Patricia Ratto: Proceed with Caution: Stories and a Novella

I’ve just awakened, curled up in a ball, I stretch to loosen up, retrieve the book from under my pillow, stick it in my overall pocket and get down from the bunk with some difficulty. No sooner do I start walking than I run into Almaraz and notice his long, thick beard full of white fuzz; a moment’s hesitation and then we’re both on our way, him heading aft and me forward, now I cross paths with Polski, also with his beard full of fuzz, and automatically I bring my hand to my face: maybe I have a beard full of fuzz too, but I don’t feel my beard or my hand; I’ll have to go into the head and look at myself in the scratched steel mirror, but I’d rather keep going forward and see if I can read for a while. A couple of men are there, around the table, I walk over to them, make a place for myself, and sit down. Anybody know where this book came from? one of them asks, waving a tattered, yellowed book, identical to mine, in his right hand, so identical that reflexively I pat my overall pocket to make sure it’s still there, but I don’t feel it; then I wonder: If it’s the same book, how the hell did it get there if I was so sure I had put it in my pocket? Let me see, says another one, reaching out his hand so the guy who had waved it in the air can pass it to him; now that I’ve got it closer to me I see that it’s the one I’ve been reading, the one about the animal in the den; the guy who received it flips through the pages and remarks: You can’t understand this thing, what language is it in? Grunwald says it’s German, the first guy replies, even though he doesn’t understand anything, he says he’s sure it’s German. How could it be written in German, I say to myself, if I don’t know any German and I’m reading it; then Olivero comes over from the torpedo launchers, takes the book from the one who’s been leafing through it; to Groppa, the oldest NCO of the crew, the book came in one of the containers that held submarine parts, Olivero explains, when they sent it from Germany to assemble it in the Buenos Aires shipyards, one of the assemblers found it and decided that if it had come with the boat, it would stay on the boat, so from the time they began assembling the San Luis, the book has never left here. And does anybody know what it’s about? asks the guy who was waving the book in the air a few moments ago; I could explain it to them perfectly, but I keep quiet and listen: they say an officer who knew a little German read part of it once, Olivero adds, on a campaign, but I don’t know who the officer was, or if he said what it was about, it’s just a rumor, but the book stays on board for luck; it goes around and around, from hand to hand, from stem to stern and from stern to stem, it’s part of the boat, all boats hide a secret and this must be ours, Olivero concludes, as he lays the book on the table and returns to his post beside the torpedo launchers. The others who were seated stand up, carrying their empty glasses, but I stay here, watching the book; I sit down at the table, open it and search—with difficulty because of how clumsy my hands are—for the page where I had left off reading, German, I don’t know what they’re talking about. I start to read: deep silence, says the animal, how lovely it is to be here, no one is worried about my den, each one has his tasks, which have nothing to do with me.

We’re approaching Puerto Belgrano, everything on board is movement, preparations, and enormous expectations, as nobody knows what we’re going to find outside, nobody knows where the rest of the fleet might be, how they’re managing, how things back there on the islands have been going, when our computer will be fixed so we can set sail again. The only thing we know is that ever since we’ve adapted to the new sense of balance that being at sea all this time has inflicted on our bodies, for a day or two it’ll be hard for us to walk on terra firma , to regain the stability the others have, those who stayed behind. The same thing will happen with the light, after so many days of being closed up inside under fluorescent bulbs, the sunlight will be unbearable, it’ll take us a few days to get used to it. Thirty-nine days of patrol and eight hundred sixty-four hours of immersion, Heredia remarks as he passes in front of me on his way to the torpedo area. Some people calculate everything, I say to myself, and I see Soria heading astern, toting a broom; I follow him with my eyes; he stops at the command post and says something to Officer Rabellini, who in turn walks toward the CO and almost certainly passes on what Soria, waiting for a reply, has told him. The CO nods; Rabellini returns to the spot where Soria, broom in hand, waits for him; he motions to Gómez, who’s coming out of the galley, Gómez goes over to Rabellini, who seems to explain something to him or give him an order; then Soria hands the broom to Gómez, who takes it in his right hand, walks toward the periscope area, and stops beneath the hatch leading to the sail; the sub has slowed down, one of the others opens the hatch, and Gómez starts to climb up, broom in hand, till he disappears inside the hole that leads upward and outward; that’s what they told us, says Grunwald, wearing his fake wire glasses, to tie the broom to the conning tower to show we’ve swept the area, so that’s where Gómez is going. But we didn’t hit anybody, Nobrega protests as he passes by: well, yeah, but the Brits did beat it out of there a couple of times; we messed things up for them—with no results, Grunwald argues. Yeah, I’m not denying that, Nobrega agrees and continues on his way; then I remember my boots, decide to go look for them and organize my things a little. I reach the table at the bow, where some of the others are eating, I draw open the curtain slightly that separates the bunks from this sector. Polski is asleep; he’s really tall, and since he doesn’t fit anywhere, he sleeps on the diagonal, half lying across the cot, with his feet sticking out into the corridor; there are my boots, I stand there for a moment looking at the indentation that distinguishes them, I grab them together by the upper edge, pinching them with my right hand, close the curtain again, and stop to look at the others, but it seems they’re looking away so as not to bother me, so I continue on to my bunk, trying to remember where I could have left the book I want to finish reading; I cross paths with Grunwald, who’s heading forward again, and Gutiérrez, who’s coming from the command post, grumbling under his breath and carrying a ream of fresh paper in his hands; I leave the boots on my bunk; it looks like docking maneuvers are about to begin. I climb into my bed, shove the boots aside and down toward my feet, find the book tumbled among the covers, hide it under the pillow, and close my eyes with the illusion that on this return everything might return to the way it was in the old days.

We’re entering Puerto Belgrano, on batteries, in complete silence; it’s nighttime, and from below I see the black hole of the sky outlining the open hatch up there. The CO, Ghezzi, Maineri, and Polski are up at the sail, the rest are all down here, not yet feeling the fresh air from outside. Someone goes down the ladder, judging by his great height, it must be Polski; yes, it’s Polski, who’s just come down and is heading sternward. I follow him, he stops next to Almaraz, who’s acting as maneuvers helmsman to steer us into port. Everybody’s here, Polski says; Everybody who? asks Almaraz; The whole damn combat fleet; Really? Yeah, even the aircraft carrier; The aircraft carrier? Almaraz repeats in disbelief; the aircraft carrier, and listen to this, the Salta ! But how can that be? Why? I don’t know, Polski replies angrily, but what I do know is that we’re the only dumb asses who are still here. I return to my bed, I don’t want to keep listening. Soria passes me and goes into the galley; now, without his life vest, he looks different. When I get to my bunk I see that my boots aren’t there, and I don’t feel like keeping up with that game anymore, I forget the whole business, climb up and lie down; from the row of bunks on the other side of the corridor a whisper reaches me, Cuéllar has the Bible open and is moving his lips; I close my eyes, trying to remember my mother’s face, but I can’t.