A Ravel of Waters

Later Brockton and I were drinking a glass of wine in the creeper-covered patio of the Spanish colonial Austral Hotel, which contrasted nostalgically with the upstart modernism of the town itself, centre of one of Argentina's most important oil-fields. The town's streets had a superfluity of raw concrete walls, most of which seemed to be graffitied with the same slogan in big red letters – 'Las Malvinas son nuestras'.

I was relaxed, warm and comfortable in the secluded twilight. The vino rosado was good, if a trifle sweet for my palate. I liked having Brockton around; our acquaintance was turning to friendship, especially after the 'white card' unpleasantness. I was gratified that my first impressions of the man had proved correct.

Robbie Lund, proprietor of the Austral, came to our table. He was an amiable, big-boned Scot whose grandfather, in common with hundreds of others of Hebridean descent, had settled southern Patagonia towards the turn of the last century. Originally they had been 'kelpers' in the Falklands and later were responsible for the famous Patagonian wool boom. 'So you're the new skipper of Jetwind? he asked.

'Yes. It surprises me how many people in Argentina seem to know about the ship.' 'You wouldn't know why, would you?'

'No. A record attempt of that nature doesn't seem to be the sort of thing to create much popular feeling.'

Two kids appeared suddenly, and Lund said something to them in Spanish, indicating the entrance bell. They shot off excitedly.

Lund excused himself for the interruption, and continued the conversation.

'And you wouldn't know either, Mr Brockton, in spite of the fact that you speak Spanish so well?'

'I guess not, except that everyone's hackles seemed to rise when Jetwind was mentioned.'

Lund chose his words. 'Jetwind has kind of split public opinion down the middle in Argentina.' He dropped his voice. 'A hotelier has to be careful. Split, left and right.'

Something of the bien aise went out of the evening. 'You mean, politically left and right?' 'Aye, I do.'

'Who dragged politics into a neutral subject like a record-breaking attempt?'

'You may well ask. Captain Rainier. You see, Jetwind is tied up in the Falklands.' 'Don't I know it!'

'The ship has become a kind of symbol, if I may put it that way.' 'A symbol of what?'

Lund glanced about uneasily, tfien replied. 'Hasn't your friend translated the slogans on the walls of the town? They've shot up like mushrooms ever since Jetwind was known to be in Port Stanley.'

Brockton repeated the Spanish. '"Las Malvinas son nuestras" – the Malvinas are ours. As good nationalists, they don't tolerate the name Falklands. The question of ownership of the Falklands has been a point of friction for generations. Now the whole controversy has flared up again – because Jetwind was forced to make for Port Stanley.'

'Forced? Who says forced?' I asked. 'The ship was en route from Montevideo to the Cape when her captain was killed in an accident. Her first mate, Anton Grohman, turned and like a frightened rabbit made for Port Stanley.'

Lund sat down and stared. 'That isn't the story that has been circulated in Argentina.'

'Now I see,' I replied. 'Grohman is an Argentinian. The Falklands are a delicate political issue, and Grohman thought it would make good political capital.'

Brockton blew in the mouth of the wine bottle as if underscoring my remark. It emitted an odd, menacing, horn-like sound. 'Whose side is he really on, Mr Lund?' he asked.

Lund replied thoughtfully. 'Captain Grohman stopped over here a few days back on his way from the Falklands…'

'Grohman isn't Jetwind's captain any longer,' I corrected him. 'He was temporarily in charge after Mortensen's death.'

Lund contemplated me shrewdly. 'It was a clever thing to call himself captain in the papers – politically, I mean. A storm is being stirred up round Jetwind.’

'A political captain makes a half-assed sailing captain,' said Brockton.

'If Grohman is not aboard Jetwind when I arrive tomorrow,,I sail without him,' I said. 'The more I hear of him, his intrigues and his political involvements, the less I like him.'

'I wouldn't say Grohman isn't a good sailor,' answered Lund. 'But he's a true-blue Argentinian – half-Spanish, half-Scots. In addition, there's wild, dangerous blood in him, probably Indian. The mixture could produce strange characteristics.'

'Thanks for the tip,' I replied. 'But I think I know how to handle him.' Lund flashed a grin at Brockton. 'I reckon you would.'

The two youngsters suddenly appeared carrying a bell. Lund gave them some coins and handed the bell to me.