Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys]

  ***

  We formed a curious parade circling the old terraces in search of Bridgework and company. Try as I might to lose my shadow, the llama kept pace with us and had taken to chewing on my sombrero each time we stopped to survey our surroundings. Ethelene kept to herself for the most part, perking up only when I told her of my race through the countryside on the Hodaka and the machine's miserable end in the river at the base of the gorge.

  "Did you walk the entire way? From there?"

  "I was prepared to," I said, yanking the saliva-laden cloth from the llama's mouth for the umpteenth time. "Yet, I had the good sense to keep to the railway and fortune smiled upon me when I leapt aboard the tailgate of a passing train."

  "You outran a train," she replied, doubtful of my exploit. "The backpacker's train, at that."

  "Hardly. I happened to be trailblazing along an upgrade and simply strolled onto its back steps. My presence went undiscovered and I gratefully enjoyed the balance of the trip."

  She at least had the decency to acknowledge my improvised disguise, now complemented by using a mixture of wet sod to darken my facial features. "Your resourcefulness comes as a tremendous disappointment, Baron."

  "Disappointment?"

  "You allowed yourself to be taken captive by thugs, didn't you?"

  "More or less. However, I was following --"

  "More."

  "Instructions, believing them to be of valid usefulness in helping sort out this intractable mess." A sudden weariness flooded my body and the thought of returning to a peaceful, warm and dry Tumultuous Manor gained footing on the ladder of priority. Perhaps Goofy Eddy would help me resurrect the old Hodaka. I could reinstitute motocross riding into my daily regimen once again.

  "There!" Ethelene reefed on the front of my poncho precisely at the identical instance the llama chose to retreat with the rear half in its mouth. I could not help but think I was being violently strangled while seated in a salon chair at the Faithful Hill Unisex Headshop. "The bastards are right there!"

  Through shaky vision I caught a fleeting glimpse of Bridgework and the hippie stranger in heated discussion several terraces above us. Ethelene's decision to let go of the poncho and climb the stonework for a better view proved a boon to the llama's efforts, as I quickly found myself akimbo before tumbling face first down a hardened stretch of Machu Picchu real estate. The llama's resolve in yarding me along the beaten pathway entangled me in the poncho, which was now serving as a makeshift straightjacket around my arms. In a process which unfolded painfully slow, I coursed over a steep embankment and barrel-rolled numerous times before my lower back kindly halted the proceedings against an imposing boulder. Motionless in the solitude of the poncho, I searched for the proper curse words applicable to the wretched four-legged creature and, finding none, worked furiously to extricate myself from the filthy woolen cocoon.

  "Baron!" The faint call of a distressed Ethelene reached me as I tossed the balled up poncho aside and fit the sombrero anew over my now well-dented porkpie. Her second cry faded with a gust of wind blowing into the chasm perilously close to the stone which broke my slide. I drew a deep breath and mounted the steep hillside with a fervor that, llamas be damned, the situation was going to be resolved.

  Reaching the peak of the hillside proved fruitless. Ethelene was nowhere to be found and Bridgework had vanished along with the antediluvian hipster. Neither Angel nor Chip/Silly were to be seen. Even the llama had gone missing, leaving me alone in my torment. Given my state of personal disrepair -- clothing torn and dirty, grime-splattered pants and footwear, a crumpled sombrero pitched at an angle over my soiled face -- I experienced a number of unsuccessful encounters while making inquiries with fellow visitors. The closest I came to obtaining useful information was via a newlywed couple from Chagrin Falls, Ohio, who were kind enough to approach within a range of twenty feet while we conversed.

  "A mature woman," I called out as I leaned against the retaining wall of rock. "Quite distinguished looking, possibly with two older men, one of whom resembles a roadie employed by the Grateful Dead."

  "The Dead are no longer," the fresh bride answered ruefully. "Garcia died years ago."

  "Well," I responded, intending to correct my reference, "should Garcia had lived and the Dead still be touring, this particular fellow would fit right in with the bunch. Grayish beard and ponytail, right?"

  "Bob Weir still tours," the young man offered. "We saw him play a few months ago at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame."

  "That was last year, honey."

  "Whenever, sugar tits. It was a mean jam."

  "That's terrific," I said, nodding my head in an agreeable fashion. "Did you happen to gain a glimpse of Weir's roadies?" I waited patiently as the couple engaged in a long, passionate embrace.

  "What's that?" The man, now de-clinched, had eyes solely for his bride.

  "Not a one," the woman said. "We spent the entire night grooving."

  "And now we gotta catch the last train to Cuzco," he said, nuzzling the woman's neck, "back to our little hostel love nest."

  "The last train?" Up to that point I had been blissfully unaware of transportation schedules restricting travel from the archaeological site. "Have there been others?"

  "For the beautiful people who want to leave first. We chose the no frills choo choo."

  My heart dropped when understanding why I could not find Ethelene and the Bridgework crew: They had already departed the mountaintop, returning to civilization on the train for the well-to-dos. "Would you be so kind as to guide me back to the depot?"

  In full view, and much to my astonishment, the man playfully squeezed his wife's buttocks. "Surely," he said, a note of jealousy creeping into his tone, "just stay about twenty or so paces behind us and stop ogling my wife."

  "But I --". My protestation ended there as the couple hastened off at a quick gait. Sore, lame and tired, I dutifully trod behind them painfully aware of the stares created by my now conspicuous appearance. The Bridgeworks, it would seem, had slipped through my porous grasp. And they were not all that escaped from me, for as we arrived at the crowded departure platform, the Buckeye lovebirds gave me the slip too. Just as well, as I felt a slight tinge of anger over the husband's suggestion I coveted his wife when, in reality, I had merely visually assessed her. My dismal emotion translated itself into the expression I wore which, along with my South American-weary facade, effectively cleared a wide passage for me to reach the Amo del Boleto booth.

  "Bonjour, monsieur," I greeted the attendant, momentarily forgetting which language to employ as I slapped down a credit card. Perhaps the blow to the old bean was more pronounced than I first thought. I rubbed the base of my skull and felt multiple knots egging forth.

  "Señor Baron," the man said, smiling as he rattled a battered white envelope in the air. "What took you so long?"

  "A legitimate inquiry, amigo, and one that I have no answer for."

  "Hmm. A señorita asked to leave this for you when you come for your ticket home." He flipped the envelope back and forth beyond my reach. "She said you would provide a non-refundable deposit to acquire it."

  "Describe the senorita in question."

  "A woman," he said laughing, "long hair. Demanding."

  "Young or old?"

  "I could not say."

  "White or black?"

  "I am not sure."

  "Well, then. Was she accompanied by anyone?"

  "That was not clear." He scratched his scalp in demonstration of his cogitative ability. "You turistas all look alike to me. This, however, is a most valuable letter."

  "How much then?" I sighed, riled to the gills by his off-putting.

  "No credit cards. Only forty seven US dollars." He looked past me as the train bell rang out. "Which includes your transport back to Cuzco."

  "Forty seven!" I unzipped my battered attaché, noting my laptop thankfully remained in one piece. "Here, all I have are twenties. Sixty total."

  "That is generous of
you, señor. I will remember your kindness as standing out from the usual tightfisted turistas."

  "The envelope, please," I said, gritting my teeth.

  "Similar in excitement to your Oscar program on television, yes?"

  "Merci," I snatched the sealed message from his hand and stepped to the side of the ticket kiosk to peruse it. In faded ballpoint ink, shaky penmanship spelled out the following:

  Baron. Most urgent you follow. Lima port. Bridgework private cruise ship MS Gangrene. I need you!

  The letter was signed with a single initial, scribbled at such an angle in pronounced loops I was unable to discern if it was an "A" or "E". Angel or Ethelene? Or, perhaps, neither. I rotated the sheet several times in the hope of deconstructing the inkblot, but could not reach a satisfactory conclusion.

  "All on," the conductor called out, "all on!"

  Following the swarm of visitors to the last car of the train, I reached for the service handle and was instantly struck by a forceful blow to my ribcage, the impact driving me into the wooden exterior of the conveyance. "I say, what the --"

  Another sharp jab was delivered to my middle of my back and I turned to grab my assailant, whereupon my hand immediately filled with fur.

  "You again!"

  Much to the horror of the lingering passengers waiting to board, I pummeled the llama's beak with a series of left jabs, forcing it away from me. Naturally, I did not foresee my action enraging the surefooted beast, but it did provide me enough time to sprint the few remaining yards to the rear steps of the car, where I joined the conductor -- a wiry old man, a denim cap skewed atop his head -- in backpedaling from the charging animal.

  "It's harassed me the entire day," I said, chuckling as the train eased its way down the tracks. "Inexplicable, really."

  "No, señor," the conductor replied, watching the llama pace back and forth shaking its head. "It just does not like you."

  "At least it possesses the honesty to openly act on its hostility."

  "Si, señor. Llamas always do."