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Chapter 42
The rain had stopped and the sun was again visible through the clouds as we strolled back to the hotel. MacClayne was back, and greeted us as we walked in the door. Wendy retrieved a beer from her ice chest, and sat down.
I'd seen a typewriter in the hotel office, a monstrous old Underwood, the kind we'd used back in my high school typing class. It didn't have Spanish diacritical marks, so it had probably come from the U.S. Perhaps it had been discarded by a company re-equipping its office with new, electric models, and somehow this old clunker had found its way to México. It gave me a slight feeling of nostalgia.
I excused myself, and walked over to the office. The proprietor was in, and there was the typewriter, sitting on a table in the corner.
"¿Me la presta?" I said to the proprietor, asking if I could use it, and he agreed, provided that I first translate a letter into English for him.
I found a chair for myself and another for Cuauhtémoc, spread a newspaper on the floor below him, and set to work. The ink ribbon was old, and the typing came out a barely legible shade of gray, but it basically worked. I wondered about a couple of the Spanish words I was translating, but the gist of the thing was relatively simple, so I could tell that my guesses were more or less on the mark.
After completing the translation, I spent the next fifteen minutes typing up the essay about my professor's fraud. Despite the faded look of the typed output, it still looked a lot better than handwriting. Then I began to compose my résumé, following the suggestions that Wendy had made. I could see that was going to take a lot longer.
I was on a high. Having fretted about it since I left school, I was at last getting my geology career back on track. It was a good feeling, and I set to work with enthusiasm.
I first did an outline of my résumé, marked a lot of changes, then made a draft which I edited again. I glanced up and saw that my bird was no longer there. Well, no reason he had to be. He did have a life of his own, and right now he was probably scratching among the bushes in the courtyard.
A couple drafts later I finally had something I could show Wendy. I pulled it off the platen, and gave it a last read-over. No doubt Wendy'd give me a smile and some words of encouragement; then she'd tell me how to improve it and help me produce a final copy that I could present to prospective employers. I straightened up the area and put the chairs back.
I headed directly for our room, eager to show it to Wendy right away. The stress I'd been through for the last six months over my career was resolved at last, creating a sense of immense relief, so there was almost a briskness to my walk, tired though I was. I reached the door and opened it.
But, as I stepped in, my ears were suddenly filled with the sounds of moaning and heavy breathing. I blinked my eyes. Shorts, shirts, trousers and panties lay strewn about on the floor. There on MacClayne's cot was Wendy, horizontal. Not even scantily clad. And MacClayne likewise; he was on top of her. For a full instant I stood there, stunned, immobilized, mouth agape, unbelieving. Wendy's face was turned towards me, but her gaze was fixed on some distant point in space. The two were so involved in their activity that neither seemed aware of my presence.
Gathering my wits, I stepped back into the courtyard and silently closed the door. All the excitement of the day was suddenly dissipated. I found myself drained of energy, utterly exhausted. It was all I could do to stand on my feet and keep my eyes open.
Thick gray clouds hung low overhead. My head was swimming, and I needed to escape from the world.
Across the courtyard was the room that Wendy had vacated the night before. I stumbled over to it, hoping it was still registered to her for the day. Presumably Jeff had found himself some other place and wouldn't be back. Just to make sure, I knocked. No answer. Good. I opened it and entered.
A row of empty beer cans were lined up along a wall, and a half-empty tequila bottle sat on a small table. The room was dim, but perhaps it was the weariness of my eyes that made it seem so. I found myself staring at the bare springs of the king-sized bed. There was also a cot, and I made my way to it and plunked myself down. It felt terribly good to sit down. I was tired. Very tired. I was just about to stretch myself out when a thought struck me.
Where was Cuauhtémoc? Was he okay? The room was dreadfully silent without him. I stood up, using my last milligram of strength to get to my feet. Dizzily, I walked to the door, took a step outside, and looked around the courtyard.
There he was. Over on the far side. But he wasn't alone. With him was a very handsome black-and-white speckled Barred Rock lady chicken. And they were doing essentially the same thing I'd just seen MacClayne and Wendy doing.
"Et tu, Cuauhtémoc!" I gasped under my breath. Had the whole world gone topsy-turvy? It seemed like everybody around me was indulging in a Bacchanalian orgy. But perhaps I was overreacting. Poor bird. He's only human--was the next thought that came to my mind. But then MacClayne and Wendy were also human, obeying their primordial urges. I was too tired for further philosophical speculation.
I returned to the room, lay down on the cot, and dozed off to sleep and into a dream: A group of naked women were herding a flock of sheep to a field where, to the beat of a drum, they began dancing in a circle around the sheep. Without missing a beat, they skinned them, peeling their hides off, and waved them around triumphantly. One of them, whom I recognized as Wendy, danced over to me and presented me with a fleece that shone as if it were of gold. "Your diploma," she said, and danced away and was gone.
Then the rest of the women got dressed in sheep skins, and the next thing I saw, they were in Victorian garb, sitting around a table in an outdoor gazebo, drinking tea. They offered me a cup, but I stared at it with reservation, hoping it wasn't sheep's blood. "Don't worry," one of the ladies primly assured me, "it's tea." Then she looked up and said, "You really must put your clothes on."
Only then did I realize that I wasn't wearing anything at all. "But I have my diploma now," I said.
When I awoke it was dark. Night had fallen. I was still holding the typed papers in my hand. I got up, switched on the light and glanced at my watch. It was eight o'clock.
I needed to get out and walk, to go somewhere, just anywhere. No need to lock the door; there was nothing in here but a half-empty tequila bottle. Anyway, I didn't have the key.
The streets were muddy, but it wasn't raining. I thought of going to sit on the edge of the cliff overlooking the harbor. I wondered if the schooner was still there; I'd take a look. I was walking in that direction when I happened to pass the entrance of a restaurant, and it struck me that I ought to go in and have a drink.
In all my life, I'd never gone into a bar and ordered a drink. These restaurants weren't exactly bars, but they functioned as such. They served liquor. Beer, at least. That's exactly what I'd do. Something about this moment made a beer seem appropriate.
This wasn't the place I'd been in that morning with Wendy, but so much the better. I didn't want to see her. Not now. Perhaps not ever.
I paused to read a sign over the door; there was barely enough light from a street lamp to make it out: The Windjammer. That was unusual, both for its being in English and for the fact of there being a sign. Most restaurants in these parts were nameless, or known only by the names of their owners.
I walked in and sat down at a table. "Un refresco, por favor," I said to the waitress. Despite my decision to have a beer, I ordered a soda pop. I glanced around. The place was empty, except for a guy over in the corner huddled over his beer.
She went to fetch it, and I glanced at the empty backrest of the chair beside me. It felt strange to be here alone, without my bird. I looked at the walls; they were decorated with an odd assortment of sailing gear. There was everything from knots and spliced ropes to marlin spikes, ships lanterns, pennants, and even a well-worn, triangular piece of canvas that might once have been a small jib sail. Accompanying many of the items were photos of sailing vessels. This seemed to be a port of call for sailing enthusiasts who came by from time to time, probably from California, apparently donating odd pieces of gear to the display. I was about to walk over for a closer look when I heard a voice beside me.
"Mind if I join you?" It was the guy from the corner table.
"Sí como no," I responded obligingly. Then I realized the request had been made in English. and so I replied again, "Sure, be my guest."
The newcomer had already plunked himself into a chair across from me and leaned forward onto the table. It was Jeff, to my surprise.
"How're ya doing, Clyde?" he muttered drunkenly.
"Clyde?" I repeated.
"You're not Clyde." He peered at me through bloodshot eyes.
"I'm Olaf. We met in Aquila."
"Akeeeela?" he drawled out the name.
"We had dinner together there," I said, and wondered what he might remember. Wendy'd told me he'd been in an alcoholic blackout during our wild ride across the Río Cachán; I wondered if he might be blacked-out right now. I avoided more than a very brief glance at his heavily bandaged ear.
"You're American?"
"Yes, I'm from California."
"Oh, yeah. I remember now. You're a friend of Wendy's."
I guessed he was referring to the way she'd introduced me that evening as an old friend of hers from California after getting my name from the hotel registry the night we met. I wondered if she'd told him how she put that one over on me. Maybe not. Jeff probably did think Wendy and I knew each other from California.
"Not that it matters. . ." Jeff was saying. "I don't give a damn about her. Not any more."
I listened without replying, and Jeff rambled on.
"I've left the bitch. This time for good." Then he glanced up and saw the waitress standing at the end of our table, waiting for him to order. He turned to me. "You know Spanish? Tell her I want a beer. And one for yourself while you're at it. It's on me."
"Una cerveza," I said.
A minute later Jeff's beer arrived. "I said get one for yourself," he said. "What're you drinking?"
"I already have one," I said, holding up the soda in my hand.
At Jeff's insistence I finally ordered myself a beer. I guess it was curiosity that kept me here, curiosity as to what this guy might say now that he was finally in a talking mood. Though hardly sober, he was reasonably coherent. Our conversation skipped from topic to topic, till I mentioned the nautical wall display.
"You see that ship's lantern?" he said. "It came here just this week, a present from the crew of that yawl out in the harbor."
"You mean the schooner?" I said. I wasn't sure if there might be another ship he was referring to.
"Some would call it a schooner," he said.
"I saw it. Beautiful ship. But it's not a schooner?"
"Schooner's a general term. Maybe you noticed that the mizzenmast was a lot smaller than the main?"
"Mizzen? The one at the stern?" I said. "Yes, I did notice it was smaller."
"That's a yawl. It's similar to a ketch, the difference being that the mainmast on a ketch is rigged with a Bermuda sail."
I hesitated for a moment, reluctant to reveal my ignorance. I asked anyway. "What's a Bermuda sail?
"Triangular, the kind you see on a sloop. A yawl is rigged with a gaff sail on the mainmast," he said, and when I asked what a gaff sail was, he explained that it was four-sided.
"You seem to know your tallships," I said. "I take it you've done some sailing."
"That I have. On everything from sloops to brigantines. A few others as well." He went on to tell about his work in restoring a five-masted clipper ship and of a short cruise taken on it.
As Jeff talked about his sailing, his eyes took on a sparkle I'd never seen before. Clearly, sailing was his passion. He told me he belonged to a nautical society which worked to preserve historical ships, and that he spent many of his weekends on shipboard carpentry and other restoration work.
On just about anything that had to do with the sea, from Spanish galleons to ocean currents, Jeff was a walking encyclopedia. Nor was he ignorant of Norse longships, and before long we were discussing Jeff's scenario of how the Norse might have reached the Carolinas.
Since archeological evidence can only confirm Norse settlements as far south as northeastern Canada, I was more than a bit skeptical, but it was an intriguing theory.
It was not the first time that a person whom I'd taken to be dull turned out to be interesting once we got to a topic that held his attention. I found myself empathizing with Jeff, as I generally do with people with whom I share a mutual interest. At the same time, I couldn't help thinking what a tragedy it was that this guy should be stuck in a career which he so obviously hated.
And of course the career he hated was the one I wanted. What irony, I thought to myself.
"So what do you think of her?" he said suddenly.
"Of the yawl? Well, she is--."
"Of Wendy." he said. "What do you think of her?"
"Wendy?" I repeated uneasily.
"Get me another drink."
"Another beer?" the waitress asked when I called to her.
"Tell her--" Jeff started to say something.
"She speaks English," I said, and the waitress laughed.
Jeff glanced up at her and then turned to me again. "Yeah, well, just ask her to bring us each another beer."
"Just one for him," I said to her, in English of course. "I'm still working on mine."
"You haven't touched yours, have you?" he said to me.
"Oh I have, I'm just a bit slow, that's all," I said and lifted it to my lips, pretending to take a swallow. I'd been nursing the glass for some time now. But as I did so, some lingering thought of Wendy seemed to come alive and without thinking I gulped down a third of the glass.
Jeff looked at me as though he were reading my mind. He broke into a bitter, half-grin and said. "She does that to you, doesn't she?"
"Huh?"
"Wendy. It's what she does to everyone. Something about being around her."
I didn't reply, I reached for my soda pop this time and took a big swallow.
"I hardly drank till I met her," Jeff said.
"No?"
"No." He shook his head and looked at the drink in his hand.
I held my breath in anticipation of what he would say next. I imagined him thinking: "She's a witch. Her very presence is a curse. Her touch is venom. Birds fall from the sky, dead, when she's around." Those had of course been my words, ones I'd recorded in my journal some days ago, and I sensed that similar lines were going through Jeff's mind and undoubtedly had often been in his mind during the years of his marriage. I waited for him to say it, but he didn't. For some time we sat there in silence, till at last he spoke.
"This is my last night on the sauce. I'm quitting. Wendy's out of my life now for good, and I won't be needing this any more." He lifted up his glass and downed half of it. "What the hell. It's my last binge. May as well make it a good one."
"I guess she's into sailing too." It was all I could think to say.
"Yeah, and that's where we've had our best moments together. Our only best moments. Everything else was shit." He emptied his glass and clunked it back onto the table. "Order me another beer."
I wondered to myself why drinkers always seem to find some way to involve me in their drinking. Maybe that's why Jeff didn't seem to notice that the waitress spoke English, because he somehow felt more comfortable as long as he had me ordering his drinks. Not that it really mattered.
Another beer, please," I said in English to the waitress.
Jeff waited for the beer to arrive, then took a deep draught and descended into a lengthy monologue on Wendy, a long list of bizarre anecdotes from their life together. The time he caught her making out with a guy in his car, the time he found her naked in a ship's galley with a guy. "She had about two flings a week. Every time I turned around she'd be screwing somebody," he said, and raised the glass to his lips again.
"Yeah, I know," I said and did likewise, but as the sour stuff ran down my throat, I realized what I'd just said. Had Jeff caught that? Without lowering my glass, I observed him out of the corner of my eye.
"Get me another beer, would you?" he said. "It's on me. Remember that."
"Sure," I said, and called to the waitress.
"This morning she was with you," he said. "And this evening she's not with you. She must've found someone else."
I shrugged, silently holding my breath. I wondered when he'd seen us together.
Two beers arrived, and the waitress set one of them in front of me. Then I realized that the glass I'd been so carefully nursing was empty.
"I guess I should be angry with you," Jeff was saying. His speech was more slurred now and the movement of his hand as he lifted his beer glass seemed clumsier.
I lifted my glass to my lips, not to drink, but to be doing something other than nodding.
"But I'm not angry," Jeff resumed at last. "Not at all. In fact, I'm thankful. This whole trip's been miserable. One long miserable disaster. And you know how I feel about it?"
I shook my head
"I'm just glad I took this trip. It's brought me to see the light. And I'm celebrating!"
He raised his glass to click it against mine.
"I feel great!" he said with a burst of enthusiasm.
I glanced at my watch and tried to think of a graceful exit line. I feigned a yawn.
"Maybe you saw the yawl out in the harbor?" Jeff said.
"The one we were just talking about?"
"Did I tell you about her?"
"You did."
"Well, she's a beauty, isn't she?"
"She is."
"Tomorrow... tomorrow..." Jeff was saying and then paused to think, like an actor who'd forgotten his lines.
I looked at my watch again. Ten o'clock. I was mildly surprised that this place stayed open to this hour. A couple of men across the room got up to go. They wore wide-brimmed hats and broad leather belts; I guessed that they might be local ranchers. I hadn't seen them enter, and it was only now that I looked at them and recognized one as the driver of the pickup who'd given us the ride a to Huahua a few days before.
Our glances met. "Buenas noches," he said to me with a nod.
"Buenas noches," I responded. "¿Cómo esta?"
That's as far as our conversation went. His companion glanced my way as they left, but I didn't recognize him. The guy who'd demanded my bird wasn't with them. Good! I wondered if the guy'd been fired for his impulsive stupidity.
Jeff was still trying to get his words in gear and seemed hardly aware of the exchange which had just gone on. "In a day or two," he said at last, slurring badly. "In a day or two, I'll be on the yawl. Leaving these parts for good. Leaving Wendy forever."
I nodded. To me it did seem to me like the wise thing for him to do, but a terrible melancholy seemed to envelope him.
"And you know what else?" he said.
"No." I glanced at the door. The driver and his companion had left, but I thought it wise to wait a couple minutes before leaving so it wouldn't look like I was tailing them. If they were really in the business they were said to be in, they were likely to be a bit sensitive, if not downright paranoid. I stared at my drink and waited for Jeff to speak, but he didn't.
"I'll have to be going," I said.
"Have another beer," he said, and called to the waitress. "Two more beers!" A short while before he hadn't seemed to believe she understood English, but now he had apparently forgotten that.
"No. No more for me, please." I tried to think of some urgent-sounding excuse. The driver and his companion were long gone, well on their way by now. I was ready to leave.
"A toast!" As he lifted his empty glass it slipped from his hand and fell to the table with a clatter. I reached across and grabbed it before it could roll off and crash to the floor.
"Shiiiiit!" he said, and mumbled something incoherent.
The waitress was sweeping the floor, perhaps in preparation for closing. Jeff and I were the only customers left.
"I really have to go." I stood up and glanced around for my bird. No, he wasn't with me tonight. "Goodnight."
I left without looking back; I didn't want to see any more of the poor fellow's melancholy face.
The street was fairly dry except for scattered mud puddles. I strolled over to the cliff above the harbor and sat on a rock, looking out over the water.
Clouds drifted across the sky, covering and uncovering the moon. The yawl rode at anchor. The deck was lit up; there seemed to be a lot of activity on board, maybe a party. So it would be sailing in a couple of days and Jeff would presumably be on it. I wished I could visit the ship; I imagined the roll of the deck under my feet as the vessel bobbed up and down in the water.
Somewhere out on the horizon was a small array of lights, probably a passing steamer. For a long time I just sat there enjoying the ocean breeze on my face, hearing the roar of the surf. Finally I got up and headed back towards the hotel. Hopefully, Cuauhtémoc would be there.
Lights were on in our room across the courtyard. I pictured MacClayne and Wendy still in bed together, but on the other hand, with the lights on it seemed unlikely. Just the same, I didn't feel too keen about seeing them right now.
I intended to occupy the same room I'd napped in that afternoon. First, I looked for my bird, but he didn't seem to be around. I could hardly picture him eloping with his lady-chicken to make a home of their own. But where was he? Probably with MacClayne and Wendy.
Another thought hit me--maybe Wendy was back in her old room by now. I couldn't just walk in on her. I deliberated about it for a few moments. Perhaps MacClayne was alone in our room, or perhaps he wasn't. Whether Wendy was in there with him or not shouldn't be a cause of embarrassment. After all, neither had seemed aware of my intrusion that afternoon. I walked over to our own place and rapped softly.
"Who is it?" "Who's there?" The voices of both MacClayne and Wendy resounded.
"It's me, Olaf."
Wendy opened the door. "Well come in! But why are you knocking? It's your own room."
"How're you doing?" MacClayne said cheerfully. "We've been wondering what happened to you."
There was a flutter of wings as my brown rooster flew across the room and landed on my arm.
"So where were you?" Wendy asked.
"You didn't take Cuauhtémoc with you," MacClayne said, almost rebukingly. The bird was also giving me that where-have-you-been look.
I stepped into the cozily lit room and glanced around. A couple of books lying face down indicated they'd been reading. Everything seemed quite natural, as if nothing untoward had occurred.
"Well, I--" I tried to think of something. "I went to type up the essay and then a résumé, and when I finished that I took a walk and went to a restaurant."
"You could have told us where you were going," Wendy said.
They both seemed genuinely concerned over my long absence, and I began to wonder if I'd really seen what I remembered seeing here this afternoon--or had it been an hallucination? Even Cuauhtémoc was the personification of avian innocence.
It all seemed very unreal. All day, they seemed to be saying, they'd done nothing more blameworthy than to read books and perhaps stroll down the beach. I began to feel slightly neurotic, feeling one thing and yet thinking another, suspecting the unprovable and doubting my own memory. I sat down on my cot and idly dug through my pack, looking for a book to lose myself in.
"Maybe Wendy would like to read to us," MacClayne said.
I looked at Wendy, not knowing what to say.
"I'd love to," she said.
We continued with the story of the night before, that of Moll Flanders and the rogues of 17th century London. Once again, Wendy's excellent narration brought those characters to life in our room as she read the tale of the heroine's misdeeds.
continued in Chapter 43
I'd seen a typewriter in the hotel office, a monstrous old Underwood, the kind we'd used back in my high school typing class. It didn't have Spanish diacritical marks, so it had probably come from the U.S. Perhaps it had been discarded by a company re-equipping its office with new, electric models, and somehow this old clunker had found its way to México. It gave me a slight feeling of nostalgia.
I excused myself, and walked over to the office. The proprietor was in, and there was the typewriter, sitting on a table in the corner.
"¿Me la presta?" I said to the proprietor, asking if I could use it, and he agreed, provided that I first translate a letter into English for him.
I found a chair for myself and another for Cuauhtémoc, spread a newspaper on the floor below him, and set to work. The ink ribbon was old, and the typing came out a barely legible shade of gray, but it basically worked. I wondered about a couple of the Spanish words I was translating, but the gist of the thing was relatively simple, so I could tell that my guesses were more or less on the mark.
After completing the translation, I spent the next fifteen minutes typing up the essay about my professor's fraud. Despite the faded look of the typed output, it still looked a lot better than handwriting. Then I began to compose my résumé, following the suggestions that Wendy had made. I could see that was going to take a lot longer.
I was on a high. Having fretted about it since I left school, I was at last getting my geology career back on track. It was a good feeling, and I set to work with enthusiasm.
I first did an outline of my résumé, marked a lot of changes, then made a draft which I edited again. I glanced up and saw that my bird was no longer there. Well, no reason he had to be. He did have a life of his own, and right now he was probably scratching among the bushes in the courtyard.
A couple drafts later I finally had something I could show Wendy. I pulled it off the platen, and gave it a last read-over. No doubt Wendy'd give me a smile and some words of encouragement; then she'd tell me how to improve it and help me produce a final copy that I could present to prospective employers. I straightened up the area and put the chairs back.
I headed directly for our room, eager to show it to Wendy right away. The stress I'd been through for the last six months over my career was resolved at last, creating a sense of immense relief, so there was almost a briskness to my walk, tired though I was. I reached the door and opened it.
But, as I stepped in, my ears were suddenly filled with the sounds of moaning and heavy breathing. I blinked my eyes. Shorts, shirts, trousers and panties lay strewn about on the floor. There on MacClayne's cot was Wendy, horizontal. Not even scantily clad. And MacClayne likewise; he was on top of her. For a full instant I stood there, stunned, immobilized, mouth agape, unbelieving. Wendy's face was turned towards me, but her gaze was fixed on some distant point in space. The two were so involved in their activity that neither seemed aware of my presence.
Gathering my wits, I stepped back into the courtyard and silently closed the door. All the excitement of the day was suddenly dissipated. I found myself drained of energy, utterly exhausted. It was all I could do to stand on my feet and keep my eyes open.
Thick gray clouds hung low overhead. My head was swimming, and I needed to escape from the world.
Across the courtyard was the room that Wendy had vacated the night before. I stumbled over to it, hoping it was still registered to her for the day. Presumably Jeff had found himself some other place and wouldn't be back. Just to make sure, I knocked. No answer. Good. I opened it and entered.
A row of empty beer cans were lined up along a wall, and a half-empty tequila bottle sat on a small table. The room was dim, but perhaps it was the weariness of my eyes that made it seem so. I found myself staring at the bare springs of the king-sized bed. There was also a cot, and I made my way to it and plunked myself down. It felt terribly good to sit down. I was tired. Very tired. I was just about to stretch myself out when a thought struck me.
Where was Cuauhtémoc? Was he okay? The room was dreadfully silent without him. I stood up, using my last milligram of strength to get to my feet. Dizzily, I walked to the door, took a step outside, and looked around the courtyard.
There he was. Over on the far side. But he wasn't alone. With him was a very handsome black-and-white speckled Barred Rock lady chicken. And they were doing essentially the same thing I'd just seen MacClayne and Wendy doing.
"Et tu, Cuauhtémoc!" I gasped under my breath. Had the whole world gone topsy-turvy? It seemed like everybody around me was indulging in a Bacchanalian orgy. But perhaps I was overreacting. Poor bird. He's only human--was the next thought that came to my mind. But then MacClayne and Wendy were also human, obeying their primordial urges. I was too tired for further philosophical speculation.
I returned to the room, lay down on the cot, and dozed off to sleep and into a dream: A group of naked women were herding a flock of sheep to a field where, to the beat of a drum, they began dancing in a circle around the sheep. Without missing a beat, they skinned them, peeling their hides off, and waved them around triumphantly. One of them, whom I recognized as Wendy, danced over to me and presented me with a fleece that shone as if it were of gold. "Your diploma," she said, and danced away and was gone.
Then the rest of the women got dressed in sheep skins, and the next thing I saw, they were in Victorian garb, sitting around a table in an outdoor gazebo, drinking tea. They offered me a cup, but I stared at it with reservation, hoping it wasn't sheep's blood. "Don't worry," one of the ladies primly assured me, "it's tea." Then she looked up and said, "You really must put your clothes on."
Only then did I realize that I wasn't wearing anything at all. "But I have my diploma now," I said.
When I awoke it was dark. Night had fallen. I was still holding the typed papers in my hand. I got up, switched on the light and glanced at my watch. It was eight o'clock.
I needed to get out and walk, to go somewhere, just anywhere. No need to lock the door; there was nothing in here but a half-empty tequila bottle. Anyway, I didn't have the key.
The streets were muddy, but it wasn't raining. I thought of going to sit on the edge of the cliff overlooking the harbor. I wondered if the schooner was still there; I'd take a look. I was walking in that direction when I happened to pass the entrance of a restaurant, and it struck me that I ought to go in and have a drink.
In all my life, I'd never gone into a bar and ordered a drink. These restaurants weren't exactly bars, but they functioned as such. They served liquor. Beer, at least. That's exactly what I'd do. Something about this moment made a beer seem appropriate.
This wasn't the place I'd been in that morning with Wendy, but so much the better. I didn't want to see her. Not now. Perhaps not ever.
I paused to read a sign over the door; there was barely enough light from a street lamp to make it out: The Windjammer. That was unusual, both for its being in English and for the fact of there being a sign. Most restaurants in these parts were nameless, or known only by the names of their owners.
I walked in and sat down at a table. "Un refresco, por favor," I said to the waitress. Despite my decision to have a beer, I ordered a soda pop. I glanced around. The place was empty, except for a guy over in the corner huddled over his beer.
She went to fetch it, and I glanced at the empty backrest of the chair beside me. It felt strange to be here alone, without my bird. I looked at the walls; they were decorated with an odd assortment of sailing gear. There was everything from knots and spliced ropes to marlin spikes, ships lanterns, pennants, and even a well-worn, triangular piece of canvas that might once have been a small jib sail. Accompanying many of the items were photos of sailing vessels. This seemed to be a port of call for sailing enthusiasts who came by from time to time, probably from California, apparently donating odd pieces of gear to the display. I was about to walk over for a closer look when I heard a voice beside me.
"Mind if I join you?" It was the guy from the corner table.
"Sí como no," I responded obligingly. Then I realized the request had been made in English. and so I replied again, "Sure, be my guest."
The newcomer had already plunked himself into a chair across from me and leaned forward onto the table. It was Jeff, to my surprise.
"How're ya doing, Clyde?" he muttered drunkenly.
"Clyde?" I repeated.
"You're not Clyde." He peered at me through bloodshot eyes.
"I'm Olaf. We met in Aquila."
"Akeeeela?" he drawled out the name.
"We had dinner together there," I said, and wondered what he might remember. Wendy'd told me he'd been in an alcoholic blackout during our wild ride across the Río Cachán; I wondered if he might be blacked-out right now. I avoided more than a very brief glance at his heavily bandaged ear.
"You're American?"
"Yes, I'm from California."
"Oh, yeah. I remember now. You're a friend of Wendy's."
I guessed he was referring to the way she'd introduced me that evening as an old friend of hers from California after getting my name from the hotel registry the night we met. I wondered if she'd told him how she put that one over on me. Maybe not. Jeff probably did think Wendy and I knew each other from California.
"Not that it matters. . ." Jeff was saying. "I don't give a damn about her. Not any more."
I listened without replying, and Jeff rambled on.
"I've left the bitch. This time for good." Then he glanced up and saw the waitress standing at the end of our table, waiting for him to order. He turned to me. "You know Spanish? Tell her I want a beer. And one for yourself while you're at it. It's on me."
"Una cerveza," I said.
A minute later Jeff's beer arrived. "I said get one for yourself," he said. "What're you drinking?"
"I already have one," I said, holding up the soda in my hand.
At Jeff's insistence I finally ordered myself a beer. I guess it was curiosity that kept me here, curiosity as to what this guy might say now that he was finally in a talking mood. Though hardly sober, he was reasonably coherent. Our conversation skipped from topic to topic, till I mentioned the nautical wall display.
"You see that ship's lantern?" he said. "It came here just this week, a present from the crew of that yawl out in the harbor."
"You mean the schooner?" I said. I wasn't sure if there might be another ship he was referring to.
"Some would call it a schooner," he said.
"I saw it. Beautiful ship. But it's not a schooner?"
"Schooner's a general term. Maybe you noticed that the mizzenmast was a lot smaller than the main?"
"Mizzen? The one at the stern?" I said. "Yes, I did notice it was smaller."
"That's a yawl. It's similar to a ketch, the difference being that the mainmast on a ketch is rigged with a Bermuda sail."
I hesitated for a moment, reluctant to reveal my ignorance. I asked anyway. "What's a Bermuda sail?
"Triangular, the kind you see on a sloop. A yawl is rigged with a gaff sail on the mainmast," he said, and when I asked what a gaff sail was, he explained that it was four-sided.
"You seem to know your tallships," I said. "I take it you've done some sailing."
"That I have. On everything from sloops to brigantines. A few others as well." He went on to tell about his work in restoring a five-masted clipper ship and of a short cruise taken on it.
As Jeff talked about his sailing, his eyes took on a sparkle I'd never seen before. Clearly, sailing was his passion. He told me he belonged to a nautical society which worked to preserve historical ships, and that he spent many of his weekends on shipboard carpentry and other restoration work.
On just about anything that had to do with the sea, from Spanish galleons to ocean currents, Jeff was a walking encyclopedia. Nor was he ignorant of Norse longships, and before long we were discussing Jeff's scenario of how the Norse might have reached the Carolinas.
Since archeological evidence can only confirm Norse settlements as far south as northeastern Canada, I was more than a bit skeptical, but it was an intriguing theory.
It was not the first time that a person whom I'd taken to be dull turned out to be interesting once we got to a topic that held his attention. I found myself empathizing with Jeff, as I generally do with people with whom I share a mutual interest. At the same time, I couldn't help thinking what a tragedy it was that this guy should be stuck in a career which he so obviously hated.
And of course the career he hated was the one I wanted. What irony, I thought to myself.
"So what do you think of her?" he said suddenly.
"Of the yawl? Well, she is--."
"Of Wendy." he said. "What do you think of her?"
"Wendy?" I repeated uneasily.
"Get me another drink."
"Another beer?" the waitress asked when I called to her.
"Tell her--" Jeff started to say something.
"She speaks English," I said, and the waitress laughed.
Jeff glanced up at her and then turned to me again. "Yeah, well, just ask her to bring us each another beer."
"Just one for him," I said to her, in English of course. "I'm still working on mine."
"You haven't touched yours, have you?" he said to me.
"Oh I have, I'm just a bit slow, that's all," I said and lifted it to my lips, pretending to take a swallow. I'd been nursing the glass for some time now. But as I did so, some lingering thought of Wendy seemed to come alive and without thinking I gulped down a third of the glass.
Jeff looked at me as though he were reading my mind. He broke into a bitter, half-grin and said. "She does that to you, doesn't she?"
"Huh?"
"Wendy. It's what she does to everyone. Something about being around her."
I didn't reply, I reached for my soda pop this time and took a big swallow.
"I hardly drank till I met her," Jeff said.
"No?"
"No." He shook his head and looked at the drink in his hand.
I held my breath in anticipation of what he would say next. I imagined him thinking: "She's a witch. Her very presence is a curse. Her touch is venom. Birds fall from the sky, dead, when she's around." Those had of course been my words, ones I'd recorded in my journal some days ago, and I sensed that similar lines were going through Jeff's mind and undoubtedly had often been in his mind during the years of his marriage. I waited for him to say it, but he didn't. For some time we sat there in silence, till at last he spoke.
"This is my last night on the sauce. I'm quitting. Wendy's out of my life now for good, and I won't be needing this any more." He lifted up his glass and downed half of it. "What the hell. It's my last binge. May as well make it a good one."
"I guess she's into sailing too." It was all I could think to say.
"Yeah, and that's where we've had our best moments together. Our only best moments. Everything else was shit." He emptied his glass and clunked it back onto the table. "Order me another beer."
I wondered to myself why drinkers always seem to find some way to involve me in their drinking. Maybe that's why Jeff didn't seem to notice that the waitress spoke English, because he somehow felt more comfortable as long as he had me ordering his drinks. Not that it really mattered.
Another beer, please," I said in English to the waitress.
Jeff waited for the beer to arrive, then took a deep draught and descended into a lengthy monologue on Wendy, a long list of bizarre anecdotes from their life together. The time he caught her making out with a guy in his car, the time he found her naked in a ship's galley with a guy. "She had about two flings a week. Every time I turned around she'd be screwing somebody," he said, and raised the glass to his lips again.
"Yeah, I know," I said and did likewise, but as the sour stuff ran down my throat, I realized what I'd just said. Had Jeff caught that? Without lowering my glass, I observed him out of the corner of my eye.
"Get me another beer, would you?" he said. "It's on me. Remember that."
"Sure," I said, and called to the waitress.
"This morning she was with you," he said. "And this evening she's not with you. She must've found someone else."
I shrugged, silently holding my breath. I wondered when he'd seen us together.
Two beers arrived, and the waitress set one of them in front of me. Then I realized that the glass I'd been so carefully nursing was empty.
"I guess I should be angry with you," Jeff was saying. His speech was more slurred now and the movement of his hand as he lifted his beer glass seemed clumsier.
I lifted my glass to my lips, not to drink, but to be doing something other than nodding.
"But I'm not angry," Jeff resumed at last. "Not at all. In fact, I'm thankful. This whole trip's been miserable. One long miserable disaster. And you know how I feel about it?"
I shook my head
"I'm just glad I took this trip. It's brought me to see the light. And I'm celebrating!"
He raised his glass to click it against mine.
"I feel great!" he said with a burst of enthusiasm.
I glanced at my watch and tried to think of a graceful exit line. I feigned a yawn.
"Maybe you saw the yawl out in the harbor?" Jeff said.
"The one we were just talking about?"
"Did I tell you about her?"
"You did."
"Well, she's a beauty, isn't she?"
"She is."
"Tomorrow... tomorrow..." Jeff was saying and then paused to think, like an actor who'd forgotten his lines.
I looked at my watch again. Ten o'clock. I was mildly surprised that this place stayed open to this hour. A couple of men across the room got up to go. They wore wide-brimmed hats and broad leather belts; I guessed that they might be local ranchers. I hadn't seen them enter, and it was only now that I looked at them and recognized one as the driver of the pickup who'd given us the ride a to Huahua a few days before.
Our glances met. "Buenas noches," he said to me with a nod.
"Buenas noches," I responded. "¿Cómo esta?"
That's as far as our conversation went. His companion glanced my way as they left, but I didn't recognize him. The guy who'd demanded my bird wasn't with them. Good! I wondered if the guy'd been fired for his impulsive stupidity.
Jeff was still trying to get his words in gear and seemed hardly aware of the exchange which had just gone on. "In a day or two," he said at last, slurring badly. "In a day or two, I'll be on the yawl. Leaving these parts for good. Leaving Wendy forever."
I nodded. To me it did seem to me like the wise thing for him to do, but a terrible melancholy seemed to envelope him.
"And you know what else?" he said.
"No." I glanced at the door. The driver and his companion had left, but I thought it wise to wait a couple minutes before leaving so it wouldn't look like I was tailing them. If they were really in the business they were said to be in, they were likely to be a bit sensitive, if not downright paranoid. I stared at my drink and waited for Jeff to speak, but he didn't.
"I'll have to be going," I said.
"Have another beer," he said, and called to the waitress. "Two more beers!" A short while before he hadn't seemed to believe she understood English, but now he had apparently forgotten that.
"No. No more for me, please." I tried to think of some urgent-sounding excuse. The driver and his companion were long gone, well on their way by now. I was ready to leave.
"A toast!" As he lifted his empty glass it slipped from his hand and fell to the table with a clatter. I reached across and grabbed it before it could roll off and crash to the floor.
"Shiiiiit!" he said, and mumbled something incoherent.
The waitress was sweeping the floor, perhaps in preparation for closing. Jeff and I were the only customers left.
"I really have to go." I stood up and glanced around for my bird. No, he wasn't with me tonight. "Goodnight."
I left without looking back; I didn't want to see any more of the poor fellow's melancholy face.
The street was fairly dry except for scattered mud puddles. I strolled over to the cliff above the harbor and sat on a rock, looking out over the water.
Clouds drifted across the sky, covering and uncovering the moon. The yawl rode at anchor. The deck was lit up; there seemed to be a lot of activity on board, maybe a party. So it would be sailing in a couple of days and Jeff would presumably be on it. I wished I could visit the ship; I imagined the roll of the deck under my feet as the vessel bobbed up and down in the water.
Somewhere out on the horizon was a small array of lights, probably a passing steamer. For a long time I just sat there enjoying the ocean breeze on my face, hearing the roar of the surf. Finally I got up and headed back towards the hotel. Hopefully, Cuauhtémoc would be there.
Lights were on in our room across the courtyard. I pictured MacClayne and Wendy still in bed together, but on the other hand, with the lights on it seemed unlikely. Just the same, I didn't feel too keen about seeing them right now.
I intended to occupy the same room I'd napped in that afternoon. First, I looked for my bird, but he didn't seem to be around. I could hardly picture him eloping with his lady-chicken to make a home of their own. But where was he? Probably with MacClayne and Wendy.
Another thought hit me--maybe Wendy was back in her old room by now. I couldn't just walk in on her. I deliberated about it for a few moments. Perhaps MacClayne was alone in our room, or perhaps he wasn't. Whether Wendy was in there with him or not shouldn't be a cause of embarrassment. After all, neither had seemed aware of my intrusion that afternoon. I walked over to our own place and rapped softly.
"Who is it?" "Who's there?" The voices of both MacClayne and Wendy resounded.
"It's me, Olaf."
Wendy opened the door. "Well come in! But why are you knocking? It's your own room."
"How're you doing?" MacClayne said cheerfully. "We've been wondering what happened to you."
There was a flutter of wings as my brown rooster flew across the room and landed on my arm.
"So where were you?" Wendy asked.
"You didn't take Cuauhtémoc with you," MacClayne said, almost rebukingly. The bird was also giving me that where-have-you-been look.
I stepped into the cozily lit room and glanced around. A couple of books lying face down indicated they'd been reading. Everything seemed quite natural, as if nothing untoward had occurred.
"Well, I--" I tried to think of something. "I went to type up the essay and then a résumé, and when I finished that I took a walk and went to a restaurant."
"You could have told us where you were going," Wendy said.
They both seemed genuinely concerned over my long absence, and I began to wonder if I'd really seen what I remembered seeing here this afternoon--or had it been an hallucination? Even Cuauhtémoc was the personification of avian innocence.
It all seemed very unreal. All day, they seemed to be saying, they'd done nothing more blameworthy than to read books and perhaps stroll down the beach. I began to feel slightly neurotic, feeling one thing and yet thinking another, suspecting the unprovable and doubting my own memory. I sat down on my cot and idly dug through my pack, looking for a book to lose myself in.
"Maybe Wendy would like to read to us," MacClayne said.
I looked at Wendy, not knowing what to say.
"I'd love to," she said.
We continued with the story of the night before, that of Moll Flanders and the rogues of 17th century London. Once again, Wendy's excellent narration brought those characters to life in our room as she read the tale of the heroine's misdeeds.
continued in Chapter 43
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