We turned in early. I was feeling a wine buzz, and I told Ix-Nay that I was going to have a look at the stars before coming to bed. Wrapped up in my blanket like a human taco, I fell under the spell of the night sky.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, I woke up to the sound of voices.
“Out of bloody ammo,” I heard someone say and instantly recognized the voice. I unwrapped myself from the blanket and walked to the source, which was the game room in the main building of Kafiri. In the eerie blue glow of a television tube, Ix-Nay was perched in a chair about three feet away from the screen. The Man Who Would Be King had him spellbound.
I stood in the doorway and watched the scene that I knew like the back of my hand. It is near the end of the movie, and Daniel Dravot and Peachy Carnahan have been discovered not to be gods or kings, but simply greedy soldiers of fortune. A mob of pissed off monks surrounds them, and there is no place to go. “I’m heartfully ashamed, for getting you killed instead of going home rich as you deserve, on account of me being so bleeding high and bloody mighty. Can you forgive me?”
I repeated the words with Peachy: “I do, Danny. That I do. Full and free.” As Danny replied, “Everything’s all right then,” I said the words along with him.
“Shhhhh,” Ix-Nay said, not taking his eyes off the scene. I took a seat and watched with him.
As the credits rolled, I was startled by Archie’s deep voice singing the theme song: “The son of God goes off to war, not seeking wealth nor fame.”
I sang back, “A glorious band the chosen few on whom the Spirit came.”
As a duet, we continued:
Twelve valiant saints; their hope they knew
And mocked the cross and flame.
Soon we were singing at the tops of our voices:
They met the tyrant’s brandished steel;
The lion’s gory mane.
They bowed their necks the death to feel.
We sang to the end, and we both held the last note. Then Archie closed his fists with a downward thrust, and the song ended.
Ix-Nay had watched this with his typical stoic attitude. Then he said, “We should call the Rover the Fishmobile—for Billy Fish, and because we fish for a living.”
“You’re the shaman,” I said.
Ix-Nay started to laugh at what first seemed to be his own private joke, but then he said, “The gods sent you here for a reason.”
“Lots of questions, and not very many answers,” Archie said.
“If you want answers, that might require a trip to the netherworld.”
“Can it wait until after we spend the weekend at Archie’s beach house and get the Fishmobile home?” I asked.
“I think so,” Ix-Nay said.
As I walked out of the game room and back toward the landing strip, the first sign of the new day was in the eastern sky, but the moon seemed to be defying gravity as it clung stubbornly to the dawn.
“The rabbit’s in the moon,” Ix-Nay said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He pointed at the yellow sphere. “Look at the shadows on the surface. It means friendship is in your life. Something significant is happening. It’s a sign.”
“No, that’s the man in the moon,” I told him, with the confidence of a child answering in science class. Ix-Nay laughed.
There wasn’t much use in trying to go back to sleep, so I went to the cottage and packed the last of my things. Soon the roar of airplane engines pummeled the sky no more than fifty feet above my head. It was followed by southern voices and laughter as the Clemsons waved to me from the back of an approaching truck. Archie was driving.
The clarity of the evening had been handed off like a cosmic baton to the morning, and there wasn’t a cloud in the blue sky. The Clemsons loaded up in the Cessna Caravan, and Big C climbed into the copilot’s seat. I was the last to board.
“Try and stay out of trouble,” Archie said with a grin as I stood on the boarding ladder.
“I thought that’s what we were going to find,” I said.
“You know what I mean,” he countered with a knowing look.
Though we hadn’t discussed it, I knew he understood that I’d come into the country illegally. His warning was genuine and from the heart. “Just ask for Sandra at the desk at Renaldo’s. She will take care of you.”
Archie handed me a key attached to a wooden fish and said, “Suppose I was to tell you that I was a stranger going to the East to seek what is written about.”
“Then I would answer, ‘Where do you come from?’” I replied.
“From the West,” Archie answered, “and I am hoping that you will advise me.”
“For the sake of the widow’s son,” we said together.
“By the square, Peachy,” Archie said as he shook my hand firmly and looked me in the eyes.
“By the square.”
Archie handed me a card. “This is the satellite phone number. Call if you need me for anything.” I stuffed the card into my wallet.
“Adios, Clemsons,” Archie said. “Do come back and see us again. And as for you two, I will see you boys in the city with the Fishmobile.” The engine began to spool up. “Take care of our boy, Billy Fish,” Archie called out to Ix-Nay.
“I will try,” Ix-Nay called back. And with that, we rolled down a carpet of grass. Then we left the earth behind and headed in the direction of the rising sun. We were going to the beach. What I would find there was more than a couple of conch shells and some driftwood.
26
Ground Zero
Mr. Mars? Time to strap in. We are just about to land in San Pedro.” I had dozed off. I looked at my watch. We had only been in the air for half an hour, but the open expanse of the arid highlands that surround Kafiri had given way to painted houses, clear water, and mangrove-lined shorelines.
We said good-bye to the Clemsons and headed into the busy little airport. Ix-Nay spotted an attractive local lady in a crisp uniform. Her name tag identified her as Consuelo, and she asked us if we were in San Pedro for spring break. Ix-Nay put an end to her assumptions by launching into the local Creole dialect. I was back in my “surfer” outfit, which blended in with the spring-break gringos, and I felt even more comfortable about San Pedro. There were no policemen or customs officials around. Of course I knew about the spring-break phenomenon and had seen TV footage of this modern-day rite of passage—where college students migrated like flocks of horny mating birds to the warmer latitudes, looking for any excuse to get drunk and screw.
Once again Ix-Nay acknowledged my presence and introduced me to Consuelo as he switched back to English. He said that he was fascinated with the idea of spring break, and he had actually witnessed the ritual once in Cancún. He described a wet T-shirt contest where skimpily clad coeds danced in circles while men in baggy bathing suits doused them with giant water guns. “And they call us pagans?”
That drew a big laugh from Consuelo. She told us that spring break in San Pedro was big business, and if we didn’t have a reservation, it would be very hard to find a room this weekend.
“No problem. We have a condo at Renaldo’s,” I announced.
“Renaldo’s?” she exclaimed, recoiling as if I had yelled “Cobra!” “That is ground zero for spring break.”
“I can sleep through anything,” I said.
“Then this will be a good test. By the way, if you are looking for a good meal, my aunt has the best Creole restaurant in town. It is just a couple of blocks up from Renaldo’s, and don’t forget to save room for the pineapple flan.”
“Can you join us?” Ix-Nay asked.
“I would love to, but I have a meeting. If you need me, just call on channel sixteen.”
I handed Ix-Nay the portable VHF radio. “I think you should be in charge of local communications.”
I have to say that I am not a big-town person, but a town where the streets are all sand is a good sign. We walked in the direction of the hotel as a long dark cloud drifted in and the sky
opened up. Even set against the dull gray backdrop of the morning squall, San Pedro sparked with life. The town was jumping with that Friday morning energy where you have to get everything done before the weekend begins. It seemed that spring break would provide a pumped-up, nocturnal crescendo.
We joined a throng of tourists, college kids, and locals seeking shelter from the storm in a coffee shop with an awning while the street vendors, in a rainbow assortment of waterproof gear, attempted to cover sidewalk stalls filled with T-shirts, postcards, black-coral jewelry, hair braids, and Guatemalan hammocks.
Fortunately the storm was over in a matter of minutes. We bought a Coco Frío and watched the vendor put on a show as he decapitated two large coconuts with the precision of a surgeon and dropped in a straw. “Mix dat wif your rum and der be no hangover, mon,” he said as I paid for the drinks.
“Maybe later,” I said.
Well, you couldn’t have missed Renaldo’s if you were blind. If a huge replica of Mayan hieroglyphics wasn’t enough to get your attention, then the throng of kids coming and going from the entrance and Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon blasting from speakers inside the mammoth resort told me that Renaldo’s was happening. Suddenly, Ix-Nay and I both recognized the symbol above the entrance.
“It’s the rabbit in the moon again!” I exclaimed.
“The goddess of friendship,” Ix-Nay said.
“Let’s check out their hospitality.”
Sandra wasn’t hard to spot. She was the oldest and whitest person behind the desk. She had that look of having once been drop-dead gorgeous.
“I’ve been expecting you boys. Archie is a dear, isn’t he?”
I had a sudden mental picture of Sandra and Archie naked on a deserted beach, sharing a cold bottle of rosé, but then she caught me staring at her and returned the favor.
Sandra gave me a quick scan, and I felt that thing that women can do to you with just a glance. It is like having an emotional X-ray. Women can pass some kind of energy through a man’s body using no high-tech, state-of-the-art gamma scanner but only their eyes. Sandra had correctly sized me up as an out-of-place cowboy in the jungle, trying to look like a surfer but not quite pulling it off. However, since Archie had sent us to Sandra, I felt relatively safe. It had started to rain again, and she grabbed a big umbrella and popped it open. “Come on, boys. I’ll take you to the condo.”
We passed the pool and bar, where a large group of waterlogged college kids was drinking, talking, and smoking cigarettes. The two-word lyric line “brick house” punched through the rain from large speakers hanging from the exposed rafters above the bar, and everybody sang along. Two very attractive blondes sat at the end of the bar sharing a cigarette and enjoying the attention they were getting from a cluster of college boys who had gathered around them like a court-jester convention. For a moment, the taller and more attractive of the two girls turned from her adoring fans, stared at me, smiled, and waved. Then she turned back to the crowd of men, executed a couple of well-coordinated pelvic thrusts, and drew a standing ovation.
“Do you know her?” Ix-Nay asked.
“I don’t think so.” Chicks who looked like that didn’t hang out in cowboy bars.
We passed along a walkway lined with conch shells and hibiscus bushes. The palm trees along the walkway offered a bit of shelter from the rain as we made our way through the grounds, all decorated in a Mayan theme.
“What would my ancestors think?” Ix-Nay said.
We passed the end of the large, concrete, four-story hotel portion of the property, where more kids hung out on balconies, and the instantly recognizable smell of pot filled the air. “Hey, Sandra, show us your tits,” a young pimple-faced boy called out.
“Careful, honey,” Sandra said. “I remember my first beer.”
Sandra pointed with the umbrella at a thatched hut bungalow next to the beach. “Su casa,” she said.
“Hey, chico, we are in a real resort!” Ix-Nay exclaimed.
“This is amazing,” I added, staring at the bamboo structure. It looked as if it could adorn the cover of one of those in-flight magazines about tropical getaways.
Life is full of surprises, and that is what makes it so interesting. Twenty-four hours earlier, we were bailing seawater from a flooding cargo hold of a coastal freighter like the steerage passengers on the Titanic, and now we were dropping our backpacks on the porch of a beachside bungalow with ceiling fans, hammocks, fresh fruit, flowers, and a bottle of complimentary red wine sitting on a rattan table.
“Thank you, Archie Mercer,” I said. “Do you think you have to grow up?” I asked Ix-Nay.
“Personally, I find it quite hard to break the habit of acting childish.”
“Jesus, it seems like only yesterday I was shivering in a trailer in the snow, driving plastic flamingos on wooden stakes into the frozen ground. And yet at the same time, it feels like ancient history.”
“That is because it is. Remember, you are in the land of ancient history.”
We flipped for the shower and I lost, which suited me fine. “I think I will have a swim instead,” I said.
“Is it the pool or the mermaids that are calling to you?” Ix-Nay asked.
“Both.”
The pool was refreshing, but the frolicking girls in bikinis had changed venues. I ordered a cheeseburger and a beer and sat at the now-vacant bar. The bartender answered my questions about some construction I noticed on the beach. It seemed that every hotel on the island had a special party, and the next night was Renaldo’s time to shine. When I asked him what that meant, he told me it was top secret. He said that Renaldo, the owner, was flying in from Miami with a planeload of celebrities, and it was going to be the premiere party of spring break. I shouldn’t miss it.
The morning storms had passed, and the tropical sun was back in charge of the day. The heat returned. I ate my burger and drank my beer in the shade of an umbrella on the patio. It wasn’t the most serene setting, with the sounds of hammers banging and saws buzzing from behind the giant tent hiding the surprise party. Added to that, out in the harbor, the girls I had seen earlier at the pool were now straddled across a pair of Jet Skis, spinning and swirling in a noisy, mindless, mechanical water ballet. A testosterone posse in a feeding frenzy carved wide circles around them.
I was focused on the girls on machines and fantasizing, so at first I didn’t notice the stranger who walked up to my table. He was clean shaven, dressed in white pants and a neatly pressed Hawaiian shirt, and his hair was combed back.
“May I help you?” I asked.
Then I heard the familiar laugh and realized the stranger was a cleaned-up Ix-Nay. I was dumbfounded at his appearance.
“Your turn, amigo,” he said.
I had never seen him in anything but shorts and T-shirts and flip-flops since we had met on the flats of Punta Margarita. “That is you,” I said.
“Of course it is. I think we should use the time we have on this island to reacquaint ourselves with our respective cultures. We have been a long time in the jungle, my friend. I am having lunch with Consuelo. She got out of her appointment, and after that we will see.”
“There’s a big party tomorrow night down on the beach,” I told him.
“Maybe I will see you there. Remember, if anybody asks, you are a surfer from Galveston.”
With that, Ix-Nay walked over to the Mayan gates. I caught a glimpse of Consuelo, dressed in a halter top and a pair of tight-fitting jeans. She waved as they climbed into her golf cart and sped away.
“When in Rome,” I thought. As I walked back to my room, I saw that the girls on Jet Skis were alongside each other and looking at me. They smiled and waved, and, having been raised a polite boy from the West, I waved back.
27
One Thousand One . . . One Thousand Two
I don’t know who came up with the idea of the siesta—whether it was the Indians who were here first or the Spaniards who realized that tromping around in the tropics loaded down with
armor, guns, swords, helmets, and giant crucifixes would require a pit stop in the heat of the day. Whoever they were, I must tip my cowboy hat to them. Naps are really not a part of the West in the “sunup to sundown” approach to how you spend your day. But once I felt the humidity of the Gulf Coast for the first time, it didn’t take me long to understand the necessity of sleeping away a small portion of the afternoon.
My siesta came with entertainment as I dreamed a giant marlin was floating in the air with his head protruding through the window of the condo, talking in a soft monotone voice like the computer Hal in 2001. It told me that if I didn’t get up, I wouldn’t be able to fish that afternoon. The soothing voice of the big marlin was suddenly replaced by the piercing sound of an electric guitar that I instantly recognized as Eric Clapton’s. Eric’s guitar wasn’t actually in my dream—his music was alive and well on earth and was now blasting from the direction of the pool bar, acting as my wake-up call.
I verified my position on the planet. I was still on the four-poster mahogany bed in Archie Mercer’s beachfront condo. I stared up at the slowly revolving ceiling fan, watching the blades try to keep pace with Clapton’s guitar. I decided to give the fan a little help. A long braided line, with a brass ring at the end, hung down from the motor of the fan. I stuck my toe in the ring, gave it a yank, and the fan blades picked up speed. I pried myself to a sitting position and stared out at something blocking my view of the ocean.
Sometime during my nap, a large flatbed truck had rolled next to my bungalow, and a crew of workers were now very busy unloading generators, lights, a sound system, and an odd assortment of giant black objects that looked like Lego versions of a jet engine. Unfortunately, the proximity of Archie’s condo to the construction site put us directly in the line of fire.