Patricia Ratto - Proceed with Caution - Stories and a Novella

The others have started to bring things aboard: provisions, boxes and cases with supplies, medicine, water, gasoline, tools, rocks, more rocks; they unload the practice torpedoes and load the ones for combat; the entire crew goes in and out, checks, arranges, puts things in order, cleans, and here I am, examining the engines again and again. This one’s not working and isn’t going to, suddenly announces Albaredo, who’s working by my side, and those surrounding him grow nervous because they suspect something’s going on, something beside the engines, the barnacles and the noise. Someone standing next to me remarks that today’s paper mentioned some enormous whales near Punta Mogotes; it’s a lie, someone else immediately adds, for sure it’s a lie to distract people. From what? asks the one who spoke first; I dunno, the other guy responds, from something, how should I know, from this. I step outside the engine room, walk a few paces toward the control room, and from the bow I can see Estévez moving toward me, followed by two others, along the passageway that opens up between the bunks at port and starboard, toting a new broom, a bucket, some floor rags. The others carry a case of apples and a bag that looks like it holds potatoes or onions. Here, Gómez, this goes in your bunk, he must be saying to him as he hands Gómez the cleaning supplies with a smile that turns into an explosion of laughter. Gómez lays the things he’s been given on the lower bunk while he finishes setting up his bed. Estévez and the two others with him continue down the passageway, bearing the case and the bag. Gómez stands there looking at them for a moment, checks his watch. Now Polski is approaching along the passageway between the bunks, his right hand clutching the handle of a zippered case that contains a small typewriter, and under his other arm a ream of paper. He’s heading for the control room. I follow behind, and when he stops to readjust the typewriter and the paper, I pass him and continue toward the engine room. I decide to concentrate on the engines and on the work we’re doing with Albaredo. Someone at the other end of the boat asks in a very loud voice if they’ve loaded on the jars of capers; I can’t see him, but he’s an officer, I say to myself, judging from the question and the tone of voice, and the noise picks up again with its racket: rrra, rrra, rrra, which doesn’t let me hear the answer; though, really, what does the answer matter, what do we need capers for if the engine’s screwed up? Rrra, rrra, rra, that noise… What for, if that’s going to make us spend more time snorkeling in order to charge the batteries? Rrra, rrra, rrra, rrrrra… if that makes us more vulnerable, why the fuck do we need capers, rrra, rrra, rrrrra… Something’s going on, I know it, we all know it, even though no one says a thing, and for days now—I think, because I’m starting to lose count—for days I haven’t moved from here. It’s nighttime when they load on; I know it’s nighttime because down here they turn on the night lights and the red ones in the control room to avoid reflections and to keep us from being seen from outside. Someone mentioned spies today; I heard him during a pause when the noise had stopped, Chilean spies, and someone else said no, they were North Americans who were staying in an apartment in one of the buildings on the other side of the avenue, opposite the base; Russians, someone else interrupted, they have to be Russians because the North Americans are on our side. Whatever, spies are spies, snoops holed up in an apartment from where they can watch all our movements; you can see movements on the base from anywhere; what a shitty location that base has. Now a different voice, from the periscope area, says: In the end everybody heard it on TV; nobody said anything before; but how is it possible that we have to find out about it on TV like everybody else. No one replies; everyone remains silent, me too, all the time thinking that anger is what’s keeping us silent, so silent you can hear our breathing and even the momentary absence of the noise. Then someone who’s climbing down the ladder at the bow, carrying boxes of crackers, points out that there’s no moon tonight, that everything is black outside, completely black, perfect for hiding, for hiding what we’re doing, what we’re carrying, like well-trained little ants. The sea must also be black, I imagine, rhythmically black, and I start to feel sleepy again, the heavy sleepiness that suddenly takes hold of me, ever since my illness, dutifully forcing my eyes shut, till everything else goes black, too.

I don’t know how much time has gone by since somebody said they learned what was going on from TV. The creaking noise has stopped, as if the sea has finally swallowed it up, and there’s a dense, strained silence here that makes you think something is about to happen, something besides what already is silently happening. I’m alone again, so I make my way to the forward ladder. The hatch is open; I climb a couple of rungs to see what’s going on outside, but a sticky fog hits me right in the face, in the eyes, like thick, cold mucus, and what I see is precious little: the others are standing in formation at the dock, a barely visible, dark blue stripe. What I don’t understand is why the hell no one told me anything and I’m here in my work overalls; but anyway I make do with the little I can see and hear through the opening and the fog. That one over there is a priest, seems like: I bless you in the name of God, I bless you and pray for your safe return. Then it’s true, we’re weighing anchor and going on a mission, but not just any mission, the kind that rates a priest and a blessing. Now the Hyena’s voice takes over; the Hyena is giving a speech, and even though I can’t quite make out what he’s saying, I’m sure he’s talking to them with that permanent grimace of his that’s not quite a smile or a tic or anything, just a frozen, nervous scowl. The Hyena was my commanding officer on our fifty-day campaign last year; every morning when he got out of bed, he put on a red bathrobe with a white silk handkerchief around his neck while he gave the raise periscope order to see what the day looked like and called for a cup of tea. Good hunting, the Hyena tells them, and suddenly the expression brings me back here from the past. After that, the others’ boots click along the dock, the blue stripe stretches out into the fog, separates, melts into the darkness of falling night; they must be breaking rank and should be coming back on board. I go down the ladder; now I’m completely inside once more, not even time to say goodbye, what a shame, I would have liked to give María a hug, and my mother, too, but that’s how things are these days; plenty of guys probably have gone through the same thing. I scramble all the way down to the bottom of the ladder and head for the engine room again. The fact is, I’m okay and I’m going to be part of this, whatever it may be. Now they’re all coming down, the whole crew, each one is taking his place, Soria and Albaredo are also coming toward the engine room, Soria’s very young, who knows what other guy’s spot they’ve assigned him, some other machinist like me, of course, maybe it was urgent, because he’s very young. Holding a broom in his hand, Soria laughs as he approaches, followed by Torres, who’s laughing too. What’s this, another broom? asks someone crossing in front of him; Oh, Soria replies, this is to attach to the sail when we get back, as a sign that the area’s been swept. I’m worried about Diego, he’s still got a fever—I think I recognize Almaraz’s voice as he pokes his head out from the galley—I hope it’s not anything out of the ordinary… but then I lose track of his voice as it’s swallowed up by the passageway, while Soria and Torres meet up with him on the way to the engine room, and now they’re passing the Commanding Officer, who has a severe, concentrated look on his face, as if he’d aged ten years in the time it took for the blessing and the speech. They’re negotiating, says a voice coming from the control compartment; they’re negotiating and it’s not going to come down to actual combat. Let’s hope that’s true, replies someone from the same location, because if not… and suddenly the words get stuck in the intense rumbling of the engines that have just switched on: we’re weighing anchor, we’re on our way. My legs have hurt ever since the illness; if I stay still for very long my legs start to ache, so I take advantage of the fact that there’s enough personnel in the engine room and decide to walk to the bow so I can move around a little, to see if the discomfort will go away. I cross the sonar area. Fuck me, Medrano is saying, why a priest if I’m not dead? I went for a walk around there till I saw that the priest was finished, says Medrano. Me, I just keep on moving forward through the periscope area; the CO isn’t there anymore; I walk past the galley and in front of the CO’S cabin, whose door is closed. I reach the rest area and then unintentionally hear Grunwald muttering in a lazy voice as he climbs up to his bunk: I was at a barbecue, goddamn it, right on Easter Sunday we had to set sail! At a barbecue, and I’m half-wasted, so now I’m going to bed and don’t call me till I wake up, he says to me, I think, or maybe he says it to someone else, but anyway, another guy who’s coming up behind me replies: They say he was granted leave to marry Old Lady Menéndez, that’s why you’re here. That son of a bitch could’ve gotten married later, Grunwald complains, covering himself with the sheet and yanking the little black corduroy curtain closed. I start walking again, continuing my route in order to stretch my legs, and I think about the fog on this Easter Sunday. Someone near the torpedoes confirms: They sent us to do drills, just drills, because we’ll have to wait and see if the boat goes, if it responds or not; after all, the crew is new, lots of us don’t even know each other; the CO doesn’t know everyone, or the boat, either, and neither one of them, him or the Executive Officer, comes from a 209, and everything is different here. And on top of that, someone else adds, one of the four engines isn’t working, it hasn’t worked for years, the motor block is cracked. They’ll work this thing out, someone else insists, they’re gonna work it out diplomatically, that’s why they started the whole thing, to yank the Brits’ balls, but it’ll all get worked out. Polski slips a cassette into the tape recorder in the control room, pushes a button, and over the loudspeaker—which is in the galley but can be heard throughout the boat—a military march blasts. I keep going forward, wrapped in the music, and immediately retrace my steps to the beat of the march, while I think about the fog that enfolds all of us, a dense fog I imagine as being solid gray, capable of hiding the outline of the submarine. Silver-white-gray hovering above the water, the sheltering fog that erases us as we head southward.