Disclaimers: "Pirates of the Caribbean" belong to Disney. The song "A la vida bona" belongs to Juan Aranes, and the song "We Be Soldiers Three" belongs to Thomas Ravenscroft.
Rating: R
A/N: The French spelling in "We Be Soldiers Three" is not a mistake - I followed the original transcription.
I'd like to thank all my wonderful reviewers and readers. Your feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated.
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III
I hate Jack Sparrow.
Or do I? Since that little encounter of ours I can't think of anything else than this sudden wave of warmth I was feeling. I don't know what it is - the captain's cabin with every single detail reminding me of these years I was sailing the Spanish Main as Captain Barbossa's companion? The sudden look of guilt in the man's eyes? The unwilling interest he is showing me?
For it's clear he despises me even more than I hate him. He's suspecting a foul play, because I'm of a different kin than him and his crew. He smells blood on me, and he's trying to find out who I am and why I am here. Maybe he already knows. If not, why the hell would he tell me all that serpent-and-spider tale?
He's trying to show me we have nothing in common. He is a pirate and I am a pirate too, but we consider each other a disgrace to the trade. I remind him what pirates really are: not good-natured folks like Gibbs, not beautiful and proud freedom-lovers like Anamaria, not peaceful and a little bit lost harbour-dwellers like the rest of the crew, no - ruthless, cold-blooded murderers with no respect for others' lives, let alone for their own. And it's how they are and will be regarded by common people. No matter how many songs about Tyburn tree will be sung, no matter how many little books about Nassau-Port-being-sacked-peacefully will be written.
Does it really have anything to do with the Commodore, or was Sparrow always like that - loathing himself for what he is and for the irreversibility of it? I'd like to know. I think, I hope that Sparrow's feelings for the Commodore are to be blamed. Is he feeling unworthy of Norrington, like Norrington himself is feeling guilty before Sparrow? Does he want to meet him as badly as the Commodore does? If so, then I'm the worst go-between imaginable, for Sparrow will never listen to me.
Yet he's looking at me with those dark eyes of his. He's trying not to. There's no friendliness in his stare, no kindness, no warmth - there is only his body, perhaps, that has some warmth for me, but not his soul. Ah. I feel the same. It's been a long time since I've felt this hard, relentless lust for a man, it's an unmistakable feeling indeed. Why do I feel it? I hate his vain attempts to be an honourable man and a pirate too, his attempts to gain what can't be gained in this world - freedom and clear conscience alike. I hate him for that spitting in the world's cruel face, for trying to stay unmarred by others' blood, for believing in others' innocence. It's not for me. I can't be like that.
What do I want from him, then? Maybe I want him to share some of this easy intimacy that he seems to have for every being - with me. He doesn't even like me, I know, but he still can call me "luv" like he calls all his crew, as if it didn't cost him anything, and I don't need much more. Oh, hell, am I feeling that cold on the Pearl, that I'm going to take a firebrand from my foe's hands? No, I'll warm myself up by the fire I'll set.
He's been looking at me when I was playing the bloody lute. The crew were beyond themselves with joy, only Little Chen smiled a little, for he has good ears and understands that the lute doesn't sound good and needs a new fret really badly.
I winked to Little Chen and played the "Purple Bamboo" melody; he looked at me and started to blink. Sparrow smiled - he's been to Singapore and he probably knows the song. He can play lute as well, it seems - and has some decency left, therefore he won't play it before the crew. And he knows I'll come to look for the fret with him, and he's waiting for it - as I am. Or maybe he's more impatient then me, because there is something he wants to know... but no, I have my own little issues too. And both of us are looking forward for the other's surrender.
Before we went to work again, Little Chen came to me and whispered:
"Have something to tell you."
"Why, thank you, what's that?" I asked. I like to know new things, especially when I'm the guest on the Black Pearl.
"Um, do you know Victor?"
"Victor? What's wrong with him?" Victor is the oldest man here, older than Cotton even. He must have spent his entire life on small pirate sloops, for he's working quite well, regardless that he's hardly even moving. He looks like a retired Latin teacher and I've always suspected that he's cobwebbed, as if he were sleeping in some dirty corner all the time.
"He says he remembers you. He says, he saw you, eleven years ago. Do you know him?"
"Never met him before," I said lightly, but my heart leaped suddenly. "Is he my long-lost uncle or what?"
"He says, he saw you with Barbossa. He says you were on his ship, you sailed to Montserrat. He was on Montserrat that time. You don't know Victor?"
"No, I don't know old Victor, mate. Why does he remember me, then?"
I expect Little Chen saying something about Victor's son or relative killed in a tavern quarrel. What was I doing on Montserrat, anyway? I've been to Leeward Islands, of course... but If I can't remember anything, then we surely didn't do anything worth mentioning there.
"He remembers you, because you were the youngest of them Barbossa's crew." Little Chen was looking at me worringly. Ah, the "Purple Bamboo" worked wonders for me. Nice fellow, Little Chen. I didn't want to worry him more, so I didn't ask him if that old fogey is going to tell Sparrow about his suspicions. Maybe I'll have to send him to heaven somehow.
"Thanks, matey," I said, "poor Victor is just tired. And old, far too old to remember so many things. Well, at least he's not seeing movin' skeletons in his sleep, thank God." And I went to work, feeling like jumping into the sea.
But then came the evening and my thoughts about Sparrow came back too. When I entered his cabin after my watch, I didn't see him at first. Then he came out from behind the screen and invited me to sit. Now I'm seated at the table and he's searching through a mahogany chest in the corner.
"Thought it may be here," he says, "but it's a bloody little trifle. Easy to overlook. Damn. Too many chests an' boxes an' shelves in here."
"You can, well... trust me and let me help you. I won't take anything, you've my word. Or do you trust me only with the books?"
"Oh, no, bollocks. Ye' right. Come here an' take a look, be so kind. That next one."
I open the heavy lid, and lo - there is a scarlet dress. I touch it shyly. Will I go mad on this damned ship?
"Aah, the dress. I wonder why it's still here."
"You know it?"
"Do I know it? Sure. The Port Royal Governor's daughter, Lizbeth, was wearin' it on her lil' escapade with the Cortez's treasure. Barbossa gave it to her. An' then took it back. Was always wonderin' what that bloody dress ever mattered to him."
"I don't think the fret can be in the same chest with a dress," I say and stand up. I'd rather look for it among the books. Or in the chest on the opposite side. Anywhere but away from him.
"Wait, wait," he says and stands up too with a broad smile. "Let's finish these chests."
"I'd check those over there."
"I've checked 'em already."
"The books, then."
He's looking at me with an open mockery.
"D'ye want to help or not?"
"I do," I say and want to kneel down again, but he stops me.
"Ye have a good pistol, Ritchie. Show me it, will ye?"
I hesitate. I'm not that stupid, I know I shouldn't allow him to take my weapon from me. But I can't refuse either, because it would raise his suspicions, and he has all the crew at his orders - were he going to kill me, I'd have no way to run. And something tells me he wouldn't kill me now, when the night is still so young.
"Sure," I say.
He takes the pistol and inspects it lazily, I'm going to look through the books again, but then he stops me.
"Where d'ye have this pistol from?"
"Bought," I say. "But not by money."
"Oh, did ya really? What's this?"
I turn back to look at him - he shows me the initials engraved on the pistol's butt-end. JN. Damn.
"Previous owner's initials, I reckon," I say brazenly looking him in the eyes.
"You've met Commodore Norrington."
"Why do you think so? There can be many people here with the same initials."
"Aye, but it happens that I've seen this pistol before, an' not only once or twice. Maaany times," he sings caressing the pistol, with his eyes on me. "Have another lie to tell me, luv, or will you be nice an' cooperating?"
He's not threatening me at all, still he has my pistol in his hands. And I don't know how much he knows; I don't know if old Victor has been here with his dangerous guesses. I'm alone here, I must play very, very carefully... yet I can't deny myself a little fun.
I cast my eyes down with an embarrassed smile.
"Well, there's nothing to hide," I say, "though nothing to be proud either. I spent a night with the Commodore, and this pistol was my pay."
He is silent, but when I can feel that he moved closer to me, I take a step back. Our eyes meet, and he endures my unwillingly triumphant look with a not-so-sincere smile.
"So ye still have a whole pack of lies in yer sleeves," he says. "Interesting. Tell me more."
"You want this story to be a lie, don't you? Ask me if I have a reason to invent things like that. It's not flatterin' for me in the slightest." I look aside, at the flickering candles on the table. The ship is creaking sleepily around us, a lullaby-like, soothing melody.
"For what I know 'bout ye, it may be pretty flatterin' for ye. Ye don't look like havin' particularly strong moral principles, luv. But ye know what? Let's say there's much more disturbin' point to it, namely that I don't think the officer of the Royal Navy would present his pistol to a whore as willingly as ye put it."
Ah, so you're fighthing, but you're already bleeding too. And you know what? It's impossible for you to hurt me more than you already did, be it with your words or with your hands.
"Well, 'willingly' isn't exactly the word... I'd say 'carelessly'. 'Unconsciously', even. You know, he was drunk, poor devil." I sigh, shaking my head. "I was in such need, and although I was feelin' really sorry for the fellow, I've taken advantage of him. He didn't have much money, but was so pleased with me that he didn't hesitate to give me his pistol."
He frowns at me, there is now only one thing he notices.
"He's been drinkin'? With you? Where?"
"A little tavern called 'The Red Stocking'. You know it probably. In Port Royal of course. He wasn't drinking with me, though. He was all alone." I smile. "Pathetic fellow. Wanted to cheer him up, honestly. That's why I didn't take his money either. Had pity over him, you see."
I see bright wrath in his eyes and I rejoice, for now there is my turn to watch my foe suffer. He'd like to hit me, but he can't show that he cares about the Commodore, he doesn't want to uncover his vulnerability to me. What now, Jack Sparrow?
"Hm," he says slowly, narrowing his eyes, "so it seems ye can understand what pity is. Ye've convinced me. But why don't I still believe yer story, Ritchie?... Ah, lemme see... James Norrington, the Commodore of the Royal Navy, is shaggin' a dirty pirate in The Red Stocking. Nah, pardon me, I don't get the picture."
You don't, but you want to.
"'Tis no riddle," I say quietly and seriously. "It's true I was only a dirty pirate to him, and he took me as a proxy. He lusts after another man, but I don't know his name. And it happens that this man's a pirate like me; and because I was an only man in the whole place who looked as such, the Commodore went with me."
For a twinkling of an eye I can see him stunned, an amazing sight really; he forgets to watch for me, he's asking himself what to do and how to react, there is panic in these deep dark eyes - but it's only a while and he returns to his previous guarded self, only with a trace of tiredness and enmity.
"He told ye all that? He told ye that he LUSTS after a man... after a pirate? Norrington told ye all that?"
"Of course he didn't," I say, "but he didn't need to. I'm not that dull. I don't know what you think and I don't care, if you don't believe me, so be it. He was groggy like hell and I asked him if he wants to go with me. He didn't protest. And when we went upstairs, he told me that he doesn't really want to lie with me, but I reminded him of somebody. That's all."
He's watching me and listening to me, he's as close to me as he can be without touching me, trying to feel with his whole self if I can be trusted. He knows that I can't, but he's ready to catch every sincere tone in my voice, as if he could compose a song of hope from them.
"He didn't want to lie with ye, but he did?"
"He did." I smile. "That's why I can be, uhm... partially proud of myself, just like you said. If I hadn't need the bloody pistol so badly, frankly speaking - I'd have done it for free."
He smiles too, but I can't see any smile in his suddenly cold, angry eyes. I can feel the night around us darken and deepen.
"Ah, ye would? Now that's interesting. Why?"
"It's not often that I've a chance to sleep with a man who never did it before. And he had so much scruples, even being drunk... it was a pleasure to free him from all those ridiculous ideas like God and nature and dignity and duty. A very special experience for us both, I'm sure."
He looks down with a short laugh, barely audible through his clenched teeth. And then raises his head. His eyes shine with hatred and passion alike.
"A special experience, ye say."
I'm silent, waiting. He looks down at me, with his eyes narrowed.
"Did ye really convince him? Did ye make him forget ev'rything he is that easily? It must've been a formidable accomplishment. I wonder how did ye do it? Tell me."
I smile half-apologingly.
"I'm not that good in tellin' tales."
I want to taunt him more, now when we are so threateningly close, my shoulder touching his, our glares locked, our fists clenched, his faintly rum-smelling breath on my face.
"Don't tell, then. Show me. Show me what you did for him," he demands, barely opening his mouth.
"Oh," I say smilling, "but whatever I did for him, I won't do for you."
His hands cleanch on my wrists.
"'Twould be a shame, for you're sooo much more experienced. I don't have to teach you anything, right?" I draw closer to him, looking into his furious eyes. "But him... he didn't know a bit. He wanted to kiss me, an' you know what? Was too ashamed, so I had to put the candle off. And then, he was so clumsy, his hands were shaking, I had to hold his head so that he wouldn't miss my mouth in the dark..."
And although I am trying to snicker, I cannot, a deadly severe feeling overwhelming me; it's a desire unleashing itself in this cursed man's presence, desire so long held back, desire to forget that I'm caught in the web I'm weaving. I buck myself against him, he lets my hands go, but now his fingers close on my shoulders. He bites me - there will be no kissing - I bite him back. He laughs into my mouth. There is nothing to be said now, he's opening my shirt, I'm opening his, just a little, so that we can feel each other's bare skin.
Ah, that lil' bit o'understanding. We don't need to like each other, yet both of us know where and how to touch. I'm sure he'll take his pleasure, he's sure I'll take mine, we've been through all of this before, and it's simple - if there's a chance to have another man's body during a long sea trip, then you take it without ceremony.
Still, there's too much heat in these scanty caresses. I have my hands already in his breeches, pressing his hips to mine, then moving slowly from his buttocks to the front - ah, he's hard, but let's make him harder, let's make him moan... but all I get is a ragged breath. He doesn't want to surrender. But so am I. I feel his tongue, then his teeth on my neck, along with the touch of the beard - and it alone makes me tremble, for I've always liked this - his fingernails dig deep into my back, but I'm stubbornly biting my lips. He raises his head to glance at me, I look aside - then he stops my hand.
"Easy, luv, look at me," he whispers in my ear and grabs my hair firmly. "Now, look in my eyes an' tell me, where the hell d'ye come from and who send ye here?"
Awww, is that stupid Victor's work? I fill my eyes with all the innocence I have in stock.
"What are you afraid of?"
He laughs and shakes his head.
"Nothin'. Just don't like to fuck somebody who can't look me in the eye."
"What if I told you that it's Norrington who sent me to you?"
His grip on my hair tightens a little. "He didn't."
"No, he didn't. But he did me a favor that I decided to repay. I've stolen his pistol - you've stolen his peace. I came here to tell you that, believe it or n..."
"Shut up," he says with a dull despair, and all of a sudden I have his mouth on mine, not biting this time, but kissing... the difference is ever so slight, but it softens me against my will, and I open my lips letting him in. His hands are holding my neck harshly, I find myself pressing into him again, with my hands under his shirt, but the kiss doesn't last, he withdraws and leaning his forehead against mine whispers:
"Was it like that with 'im?"
"Ask him yourself," I say catching my breath. "Go to Port Royal. He's drinking every Saturday in The Red Stocking."
He smiles to his thoughts, coming back to his usual careless self. He's almost convinced now. He knows that Norrington wants him, and I know he wants Norrington too. He can start planning safe escapade to Port Royal. Rejoice, Ritchie Brown, the worst go-between on earth, for thy mission is nearly complete. I look at the melting candles on the table - the table without the altar cape I remember so well.
"Are ye going to tell me that he's not lookin' forward to see me dancin' on the noose's end?"
What am I doing here with this man? Norrington is not going to hang him. I can see the Commodore's face, when he says his pathetic "it's not easy to hang a man. Even if he's evil, even when you know he's taken innocent lives and there's blood on his hands that calls out to God. And if you have to hang a good man..." Something is snapping inside me. I can't stand Jack Sparrow being happy.
"That I don't know. Maybe he is. You're haunting him. He remembers your name even when he's so drunk that he almost can't stand up."
He narrows his eyes.
"Ye said he didn't tell the name."
"He did, in fact, just not very clearly. He told me the name. He called me by it. Oh, was so bloody sorry after that."
"He called ye by that name, when..."
"He called me by your Christian name when we were fucking, aye. Now you can do the same with his."
For a moment he looks like hitting me, but then his disdain prevails over hatred; he takes a deep breath, then spits on the floor at my feet and turns away.
"Well, good night to you," I say and go out of the cabin.
Then standing on the main deck I look upon the stars. The heat in my body is gone, I scratch my head and sigh. What was I going to do, after all? To sleep with my friend's murderer, who probably wasn't even going to allow me to bugger him, seeing that he is older than me and a captain here... to make him happy and convinced that he's fancied by the man I'd like to have myself. No, it can't be that easy for Sparrow... nor for me, because I wanted to lie with him as well.
The next morning, which is the last before Tortuga, I'm eating the breakfast with Little Chen, sitting on the railing near the forecastle. Little Chen is very excited, like all the crew, because Tortuga means fresh food and women; Cotton's name is no longer on the binnacle list, even Anamaria's serious features are softened a little. Gibbs can hardly wait for Tortuga coastline to emerge before us.
"How long are we going to stay?" I ask.
"Don't know," says Little Chen sighing, "only a few days, I think. Captain wants to go to Cancun soon. Pity. I like Tortuga, more than La Onza de Gracia."
Sure you do. La Onza de Gracia is on the outskirts of the Caribbean. Ah, why don't you people run a nice peaceful family business like selling oysters? Must you really trample the proud deck of this unfortunate ship?
I'm chewing the sinewy meat with my head lowered, when Little Chen elbows me, and I see Jack Sparrow standing before us. He approached us quickly and quietly, as always - I look at him puzzled; he's eating like us and his mouth is full, so he gestures at me. I stretch my hand, he gives me something. A fret, and a gut too.
Little Chen smiles, Sparrow manages to swallow his meat at last and says, grinning:
"Replace it, Ritchie, we'll have a nice evening in Tres Morillas today."
His voice is even, he's looking at me openly, but there's a little bit of watchful defiance behind this look. I don't want to dwell on it now, so I answer with a quick, obedient smile, taking the fret from his hand.
"Alright," I say, "I'll do it now."
"Good," he says, patting Little Chen on his shoulder for an unknown reason, and walks away not looking at me. I scratch my head with the fret. Tres Morillas?... I know this name. Must be a tavern... but I have a strange feeling that it's not a place I'd like to go. Well, seems that I don't have a choice, since it's the captain's decision.
Little Chen brings me fire and watches me when I'm melting the end of the fret gut with the hot end of a knife.
"What for?" he asks.
"To prevent the knot from slipping undone, mate."
"It's not easy."
"No, it isn't. A tedious lil' thing, it is. Lucky that only one fret needs replacing."
"You play lute very nicely. I like it. Anamaria, she says, you can't be an evil man, because you play so nicely."
"Uhm... does she?"
"She says, Victor is a stupid old man. She laughs at him. People don't believe him. You know, what he said about you, that you was among Barbossa's crew."
"Ah, that one." I've put the cursed knot's other end in the bad direction. Damn.
"Gibbs says, you feel lonely without any family, he likes you."
Little Chen, you'll kill me sooner than Sparrow will.
"Aye, Gibbs is a good fellow... What about you? Do you have any family?"
"N-no, but... but I like a girl. She's working in Tortuga."
"So you can meet her this evening."
"I can. You can meet a nice girl, too. There are many nice girls in Tres Morillas."
I'm sure I have been there, I think, when we finally reach our place. It's dark already, and the door and windows are wide open. The tavern itself is nothing more than a crude wooden shack, which once rather small, now gained enormous proportions by added storeys, penthouses, balconies and sheds. It's full of night, drunken life, with people running up and down the stairs, tapdancing on the cracking floors, lovemaking loudly in the smelly rooms in the back. Three barely visible silhouettes stand under a tree on the rainwashed signboard - oh, I remember it now. The previous owner, a fat Spaniard, had three pretty daughters, and he named his tavern Tres Morillas after them, and after the old song about three dark-coloured beauties that were picking olives in Jaen, the song that reminded him about his old country...
Wait, why do I remember all this rubbish? Why, it means that I've been to Tres Morillas before. But my memory doesn't stretch beyond the signboard story. I must have been deadly drunk... I didn't visit Tortuga very often, and it was more than ten years before. Even if I had done something not quite, uhm, ethical here, sure nobody remembers it now.
We enter the tavern and good folks gathered here - there aren't many of them, though - give us way politely. We're rather safe, because Tres Morillas is near to the darker part of the island, still not frequented too much by the servants of the law; but it's not the previous, free Tortuga anymore. I can see that many of the guests are of our kind, with tanned faces, cutlass scars, and unstable gestures, but they are hiding their pistols under their coats and jackets - Anamaria is covering her proudly tucked pistol too - and some of them cover their hands with sleeves longer than necessary. I sigh, mending a piece of cloth on my right hand. We must keep a low profile here, it seems. The golden days of Tortuga are gone.
The owner's wife, a corpulent woman with heavy black hair and a light moustache - there are still traces of rich, generous beauty in her - leans over the counter and claps her hand on the sight of Sparrow; he smooches her in the reddened cheek and calls her familiarly "Maria", asking about her husband. Oh, he's busy outside with the mules. What about the children, asks Sparrow, and she answers that the elder son is with his father, and little Susanita is over here, with her friends.
We're looking politely in that direction and see three children - two girls and a boy - crouching over the bucket in the corner. Near them, on the short bench under the wall, several women - "girls", I mean - wake up from their slumber and run to our table. Soon even Little Chen has a girl on his knees, and Gibbs and Sparrow have two of them each. Anamaria rolls her eyes and pours half of a pint down her throat.
The youngest of them all, Monica, is sitting with Sparrow, who after a short conversation unceremoniously puts his hands under her skirt. Monica is tall and has a long, graceful neck, but her big, round, slightly protruding eyes give a vague impression of dullness. But it's not brightness what a starving pirate seeks in a woman, and Sparrow is engulfed in her big bosom's warmth.
My girl - is she a Maria, too? - notices the lute and asks me for music.
"No, no, wait, dear," says Gibbs, whose red face gives away his age, as he obviously can't manage two girls on his lap, "let's eat somethin' first."
Maria the owner's wife brings food by herself; she must be friends with Sparrow, I think. We begin a feast, shuffling meats and beans, the eldest and most timid of the girls is taking care of Cotton (she's gaping into his mouth, very curious about the remnant of his tongue), Little Chen is skinning an orange for his Pepita, Gibbs is squinting his eyes at both of his girls, Maria - oh no, she's Lucia - and me are eating the same bread crust, dipped in sauce.
Sparrow is feeding Monica with a bits of chicken, but she's not looking at him, she's obviously concerned with the children playing with the bucket. Sparrow frowns at her, but looks in the same direction.
"What's disturbin' ye, luv?" he asks.
"Oh, Captain," she says plainly, "Susanita and Rico are playin' together so nicely all day, but Antonia's a bad girl, she's annoying them."
"Yeah, that's what I'm sayin'", bellows Maria suddenly with voice dark and heavy like her hair, "this lil' one is a true pest."
The children, although busy with their bucket and whatever else, feel with their keen instinct that we're talking about them, and raise their heads. It's easy to recognize little Susanita, the owner's daughter, for her garment is made from a fine linen and her cheeks are round and pink. Rico and Antonia look very alike, because their wildly unkempt hair is of the same length and they wear long gown-like clothes of the same indefinite colour.
"Whose children are they?" asks Anamaria.
"Ah, Rico an' Antonia are mine," answers Monica nervously.
Rico, who is younger, is smilling to us; he has round, a little bit dull eyes of his mother, and is very pleased with Susanita's arm, rounding his neck possessively. He feels like a man already, and he knows that his mother is proud of fondness that little Susanita has for him. His sister, Antonia, who can be about eight years old, has an uncertain air of a child who doesn't understand what the adults want from her - there's a wariness in the depth of these dark eyes.
"Such a nice lil' pair, these two," barks Maria, "an' Antonia's like jealous, or what... always there to mess things up, she is."
"Antonia, leave 'em alone," orders her mother quickly. Ah, she wants her Rico to hold little Susanita's favor. She probably doesn't realize that he will lose it anyway when he grows up - Maria's no fool to allow her daughter to play with prostitute's son anymore. For Rico's mother, like for most girls of her profession, tomorrow does not exist.
I can see now what the children are doing - they are drowning newly-born kittens in the bucket. There are still two of them left, but they are so small they don't even make any noise.
"Told 'em to get rid of the cats," says Maria, "too many of 'em already, an' they smell."
"But mama, they took my kitten too," says Antonia quietly. She already knows that her case is lost, but is still trying. How futile.
"Leave them the hell alone," orders Monica waving her hands, and Antonia steps aside without any other word. She knows when to stop. She is wise.
This girl is beginning to doubt and to weight things already. I see it in a look she gives her mother, a look of hurt, but also of loathing. Yes, little one, the place you are in is not necessarily the best for you.
Maybe Sparrow is thinking the same, because he sighs and says to Monica, scratching his nose:
"Poor lil' Antonia, no need to be so harsh to her, luv. She's a big girl. Let her sit with us, 'ey?" And he turns to the child, saying "Come here, Antonia, an' eat somethin' with us."
Monica opens her mouth in dismay, but her business experience is not so poor after all, because she agrees:
"As you like, Captain," and kisses him very sweetly, now trying the role of a tender mother concerned about her daughter's future. Sparrow, peeping into her bosom again, gives Antonia an orange and whispers to me:
"Cheer this lil' Antonia, will ye, Ritchie?"
I nod and invite her to sit between me and Gibbs. She looks at us both without a smile and stretches her short legs with a grave expression, weighing the orange in her hand. It's clear that she's not hungry and not very interested in our company - we're people she's seeing every day.
"Uhm, Lucia, sweetie," I say to my girl, "what about some songs?"
"Oh, what can you sing?"
"Whatever you like... Spanish, English, Catalan, Italian ones." I take the lute.
"Now, now," says Lucia with suddenly enchanted voice, "you have a formidable instrument here!"
I laugh at the involuntary pun.
"You don't have music in Tres Morillas?"
"Sometimes, but the musicians are expensive, and the business goes not so well in Tortuga nowadays. Oh, look, what a rosette! Look, Antonia!"
The girl looks at the rosette unwillingly, wrinkling her little nose, but her eyes widen suddenly.
"Oh," she says, "is it living, this flower?"
"No," I say, "but it's carved so well that we all know that music can bring everything to life. Do you want to hear about a great fancy-dress ball, Antonia?"
"A fancy-dress ball?"
"Aye, ev'rybody is dancing in their fancy dresses around Queen Antonia. It's the dancing party with a thousand of pleasures, and we all dance to the good, sweet life."
"Ah," exclaims Lucia, "that stupid song! 'A la vida, vidica bona, vida vamonos a chacona'?"
"This song ain't more stupid than our lives, Princess Lucia. Will you sing with me?" I ask. "Listen, Queen Antonia, about a fancy-dress ball that was famed both far and wide."
The company at our table soon turns to us, when we start singing this lovely mess of a song, about the party in the month of roses, when Orpheus's sister-in-law began a Guinea dance and an Amazon woman finished it, when don Gonzalo was dancing with the frivolous dona Albarda and a blind man, the country girl with a sick man's wife, a guy from Zamorra with Lisarda the shepherdess... then came Galen the physician, and Cupid's mother herself, and then, well, the harpy and all the toffs and snobs of the city, the aloes cargo and the crane with barley porridge... and even thirty Sundays with twenty Mondays on their backs, the unwilling donkey and forty Barcelona harlots followed the dancing procession... which was famed both far and wide.
Every stanza is being listened with high attention and when comes the refrain everybody is dying of laughter, I can hardly play, Lucia giggles instead of supporting me, but the best thing is that little Antonia is jumping on her chair with delight.
"I like this song!" she informs me when I finish. "I like the donkey and the gypsy girl best! Why is there vermin in the aloes cargo?"
"Uhm, I don't know," I say, "there's always vermin in a cargo, don't you think?"
"Oh, that was good, mate," says Sparrow, looking at Antonia and then smilling at me gratefully. "D'ye have more of this?"
"Maybe ye know that song about soldiers comin' back from the Low Country," says Gibbs pleadingly. "'Twas very popular in London not so long ago."
"Aah, this one I know," I say. "Now it's about your own soldiers, Queen Antonia."
"My own soldiers?"
"Aye, every queen needs soldiers too, not only elegant folks dancing."
She smiles widely: "Sing me about my soldiers."
"We be soldiers three,
Pardona moy, je vous an pree,
Lately come forth of the Low Country
With never a penny of money.
Here, good fellow, I drink to thee,
To all good fellows, wherever they be.
And he that will not pledge me this,
Pay for the shot whatever it is..."
The door open when I'm singing, and Maria clasps her hands roaring:
"Ah, Captain Sparrow, my husband's here! Come to us, Elias, we're havin' a nice music this evenin', thanks to the Captain!"
Her big husband is coming to us, making as much noise as he can with his huge boots, goes behind the counter, drinks some water, clears his throat and says with the hollow voice:
"Nice to see ye, Captain! An' a good music, 'tis always welcome in me..."
And he stops when our eyes meet. His face becomes pale.
"Hold it for me, queen," I whisper throwing the lute into little Antonia's embrace. Sparrow throws a quick glance at me.
"Captain, there's vermin in yer cargo!" screams the owner, searching with trembling hands under the counter. "Where did ye take him from?"
"What are ye talkin' bout, Elias?" says Sparrow.
"I've said it, but nobody listen'd to me," murmurs Victor.
All the crew is backing away from me.
"I remember him, ne'er would forget his face," says Elias panting. "He came here more than eleven years ago, hasn't changed much... he came here with Barbossa, may he burn in hell, an' they killed my own brother... shot 'im in the head."
I can't say anything, because... well, because I do have some vague memory of being here, but...
"Wait, wait," I say standing up, "I don't remember it."
"Ye don't, ye bastard? But ye shot him, ye shot him... 'twas a bet... you were makin' a bet that ye'd aim an' hit the hole in the wall... that hole..."
"It wasn't me, you dumbhead!"
"'Twas yer company, an' ye should pay," he pants with tears in his bulging eyes. Sparrow, with his teeth clenched, makes a gesture towards his pistol.
I throw a glance behind my shoulder - the door are open, but I need to get out. Now. And I snatch little Antonia from her chair; she blinks when my pistol's barrel touches her temple, but is holding the lute firmly, dangling under my arm. Brave girl.
"Oh m'God!" cries Monica. "Oh sweet Madonna, please, please..."
"Back, people," I say, "or there'll be an innocent blood on you all."
They back unwillingly. I am Barbossa's man, after all - they don't know how black my heart can be. I can see this uncertainty in Sparrow's face too.
"Good," I say backing to the door, paying attention not to squeeze Antonia; she doesn't move. "Thank you for your hospitality. Will release the lil' one soon, don't you worry."
Monica is crying from the depth of her oh so confused motherly heart.
"I will kill you, Ritchie Brown," says Sparrow without his usual slurring; his eyes are fixed on me. "I will kill you anyway, but if you hurt the girl, I'll do it slowly, savvy?"
"Why, savvy, of course," I say. "I take the liberty of retaining my Captain's lute, though. Along with the new fret."
"Fuck you, Ritchie."
"That you almost did," I say and I'm outside.
The night air is surprisingly chilling to me, although I know that it must be warm. I hesitate for a moment, I don't know if I should release Antonia now, or if she'll come in handy later. But she doesn't try to wriggle or run away, she clings to me without a word. So I run among the wooden walls of Tres Morillas to the back, to the scanty lights of the town houses, but then my hostage stops me.
"No, wait," she says, "there's an old barn over there! Nobody comes in, because our Nohemi hanged herself there..."
When we are in the barn, she gives me back the lute and climbs the ladder like a cat running after a bird. It's dark like hell, some of the ladder's steps are a little bit rotten, but I'm not that heavy and soon we're sitting on the loft, our eyes slowly accustoming to the thick darkness. We don't hear people's shouts anymore, they must've gone to the shore and to the back. I sigh looking at Antonia, she answers me by her knowing glance.
"I must go," I say simply.
"Uhm."
"Go back to your mama, little queen."
"Will you come back here?"
"I don't know."
"You can come back and kill Elias," she says. "He pinches me under my clothes. I hate him."
I sigh looking at her.
"Listen, Antonia. Maybe I will come back and kill him, but I can't promise anything now."
"Uhm. They want to kill you?"
"Yes, but I will run away. And you run from Elias, until he gets killed, alright?"
"Uhm."
I take my old amulet of Fatima's hand from my wrist; the strap is still strong enough. I place the trinket in the little sweaty palm.
"Look, Queen Antonia," I say, "it's going to protect you for awhile. It worked for me and will work for you."
"I like it," she says looking at the golden hand.
"Good. I have one thing to ask you, my queen. My name's Ritchie Brown. Do you remember the captain's name?"
"That man with shiny things in his hair? And he had beads in his beard..."
"Yes, that man."
"Captain Sparrow?"
"Right. Tell him..." I think for a moment. "...that whatever Ritchie said about stolen things is true."
"Uhm. What was stolen?"
"Never mind. Peace. Will you tell him that?"
"I will tell him that what Ritchie said about a stolen peace was true."
"Right. You are truly my Queen, Antonia. Go back to your mama now."
I sigh again, looking at the little figure running to Tres Morillas across the field, then my thoughts go back to Sparrow. Whee, I've ruined everything! He was going to believe that Norrington fancies him, but now I'm not that sure he believes me at all. He doesn't trust me and he doesn't know what part of my tale is true, therefore he won't go to Port Royal soon, no matter what little Antonia will tell him now...
But I still owe the Commodore, after all. And there may still be a chance that the Commodore will hang Sparrow after all. I must repair all I've ruined. Maybe my tactics weren't as good as I thought. Well... if not by fuck, then by force. Ah, I can have a little coat of arms with this device someday.
Rating: R
A/N: The French spelling in "We Be Soldiers Three" is not a mistake - I followed the original transcription.
I'd like to thank all my wonderful reviewers and readers. Your feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated.
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III
I hate Jack Sparrow.
Or do I? Since that little encounter of ours I can't think of anything else than this sudden wave of warmth I was feeling. I don't know what it is - the captain's cabin with every single detail reminding me of these years I was sailing the Spanish Main as Captain Barbossa's companion? The sudden look of guilt in the man's eyes? The unwilling interest he is showing me?
For it's clear he despises me even more than I hate him. He's suspecting a foul play, because I'm of a different kin than him and his crew. He smells blood on me, and he's trying to find out who I am and why I am here. Maybe he already knows. If not, why the hell would he tell me all that serpent-and-spider tale?
He's trying to show me we have nothing in common. He is a pirate and I am a pirate too, but we consider each other a disgrace to the trade. I remind him what pirates really are: not good-natured folks like Gibbs, not beautiful and proud freedom-lovers like Anamaria, not peaceful and a little bit lost harbour-dwellers like the rest of the crew, no - ruthless, cold-blooded murderers with no respect for others' lives, let alone for their own. And it's how they are and will be regarded by common people. No matter how many songs about Tyburn tree will be sung, no matter how many little books about Nassau-Port-being-sacked-peacefully will be written.
Does it really have anything to do with the Commodore, or was Sparrow always like that - loathing himself for what he is and for the irreversibility of it? I'd like to know. I think, I hope that Sparrow's feelings for the Commodore are to be blamed. Is he feeling unworthy of Norrington, like Norrington himself is feeling guilty before Sparrow? Does he want to meet him as badly as the Commodore does? If so, then I'm the worst go-between imaginable, for Sparrow will never listen to me.
Yet he's looking at me with those dark eyes of his. He's trying not to. There's no friendliness in his stare, no kindness, no warmth - there is only his body, perhaps, that has some warmth for me, but not his soul. Ah. I feel the same. It's been a long time since I've felt this hard, relentless lust for a man, it's an unmistakable feeling indeed. Why do I feel it? I hate his vain attempts to be an honourable man and a pirate too, his attempts to gain what can't be gained in this world - freedom and clear conscience alike. I hate him for that spitting in the world's cruel face, for trying to stay unmarred by others' blood, for believing in others' innocence. It's not for me. I can't be like that.
What do I want from him, then? Maybe I want him to share some of this easy intimacy that he seems to have for every being - with me. He doesn't even like me, I know, but he still can call me "luv" like he calls all his crew, as if it didn't cost him anything, and I don't need much more. Oh, hell, am I feeling that cold on the Pearl, that I'm going to take a firebrand from my foe's hands? No, I'll warm myself up by the fire I'll set.
He's been looking at me when I was playing the bloody lute. The crew were beyond themselves with joy, only Little Chen smiled a little, for he has good ears and understands that the lute doesn't sound good and needs a new fret really badly.
I winked to Little Chen and played the "Purple Bamboo" melody; he looked at me and started to blink. Sparrow smiled - he's been to Singapore and he probably knows the song. He can play lute as well, it seems - and has some decency left, therefore he won't play it before the crew. And he knows I'll come to look for the fret with him, and he's waiting for it - as I am. Or maybe he's more impatient then me, because there is something he wants to know... but no, I have my own little issues too. And both of us are looking forward for the other's surrender.
Before we went to work again, Little Chen came to me and whispered:
"Have something to tell you."
"Why, thank you, what's that?" I asked. I like to know new things, especially when I'm the guest on the Black Pearl.
"Um, do you know Victor?"
"Victor? What's wrong with him?" Victor is the oldest man here, older than Cotton even. He must have spent his entire life on small pirate sloops, for he's working quite well, regardless that he's hardly even moving. He looks like a retired Latin teacher and I've always suspected that he's cobwebbed, as if he were sleeping in some dirty corner all the time.
"He says he remembers you. He says, he saw you, eleven years ago. Do you know him?"
"Never met him before," I said lightly, but my heart leaped suddenly. "Is he my long-lost uncle or what?"
"He says, he saw you with Barbossa. He says you were on his ship, you sailed to Montserrat. He was on Montserrat that time. You don't know Victor?"
"No, I don't know old Victor, mate. Why does he remember me, then?"
I expect Little Chen saying something about Victor's son or relative killed in a tavern quarrel. What was I doing on Montserrat, anyway? I've been to Leeward Islands, of course... but If I can't remember anything, then we surely didn't do anything worth mentioning there.
"He remembers you, because you were the youngest of them Barbossa's crew." Little Chen was looking at me worringly. Ah, the "Purple Bamboo" worked wonders for me. Nice fellow, Little Chen. I didn't want to worry him more, so I didn't ask him if that old fogey is going to tell Sparrow about his suspicions. Maybe I'll have to send him to heaven somehow.
"Thanks, matey," I said, "poor Victor is just tired. And old, far too old to remember so many things. Well, at least he's not seeing movin' skeletons in his sleep, thank God." And I went to work, feeling like jumping into the sea.
But then came the evening and my thoughts about Sparrow came back too. When I entered his cabin after my watch, I didn't see him at first. Then he came out from behind the screen and invited me to sit. Now I'm seated at the table and he's searching through a mahogany chest in the corner.
"Thought it may be here," he says, "but it's a bloody little trifle. Easy to overlook. Damn. Too many chests an' boxes an' shelves in here."
"You can, well... trust me and let me help you. I won't take anything, you've my word. Or do you trust me only with the books?"
"Oh, no, bollocks. Ye' right. Come here an' take a look, be so kind. That next one."
I open the heavy lid, and lo - there is a scarlet dress. I touch it shyly. Will I go mad on this damned ship?
"Aah, the dress. I wonder why it's still here."
"You know it?"
"Do I know it? Sure. The Port Royal Governor's daughter, Lizbeth, was wearin' it on her lil' escapade with the Cortez's treasure. Barbossa gave it to her. An' then took it back. Was always wonderin' what that bloody dress ever mattered to him."
"I don't think the fret can be in the same chest with a dress," I say and stand up. I'd rather look for it among the books. Or in the chest on the opposite side. Anywhere but away from him.
"Wait, wait," he says and stands up too with a broad smile. "Let's finish these chests."
"I'd check those over there."
"I've checked 'em already."
"The books, then."
He's looking at me with an open mockery.
"D'ye want to help or not?"
"I do," I say and want to kneel down again, but he stops me.
"Ye have a good pistol, Ritchie. Show me it, will ye?"
I hesitate. I'm not that stupid, I know I shouldn't allow him to take my weapon from me. But I can't refuse either, because it would raise his suspicions, and he has all the crew at his orders - were he going to kill me, I'd have no way to run. And something tells me he wouldn't kill me now, when the night is still so young.
"Sure," I say.
He takes the pistol and inspects it lazily, I'm going to look through the books again, but then he stops me.
"Where d'ye have this pistol from?"
"Bought," I say. "But not by money."
"Oh, did ya really? What's this?"
I turn back to look at him - he shows me the initials engraved on the pistol's butt-end. JN. Damn.
"Previous owner's initials, I reckon," I say brazenly looking him in the eyes.
"You've met Commodore Norrington."
"Why do you think so? There can be many people here with the same initials."
"Aye, but it happens that I've seen this pistol before, an' not only once or twice. Maaany times," he sings caressing the pistol, with his eyes on me. "Have another lie to tell me, luv, or will you be nice an' cooperating?"
He's not threatening me at all, still he has my pistol in his hands. And I don't know how much he knows; I don't know if old Victor has been here with his dangerous guesses. I'm alone here, I must play very, very carefully... yet I can't deny myself a little fun.
I cast my eyes down with an embarrassed smile.
"Well, there's nothing to hide," I say, "though nothing to be proud either. I spent a night with the Commodore, and this pistol was my pay."
He is silent, but when I can feel that he moved closer to me, I take a step back. Our eyes meet, and he endures my unwillingly triumphant look with a not-so-sincere smile.
"So ye still have a whole pack of lies in yer sleeves," he says. "Interesting. Tell me more."
"You want this story to be a lie, don't you? Ask me if I have a reason to invent things like that. It's not flatterin' for me in the slightest." I look aside, at the flickering candles on the table. The ship is creaking sleepily around us, a lullaby-like, soothing melody.
"For what I know 'bout ye, it may be pretty flatterin' for ye. Ye don't look like havin' particularly strong moral principles, luv. But ye know what? Let's say there's much more disturbin' point to it, namely that I don't think the officer of the Royal Navy would present his pistol to a whore as willingly as ye put it."
Ah, so you're fighthing, but you're already bleeding too. And you know what? It's impossible for you to hurt me more than you already did, be it with your words or with your hands.
"Well, 'willingly' isn't exactly the word... I'd say 'carelessly'. 'Unconsciously', even. You know, he was drunk, poor devil." I sigh, shaking my head. "I was in such need, and although I was feelin' really sorry for the fellow, I've taken advantage of him. He didn't have much money, but was so pleased with me that he didn't hesitate to give me his pistol."
He frowns at me, there is now only one thing he notices.
"He's been drinkin'? With you? Where?"
"A little tavern called 'The Red Stocking'. You know it probably. In Port Royal of course. He wasn't drinking with me, though. He was all alone." I smile. "Pathetic fellow. Wanted to cheer him up, honestly. That's why I didn't take his money either. Had pity over him, you see."
I see bright wrath in his eyes and I rejoice, for now there is my turn to watch my foe suffer. He'd like to hit me, but he can't show that he cares about the Commodore, he doesn't want to uncover his vulnerability to me. What now, Jack Sparrow?
"Hm," he says slowly, narrowing his eyes, "so it seems ye can understand what pity is. Ye've convinced me. But why don't I still believe yer story, Ritchie?... Ah, lemme see... James Norrington, the Commodore of the Royal Navy, is shaggin' a dirty pirate in The Red Stocking. Nah, pardon me, I don't get the picture."
You don't, but you want to.
"'Tis no riddle," I say quietly and seriously. "It's true I was only a dirty pirate to him, and he took me as a proxy. He lusts after another man, but I don't know his name. And it happens that this man's a pirate like me; and because I was an only man in the whole place who looked as such, the Commodore went with me."
For a twinkling of an eye I can see him stunned, an amazing sight really; he forgets to watch for me, he's asking himself what to do and how to react, there is panic in these deep dark eyes - but it's only a while and he returns to his previous guarded self, only with a trace of tiredness and enmity.
"He told ye all that? He told ye that he LUSTS after a man... after a pirate? Norrington told ye all that?"
"Of course he didn't," I say, "but he didn't need to. I'm not that dull. I don't know what you think and I don't care, if you don't believe me, so be it. He was groggy like hell and I asked him if he wants to go with me. He didn't protest. And when we went upstairs, he told me that he doesn't really want to lie with me, but I reminded him of somebody. That's all."
He's watching me and listening to me, he's as close to me as he can be without touching me, trying to feel with his whole self if I can be trusted. He knows that I can't, but he's ready to catch every sincere tone in my voice, as if he could compose a song of hope from them.
"He didn't want to lie with ye, but he did?"
"He did." I smile. "That's why I can be, uhm... partially proud of myself, just like you said. If I hadn't need the bloody pistol so badly, frankly speaking - I'd have done it for free."
He smiles too, but I can't see any smile in his suddenly cold, angry eyes. I can feel the night around us darken and deepen.
"Ah, ye would? Now that's interesting. Why?"
"It's not often that I've a chance to sleep with a man who never did it before. And he had so much scruples, even being drunk... it was a pleasure to free him from all those ridiculous ideas like God and nature and dignity and duty. A very special experience for us both, I'm sure."
He looks down with a short laugh, barely audible through his clenched teeth. And then raises his head. His eyes shine with hatred and passion alike.
"A special experience, ye say."
I'm silent, waiting. He looks down at me, with his eyes narrowed.
"Did ye really convince him? Did ye make him forget ev'rything he is that easily? It must've been a formidable accomplishment. I wonder how did ye do it? Tell me."
I smile half-apologingly.
"I'm not that good in tellin' tales."
I want to taunt him more, now when we are so threateningly close, my shoulder touching his, our glares locked, our fists clenched, his faintly rum-smelling breath on my face.
"Don't tell, then. Show me. Show me what you did for him," he demands, barely opening his mouth.
"Oh," I say smilling, "but whatever I did for him, I won't do for you."
His hands cleanch on my wrists.
"'Twould be a shame, for you're sooo much more experienced. I don't have to teach you anything, right?" I draw closer to him, looking into his furious eyes. "But him... he didn't know a bit. He wanted to kiss me, an' you know what? Was too ashamed, so I had to put the candle off. And then, he was so clumsy, his hands were shaking, I had to hold his head so that he wouldn't miss my mouth in the dark..."
And although I am trying to snicker, I cannot, a deadly severe feeling overwhelming me; it's a desire unleashing itself in this cursed man's presence, desire so long held back, desire to forget that I'm caught in the web I'm weaving. I buck myself against him, he lets my hands go, but now his fingers close on my shoulders. He bites me - there will be no kissing - I bite him back. He laughs into my mouth. There is nothing to be said now, he's opening my shirt, I'm opening his, just a little, so that we can feel each other's bare skin.
Ah, that lil' bit o'understanding. We don't need to like each other, yet both of us know where and how to touch. I'm sure he'll take his pleasure, he's sure I'll take mine, we've been through all of this before, and it's simple - if there's a chance to have another man's body during a long sea trip, then you take it without ceremony.
Still, there's too much heat in these scanty caresses. I have my hands already in his breeches, pressing his hips to mine, then moving slowly from his buttocks to the front - ah, he's hard, but let's make him harder, let's make him moan... but all I get is a ragged breath. He doesn't want to surrender. But so am I. I feel his tongue, then his teeth on my neck, along with the touch of the beard - and it alone makes me tremble, for I've always liked this - his fingernails dig deep into my back, but I'm stubbornly biting my lips. He raises his head to glance at me, I look aside - then he stops my hand.
"Easy, luv, look at me," he whispers in my ear and grabs my hair firmly. "Now, look in my eyes an' tell me, where the hell d'ye come from and who send ye here?"
Awww, is that stupid Victor's work? I fill my eyes with all the innocence I have in stock.
"What are you afraid of?"
He laughs and shakes his head.
"Nothin'. Just don't like to fuck somebody who can't look me in the eye."
"What if I told you that it's Norrington who sent me to you?"
His grip on my hair tightens a little. "He didn't."
"No, he didn't. But he did me a favor that I decided to repay. I've stolen his pistol - you've stolen his peace. I came here to tell you that, believe it or n..."
"Shut up," he says with a dull despair, and all of a sudden I have his mouth on mine, not biting this time, but kissing... the difference is ever so slight, but it softens me against my will, and I open my lips letting him in. His hands are holding my neck harshly, I find myself pressing into him again, with my hands under his shirt, but the kiss doesn't last, he withdraws and leaning his forehead against mine whispers:
"Was it like that with 'im?"
"Ask him yourself," I say catching my breath. "Go to Port Royal. He's drinking every Saturday in The Red Stocking."
He smiles to his thoughts, coming back to his usual careless self. He's almost convinced now. He knows that Norrington wants him, and I know he wants Norrington too. He can start planning safe escapade to Port Royal. Rejoice, Ritchie Brown, the worst go-between on earth, for thy mission is nearly complete. I look at the melting candles on the table - the table without the altar cape I remember so well.
"Are ye going to tell me that he's not lookin' forward to see me dancin' on the noose's end?"
What am I doing here with this man? Norrington is not going to hang him. I can see the Commodore's face, when he says his pathetic "it's not easy to hang a man. Even if he's evil, even when you know he's taken innocent lives and there's blood on his hands that calls out to God. And if you have to hang a good man..." Something is snapping inside me. I can't stand Jack Sparrow being happy.
"That I don't know. Maybe he is. You're haunting him. He remembers your name even when he's so drunk that he almost can't stand up."
He narrows his eyes.
"Ye said he didn't tell the name."
"He did, in fact, just not very clearly. He told me the name. He called me by it. Oh, was so bloody sorry after that."
"He called ye by that name, when..."
"He called me by your Christian name when we were fucking, aye. Now you can do the same with his."
For a moment he looks like hitting me, but then his disdain prevails over hatred; he takes a deep breath, then spits on the floor at my feet and turns away.
"Well, good night to you," I say and go out of the cabin.
Then standing on the main deck I look upon the stars. The heat in my body is gone, I scratch my head and sigh. What was I going to do, after all? To sleep with my friend's murderer, who probably wasn't even going to allow me to bugger him, seeing that he is older than me and a captain here... to make him happy and convinced that he's fancied by the man I'd like to have myself. No, it can't be that easy for Sparrow... nor for me, because I wanted to lie with him as well.
The next morning, which is the last before Tortuga, I'm eating the breakfast with Little Chen, sitting on the railing near the forecastle. Little Chen is very excited, like all the crew, because Tortuga means fresh food and women; Cotton's name is no longer on the binnacle list, even Anamaria's serious features are softened a little. Gibbs can hardly wait for Tortuga coastline to emerge before us.
"How long are we going to stay?" I ask.
"Don't know," says Little Chen sighing, "only a few days, I think. Captain wants to go to Cancun soon. Pity. I like Tortuga, more than La Onza de Gracia."
Sure you do. La Onza de Gracia is on the outskirts of the Caribbean. Ah, why don't you people run a nice peaceful family business like selling oysters? Must you really trample the proud deck of this unfortunate ship?
I'm chewing the sinewy meat with my head lowered, when Little Chen elbows me, and I see Jack Sparrow standing before us. He approached us quickly and quietly, as always - I look at him puzzled; he's eating like us and his mouth is full, so he gestures at me. I stretch my hand, he gives me something. A fret, and a gut too.
Little Chen smiles, Sparrow manages to swallow his meat at last and says, grinning:
"Replace it, Ritchie, we'll have a nice evening in Tres Morillas today."
His voice is even, he's looking at me openly, but there's a little bit of watchful defiance behind this look. I don't want to dwell on it now, so I answer with a quick, obedient smile, taking the fret from his hand.
"Alright," I say, "I'll do it now."
"Good," he says, patting Little Chen on his shoulder for an unknown reason, and walks away not looking at me. I scratch my head with the fret. Tres Morillas?... I know this name. Must be a tavern... but I have a strange feeling that it's not a place I'd like to go. Well, seems that I don't have a choice, since it's the captain's decision.
Little Chen brings me fire and watches me when I'm melting the end of the fret gut with the hot end of a knife.
"What for?" he asks.
"To prevent the knot from slipping undone, mate."
"It's not easy."
"No, it isn't. A tedious lil' thing, it is. Lucky that only one fret needs replacing."
"You play lute very nicely. I like it. Anamaria, she says, you can't be an evil man, because you play so nicely."
"Uhm... does she?"
"She says, Victor is a stupid old man. She laughs at him. People don't believe him. You know, what he said about you, that you was among Barbossa's crew."
"Ah, that one." I've put the cursed knot's other end in the bad direction. Damn.
"Gibbs says, you feel lonely without any family, he likes you."
Little Chen, you'll kill me sooner than Sparrow will.
"Aye, Gibbs is a good fellow... What about you? Do you have any family?"
"N-no, but... but I like a girl. She's working in Tortuga."
"So you can meet her this evening."
"I can. You can meet a nice girl, too. There are many nice girls in Tres Morillas."
I'm sure I have been there, I think, when we finally reach our place. It's dark already, and the door and windows are wide open. The tavern itself is nothing more than a crude wooden shack, which once rather small, now gained enormous proportions by added storeys, penthouses, balconies and sheds. It's full of night, drunken life, with people running up and down the stairs, tapdancing on the cracking floors, lovemaking loudly in the smelly rooms in the back. Three barely visible silhouettes stand under a tree on the rainwashed signboard - oh, I remember it now. The previous owner, a fat Spaniard, had three pretty daughters, and he named his tavern Tres Morillas after them, and after the old song about three dark-coloured beauties that were picking olives in Jaen, the song that reminded him about his old country...
Wait, why do I remember all this rubbish? Why, it means that I've been to Tres Morillas before. But my memory doesn't stretch beyond the signboard story. I must have been deadly drunk... I didn't visit Tortuga very often, and it was more than ten years before. Even if I had done something not quite, uhm, ethical here, sure nobody remembers it now.
We enter the tavern and good folks gathered here - there aren't many of them, though - give us way politely. We're rather safe, because Tres Morillas is near to the darker part of the island, still not frequented too much by the servants of the law; but it's not the previous, free Tortuga anymore. I can see that many of the guests are of our kind, with tanned faces, cutlass scars, and unstable gestures, but they are hiding their pistols under their coats and jackets - Anamaria is covering her proudly tucked pistol too - and some of them cover their hands with sleeves longer than necessary. I sigh, mending a piece of cloth on my right hand. We must keep a low profile here, it seems. The golden days of Tortuga are gone.
The owner's wife, a corpulent woman with heavy black hair and a light moustache - there are still traces of rich, generous beauty in her - leans over the counter and claps her hand on the sight of Sparrow; he smooches her in the reddened cheek and calls her familiarly "Maria", asking about her husband. Oh, he's busy outside with the mules. What about the children, asks Sparrow, and she answers that the elder son is with his father, and little Susanita is over here, with her friends.
We're looking politely in that direction and see three children - two girls and a boy - crouching over the bucket in the corner. Near them, on the short bench under the wall, several women - "girls", I mean - wake up from their slumber and run to our table. Soon even Little Chen has a girl on his knees, and Gibbs and Sparrow have two of them each. Anamaria rolls her eyes and pours half of a pint down her throat.
The youngest of them all, Monica, is sitting with Sparrow, who after a short conversation unceremoniously puts his hands under her skirt. Monica is tall and has a long, graceful neck, but her big, round, slightly protruding eyes give a vague impression of dullness. But it's not brightness what a starving pirate seeks in a woman, and Sparrow is engulfed in her big bosom's warmth.
My girl - is she a Maria, too? - notices the lute and asks me for music.
"No, no, wait, dear," says Gibbs, whose red face gives away his age, as he obviously can't manage two girls on his lap, "let's eat somethin' first."
Maria the owner's wife brings food by herself; she must be friends with Sparrow, I think. We begin a feast, shuffling meats and beans, the eldest and most timid of the girls is taking care of Cotton (she's gaping into his mouth, very curious about the remnant of his tongue), Little Chen is skinning an orange for his Pepita, Gibbs is squinting his eyes at both of his girls, Maria - oh no, she's Lucia - and me are eating the same bread crust, dipped in sauce.
Sparrow is feeding Monica with a bits of chicken, but she's not looking at him, she's obviously concerned with the children playing with the bucket. Sparrow frowns at her, but looks in the same direction.
"What's disturbin' ye, luv?" he asks.
"Oh, Captain," she says plainly, "Susanita and Rico are playin' together so nicely all day, but Antonia's a bad girl, she's annoying them."
"Yeah, that's what I'm sayin'", bellows Maria suddenly with voice dark and heavy like her hair, "this lil' one is a true pest."
The children, although busy with their bucket and whatever else, feel with their keen instinct that we're talking about them, and raise their heads. It's easy to recognize little Susanita, the owner's daughter, for her garment is made from a fine linen and her cheeks are round and pink. Rico and Antonia look very alike, because their wildly unkempt hair is of the same length and they wear long gown-like clothes of the same indefinite colour.
"Whose children are they?" asks Anamaria.
"Ah, Rico an' Antonia are mine," answers Monica nervously.
Rico, who is younger, is smilling to us; he has round, a little bit dull eyes of his mother, and is very pleased with Susanita's arm, rounding his neck possessively. He feels like a man already, and he knows that his mother is proud of fondness that little Susanita has for him. His sister, Antonia, who can be about eight years old, has an uncertain air of a child who doesn't understand what the adults want from her - there's a wariness in the depth of these dark eyes.
"Such a nice lil' pair, these two," barks Maria, "an' Antonia's like jealous, or what... always there to mess things up, she is."
"Antonia, leave 'em alone," orders her mother quickly. Ah, she wants her Rico to hold little Susanita's favor. She probably doesn't realize that he will lose it anyway when he grows up - Maria's no fool to allow her daughter to play with prostitute's son anymore. For Rico's mother, like for most girls of her profession, tomorrow does not exist.
I can see now what the children are doing - they are drowning newly-born kittens in the bucket. There are still two of them left, but they are so small they don't even make any noise.
"Told 'em to get rid of the cats," says Maria, "too many of 'em already, an' they smell."
"But mama, they took my kitten too," says Antonia quietly. She already knows that her case is lost, but is still trying. How futile.
"Leave them the hell alone," orders Monica waving her hands, and Antonia steps aside without any other word. She knows when to stop. She is wise.
This girl is beginning to doubt and to weight things already. I see it in a look she gives her mother, a look of hurt, but also of loathing. Yes, little one, the place you are in is not necessarily the best for you.
Maybe Sparrow is thinking the same, because he sighs and says to Monica, scratching his nose:
"Poor lil' Antonia, no need to be so harsh to her, luv. She's a big girl. Let her sit with us, 'ey?" And he turns to the child, saying "Come here, Antonia, an' eat somethin' with us."
Monica opens her mouth in dismay, but her business experience is not so poor after all, because she agrees:
"As you like, Captain," and kisses him very sweetly, now trying the role of a tender mother concerned about her daughter's future. Sparrow, peeping into her bosom again, gives Antonia an orange and whispers to me:
"Cheer this lil' Antonia, will ye, Ritchie?"
I nod and invite her to sit between me and Gibbs. She looks at us both without a smile and stretches her short legs with a grave expression, weighing the orange in her hand. It's clear that she's not hungry and not very interested in our company - we're people she's seeing every day.
"Uhm, Lucia, sweetie," I say to my girl, "what about some songs?"
"Oh, what can you sing?"
"Whatever you like... Spanish, English, Catalan, Italian ones." I take the lute.
"Now, now," says Lucia with suddenly enchanted voice, "you have a formidable instrument here!"
I laugh at the involuntary pun.
"You don't have music in Tres Morillas?"
"Sometimes, but the musicians are expensive, and the business goes not so well in Tortuga nowadays. Oh, look, what a rosette! Look, Antonia!"
The girl looks at the rosette unwillingly, wrinkling her little nose, but her eyes widen suddenly.
"Oh," she says, "is it living, this flower?"
"No," I say, "but it's carved so well that we all know that music can bring everything to life. Do you want to hear about a great fancy-dress ball, Antonia?"
"A fancy-dress ball?"
"Aye, ev'rybody is dancing in their fancy dresses around Queen Antonia. It's the dancing party with a thousand of pleasures, and we all dance to the good, sweet life."
"Ah," exclaims Lucia, "that stupid song! 'A la vida, vidica bona, vida vamonos a chacona'?"
"This song ain't more stupid than our lives, Princess Lucia. Will you sing with me?" I ask. "Listen, Queen Antonia, about a fancy-dress ball that was famed both far and wide."
The company at our table soon turns to us, when we start singing this lovely mess of a song, about the party in the month of roses, when Orpheus's sister-in-law began a Guinea dance and an Amazon woman finished it, when don Gonzalo was dancing with the frivolous dona Albarda and a blind man, the country girl with a sick man's wife, a guy from Zamorra with Lisarda the shepherdess... then came Galen the physician, and Cupid's mother herself, and then, well, the harpy and all the toffs and snobs of the city, the aloes cargo and the crane with barley porridge... and even thirty Sundays with twenty Mondays on their backs, the unwilling donkey and forty Barcelona harlots followed the dancing procession... which was famed both far and wide.
Every stanza is being listened with high attention and when comes the refrain everybody is dying of laughter, I can hardly play, Lucia giggles instead of supporting me, but the best thing is that little Antonia is jumping on her chair with delight.
"I like this song!" she informs me when I finish. "I like the donkey and the gypsy girl best! Why is there vermin in the aloes cargo?"
"Uhm, I don't know," I say, "there's always vermin in a cargo, don't you think?"
"Oh, that was good, mate," says Sparrow, looking at Antonia and then smilling at me gratefully. "D'ye have more of this?"
"Maybe ye know that song about soldiers comin' back from the Low Country," says Gibbs pleadingly. "'Twas very popular in London not so long ago."
"Aah, this one I know," I say. "Now it's about your own soldiers, Queen Antonia."
"My own soldiers?"
"Aye, every queen needs soldiers too, not only elegant folks dancing."
She smiles widely: "Sing me about my soldiers."
"We be soldiers three,
Pardona moy, je vous an pree,
Lately come forth of the Low Country
With never a penny of money.
Here, good fellow, I drink to thee,
To all good fellows, wherever they be.
And he that will not pledge me this,
Pay for the shot whatever it is..."
The door open when I'm singing, and Maria clasps her hands roaring:
"Ah, Captain Sparrow, my husband's here! Come to us, Elias, we're havin' a nice music this evenin', thanks to the Captain!"
Her big husband is coming to us, making as much noise as he can with his huge boots, goes behind the counter, drinks some water, clears his throat and says with the hollow voice:
"Nice to see ye, Captain! An' a good music, 'tis always welcome in me..."
And he stops when our eyes meet. His face becomes pale.
"Hold it for me, queen," I whisper throwing the lute into little Antonia's embrace. Sparrow throws a quick glance at me.
"Captain, there's vermin in yer cargo!" screams the owner, searching with trembling hands under the counter. "Where did ye take him from?"
"What are ye talkin' bout, Elias?" says Sparrow.
"I've said it, but nobody listen'd to me," murmurs Victor.
All the crew is backing away from me.
"I remember him, ne'er would forget his face," says Elias panting. "He came here more than eleven years ago, hasn't changed much... he came here with Barbossa, may he burn in hell, an' they killed my own brother... shot 'im in the head."
I can't say anything, because... well, because I do have some vague memory of being here, but...
"Wait, wait," I say standing up, "I don't remember it."
"Ye don't, ye bastard? But ye shot him, ye shot him... 'twas a bet... you were makin' a bet that ye'd aim an' hit the hole in the wall... that hole..."
"It wasn't me, you dumbhead!"
"'Twas yer company, an' ye should pay," he pants with tears in his bulging eyes. Sparrow, with his teeth clenched, makes a gesture towards his pistol.
I throw a glance behind my shoulder - the door are open, but I need to get out. Now. And I snatch little Antonia from her chair; she blinks when my pistol's barrel touches her temple, but is holding the lute firmly, dangling under my arm. Brave girl.
"Oh m'God!" cries Monica. "Oh sweet Madonna, please, please..."
"Back, people," I say, "or there'll be an innocent blood on you all."
They back unwillingly. I am Barbossa's man, after all - they don't know how black my heart can be. I can see this uncertainty in Sparrow's face too.
"Good," I say backing to the door, paying attention not to squeeze Antonia; she doesn't move. "Thank you for your hospitality. Will release the lil' one soon, don't you worry."
Monica is crying from the depth of her oh so confused motherly heart.
"I will kill you, Ritchie Brown," says Sparrow without his usual slurring; his eyes are fixed on me. "I will kill you anyway, but if you hurt the girl, I'll do it slowly, savvy?"
"Why, savvy, of course," I say. "I take the liberty of retaining my Captain's lute, though. Along with the new fret."
"Fuck you, Ritchie."
"That you almost did," I say and I'm outside.
The night air is surprisingly chilling to me, although I know that it must be warm. I hesitate for a moment, I don't know if I should release Antonia now, or if she'll come in handy later. But she doesn't try to wriggle or run away, she clings to me without a word. So I run among the wooden walls of Tres Morillas to the back, to the scanty lights of the town houses, but then my hostage stops me.
"No, wait," she says, "there's an old barn over there! Nobody comes in, because our Nohemi hanged herself there..."
When we are in the barn, she gives me back the lute and climbs the ladder like a cat running after a bird. It's dark like hell, some of the ladder's steps are a little bit rotten, but I'm not that heavy and soon we're sitting on the loft, our eyes slowly accustoming to the thick darkness. We don't hear people's shouts anymore, they must've gone to the shore and to the back. I sigh looking at Antonia, she answers me by her knowing glance.
"I must go," I say simply.
"Uhm."
"Go back to your mama, little queen."
"Will you come back here?"
"I don't know."
"You can come back and kill Elias," she says. "He pinches me under my clothes. I hate him."
I sigh looking at her.
"Listen, Antonia. Maybe I will come back and kill him, but I can't promise anything now."
"Uhm. They want to kill you?"
"Yes, but I will run away. And you run from Elias, until he gets killed, alright?"
"Uhm."
I take my old amulet of Fatima's hand from my wrist; the strap is still strong enough. I place the trinket in the little sweaty palm.
"Look, Queen Antonia," I say, "it's going to protect you for awhile. It worked for me and will work for you."
"I like it," she says looking at the golden hand.
"Good. I have one thing to ask you, my queen. My name's Ritchie Brown. Do you remember the captain's name?"
"That man with shiny things in his hair? And he had beads in his beard..."
"Yes, that man."
"Captain Sparrow?"
"Right. Tell him..." I think for a moment. "...that whatever Ritchie said about stolen things is true."
"Uhm. What was stolen?"
"Never mind. Peace. Will you tell him that?"
"I will tell him that what Ritchie said about a stolen peace was true."
"Right. You are truly my Queen, Antonia. Go back to your mama now."
I sigh again, looking at the little figure running to Tres Morillas across the field, then my thoughts go back to Sparrow. Whee, I've ruined everything! He was going to believe that Norrington fancies him, but now I'm not that sure he believes me at all. He doesn't trust me and he doesn't know what part of my tale is true, therefore he won't go to Port Royal soon, no matter what little Antonia will tell him now...
But I still owe the Commodore, after all. And there may still be a chance that the Commodore will hang Sparrow after all. I must repair all I've ruined. Maybe my tactics weren't as good as I thought. Well... if not by fuck, then by force. Ah, I can have a little coat of arms with this device someday.