Juan knew every member of the crew was on deck wrestling with the wind whipped rigging. "Do you know what the punishment is for stowing away under the Spanish flag?"

Still no response.

Juan sat up in bed to get a better look at him, his eyes strained against the shifting shadows. "Can you not speak?" he asked.

No response.

Juan stood up and walked slowly toward him. He could see the boy was African. "Are you Moorish?" he asked in one hundred fifty-year-old Arabic.

No response.

Juan slowly approached until he could see that the young black boy was not Moorish, but from south of the desert. He had seen others like him on caravans. Juan sat down cross-legged on the floor of the hold in front of him. The stowaway was shaking visibly. They sat silent, studying one another for several minutes. He straightened and looked at the cowering figure.

"Juan," he said, placing his hand on his chest.

The young African looked at him for some time and replied simply "Bando."

Two hours later Juan had discerned that Bando spoke a bit of Portuguese and had eaten nothing but pickles for the past 3 days. When Juan offered bread to him it was devoured immediately. Juan watched the boy eat with delight. Bando was 16. He was of average height and lean. Young taut muscles rippled under his dark skin. His thick wiry black hair was uneven in length and lighter in color at the ends. He had no shoes and no shirt, only a pair of breeches that were tattered up to the knees. Bando's strongest feature by far was his teeth. There among the strong African features and black skin were perfect teeth, larger looking than normal, white and straight. When he smiled it looked like a row of new piano keys, untouched by oily fingers. He smiled at Juan after eating the loaf and Juan couldn't help but return it. Bando had learned Portuguese from the sailors he met when he traveled to the West African port city of Accra and practiced with the Portuguese sailors aboard ship on the way to Cadiz. Juan couldn't help but wonder why this haggard boy had ventured so far at great peril.

"Bando, why did you leave your village and your family?" asked Juan in Portuguese.

"I left to find my first family," answered the African, nodding his head as if to coax the Portuguese words out of his mouth.

"First family?" asked Juan as he leaned forward.

"Yes, First family".

"What family did you leave?"

"I left my second family to find my first family again."

"Bando, have you ever been to Zurich?" asked Juan, leaning forward to look for the tattoo on the back of the right hand between the thumb and index finger. He studied the black skin but saw nothing.

"What is Zurich?"