like rotted cheese. The hijueputa cobrador wanted to eject her, and the passengers wanted him to, because of the way her smell filled the packed oven of the bus. The Indian woman didn’t seem to speak Spanish, seemed unable to explain or defend herself. She was terrified. They were in the middle of nowhere, and this hijo de cien mil putas cobrador and the driver were going to throw her off the bus because she was just a poor indita who stank. He was gagging from the smell and airless heat too, felt nauseous from the smell and the bus’s rattling over rutted dirt roads. But it was
abominable to throw an old woman off a bus, he would not permit it, he’d get off here in the jungle with her if it came to that, though he was willing to come to blows first. He rose from his seat to defend her. First, he spoke gently to her, said, I’m not going to let them, mamita. That was all it took! The old Indian woman whisperingly confided that she smelled like that because that was what she did for money, she made cheese, pues. And he turned to the other passengers and shouted, She only smells like that because she makes cheese!