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chapter 38
Morning came and for breakfast I ate an orange, sharing it with Cuauhtémoc. I also gave him some oats.
Where was MacClayne? Hopefully not lying out there in the woods somewhere, stung by a scorpion and perhaps unable to move. Well, he might have made it through to the beach. Or, maybe he'd gone back to the village and found a ride to Caleta after all. If so, I hoped he'd left a note for me at the restaurant.
Right now, the beach was closest; I'd go there first. I broke camp and headed downstream and came to the lagoon. The blue water bordered by lush vegetation and slender coconut palms shimmered in the morning sunlight like a photo in National Geographic. Birds were calling in the distance.
The distributary creek flowed into this lagoon, and the path also ended at the water's edge. I'd have to cross this lagoon; dense thorn and sticker bushes prevented me from walking around it. But that was no problem. In the daylight the water was clear and inviting. It was long, but not wide, less than a dozen meters across. On the other side appeared to be a shingled beach which separated the lagoon from the ocean. The waves crashed loudly, sending mist into the air.
I laid my pack on the bank and changed to my shorts.
"You can wait for me here while I try it out," I said to Cuauhtémoc, and waded in, staying as close as I could to the bank, which was covered with thorn bushes. I was at the extreme west end of the lagoon, so I didn't have far to go. I couldn't tell how deep the lagoon was out in the middle, but here along the edge the water never got above my knees. Seeing that I could make it, I went back for my pack and my bird.
"Come on. Hop up and let's go," I said. But, being the independent-minded avian he was, he took to his wings and flew across. Then he looked back at me as if to say, "I'm a bird, remember?"
On reaching the other side I stepped up on the rocky beach, near the outlet of the lagoon. It flowed into the ocean like water being released over the top of a low dam. Turning to my right, I saw MacClayne. He was only twenty-five meters down the beach, hanging his shirt up to dry on a branch of driftwood
"MacClayne!" I yelled as loudly as I could, but my voice was drowned by the roar of the ocean, and he didn't seem to hear me. It gave me an eerie sensation, like being in my dream of the night before. For a brief moment I felt almost like a shadow stepping out from another world.
As I started down the beach towards him, an exceptionally large wave came smashing in and dissolved in a cloud of soft mist which enveloped MacClayne as well as the bird and myself.
"Hello!" I shouted again when I got closer. At last he waved back and when I got there he greeted me with a big hug. I was so glad to see him alive and safe that my anger disappeared, for the moment at least. But I could smell the liquor on his breath and even on his clothes.
"Good to see you!" he exclaimed heartily. "Where were you?"
"By the creek in the woods. And you?"
"Here on the beach," he said.
"How did you find your way out of the woods?"
"I got to those coconuts," he said, pointing to a grove not far away at the top of the beach. "I went in there, climbed over the fence and came out on this beach."
That was no doubt the same grove I'd approached the night before, but it somehow hadn't occurred to me that the beach was likely to be right next to it. Apparently coconut groves were normally planted just above beaches.
"I wondered what happened to you," he said. "I was hurrying down the trail to get to a campsite, and somehow I must have gotten ahead of you. When I looked around you weren't there. It was getting dark and so I thought it best to keep going."
Does he expect me to believe that? I wondered. But I didn't feel like quarreling about it.
"When I got to the beach," he continued. "I built a great big campfire so you'd see me if you were in the area."
"That's what I did too," I said.
From his pocket he produced a small bottle of tequila. It was half empty, and I wondered if that was the only booze he'd acquired the evening before. "Care for a drink?" he said.
"No, thank you."
"Well, if you do, you know you're welcome."
I was glad to see him in a good mood, even if he was tipsy. It was hard to stay mad at MacClayne, even though he'd broken his promise about not drinking, stomped off and left me the previous evening, and was now reinterpreting those events, like an historian rewriting history. Well, that was MacClayne--a consummate bullshit artist. I was slightly amused, but the same charm that amused me also made me feel manipulated. I really needed to say something. I wasn't sure what.
MacClayne was chatting loquaciously, as he did when he was on the sauce. "Robbie Burns wrote a poem about a couple of guys who sit up all night drinking," he said, and, with a broad grin, he recited it:
We're ernie foo
We're no that foo
We've jist a drappy in oor ee
The cock may cra
The day may da
and still we'll taste the barley bree
He paused to glance at Cuauhtémoc who had hopped up onto the driftwood branch beside him, the one where he'd hung his shirt. "Did you crow this morning?" said MacClayne to the bird, and reached out to stroke his feathers.
The bird raised his hackles and clucked angrily. MacClayne stepped back with an astonished expression. "What got into him?" MacClayne looked at me for some explanation.
"I wouldn't know," I said wryly, suppressing a grin.
MacClayne took a swig from his bottle. I lifted Cuauhtémoc off the branch, and took him in my arms. But he pushed his way free and hopped to the ground, scowling at me as if to say: 'Why do you even listen to this bullshit?' Then he strutted off on his own.
"Well, have a drink with me," MacClayne said and held out the bottle for the second time in about ten minutes.
"Thank you, but no," I said.
"No? You drank yesterday."
"Yes, but not today."
MacClayne looked out over the sea. There was nothing out there except waves, and perhaps a few distant birds.
"I shouldn't be drinking either," he said.
"No, you shouldn't," I said.
"But here I am, drinking. As you see. Drinking again."
I nodded, but didn't say anything.
"Let's find a place to sit down," he said. We walked up to the top of the beach and sat behind a large driftwood log where the crashing of the waves wasn't quite so loud.
"Did you know Alasdair MacAlister?" he asked.
"Alasdair. Yes, I knew him," I said. There were times when MacClayne seemed to forget which of his old friends I knew and which I didn't, especially when he was in his cups.
"I was cruel to Alasdair," MacClayne said regretfully.
I nodded.
"You know that?" There were almost tears in his voice. "I was cruel to him!"
"I know," I said in a quiet tone.
And, of course, I did know. Alasdair always gambled away his paycheck, so he was always broke and always trying to borrow to get by till the next payday. Once I'd walked into a café in Trona and found the two of them at a table. MacClayne was telling him off, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the establishment to hear: 'You came to me on your knees, begging me for $10. You promised to pay me back by Friday, and now you don't have it!' I wondered if that was the particular incident MacClayne was referring to right now; there must've been many such scenes.
"I was cruel," MacClayne kept saying.
"I know," I said again.
MacClayne took another swig from the bottle, set it carefully on a flat rock, and fixed his gaze on it.
"And I was cruel to Francesca," he said after a bit.
"I'm sure you were," I said, not accusingly, but in a commiserating tone of voice. I could sense the pain that he must've been feeling--though I could well imagine that his current repentance would not last forever.
"You didn't know Francesca, did you?"
"No."
"I was cruel to her."
I nodded.
The bird was scratching among the rocks not far away, and from time to time he looked at us.
"And you know something else?" MacClayne declared. "I'm a fuck-up! A lifelong fuck-up."
This time I didn't nod. I glanced down at the stones beside me and sort of shook my head.
"I've had jobs. Good ones too. Never hung onto them. I had seaman's papers. I fucked up and lost them. I had a woman who wanted to marry me. I drove her away. And so here you see me today. Fifty-one years old. No family. No children. No home. No life. No future. No . . ."
"Your poetry," I said without looking up. "The stories you write."
"Fuck my poetry! Screw my damn stories!"
A silence followed, and my eyes wandered idly among the pebbles. I retrieved one and turned it over in my hands. Yes, I knew. MacClayne had not managed his life well. Nevertheless, his free-spirited vagabonding had inspired me to take off and come to México. This was, to be sure, exactly what I'd always wanted to do, but I might never have actually done it, had it not been for the stimulus of MacClayne's example. He'd lived a life worth telling about and had done things I'd only read of.
". . . at a dinner party one time," he was speaking again. "The guests were all telling about their careers. Their achievements. Some rather boastfully. I didn't say anything, and so the hostess there finally turned to me, 'What do you do?' she asked. And I told her in a loud clear voice for all to hear: 'I'm a fuck-up!'"
I burst out laughing, and Cuauhtémoc paused in his scratching among the rocks to look at us.
"Alasdair and I. We're both fuck-ups. The two of us."
I was thinking to myself that both of them being reprobates was perhaps what had held their relationship together in such a lasting way, but I felt that I ought best leave that observation unexpressed.
"I've fucked up big. Alasdair's fucked up just as big, and you know something else Olaf?"
"What?"
"You're another fuck-up."
I guess at any other time I would've felt insulted, but right then I couldn't suppress a smile. Even in the midst of MacClayne's most sincere remorse, he managed to spread the guilt around to include others, and had not neglected to lay a touch of blame on me.
"I'm just saying it like it is," he said. "I know I'm difficult. I hope I haven't offended you?"
"You have. Often enough," I said. "But I still value your friendship."
He sighed deeply. "I'm glad to hear that," he said.
By this time the bird had strutted over and taken a place beside me, presumably to listen.
"We do the best we can," I said. "Sometimes our best is good enough and sometimes it's not good enough at all. So we try again, and perhaps we do better, but sometimes we just don't. It's unfortunate, but that's all we can do."
"That's about the way it is," he said.
"I will confess there've been times when I was terribly angry with you," I said. "But you are the closest thing to an older brother I have. For me you'll always be that older brother who went off to war and became the soldier, the sailor, the beachcomber and the poet."
"You couldn't flatter me more," he said. "Yes, you are my little brother. I've always thought of you that way."
There was a silence. At that moment, everything had been said to its fullest.
MacClayne looked at Cuauhtémoc. "Have I also offended you?"
The bird cocked his head to one side and gazed at him, but made no sound.
"The rooster looks almost angry at me," MacClayne said.
"He probably is," I said. "But not forever. I'm sure he'll find it in his heart to forgive you."
We both chuckled. Our conversation was serious, but we smiled and laughed anyway. Maybe it was so serious that we had to laugh. And maybe it was even so serious that MacClayne had to get drunk to express himself like this.
His bottle was nearly empty now. He continued to reminisce about the past and repent of his abusive ways. He'd hurt people who were dear to him. Taken advantage of their weaknesses to scold them. Most of this went back to long before I ever knew him. Then he began to recount his war memories. And at last, that night off the coast of France when he and the other survivors had found themselves clinging to life rafts after their ship had gone down:
". . . an explosion in the night. No warning. No shooting. Most of the crew were sleeping below deck, and they went down with the ship. Sank at once. I somehow got out of the harness of the Oerlikon, and then I found myself floating in the water. I had my life preserver on. Only those who were on deck got off. Nineteen of us out of a crew of nearly a hundred. The rest were lost, trapped below deck."
I nodded. It was a story I'd heard him tell before, though not often.
". . . there was the ship's mascot. A dog named Percival, and he survived, was in the water with us when we got picked up the next morning . . ."
He paused to look at his nearly empty bottle, then raised it to his lips and drained out the last drops. "I have another in my bag," he said. "It's lying over there by that log. Can you get it for me?"
I saw the log. Normally I would have refused and told him he wasn't supposed to be drinking. I hesitated. If I didn't get it, he'd go get it himself. I sensed that what he was really asking was for my support and understanding of something he was trying to tell me, and perhaps the least of all evils would be for me to do as he asked.
"Okay," I said at last. "I'll get it."
"Bring the one that hasn't been opened yet."
I didn't feel at all right about this, but I went to the log and found his bag. Inside was a half-empty bottle which I recognized as the one Wendy had given us--the gift that had started off this whole binge. It was an expensive brand, the kind that had a pickled worm at the bottom.
"Wendy, Wendy, Wendy," I said under my breath. "You and your booze! Everything that comes from you is like a curse. Your very touch is venom!" I almost felt like shouting it. I guess I was reliving the sight of her in my dream of the night before; it was still vivid in my mind.
There were two other bottles, one empty and the other full, both of a cheap brand which probably didn't merit being called tequila. Even in his cups, MacClayne remained a thrifty Scot.
When I got back he thanked me graciously, then said, "Do you ever dream?"
"Dream?" I repeated in surprise. It was about the last thing I expected him to ask.
"Nightmares. Ones that go on and on, night after night."
"Yes, I've had such."
"Then you know what I mean," he said, and took a sip.
"Yes," I affirmed, though I could only guess what he was talking about.
"There are some barren, desolate islands off the coast of Argentina. I spent a year on them. The Falklands," he spat out the name distastefully. "I guess I've told you about them, haven't I."
I nodded.
"There were two things to do there. Work and drink. I probably drank too much when I was in the Royal Marines and certainly drank too much when I was a seaman, but it was during my time on the Falkland Islands that my drinking became seriously out of hand. One weekend I went on a heavy binge and when Monday came I was still drinking. Something strange seemed to happen during that time--I looked around me and there I was, among my shipmates."
"Your shipmates?" I repeated almost involuntarily.
He looked at me for a moment, perhaps noting some astonishment on my face.
"The ones who went down that night?" I said.
"Yes," he said at last. "None of the surviving ones were there."
"And--and, you dreamed that repeatedly?"
"Almost every night. After work I'd go to the pub and drink rum with my work-mates, the guys I was working with at the time Then in my dreams I drank rum with my shipmates." He paused for a swig, then handed me the bottle.
Quite unthinkingly, I lifted it to my lips and took a gulp. It tasted awful, as hard liquor always had, but I swallowed it anyway. And then I took another gulp to kill the taste. Tears came to my eyes, and I inhaled and exhaled, wishing I had a glass of water.
MacClayne waited for me to regain my composure, and then continued. "I'd had plenty of dreams about the sinking. But this particular recurring dream began about three or four years after the war."
The burning sensation in my throat didn't go away, but despite my discomfort I hung on every word he was saying.
". . . it was an unusual sort of pub, more like an underground room of some military installation, an ammunition magazine . . ."
I must have gasped, and MacClayne paused in his narrative. "Pretty raw stuff, isn't it?" he said.
"Yeah," I croaked, and then managed to ask, "Was there anything on the walls?"
"Like what?"
"Pictures. Posters," I said.
"There was something. What was it. . . ?" He paused to reach around, apparently for the bottle. I handed it to him and he took a hefty swig.
"Strange you should ask," he said. "Yes, there was a print of Princess Elizabeth. That was before she became the reigning monarch. I was never much for royalty, you know that, but for some reason I used to find myself staring at it.
"At first the picture was like new. Fresh. Pristine. But I kept dreaming that dream year after year. The room was damp, water dripped from the ceiling, and as the years passed the print became stained and moldy." Again he passed me the bottle, again I lifted it to my lips, and again the fiery liquid burned my throat. I poured down another mouthful, and then another. That seemed to help.
". . . that corporal . . ." MacClayne was relating an anecdote about a stocky, red-haired NCO. I wondered if I should tell him that I also knew that corporal. The bottle was again in my hand, and I somehow couldn't let go of it without first taking a gulp. It seemed to burn less now.
". . . It was that same drinking scene. The same rum. The same pub," MacClayne was saying. "Night after . . ."
I interrupted, "Did anyone else ever show up?"
"Never. Only the men from our ship."
"Major Benson?" I sort of blurted out.
"What about Major Benson?"
"Was he there?"
"It was an enlisted men's pub. Well, he might have come by on some occasion. But as I recall, he wasn't even on our ship."
"Anyone else? That weren't from the crew, I mean." My own voice sounded weird. It was somehow hard for me to get all the syllables into my words in a normal way.
"Not that I can think of." He passed me the bottle, and after a swig I passed it back. I nearly dropped it. MacClayne's hand didn't seem to be where my eyes told me it should've been. I set the bottle on a rock.
"Well yes, I remember now," MacClayne said. "There was a bloke who showed up. Not one of us, but he seemed to know me. What was it he said? . . . He told me I was drinking with the dead. That used to bother me. I still remember the guy saying that."
"What did . . ." I started to ask something and then forgot what I was going to ask. MacClayne was peering at me, and I looked back at him, but his features seemed to be stretched and distorted.
"Where's the tequila?" he said.
I looked at where I'd set it, but it didn't seem to be there. After some fumbling around, I found it on the other side of me and handed it to him.
He took a swig or maybe just a deep breath and looked up, towards the crests of the tall coconut palms. The fronds were moving in the breeze, and they seemed so near that I could almost reach out my arm and touch them.
". . . thirty-one years ago . . ." he was saying.
I kept gazing at the palms as they swayed in the breeze. They seemed to go in and out of focus. The crashing of the waves seemed to get louder in my ears, like the volume had been turned up. The tropical sun was beating down on me and the heat sizzled in my ears. Even the stones around me were too hot to touch.
Perhaps MacClayne was still talking, or maybe he wasn't. My head seemed to be floating in a bizarre, out-of-control way. The palms had become blurred, and I was sweating profusely. Why not go swimming in the lagoon? Yes, that's what I'd do, but I couldn't get up. I leaned back and dozed off into a dream:
I was in the hellish bunker and in front of me was a blazing fire piled high with tables and chairs. It was in the middle of the concrete floor, and for the first time I wasn't shivering from cold. Instead, the fire was burning so hot that I tried to move away from it, but I couldn't escape the scorching heat. The moldy print of the Virgin of Guadalupe was steaming.
"Drink up!"
It was Wendy. She handed me a glass of water and pinched me on the cheek. We were sitting in a Jacuzzi tub of hot tequila; the pungent vapor was overwhelming.
"I'm looking for MacClayne," I said. I stood up to go, and then discovered I didn't have any clothes on. Wendy burst out laughing. She didn't have anything on either.
"I really have to go," I said. "MacClayne is drinking with the dead."
Then I woke up.
MacClayne! I had to find him, bring him back. But my head ached and my throat was burning for water.
I was practically suffocating in the dark, hot, stuffy air. I sat up, and the darkness fell away from my face; it was my jacket. The intense sunlight was blinding. Since I was wearing shorts, my legs would've been badly sunburned, but MacClayne had thrown his own jacket over them while I was sleeping.
A whiff of ocean breeze felt refreshing, and my eyes soon became accustomed to the light. The towering palms and the lush greenery reminded me that I was on the beach. Then I saw MacClayne sitting some distance away, reading a book. Cuauhtémoc was also nearby, and, on seeing that I was awake, came strutting towards me.
I was savagely thirsty, and my pack was right beside me, so I dug out a couple of oranges and began peeling and eating. As always, I shared sections with Cuauhtémoc. Here under the hot sun, oranges were even better than water. Slowly my head began to clear and the aching diminished, but the images of the dream bothered me.
Wendy and me in the Jacuzzi tub. The two of us, sitting there naked together. What would Chayo say? She'd be terribly hurt.
But it hadn't really happened. "¡No hice nada!" I said to myself. "I didn't do anything! ¡No soy culpable!"
Why had I dreamed such a thing? Had some part of me been out there playing around with the notion of making it with Wendy? I wondered how responsible I was for what I did in my dreams.
A touch of spray from a huge wave came misting down. For a fleeting moment the air was cool and it gave me the sensation of someone being there next to me.
"Chayo," I said aloud, half expecting her to hear me. "Te quiero. Para siempre."
A minute later the salt spray had dried on my arms and the scorching sun burned hotter than ever. Chayo was gone, but she seemed to have been there. I'd felt her presence, and she must've heard my voice. I felt better now.
Then I saw the empty bottle beside me and remembered that I'd been drinking with MacClayne. That was another thing I shouldn't have been doing. After all, I was trying to keep him sober. Nevertheless, that was a minor failing, and his drinking wasn't really anything I could prevent.
Cuauhtémoc was scratching in the sand next to me.
"Let's go swimming," I said to him. I knew he didn't care much for swimming, but I figured he might like to find some place where he could get his feet in the mud while I splashed around in the lagoon. We set out up the beach past MacClayne, and I looked to see what he was reading. It was Shackleton's Voyage to Antarctica. There weren't any tequila bottles around him. I hoped his binge was over.
Cuauhtémoc accompanied me to the edge of the lagoon, then strutted along the bank, perhaps in search of seeds, while I entered the water and swam out to the middle. It was just cool enough to be refreshing. I washed off the sweat and salt. Then I dove below and swam along the bottom; it was over my head, though not by more than a couple of meters. There was very little current, and the water was calm, in contrast to the raging sea which was just meters away.
Finishing the swim, I located Cuauhtémoc and returned to camp, where I dug out my journal. I was a full day behind on it now and there was a lot to write; I began with the account of MacClayne's recurring dream. Some details of his account were a bit hazy in my mind. I wished I hadn't been drinking.
I was particularly intrigued by the German bloke who'd showed up--or did MacClayne specifically say the guy was German? I couldn't remember for sure. It seemed that he'd just said the fellow wasn't part of their ship's crew. Could that have been me?
My thoughts drifted back to the day I'd met MacClayne. It had been some three or four years before, at a large anti-war march. Perhaps a hundred thousand people were there. Anyway, there was an older guy with thick, shoulder-length gray hair who glanced my way, and, as he did so, a look of surprise appeared on his face. Who could that guy be? he seemed to be thinking. Then he introduced himself. "MacClayne," he'd said, and asked if we didn't know each other from somewhere. No. I'd never seen him before in my life. Nor had I ever been in New York or London or Barcelona or Buenos Aires or any of the other places where he thought he might have known me. But we got to talking and I was quite intrigued by this fellow who spoke with a Scottish accent and traveled the world over. That was the beginning of our friendship.
At the time it hadn't really seemed terribly strange that he'd thought he'd known me from somewhere, but now as I sat here on the beach mulling this over, I wondered if he'd somehow associated me with the stranger in his dream. It seemed improbable, but I didn't know what else to make of it.
I'd hung my jacket on some driftwood branches for shade, but the sun had moved to a new location, and I was now again under its burning rays. I readjusted my jacket, and glanced around the beach. It was pretty well deserted, except for a man casting a net and a woman helping him pull it in. But they didn't seem to be catching anything. I watched them for a while, and then saw MacClayne coming my way.
"Are you hungry?" he said. "Maybe we should go to town."
We found a hiding place for our things under some driftwood, although it was unlikely that anyone on this nearly deserted beach would rob us.
Cuauhtémoc left the sand through which he'd been combing, and joined us for the trip to town.
Rather than take the route through the coconut palm grove, which would require a lot of fence climbing, we decided to use the path I'd taken. Retracing my steps of the morning, we waded along the edge of the lagoon and then followed the creek bed. My sandals were well suited for this, but MacClayne had to take his shoes off and then stop again to put them back on.
When we came to where I'd seen the sick white bird the night before, I pointed the place out to MacClayne and told him about it. "I wonder if it's still around," I said.
We searched for a bit and soon found it on the other side of a fence, between some thorn bushes. MacClayne held the barbwire and bushes apart as I climbed through. We both got scratched up, but I finally reached the bird. It shrank from me but didn't actively resist as I picked it up and passed it to MacClayne. It was so weak it could barely hold its head up.
"It's shivering," MacClayne said. "We need something to wrap it in."
I went back to camp and got our jackets while MacClayne waited with the bird. When I returned, we carefully bundled it up. The day wasn't the least bit cold; it was hot even in the shade, but this was the way we'd always seen sick people treated, so that's what we did with the white bird.
"It would be ironic if this were the same bird who once came to stay in your garden," I said, thinking of a poem MacClayne had once written.
"That was years ago. And this one isn't an egret."
MacClayne had an affinity for birds, and had written numerous poems about them. He cradled the white bird gently in his arms and we continued on our way till we came to another place where we had to cross the creek. Once again MacClayne had to take off his shoes to wade; first he passed me the bird. Then I heard the flutter of wings.
Cuauhtémoc had flown up and perched on the limb of a tree.
"What are you doing up there?" I said. "Hop down and let's get going." I held up my free arm for him to land on. But he turned around and looked the other way. I reached up for him, but he hopped onto a higher branch.
"I think he's jealous," MacClayne suggested.
"Jealous?" I gave MacClayne a sour look. "Cuauhtémoc is above such pettiness," I informed him.
From the branch overhead came a low clucking noise that sounded like a child sulking.
"Will you please stop being so immature!" I demanded.
He flew to a still higher branch.
I sighed and turned to MacClayne. "Maybe it would be best if you carried the white bird," I said, and passed him the sick bundled avian.
"Okay?" I looked upwards.
Cuauhtémoc delayed a few seconds, then came flying down to land in my arms.
"¡Sinvergüenza!" I scolded him as we continued on towards the settlement.
Passing the bridge that was under construction, I took a brief look at the river. It was relatively small, and vehicles could ford without much difficulty. We went to the restaurant.
The little blond girl who was on duty smiled shyly, and then noticed the white bird MacClayne was carrying.
"Why is the bird wrapped up?" she asked.
"So he won't get cold," I said, "He's very sick."
"Can I hold him?" she said.
MacClayne passed it to her, and in the girl's arms the avian drew new strength and lifted up its head. Its condition seemed to improve just by being in her arms.
Then the proprietress came out from the kitchen. The girl returned the bird to MacClayne, and I asked what they had to eat. Beef stew. But it wouldn't be ready till two o'clock. That's when the bridge construction crew took their noon meal. So we ordered coffee while we waited for the food to be ready. The woman set a jar of instant on the table and heated up the water. "What's wrong with the bird?" she asked.
"It's very sick," I said, "We found it in the woods."
"I have some bird medicine," she said.
"Bird medicine?" I repeated a bit skeptically.
She assured me that cows, dogs, horses and even people had been cured by it. It should also work on a bird.
MacClayne held the bird and I opened its beak while the woman poured a few drops down its throat. The medicine did seem to put some life into the creature, who sputtered and for a brief moment struggled to get loose. Then it settled back into its previous state of lethargy.
Other people came and went, many of them pausing to look at the bird. The meal would be ready in another hour. We drank more coffee while we waited. In my journal I recorded some thoughts about birds, and MacClayne went back to reading Shackleton. Cuauhtémoc tugged at the end of a string which was tied to his leg, an indignity I felt necessary to impose upon him since several lady chickens were nearby.
Some time had passed when the sound of an approaching vehicle intermingled with the noises of bridge construction. It was a familiar-looking maroon jeep which came to a halt as it passed our restaurant. The driver was Wendy, who got out and walked up to us, wearing her usual short shorts and a halter-top.
"So, I've found you guys at last!" she said. "When you didn't show up in Caleta, I began to worry."
"And you came back looking for us? That was very thoughtful of you," MacClayne said, putting his usual charm into his words.
"Well, I should have known that two experienced travelers like you would be okay," she said, squeezing onto the bench between the two of us. From her breath I caught a whiff of tequila, and my mind went back to the Jacuzzi tub.
"Where's Jeff now?" I asked. "Is he okay?"
"I got him to a doctor in Caleta who fixed him up. Now he's resting up at the hotel, recovering. I think he'll come out of it okay," she said. "I'm terribly sorry for what happened. I owe you guys an apology."
"It wasn't your fault," MacClayne said
"Well, I feel responsible," she was saying. "Jeff has done crazy things before and I should have known better than to let him drive." She sighed, glanced around and said to the proprietress: "¿Hay cerveza?"
"Sí, hay," said the woman, and went to get one.
Wendy had been looking at the bird, which was now in my arms. "What happened to it?" she asked. "Why do you have it wrapped up?"
"It's sick." I told her how we'd discovered it.
"Poor thing!" She stroked the bird's head softly.
The white bird began to shake like it had the chills. I adjusted the jackets around it carefully. "Please live," I said to the bird. "You can't give up now."
But the bird shook even worse.
"Here, let me hold it," Wendy said and reached for the bird.
Images from my dream of the previous night flashed through my mind and I didn't want to let Wendy have the white bird. I took a deep breath and passed it to her. She cradled it in her arms, speaking gently to it, but it continued to shudder.
Suddenly everything around us went quiet. Insects stopped chirping, bees stopped humming, even the hammering sound from the bridge ceased. It was an instant of silence that felt like the screeching of auto tires just before a collision.
Then the nearby flock of chickens panicked and took flight; one sailed over our table and knocked Wendy's beer to the ground. Dogs were barking. A strong burst of wind raised leaves and dust. Raindrops sprinkled down.
Seconds later all was calm again. The dogs were silent, the wind died, and the chickens returned to where they'd been scratching. But the sky remained overcast with dark, ominous clouds.
"The bird!" I gasped, reaching out my arms for it.
Wendy looked up at me, and her eyes widened. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she said.
"It's dead," was all I could think to say.
"What's dead?"
"The bird."
"It's not dead! It can't be!"
"It is," I said, barely in a whisper.
She quickly passed me the bird, practically dumping it in my arms. It didn't shiver, it didn't move. It just lay limp and lifeless.
"I didn't kill it!"
"You touched it and it died."
"Well I'm sorry if the bird died, but it wasn't my fault," she said. "Will you stop looking at me like that!"
I shook my head; I must have been slightly in shock.
"Good-bye," she said, and hurried off towards the road. I heard a vehicle engine starting up, then drive off.
"Are you sure it's dead?" I heard MacClayne ask a moment later.
"Take a look."
MacClayne confirmed the demise, but said, "She seemed to be very gentle with it, at least from what I could see. Maybe you saw something I didn't."
"Her touch is poison!" I blurted out.
"I don't think any of us wanted the bird to die, but you saw yourself that it was very sick. Apparently at the point of death," he said. "I'd say it was an unfortunate coincidence that it happened to die in her arms."
"Carl Jung would not have dismissed the coincidence as insignificant," I told him.
MacClayne didn't reply, and it flashed though my mind that he didn't understand what I was trying to tell him. He didn't know about my dream, the one in which Wendy had killed the bird.
"The wind," I said. "The dogs barking. It all broke loose the instant the bird died."
"Yes, there was a gust of wind," MacClayne said.
It had been much more than a gust of wind, but perhaps MacClayne hadn't noticed. Or maybe it was another of my private visions that only I seemed to see.
The expression on MacClayne's face was sympathetic, but maybe he thought I was crazy, making wild accusations. I'd already told him so much I had to tell him the rest.
"Last night this same thing happened in a dream. I even wrote it down," I said, and handed him my journal.
"Read it to me," he said. "Your handwriting's undecipherable."
"Okay," I said, and read him my account of the dream about the sick bird. "I was looking for the woman who could cure it, but instead I handed it to Wendy and she took my sword and chopped its head off."
"If you don't mind my asking, why did you give her the bird?"
"In the dream?"
"No. Just now. After having seen her do that in the dream."
"I almost didn't hand it to her, but it didn't seem rational to take a dream that seriously."
MacClayne nodded but said nothing, and for some time we sat in silence. A distant radio was playing a song by Javier Solis. But it was a sad song, and the sun was still clouded over.
"The food is ready," the woman announced. She added that this place would be crowded with construction workers in a few minutes. I guessed she was hoping we'd finish up, move on and make space for them.
"I don't really feel like eating," I said to MacClayne.
"Me neither," MacClayne said. "But we should put something in our stomachs."
Somehow we finished our meals and headed back to our campsite. As we left, the proprietress called out to us to wish the white bird a speedy recovery. It was still bundled up so I saw no reason to tell her it was dead.
MacClayne carried the white bird, wrapped in our jackets. Cuauhtémoc rode on my arm for a while, then walked. On arriving at the beach we found a suitable burial place in the sand near some thorn bushes. Cuauhtémoc perched on a limb above as MacClayne and I took turns at digging the hole. We interred the body and then piled rocks on it to form a cairn.
Then I selected a flat piece of driftwood and took out my knife to carve a brief inscription. Mi ave piloto? No, that didn't have quite the right sound. I tried to recall some appropriate phrase from the Edda, but nothing came to mind. I sat there thinking about this for some time; finally, unable to conjure up anything more memorable, I inscribed: Our White Bird.
While I had been doing that, MacClayne had been writing:
Those birds, those birds
that glide by night
on farther shores than here
are resting on a cold black lake
and soon will reappear
He folded it up and slipped in among the rocks of the burial mound, MacClayne's final offering to our white bird.
continued in Chapter 39
Where was MacClayne? Hopefully not lying out there in the woods somewhere, stung by a scorpion and perhaps unable to move. Well, he might have made it through to the beach. Or, maybe he'd gone back to the village and found a ride to Caleta after all. If so, I hoped he'd left a note for me at the restaurant.
Right now, the beach was closest; I'd go there first. I broke camp and headed downstream and came to the lagoon. The blue water bordered by lush vegetation and slender coconut palms shimmered in the morning sunlight like a photo in National Geographic. Birds were calling in the distance.
The distributary creek flowed into this lagoon, and the path also ended at the water's edge. I'd have to cross this lagoon; dense thorn and sticker bushes prevented me from walking around it. But that was no problem. In the daylight the water was clear and inviting. It was long, but not wide, less than a dozen meters across. On the other side appeared to be a shingled beach which separated the lagoon from the ocean. The waves crashed loudly, sending mist into the air.
I laid my pack on the bank and changed to my shorts.
"You can wait for me here while I try it out," I said to Cuauhtémoc, and waded in, staying as close as I could to the bank, which was covered with thorn bushes. I was at the extreme west end of the lagoon, so I didn't have far to go. I couldn't tell how deep the lagoon was out in the middle, but here along the edge the water never got above my knees. Seeing that I could make it, I went back for my pack and my bird.
"Come on. Hop up and let's go," I said. But, being the independent-minded avian he was, he took to his wings and flew across. Then he looked back at me as if to say, "I'm a bird, remember?"
On reaching the other side I stepped up on the rocky beach, near the outlet of the lagoon. It flowed into the ocean like water being released over the top of a low dam. Turning to my right, I saw MacClayne. He was only twenty-five meters down the beach, hanging his shirt up to dry on a branch of driftwood
"MacClayne!" I yelled as loudly as I could, but my voice was drowned by the roar of the ocean, and he didn't seem to hear me. It gave me an eerie sensation, like being in my dream of the night before. For a brief moment I felt almost like a shadow stepping out from another world.
As I started down the beach towards him, an exceptionally large wave came smashing in and dissolved in a cloud of soft mist which enveloped MacClayne as well as the bird and myself.
"Hello!" I shouted again when I got closer. At last he waved back and when I got there he greeted me with a big hug. I was so glad to see him alive and safe that my anger disappeared, for the moment at least. But I could smell the liquor on his breath and even on his clothes.
"Good to see you!" he exclaimed heartily. "Where were you?"
"By the creek in the woods. And you?"
"Here on the beach," he said.
"How did you find your way out of the woods?"
"I got to those coconuts," he said, pointing to a grove not far away at the top of the beach. "I went in there, climbed over the fence and came out on this beach."
That was no doubt the same grove I'd approached the night before, but it somehow hadn't occurred to me that the beach was likely to be right next to it. Apparently coconut groves were normally planted just above beaches.
"I wondered what happened to you," he said. "I was hurrying down the trail to get to a campsite, and somehow I must have gotten ahead of you. When I looked around you weren't there. It was getting dark and so I thought it best to keep going."
Does he expect me to believe that? I wondered. But I didn't feel like quarreling about it.
"When I got to the beach," he continued. "I built a great big campfire so you'd see me if you were in the area."
"That's what I did too," I said.
From his pocket he produced a small bottle of tequila. It was half empty, and I wondered if that was the only booze he'd acquired the evening before. "Care for a drink?" he said.
"No, thank you."
"Well, if you do, you know you're welcome."
I was glad to see him in a good mood, even if he was tipsy. It was hard to stay mad at MacClayne, even though he'd broken his promise about not drinking, stomped off and left me the previous evening, and was now reinterpreting those events, like an historian rewriting history. Well, that was MacClayne--a consummate bullshit artist. I was slightly amused, but the same charm that amused me also made me feel manipulated. I really needed to say something. I wasn't sure what.
MacClayne was chatting loquaciously, as he did when he was on the sauce. "Robbie Burns wrote a poem about a couple of guys who sit up all night drinking," he said, and, with a broad grin, he recited it:
We're ernie foo
We're no that foo
We've jist a drappy in oor ee
The cock may cra
The day may da
and still we'll taste the barley bree
He paused to glance at Cuauhtémoc who had hopped up onto the driftwood branch beside him, the one where he'd hung his shirt. "Did you crow this morning?" said MacClayne to the bird, and reached out to stroke his feathers.
The bird raised his hackles and clucked angrily. MacClayne stepped back with an astonished expression. "What got into him?" MacClayne looked at me for some explanation.
"I wouldn't know," I said wryly, suppressing a grin.
MacClayne took a swig from his bottle. I lifted Cuauhtémoc off the branch, and took him in my arms. But he pushed his way free and hopped to the ground, scowling at me as if to say: 'Why do you even listen to this bullshit?' Then he strutted off on his own.
"Well, have a drink with me," MacClayne said and held out the bottle for the second time in about ten minutes.
"Thank you, but no," I said.
"No? You drank yesterday."
"Yes, but not today."
MacClayne looked out over the sea. There was nothing out there except waves, and perhaps a few distant birds.
"I shouldn't be drinking either," he said.
"No, you shouldn't," I said.
"But here I am, drinking. As you see. Drinking again."
I nodded, but didn't say anything.
"Let's find a place to sit down," he said. We walked up to the top of the beach and sat behind a large driftwood log where the crashing of the waves wasn't quite so loud.
"Did you know Alasdair MacAlister?" he asked.
"Alasdair. Yes, I knew him," I said. There were times when MacClayne seemed to forget which of his old friends I knew and which I didn't, especially when he was in his cups.
"I was cruel to Alasdair," MacClayne said regretfully.
I nodded.
"You know that?" There were almost tears in his voice. "I was cruel to him!"
"I know," I said in a quiet tone.
And, of course, I did know. Alasdair always gambled away his paycheck, so he was always broke and always trying to borrow to get by till the next payday. Once I'd walked into a café in Trona and found the two of them at a table. MacClayne was telling him off, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the establishment to hear: 'You came to me on your knees, begging me for $10. You promised to pay me back by Friday, and now you don't have it!' I wondered if that was the particular incident MacClayne was referring to right now; there must've been many such scenes.
"I was cruel," MacClayne kept saying.
"I know," I said again.
MacClayne took another swig from the bottle, set it carefully on a flat rock, and fixed his gaze on it.
"And I was cruel to Francesca," he said after a bit.
"I'm sure you were," I said, not accusingly, but in a commiserating tone of voice. I could sense the pain that he must've been feeling--though I could well imagine that his current repentance would not last forever.
"You didn't know Francesca, did you?"
"No."
"I was cruel to her."
I nodded.
The bird was scratching among the rocks not far away, and from time to time he looked at us.
"And you know something else?" MacClayne declared. "I'm a fuck-up! A lifelong fuck-up."
This time I didn't nod. I glanced down at the stones beside me and sort of shook my head.
"I've had jobs. Good ones too. Never hung onto them. I had seaman's papers. I fucked up and lost them. I had a woman who wanted to marry me. I drove her away. And so here you see me today. Fifty-one years old. No family. No children. No home. No life. No future. No . . ."
"Your poetry," I said without looking up. "The stories you write."
"Fuck my poetry! Screw my damn stories!"
A silence followed, and my eyes wandered idly among the pebbles. I retrieved one and turned it over in my hands. Yes, I knew. MacClayne had not managed his life well. Nevertheless, his free-spirited vagabonding had inspired me to take off and come to México. This was, to be sure, exactly what I'd always wanted to do, but I might never have actually done it, had it not been for the stimulus of MacClayne's example. He'd lived a life worth telling about and had done things I'd only read of.
". . . at a dinner party one time," he was speaking again. "The guests were all telling about their careers. Their achievements. Some rather boastfully. I didn't say anything, and so the hostess there finally turned to me, 'What do you do?' she asked. And I told her in a loud clear voice for all to hear: 'I'm a fuck-up!'"
I burst out laughing, and Cuauhtémoc paused in his scratching among the rocks to look at us.
"Alasdair and I. We're both fuck-ups. The two of us."
I was thinking to myself that both of them being reprobates was perhaps what had held their relationship together in such a lasting way, but I felt that I ought best leave that observation unexpressed.
"I've fucked up big. Alasdair's fucked up just as big, and you know something else Olaf?"
"What?"
"You're another fuck-up."
I guess at any other time I would've felt insulted, but right then I couldn't suppress a smile. Even in the midst of MacClayne's most sincere remorse, he managed to spread the guilt around to include others, and had not neglected to lay a touch of blame on me.
"I'm just saying it like it is," he said. "I know I'm difficult. I hope I haven't offended you?"
"You have. Often enough," I said. "But I still value your friendship."
He sighed deeply. "I'm glad to hear that," he said.
By this time the bird had strutted over and taken a place beside me, presumably to listen.
"We do the best we can," I said. "Sometimes our best is good enough and sometimes it's not good enough at all. So we try again, and perhaps we do better, but sometimes we just don't. It's unfortunate, but that's all we can do."
"That's about the way it is," he said.
"I will confess there've been times when I was terribly angry with you," I said. "But you are the closest thing to an older brother I have. For me you'll always be that older brother who went off to war and became the soldier, the sailor, the beachcomber and the poet."
"You couldn't flatter me more," he said. "Yes, you are my little brother. I've always thought of you that way."
There was a silence. At that moment, everything had been said to its fullest.
MacClayne looked at Cuauhtémoc. "Have I also offended you?"
The bird cocked his head to one side and gazed at him, but made no sound.
"The rooster looks almost angry at me," MacClayne said.
"He probably is," I said. "But not forever. I'm sure he'll find it in his heart to forgive you."
We both chuckled. Our conversation was serious, but we smiled and laughed anyway. Maybe it was so serious that we had to laugh. And maybe it was even so serious that MacClayne had to get drunk to express himself like this.
His bottle was nearly empty now. He continued to reminisce about the past and repent of his abusive ways. He'd hurt people who were dear to him. Taken advantage of their weaknesses to scold them. Most of this went back to long before I ever knew him. Then he began to recount his war memories. And at last, that night off the coast of France when he and the other survivors had found themselves clinging to life rafts after their ship had gone down:
". . . an explosion in the night. No warning. No shooting. Most of the crew were sleeping below deck, and they went down with the ship. Sank at once. I somehow got out of the harness of the Oerlikon, and then I found myself floating in the water. I had my life preserver on. Only those who were on deck got off. Nineteen of us out of a crew of nearly a hundred. The rest were lost, trapped below deck."
I nodded. It was a story I'd heard him tell before, though not often.
". . . there was the ship's mascot. A dog named Percival, and he survived, was in the water with us when we got picked up the next morning . . ."
He paused to look at his nearly empty bottle, then raised it to his lips and drained out the last drops. "I have another in my bag," he said. "It's lying over there by that log. Can you get it for me?"
I saw the log. Normally I would have refused and told him he wasn't supposed to be drinking. I hesitated. If I didn't get it, he'd go get it himself. I sensed that what he was really asking was for my support and understanding of something he was trying to tell me, and perhaps the least of all evils would be for me to do as he asked.
"Okay," I said at last. "I'll get it."
"Bring the one that hasn't been opened yet."
I didn't feel at all right about this, but I went to the log and found his bag. Inside was a half-empty bottle which I recognized as the one Wendy had given us--the gift that had started off this whole binge. It was an expensive brand, the kind that had a pickled worm at the bottom.
"Wendy, Wendy, Wendy," I said under my breath. "You and your booze! Everything that comes from you is like a curse. Your very touch is venom!" I almost felt like shouting it. I guess I was reliving the sight of her in my dream of the night before; it was still vivid in my mind.
There were two other bottles, one empty and the other full, both of a cheap brand which probably didn't merit being called tequila. Even in his cups, MacClayne remained a thrifty Scot.
When I got back he thanked me graciously, then said, "Do you ever dream?"
"Dream?" I repeated in surprise. It was about the last thing I expected him to ask.
"Nightmares. Ones that go on and on, night after night."
"Yes, I've had such."
"Then you know what I mean," he said, and took a sip.
"Yes," I affirmed, though I could only guess what he was talking about.
"There are some barren, desolate islands off the coast of Argentina. I spent a year on them. The Falklands," he spat out the name distastefully. "I guess I've told you about them, haven't I."
I nodded.
"There were two things to do there. Work and drink. I probably drank too much when I was in the Royal Marines and certainly drank too much when I was a seaman, but it was during my time on the Falkland Islands that my drinking became seriously out of hand. One weekend I went on a heavy binge and when Monday came I was still drinking. Something strange seemed to happen during that time--I looked around me and there I was, among my shipmates."
"Your shipmates?" I repeated almost involuntarily.
He looked at me for a moment, perhaps noting some astonishment on my face.
"The ones who went down that night?" I said.
"Yes," he said at last. "None of the surviving ones were there."
"And--and, you dreamed that repeatedly?"
"Almost every night. After work I'd go to the pub and drink rum with my work-mates, the guys I was working with at the time Then in my dreams I drank rum with my shipmates." He paused for a swig, then handed me the bottle.
Quite unthinkingly, I lifted it to my lips and took a gulp. It tasted awful, as hard liquor always had, but I swallowed it anyway. And then I took another gulp to kill the taste. Tears came to my eyes, and I inhaled and exhaled, wishing I had a glass of water.
MacClayne waited for me to regain my composure, and then continued. "I'd had plenty of dreams about the sinking. But this particular recurring dream began about three or four years after the war."
The burning sensation in my throat didn't go away, but despite my discomfort I hung on every word he was saying.
". . . it was an unusual sort of pub, more like an underground room of some military installation, an ammunition magazine . . ."
I must have gasped, and MacClayne paused in his narrative. "Pretty raw stuff, isn't it?" he said.
"Yeah," I croaked, and then managed to ask, "Was there anything on the walls?"
"Like what?"
"Pictures. Posters," I said.
"There was something. What was it. . . ?" He paused to reach around, apparently for the bottle. I handed it to him and he took a hefty swig.
"Strange you should ask," he said. "Yes, there was a print of Princess Elizabeth. That was before she became the reigning monarch. I was never much for royalty, you know that, but for some reason I used to find myself staring at it.
"At first the picture was like new. Fresh. Pristine. But I kept dreaming that dream year after year. The room was damp, water dripped from the ceiling, and as the years passed the print became stained and moldy." Again he passed me the bottle, again I lifted it to my lips, and again the fiery liquid burned my throat. I poured down another mouthful, and then another. That seemed to help.
". . . that corporal . . ." MacClayne was relating an anecdote about a stocky, red-haired NCO. I wondered if I should tell him that I also knew that corporal. The bottle was again in my hand, and I somehow couldn't let go of it without first taking a gulp. It seemed to burn less now.
". . . It was that same drinking scene. The same rum. The same pub," MacClayne was saying. "Night after . . ."
I interrupted, "Did anyone else ever show up?"
"Never. Only the men from our ship."
"Major Benson?" I sort of blurted out.
"What about Major Benson?"
"Was he there?"
"It was an enlisted men's pub. Well, he might have come by on some occasion. But as I recall, he wasn't even on our ship."
"Anyone else? That weren't from the crew, I mean." My own voice sounded weird. It was somehow hard for me to get all the syllables into my words in a normal way.
"Not that I can think of." He passed me the bottle, and after a swig I passed it back. I nearly dropped it. MacClayne's hand didn't seem to be where my eyes told me it should've been. I set the bottle on a rock.
"Well yes, I remember now," MacClayne said. "There was a bloke who showed up. Not one of us, but he seemed to know me. What was it he said? . . . He told me I was drinking with the dead. That used to bother me. I still remember the guy saying that."
"What did . . ." I started to ask something and then forgot what I was going to ask. MacClayne was peering at me, and I looked back at him, but his features seemed to be stretched and distorted.
"Where's the tequila?" he said.
I looked at where I'd set it, but it didn't seem to be there. After some fumbling around, I found it on the other side of me and handed it to him.
He took a swig or maybe just a deep breath and looked up, towards the crests of the tall coconut palms. The fronds were moving in the breeze, and they seemed so near that I could almost reach out my arm and touch them.
". . . thirty-one years ago . . ." he was saying.
I kept gazing at the palms as they swayed in the breeze. They seemed to go in and out of focus. The crashing of the waves seemed to get louder in my ears, like the volume had been turned up. The tropical sun was beating down on me and the heat sizzled in my ears. Even the stones around me were too hot to touch.
Perhaps MacClayne was still talking, or maybe he wasn't. My head seemed to be floating in a bizarre, out-of-control way. The palms had become blurred, and I was sweating profusely. Why not go swimming in the lagoon? Yes, that's what I'd do, but I couldn't get up. I leaned back and dozed off into a dream:
I was in the hellish bunker and in front of me was a blazing fire piled high with tables and chairs. It was in the middle of the concrete floor, and for the first time I wasn't shivering from cold. Instead, the fire was burning so hot that I tried to move away from it, but I couldn't escape the scorching heat. The moldy print of the Virgin of Guadalupe was steaming.
"Drink up!"
It was Wendy. She handed me a glass of water and pinched me on the cheek. We were sitting in a Jacuzzi tub of hot tequila; the pungent vapor was overwhelming.
"I'm looking for MacClayne," I said. I stood up to go, and then discovered I didn't have any clothes on. Wendy burst out laughing. She didn't have anything on either.
"I really have to go," I said. "MacClayne is drinking with the dead."
Then I woke up.
MacClayne! I had to find him, bring him back. But my head ached and my throat was burning for water.
I was practically suffocating in the dark, hot, stuffy air. I sat up, and the darkness fell away from my face; it was my jacket. The intense sunlight was blinding. Since I was wearing shorts, my legs would've been badly sunburned, but MacClayne had thrown his own jacket over them while I was sleeping.
A whiff of ocean breeze felt refreshing, and my eyes soon became accustomed to the light. The towering palms and the lush greenery reminded me that I was on the beach. Then I saw MacClayne sitting some distance away, reading a book. Cuauhtémoc was also nearby, and, on seeing that I was awake, came strutting towards me.
I was savagely thirsty, and my pack was right beside me, so I dug out a couple of oranges and began peeling and eating. As always, I shared sections with Cuauhtémoc. Here under the hot sun, oranges were even better than water. Slowly my head began to clear and the aching diminished, but the images of the dream bothered me.
Wendy and me in the Jacuzzi tub. The two of us, sitting there naked together. What would Chayo say? She'd be terribly hurt.
But it hadn't really happened. "¡No hice nada!" I said to myself. "I didn't do anything! ¡No soy culpable!"
Why had I dreamed such a thing? Had some part of me been out there playing around with the notion of making it with Wendy? I wondered how responsible I was for what I did in my dreams.
A touch of spray from a huge wave came misting down. For a fleeting moment the air was cool and it gave me the sensation of someone being there next to me.
"Chayo," I said aloud, half expecting her to hear me. "Te quiero. Para siempre."
A minute later the salt spray had dried on my arms and the scorching sun burned hotter than ever. Chayo was gone, but she seemed to have been there. I'd felt her presence, and she must've heard my voice. I felt better now.
Then I saw the empty bottle beside me and remembered that I'd been drinking with MacClayne. That was another thing I shouldn't have been doing. After all, I was trying to keep him sober. Nevertheless, that was a minor failing, and his drinking wasn't really anything I could prevent.
Cuauhtémoc was scratching in the sand next to me.
"Let's go swimming," I said to him. I knew he didn't care much for swimming, but I figured he might like to find some place where he could get his feet in the mud while I splashed around in the lagoon. We set out up the beach past MacClayne, and I looked to see what he was reading. It was Shackleton's Voyage to Antarctica. There weren't any tequila bottles around him. I hoped his binge was over.
Cuauhtémoc accompanied me to the edge of the lagoon, then strutted along the bank, perhaps in search of seeds, while I entered the water and swam out to the middle. It was just cool enough to be refreshing. I washed off the sweat and salt. Then I dove below and swam along the bottom; it was over my head, though not by more than a couple of meters. There was very little current, and the water was calm, in contrast to the raging sea which was just meters away.
Finishing the swim, I located Cuauhtémoc and returned to camp, where I dug out my journal. I was a full day behind on it now and there was a lot to write; I began with the account of MacClayne's recurring dream. Some details of his account were a bit hazy in my mind. I wished I hadn't been drinking.
I was particularly intrigued by the German bloke who'd showed up--or did MacClayne specifically say the guy was German? I couldn't remember for sure. It seemed that he'd just said the fellow wasn't part of their ship's crew. Could that have been me?
My thoughts drifted back to the day I'd met MacClayne. It had been some three or four years before, at a large anti-war march. Perhaps a hundred thousand people were there. Anyway, there was an older guy with thick, shoulder-length gray hair who glanced my way, and, as he did so, a look of surprise appeared on his face. Who could that guy be? he seemed to be thinking. Then he introduced himself. "MacClayne," he'd said, and asked if we didn't know each other from somewhere. No. I'd never seen him before in my life. Nor had I ever been in New York or London or Barcelona or Buenos Aires or any of the other places where he thought he might have known me. But we got to talking and I was quite intrigued by this fellow who spoke with a Scottish accent and traveled the world over. That was the beginning of our friendship.
At the time it hadn't really seemed terribly strange that he'd thought he'd known me from somewhere, but now as I sat here on the beach mulling this over, I wondered if he'd somehow associated me with the stranger in his dream. It seemed improbable, but I didn't know what else to make of it.
I'd hung my jacket on some driftwood branches for shade, but the sun had moved to a new location, and I was now again under its burning rays. I readjusted my jacket, and glanced around the beach. It was pretty well deserted, except for a man casting a net and a woman helping him pull it in. But they didn't seem to be catching anything. I watched them for a while, and then saw MacClayne coming my way.
"Are you hungry?" he said. "Maybe we should go to town."
We found a hiding place for our things under some driftwood, although it was unlikely that anyone on this nearly deserted beach would rob us.
Cuauhtémoc left the sand through which he'd been combing, and joined us for the trip to town.
Rather than take the route through the coconut palm grove, which would require a lot of fence climbing, we decided to use the path I'd taken. Retracing my steps of the morning, we waded along the edge of the lagoon and then followed the creek bed. My sandals were well suited for this, but MacClayne had to take his shoes off and then stop again to put them back on.
When we came to where I'd seen the sick white bird the night before, I pointed the place out to MacClayne and told him about it. "I wonder if it's still around," I said.
We searched for a bit and soon found it on the other side of a fence, between some thorn bushes. MacClayne held the barbwire and bushes apart as I climbed through. We both got scratched up, but I finally reached the bird. It shrank from me but didn't actively resist as I picked it up and passed it to MacClayne. It was so weak it could barely hold its head up.
"It's shivering," MacClayne said. "We need something to wrap it in."
I went back to camp and got our jackets while MacClayne waited with the bird. When I returned, we carefully bundled it up. The day wasn't the least bit cold; it was hot even in the shade, but this was the way we'd always seen sick people treated, so that's what we did with the white bird.
"It would be ironic if this were the same bird who once came to stay in your garden," I said, thinking of a poem MacClayne had once written.
"That was years ago. And this one isn't an egret."
MacClayne had an affinity for birds, and had written numerous poems about them. He cradled the white bird gently in his arms and we continued on our way till we came to another place where we had to cross the creek. Once again MacClayne had to take off his shoes to wade; first he passed me the bird. Then I heard the flutter of wings.
Cuauhtémoc had flown up and perched on the limb of a tree.
"What are you doing up there?" I said. "Hop down and let's get going." I held up my free arm for him to land on. But he turned around and looked the other way. I reached up for him, but he hopped onto a higher branch.
"I think he's jealous," MacClayne suggested.
"Jealous?" I gave MacClayne a sour look. "Cuauhtémoc is above such pettiness," I informed him.
From the branch overhead came a low clucking noise that sounded like a child sulking.
"Will you please stop being so immature!" I demanded.
He flew to a still higher branch.
I sighed and turned to MacClayne. "Maybe it would be best if you carried the white bird," I said, and passed him the sick bundled avian.
"Okay?" I looked upwards.
Cuauhtémoc delayed a few seconds, then came flying down to land in my arms.
"¡Sinvergüenza!" I scolded him as we continued on towards the settlement.
Passing the bridge that was under construction, I took a brief look at the river. It was relatively small, and vehicles could ford without much difficulty. We went to the restaurant.
The little blond girl who was on duty smiled shyly, and then noticed the white bird MacClayne was carrying.
"Why is the bird wrapped up?" she asked.
"So he won't get cold," I said, "He's very sick."
"Can I hold him?" she said.
MacClayne passed it to her, and in the girl's arms the avian drew new strength and lifted up its head. Its condition seemed to improve just by being in her arms.
Then the proprietress came out from the kitchen. The girl returned the bird to MacClayne, and I asked what they had to eat. Beef stew. But it wouldn't be ready till two o'clock. That's when the bridge construction crew took their noon meal. So we ordered coffee while we waited for the food to be ready. The woman set a jar of instant on the table and heated up the water. "What's wrong with the bird?" she asked.
"It's very sick," I said, "We found it in the woods."
"I have some bird medicine," she said.
"Bird medicine?" I repeated a bit skeptically.
She assured me that cows, dogs, horses and even people had been cured by it. It should also work on a bird.
MacClayne held the bird and I opened its beak while the woman poured a few drops down its throat. The medicine did seem to put some life into the creature, who sputtered and for a brief moment struggled to get loose. Then it settled back into its previous state of lethargy.
Other people came and went, many of them pausing to look at the bird. The meal would be ready in another hour. We drank more coffee while we waited. In my journal I recorded some thoughts about birds, and MacClayne went back to reading Shackleton. Cuauhtémoc tugged at the end of a string which was tied to his leg, an indignity I felt necessary to impose upon him since several lady chickens were nearby.
Some time had passed when the sound of an approaching vehicle intermingled with the noises of bridge construction. It was a familiar-looking maroon jeep which came to a halt as it passed our restaurant. The driver was Wendy, who got out and walked up to us, wearing her usual short shorts and a halter-top.
"So, I've found you guys at last!" she said. "When you didn't show up in Caleta, I began to worry."
"And you came back looking for us? That was very thoughtful of you," MacClayne said, putting his usual charm into his words.
"Well, I should have known that two experienced travelers like you would be okay," she said, squeezing onto the bench between the two of us. From her breath I caught a whiff of tequila, and my mind went back to the Jacuzzi tub.
"Where's Jeff now?" I asked. "Is he okay?"
"I got him to a doctor in Caleta who fixed him up. Now he's resting up at the hotel, recovering. I think he'll come out of it okay," she said. "I'm terribly sorry for what happened. I owe you guys an apology."
"It wasn't your fault," MacClayne said
"Well, I feel responsible," she was saying. "Jeff has done crazy things before and I should have known better than to let him drive." She sighed, glanced around and said to the proprietress: "¿Hay cerveza?"
"Sí, hay," said the woman, and went to get one.
Wendy had been looking at the bird, which was now in my arms. "What happened to it?" she asked. "Why do you have it wrapped up?"
"It's sick." I told her how we'd discovered it.
"Poor thing!" She stroked the bird's head softly.
The white bird began to shake like it had the chills. I adjusted the jackets around it carefully. "Please live," I said to the bird. "You can't give up now."
But the bird shook even worse.
"Here, let me hold it," Wendy said and reached for the bird.
Images from my dream of the previous night flashed through my mind and I didn't want to let Wendy have the white bird. I took a deep breath and passed it to her. She cradled it in her arms, speaking gently to it, but it continued to shudder.
Suddenly everything around us went quiet. Insects stopped chirping, bees stopped humming, even the hammering sound from the bridge ceased. It was an instant of silence that felt like the screeching of auto tires just before a collision.
Then the nearby flock of chickens panicked and took flight; one sailed over our table and knocked Wendy's beer to the ground. Dogs were barking. A strong burst of wind raised leaves and dust. Raindrops sprinkled down.
Seconds later all was calm again. The dogs were silent, the wind died, and the chickens returned to where they'd been scratching. But the sky remained overcast with dark, ominous clouds.
"The bird!" I gasped, reaching out my arms for it.
Wendy looked up at me, and her eyes widened. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she said.
"It's dead," was all I could think to say.
"What's dead?"
"The bird."
"It's not dead! It can't be!"
"It is," I said, barely in a whisper.
She quickly passed me the bird, practically dumping it in my arms. It didn't shiver, it didn't move. It just lay limp and lifeless.
"I didn't kill it!"
"You touched it and it died."
"Well I'm sorry if the bird died, but it wasn't my fault," she said. "Will you stop looking at me like that!"
I shook my head; I must have been slightly in shock.
"Good-bye," she said, and hurried off towards the road. I heard a vehicle engine starting up, then drive off.
"Are you sure it's dead?" I heard MacClayne ask a moment later.
"Take a look."
MacClayne confirmed the demise, but said, "She seemed to be very gentle with it, at least from what I could see. Maybe you saw something I didn't."
"Her touch is poison!" I blurted out.
"I don't think any of us wanted the bird to die, but you saw yourself that it was very sick. Apparently at the point of death," he said. "I'd say it was an unfortunate coincidence that it happened to die in her arms."
"Carl Jung would not have dismissed the coincidence as insignificant," I told him.
MacClayne didn't reply, and it flashed though my mind that he didn't understand what I was trying to tell him. He didn't know about my dream, the one in which Wendy had killed the bird.
"The wind," I said. "The dogs barking. It all broke loose the instant the bird died."
"Yes, there was a gust of wind," MacClayne said.
It had been much more than a gust of wind, but perhaps MacClayne hadn't noticed. Or maybe it was another of my private visions that only I seemed to see.
The expression on MacClayne's face was sympathetic, but maybe he thought I was crazy, making wild accusations. I'd already told him so much I had to tell him the rest.
"Last night this same thing happened in a dream. I even wrote it down," I said, and handed him my journal.
"Read it to me," he said. "Your handwriting's undecipherable."
"Okay," I said, and read him my account of the dream about the sick bird. "I was looking for the woman who could cure it, but instead I handed it to Wendy and she took my sword and chopped its head off."
"If you don't mind my asking, why did you give her the bird?"
"In the dream?"
"No. Just now. After having seen her do that in the dream."
"I almost didn't hand it to her, but it didn't seem rational to take a dream that seriously."
MacClayne nodded but said nothing, and for some time we sat in silence. A distant radio was playing a song by Javier Solis. But it was a sad song, and the sun was still clouded over.
"The food is ready," the woman announced. She added that this place would be crowded with construction workers in a few minutes. I guessed she was hoping we'd finish up, move on and make space for them.
"I don't really feel like eating," I said to MacClayne.
"Me neither," MacClayne said. "But we should put something in our stomachs."
Somehow we finished our meals and headed back to our campsite. As we left, the proprietress called out to us to wish the white bird a speedy recovery. It was still bundled up so I saw no reason to tell her it was dead.
MacClayne carried the white bird, wrapped in our jackets. Cuauhtémoc rode on my arm for a while, then walked. On arriving at the beach we found a suitable burial place in the sand near some thorn bushes. Cuauhtémoc perched on a limb above as MacClayne and I took turns at digging the hole. We interred the body and then piled rocks on it to form a cairn.
Then I selected a flat piece of driftwood and took out my knife to carve a brief inscription. Mi ave piloto? No, that didn't have quite the right sound. I tried to recall some appropriate phrase from the Edda, but nothing came to mind. I sat there thinking about this for some time; finally, unable to conjure up anything more memorable, I inscribed: Our White Bird.
While I had been doing that, MacClayne had been writing:
Those birds, those birds
that glide by night
on farther shores than here
are resting on a cold black lake
and soon will reappear
He folded it up and slipped in among the rocks of the burial mound, MacClayne's final offering to our white bird.
continued in Chapter 39
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