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Chapter 46
The bus station at Lazaro was the usual affair, concrete with a metal roof over a fairly large waiting room with an adjoining restaurant. Since this was the end of the line, everyone got out and stretched, then began their slow trudge into the city. A few sat on benches waiting for connecting buses.
From here we planned to turn north, cross the mountains and descend into the Valley of Infiernillo. Another 200 kilometers lay between us and our final destination. But here in the back country of Michoacán, the key thing wasn't the number of kilometers, it was the condition of the road and the bridges--or the lack of road and bridges.
According to our map, it was an arterial highway. Well paved, excellent condition. Just to make sure, I asked at the ticket window, and they confirmed it. A five hour ride.
"We could leave here in the morning and be in Apatzingán by evening," MacClayne said.
"Hard to believe we're almost there, isn't it?"
"Our trek is coming to a finish. How many weeks and days has it been now?"
I glanced in my journal. "Today's the 18th day of our journey. It took Hermod nine days to get from Asgarð to Niflheim. We're taking twice as long."
"Really? Has it been that long?"
"It doesn't seem like eighteen days to me, but at the same time it feels like we've been doing this forever." I grinned and added, "Now at last, may I say that we're 'home free'?"
"There were some dour persons back in the old country who'd maintain that you aren't 'home free' till your body's in the grave and your soul's with the lord in heaven. But as far as I'm concerned, yes, now you can say it."
"Well, maybe I better not, then," I said still grinning. "I might be tempting fate."
"Yes, you show wisdom by not saying it. We don't know what else Apatzi may still have on his agenda for us."
Being this close to the end, we felt we had time to spare and decided that we'd take a couple days and see a bit of Lázaro. We didn't need to set out the very next morning.
We went to the restaurant in the depot to eat, as well as wait for the shower to pass. There was a lull in the storm just about the time we finished, so we set out in search of a hotel.
After several blocks we found one, on a dark street, next door to a bar. This hotel differed from others in that it didn't have the usual open courtyard. Instead, on entering, we found ourselves in a large, empty lobby, which reminded me of a small train station during the off season. It was quite ugly; made of the cheapest concrete, and, though probably quite new, it already seemed on the verge of decay. A stale dampness hung in the air, and nobody seemed to be around.
"¡Llegaron!"
Loud and screeching, the voice came from behind us; it sounded feminine. I looked around for the speaker, but nobody was in sight. The alien voice shrilled again, announcing our arrival.
"¡Llegaron los caballeros del castillo!"
The greeting was a strange one--"The knights have arrived from the castle!"
A small skinny woman stepped out from behind a door. Blue make-up covered her entire face except for her lips which were painted bright red. Her hair was tied up in a large knot on top of her head and left her oversized ears sticking out like the handlebars of a plough. She wore a gaudy dress, and, though it was difficult to tell her age under all that get-up, she was probably in her 20's.
"¡Llegaron! ¡Ya Llegaron!" she kept shouting.
Two other women appeared at the far end of the hall; they were plainly dressed and ordinary looking. We walked past the weird specimen who'd announced our arrival.
"Are there any rooms available?" I asked one of the normal-looking women.
"Do you want a room for a while? Or for the night?" she asked.
"For the night," I said, a bit surprised at her question.
"So you just want a room?" she said, as though to make sure. "Nothing more?"
"Yes, a room," I said, trying to ignore the freaky woman who'd followed us from the door.
"¡Que gallo!" she exclaimed, her voice shrill as before.
Cuauhtémoc cocked his head to one side and looked at me as though to say, "What's going on here, anyway?"
"The lady you need to talk to will be out in a few minutes. She's taking a bath," said one of the other women; they seemed to be cleaning maids.
We sat down, and MacClayne asked me, "What are we waiting for?"
I told him what had been said, and, trying to sound casual and suppress my embarrassment, I added, "I think we're in a whorehouse."
"That's what I guessed."
"If they have a room shall we take it?" I said. I wanted MacClayne to be the one to say "no," otherwise he'd call me prudish and I might never hear the end of it.
"A room is a room," he said. "We don't have to have anything to do with what's going on here. It doesn't have to concern us."
"Okay," I said, putting on a show of nonchalance to conceal my discomfort. What if Chayo were to see me now? I thought. I was glad that Uruapan was far away.
The freaky lady paced back and forth, then stepped over to a door and shouted louder than ever in her screechy voice, "Hurry up! They're waiting!"
She was apparently calling to the landlady. Then she stepped in front of MacClayne and, addressing him, said, "You're a knight, a prince."
MacClayne smiled, shook his head, and replied, "No hablo español."
Undeterred by his response, she went on, "You were in a castle, a magnificent palace. I saw you there in my dream. It was you! And now you have come for me!"
"Está loca," said one of the maids to me.
I nodded. I was glad the crazy one was talking to MacClayne and not me.
She seemed undeterred by MacClayne's protest that he didn't understand the language; she just continued on in that ear-piercing voice which was as bizarre as the paint on her face.
"I know who you are! You're a prince and you live in a gilded palace with magnificent halls and beautiful gardens. Now at last you have come to find me and take me with you."
MacClayne kept shaking his head and saying that he didn't speak Spanish.
Finally the landlady appeared and I told her what we were looking for. She showed us a room which was fairly clean, and I asked the price; it was unusually high.
"She wants four prices," I said to MacClayne.
"Let's leave," he said, and I let out a deep sigh of relief.
But as we headed out the door and down the street, the crazy woman followed us. We pretended to ignore her and walked as fast as we could, but she kept up with us. The faster we walked, the faster she walked.
We were on a fairly busy street now. Thank god I didn't know anybody here in Lázaro! Out of the corner of my eye I saw people looking at us; some stared, others grinned.
Cuauhtémoc nestled himself deep into my arm, trying to make himself as small as possible. He probably didn't want to be seen either.
She was still trotting along behind when we saw a couple of policemen, and MacClayne suggested that I ask their help.
"That wouldn't be wise," I said, and pointed out that they might decide that we were molesting this poor innocent girl. It could cost us every peso in our pockets to get out of a mess like that. "Let's pretend everything is okay."
So we slowed down, and the three of us casually strolled past the police who stood there looking at us. At last we rounded a corner, and then took off at the fastest pace we could, but we still couldn't outdistance the woman.
"Can't you say something to her?" MacClayne demanded impatiently, "Tell her to get lost!"
"I might as well call out to the storm god and ask for some rain to wash her away," I replied helplessly. But as I spoke, it began to rain and within seconds it was pouring down in torrents.
We stepped out into the middle of the street and continued on; when I glanced back, the woman was gone.
So again we were drenched to the skin. It was dark, the night was cold, I was shivering, and we had no idea where we were. Some deserted street. But it didn't matter at the moment.
"Thank god we're rid of that nutty woman!"
I said it and MacClayne said it. Maybe Cuauhtémoc said it too.
Poor bird! He was soaking wet; there hadn't been time to take out the plastic bag which served has his rain coat.
We stepped under the eaves of a building. I stood there and tried to wipe the bird off as best I could. "What a disgusting experience!" I said, grimacing.
"Was she coherent?" MacClayne asked. "Or was she just babbling nonsense?"
"Yes. In fact she was even articulate."
"What was she saying to me? Insults?"
"Insults?" I repeated, and only now did I realize that MacClayne hadn't understood any of the woman's monologue. Often enough he did catch the gist of a conversation, and I just assumed that he had this time as well.
"Quite the opposite." I said. "You're a handsome prince from a faraway kingdom and you live in a magnificent palace."
He chuckled, then said, "Poor woman. Probably abused as a child. This must be the only life she's ever known."
I couldn't deny that her lot was probably tragic and undeserved, but at that moment I could only think of how creepy she'd made me feel. I wasn't sure if I were shivering from the cold or from the experience with her.
But MacClayne was sympathetic to the woman's plight. He had a soft spot for the ne'er-do-wells, for the star-crossed unfortunates who wind up sleeping on park benches and sidewalks, for the ones you find in sleazy bars, soup kitchens and jails. His heart went out to those people, and they seemed drawn to him, like the downtrodden who came to Jesus. A distant street light somewhere behind MacClayne shone through his hair and gave the effect of a faintly shining halo.
The rain continued to pour down as we remained under the shelter of the narrow eaves, pressing ourselves against the wall. Not that it did any good; we were soaking wet anyway. Having wiped as much water as I could off Cuauhtémoc, I held him close to keep him warm. I hoped he wouldn't get sick.
At last the rain slowed to a drizzle, and we set out down the nearly empty street. From a passerby we got directions to a hotel.
Like most hotels, this one consisted of rooms built around a rectangular court yard. The room we were brought to was big enough for a family of ten, with two king-sized beds. But there were no blankets. "Es la tierra caliente," the lady said when I asked her for some. Yes, I knew, this was indeed the "hot country," but not this evening.
The bare concrete walls were painted a cold, dismal blue, matching the weather, and the bare electric bulb was so tiny that it only lit up the small space around it, leaving the rest of the room in shadows. The room was neither pretty nor charming, nor in any other way attractive, but at least it was clean.
"What does it cost?" said MacClayne.
"I haven't asked yet," I said. In previous hotels we'd found that that king-sized beds generally cost considerably more, especially if the room were large. "Shall we take it even if she wants three prices?"
"Tell her it's too big for us, and see what she says," MacClayne said.
"Do you have a smaller room with small beds?" I asked the lady.
"We have another room, but it's identical."
I then asked what the price was. It was 150 pesos for the two of us, she told us. This was more than what we usually paid.
"We need blankets, not a huge room or big beds," I said, and suggested the price was high.
My protest brought us no blankets, but she lowered the price to 130 pesos, which was still a lot.
It wasn't raining at the moment, but it soon might be. Not a good night to be wandering the streets looking for a hotel. I glanced at MacClayne. Yes, we'd take it.
We paid the rent and returned to the room, where I took a towel and wrapped Cuauhtémoc as warmly as I could. Then I opened my pack and took everything out, laying the stuff on a table to dry. My books and journal were safely stored in plastic bags, but everything else was wet. This was getting to be routine.
The dampness brought out the faint but unpleasant odor of smoke, which still lingered from our campfires. Neither the several days that had passed since our last night on a beach, nor the washings I'd given my stuff while in Caleta, had sufficed to completely remove the stench.
"One could get lung cancer from this," I said.
I went to take a shower, but there was no hot water. Like blankets, it wasn't considered necessary in the hot country. Fortunately, the tap water was no colder than the rain we'd just been walking in.
It was still relatively early in the evening, but neither of us felt much like reading. I sat up for some time with my journal. When I finally went to bed, I wasn't as warm as I would have liked; in fact, I was slightly chilled. But finally I dozed off.
Dozens of bluish figures with huge ears and red lips were dancing in a circle around me, swirling in and out of clouds of cold orange dust. "¡Llegó! ¡Llegó!" they screeched in a cacophonic chorus of shrill voices.
Rain suddenly began to pour down on us. The orange dust settled and the bluish creatures seemed to dissolve into the water. But the rain didn't stop. My bird and I were soaking wet.
While the water poured down from the sky, it also began to flood the land around me. The water rose to my knees and then came up to my waist. Cuauhtémoc was riding on my shoulder. We were now in the midst of a river and trying to reach the distant shore which kept getting farther and farther away. I found myself clinging to a log. We'd been washed out to sea.
There was just the ocean around us, with no land in sight. Waves splashed in my face.
I came out of my dream and lay awake for a while before I dozed off again. I slept fitfully for a while, alternatively waking and sleeping, but always returning to the same dream, always clinging to that same log, in the midst of that same ocean.
The next time I awoke, I took out my journal and recorded the intermittent dream I was having. Although I could barely make out the shape of the page, by now I was used to writing in the semi-darkness. For a while I sat there on the edge of the bed, writing and contemplating, hoping that by putting the dream on paper, it would go away. I wished for a warm blanket, or at least dry clothes.
Then, without realizing that I'd lain down and gone back to sleep, I found myself once again in the ocean. This time, however, strong arms were suddenly pulling me out of the water and onto the deck of a vessel.
"My bird!" I gasped. "Please save my bird!"
A bedraggled-looking Cuauhtémoc was soon hauled aboard and set at my side, wet and shivering.
Thank god! We'd been rescued! Then I realized this was a patrol boat, manned by seamen of the Royal Navy.
"Willkommen an bord."
It was Major Benson, and, as usual, he was smiling sardonically, as though amused to see me.
The sailors snapped handcuffs on my wrists, and on Cuauhtémoc they put small, bird-sized leg irons.
"Blankets," said the major in English. "They need blankets."
At his orders, the sailors wrapped a blanket around me, and another around Cuauhtémoc.
The major said, "We British are a civilized people and make a point of treating prisoners properly."
There were bright lights shining in my face. We seemed to be in the interrogation room of the ship's brig.
Suddenly I was awake, sitting up in bed. The bright light in my face was nothing more than the dim ceiling bulb.
"Are you all right?" MacClayne was asking me.
A bed sheet was draped about my shoulders, and I was shivering. The bird was sitting in my lap. I glanced around, and, then asked in a low voice, "Is this the brig?"
"The what?"
"Are we in the--?" I stopped myself in mid sentence as I began to realize that this large room with king-sized beds couldn't possibly be anything aboard a ship.
MacClayne gazed at me for another moment, seeming to be perplexed by my strange question. "We're in Lázaro," he said at last. "At a hotel. We got here last night."
Yes, of course. I remembered that now, and my brief confusion made me feel silly. It was always embarrassing when I woke up not remembering where I was.
"I guess I was having a dream," I said.
"Do you feel better now?"
"Maybe. I'm not sure," I said. "I kept waking up, but each time I went back to sleep I kept returning to that dream. Finally I got up and wrote it down, hoping that would make it go away."
"Sometimes it helps to talk about things," he suggested. "If it's something you'd care to share, I'm here to listen."
I told him about the bluish figures, dancing about me like trolls. We were soon recalling and discussing the bizarre events at the hotel. The freaky lady. Our adventures seemed both sad and funny as we sat there talking about them.
That led to other topics and we were soon chatting nostalgically about some of our other experiences of the last few days. Finally MacClayne said, "I didn't mean to sidetrack you. Was there anything more about that dream that you'd like to share with me?"
I hesitated. There were times when MacClayne could be sympathetic and even helpful. Having spent some five years in the Royal Marines, he was likely to have some understanding of those people. Maybe he could suggest an explanation. I related the details of my capture by the major.
"He always speaks to you in German?" MacClayne asked.
"Usually. Tonight he also spoke in English. His accent is the one you hear on the BBC."
"Being an officer I'm sure he'd be from the middle class. Most of them attend the public schools, which are actually private schools, and that's where they acquire that accent. In Britain you can tell a person's social class by his accent. Anyway, they're bastards. The officers I mean."
I knew how much MacClayne disliked officers, and the middle class as well. He'd come from a poor family. But I didn't want to get into a discussion of that now. I just said, "That major's a scary figure. He even had Cuauhtémoc in irons."
MacClayne nodded thoughtfully, then suggested, "If you see him again, you might try asking him what he wants of you."
"I know what he wants of me!" I snapped.
"And what is that? If you know, tell me." MacClayne's voice turned slightly truculent.
"He thinks I'm the German torpedoman who sank the ship." I was irritated at MacClayne for asking such an obvious question.
"You really think he believes that?"
"It's obvious," I said.
MacClayne shook his head. "Major Benson was a member of military intelligence. And he had a reputation for competence, if I remember right."
"Military intelligence is an oxymoron. Even Churchill said that!" I wished I hadn't told MacClayne about my dream. Less than two minutes earlier he'd been calling the officers bastards. Now he seemed to be taking their side.
"You asked for any insight I could offer," MacClayne reminded me. "If you don't care to hear me, I'll be quiet."
I took a deep breath, and decided to hear him out. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get upset."
"It's okay. You're under stress."
"This major keeps hunting me down. Haunting my dreams. It's terrifying. What do you suggest?"
"Try asking him," he said, repeating his advice. "If you continue to meet him in your dreams, you'll certainly have the opportunity."
At last we turned the lights out and lay down again, but for a long time I couldn't get back to sleep. I lay on my back, eyes closed, Cuauhtémoc at my side.
"Guten Abend."
Had I heard that? I tried to sit up, intending to use one hand to lean on. But when I put one hand back, the other hand followed it. I seemed to be wearing handcuffs. Was this a dream? I was sure I hadn't even dozed off. I peered into the murk.
"Guten Abend," came the familiar voice again, and there they stood, three shadowy figures. Two were sailors, armed with Enfield rifles. The man in front wore civilian clothes, blue jeans and a denim jacket similar to mine. On his head was a wide-brimmed hat, the kind that was popular throughout much of southwestern México. Nevertheless, he carried his swagger stick. Uniform or no uniform, he was, every inch of him, the quintessential British military officer.
For a moment I froze. I wanted to just pull the sheet over my head and make him disappear. But the logical part of my mind told me that wouldn't help much. I managed to swing my legs around and sat up on the edge of my bed, trying to think of what to say. Beside me was Cuauhtémoc, apparently also in irons.
MacClayne's suggestion came to mind, and I said, "What do you want of me?"
The major nodded to a sailor, who removed the handcuffs from my wrists.
"And my bird?"
The officer nodded again, and the sailor took off the leg irons.
"Thank you," I said.
"Perhaps you'd prefer that I spoke English?" he said.
"Yes, I certainly would."
He dismissed the two sailors, then to me, "You don't mind if I take a seat, do you?"
"Be my guest," I said, first running my hand across the chair to make sure there wasn't any bird crap on it. "And feel free to turn the light on."
"It won't be necessary," he said as he sat down. There was barely enough light to make out the general outlines of his features. I sensed that he was peering at me, though I couldn't tell for sure.
"So, you're American? From Minnesota I believe."
"Yes."
"Some of the crew seemed to think you were German," he said. "I've determined that you are not, though you do seem to understand that language well."
"Thank you," I said, uneasily.
"Me dicen que usted habla Castellano también," he said.
"Sí, lo hablo," I replied.
"Bueno," he said, and spoke for a while in Spanish, beginning with a lighthearted anecdote or two, as though to break the ice and at the same time establish the fact that we shared a knowledge of the language.
"Dithen" was how he pronounced dicen, using the "th" sound which is unique to formal Castilian--the Spanish equivalent of British public school English. It was the version of the language which befit his persona, and he was fully at home in it as in German and English.
Our conversation touched on Quevedo, García Lorca and Neruda. A knowledge of these poets and their work is part of knowing the language. So I was impressed but not too surprised to find that an intelligence officer would have such a background. He appeared distressingly well suited for his mission, whatever it might be. Hallucination or not, this officer was a phantom who seemed determined to haunt me until his purpose was achieved.
I glanced over at MacClayne's bed, but could only make out a bulge in the dark. I heard him snoring faintly. It might even be that he was sharing this same dream, but that seemed doubtful. Our dreams seemed to overlap and interconnect, but only over a span of years.
The major had changed the subject, but continued to chat with me in Spanish. Had I seen the bufadero at Caleta? he asked, and also mentioned other locales. He seemed as familiar with the geography of Michoacán as with the poetry of Spain. Our discussion was casual, the kind of talk that an executive might indulge in with a subordinate. I had the feeling I was being interviewed for a job.
"So, you may wonder why I have called this meeting?" he said, reverting to English.
"Yes, I have." I wondered if I should be saying 'yes sir' and 'no sir' as a matter of military courtesy.
"Very well," he began. "You may have noticed that I have only sailors at my command. No Marines."
"Yes, sir, I've noticed."
"You know why that is, I presume."
"No, sir."
"They're detained elsewhere."
"Detained? You mean? In that--"
"Yes, precisely. They remain where you last saw them."
"In that hellish bunker-bar?" I said.
"Correct. I believe you Norsemen call it Niflheim, the land of cold mist?"
"Yes, sir, we do." I nodded.
"Nifle is related to the German word 'nebel' and the Spanish 'niebla.'" he paused. "Is there an English cognate?"
"Nebulous," I suggested,
"Ah yes, of course. From the Latin 'nebulosus.' I would venture to guess that in Old Norse the word meant 'icy fog,' something to do with the extreme cold of the near arctic."
"I would believe that to be so," I said, not wishing to admit that I didn't really know much about Old Norse, which is quite different from modern Norwegian." It seemed strange to be sitting here in the dark, discussing etymology with a British officer who might have died many years ago.
I could hear MacClayne turning over on his cot, letting out a deep wheezy breath or two. The bedsprings squeaked their complaint as he settled into a new position.
"A land of nasty weather and bad Scotch," the major said. "Ice and snow everywhere. Only the beer is warm. That's the Norse hell. It's where those Marines are. And not easy to get out of, is it? Well, you found that yourself. But you managed to escape. Jolly good for you."
"With help from my friends."
"You do indeed have good friends," he said. "Including a remarkable avian."
At hearing himself mentioned, the bird fluffed out his feathers and clucked with satisfaction.
"It's tragic," he said. "Those Marines died in the course of military action. They don't belong in that place."
"No, sir. They certainly don't."
"Good, I believe you understand that something needs to be done. They have to be gotten out of there."
"A rescue mission?"
"Not exactly. A word in the right place would do it."
"How?"
"That's where your part comes in," said the major. "I'd like you to speak to the One-Eyed man. Will you do that?"
"Where would I find him?"
"Exactly where you'd expect," he major rejoined.
"In Asgarð?"
The major nodded.
"But no living man has ever visited Asgarð," I objected.
"True."
"So how do I get there?" I asked. I glanced around the murky room. I was still sitting on the edge of my bed with Cuauhtémoc at my side. All of this seemed incredibly real, in every way. I couldn't believe this was a dream, yet at the same time, here I was having this bizarre conversation with a British intelligence officer.
"You'll find your way," the major assured me.
Moonlight, apparently having broken through the rain clouds, poured in through the window and flooded the room with its soft silver glow.
I closed my eyes and sighed. When I opened them, the major was gone. I was sitting there alone with Cuauhtémoc, just the two of us on the edge of the bed.
continued in Chapter 47
From here we planned to turn north, cross the mountains and descend into the Valley of Infiernillo. Another 200 kilometers lay between us and our final destination. But here in the back country of Michoacán, the key thing wasn't the number of kilometers, it was the condition of the road and the bridges--or the lack of road and bridges.
According to our map, it was an arterial highway. Well paved, excellent condition. Just to make sure, I asked at the ticket window, and they confirmed it. A five hour ride.
"We could leave here in the morning and be in Apatzingán by evening," MacClayne said.
"Hard to believe we're almost there, isn't it?"
"Our trek is coming to a finish. How many weeks and days has it been now?"
I glanced in my journal. "Today's the 18th day of our journey. It took Hermod nine days to get from Asgarð to Niflheim. We're taking twice as long."
"Really? Has it been that long?"
"It doesn't seem like eighteen days to me, but at the same time it feels like we've been doing this forever." I grinned and added, "Now at last, may I say that we're 'home free'?"
"There were some dour persons back in the old country who'd maintain that you aren't 'home free' till your body's in the grave and your soul's with the lord in heaven. But as far as I'm concerned, yes, now you can say it."
"Well, maybe I better not, then," I said still grinning. "I might be tempting fate."
"Yes, you show wisdom by not saying it. We don't know what else Apatzi may still have on his agenda for us."
Being this close to the end, we felt we had time to spare and decided that we'd take a couple days and see a bit of Lázaro. We didn't need to set out the very next morning.
We went to the restaurant in the depot to eat, as well as wait for the shower to pass. There was a lull in the storm just about the time we finished, so we set out in search of a hotel.
After several blocks we found one, on a dark street, next door to a bar. This hotel differed from others in that it didn't have the usual open courtyard. Instead, on entering, we found ourselves in a large, empty lobby, which reminded me of a small train station during the off season. It was quite ugly; made of the cheapest concrete, and, though probably quite new, it already seemed on the verge of decay. A stale dampness hung in the air, and nobody seemed to be around.
"¡Llegaron!"
Loud and screeching, the voice came from behind us; it sounded feminine. I looked around for the speaker, but nobody was in sight. The alien voice shrilled again, announcing our arrival.
"¡Llegaron los caballeros del castillo!"
The greeting was a strange one--"The knights have arrived from the castle!"
A small skinny woman stepped out from behind a door. Blue make-up covered her entire face except for her lips which were painted bright red. Her hair was tied up in a large knot on top of her head and left her oversized ears sticking out like the handlebars of a plough. She wore a gaudy dress, and, though it was difficult to tell her age under all that get-up, she was probably in her 20's.
"¡Llegaron! ¡Ya Llegaron!" she kept shouting.
Two other women appeared at the far end of the hall; they were plainly dressed and ordinary looking. We walked past the weird specimen who'd announced our arrival.
"Are there any rooms available?" I asked one of the normal-looking women.
"Do you want a room for a while? Or for the night?" she asked.
"For the night," I said, a bit surprised at her question.
"So you just want a room?" she said, as though to make sure. "Nothing more?"
"Yes, a room," I said, trying to ignore the freaky woman who'd followed us from the door.
"¡Que gallo!" she exclaimed, her voice shrill as before.
Cuauhtémoc cocked his head to one side and looked at me as though to say, "What's going on here, anyway?"
"The lady you need to talk to will be out in a few minutes. She's taking a bath," said one of the other women; they seemed to be cleaning maids.
We sat down, and MacClayne asked me, "What are we waiting for?"
I told him what had been said, and, trying to sound casual and suppress my embarrassment, I added, "I think we're in a whorehouse."
"That's what I guessed."
"If they have a room shall we take it?" I said. I wanted MacClayne to be the one to say "no," otherwise he'd call me prudish and I might never hear the end of it.
"A room is a room," he said. "We don't have to have anything to do with what's going on here. It doesn't have to concern us."
"Okay," I said, putting on a show of nonchalance to conceal my discomfort. What if Chayo were to see me now? I thought. I was glad that Uruapan was far away.
The freaky lady paced back and forth, then stepped over to a door and shouted louder than ever in her screechy voice, "Hurry up! They're waiting!"
She was apparently calling to the landlady. Then she stepped in front of MacClayne and, addressing him, said, "You're a knight, a prince."
MacClayne smiled, shook his head, and replied, "No hablo español."
Undeterred by his response, she went on, "You were in a castle, a magnificent palace. I saw you there in my dream. It was you! And now you have come for me!"
"Está loca," said one of the maids to me.
I nodded. I was glad the crazy one was talking to MacClayne and not me.
She seemed undeterred by MacClayne's protest that he didn't understand the language; she just continued on in that ear-piercing voice which was as bizarre as the paint on her face.
"I know who you are! You're a prince and you live in a gilded palace with magnificent halls and beautiful gardens. Now at last you have come to find me and take me with you."
MacClayne kept shaking his head and saying that he didn't speak Spanish.
Finally the landlady appeared and I told her what we were looking for. She showed us a room which was fairly clean, and I asked the price; it was unusually high.
"She wants four prices," I said to MacClayne.
"Let's leave," he said, and I let out a deep sigh of relief.
But as we headed out the door and down the street, the crazy woman followed us. We pretended to ignore her and walked as fast as we could, but she kept up with us. The faster we walked, the faster she walked.
We were on a fairly busy street now. Thank god I didn't know anybody here in Lázaro! Out of the corner of my eye I saw people looking at us; some stared, others grinned.
Cuauhtémoc nestled himself deep into my arm, trying to make himself as small as possible. He probably didn't want to be seen either.
She was still trotting along behind when we saw a couple of policemen, and MacClayne suggested that I ask their help.
"That wouldn't be wise," I said, and pointed out that they might decide that we were molesting this poor innocent girl. It could cost us every peso in our pockets to get out of a mess like that. "Let's pretend everything is okay."
So we slowed down, and the three of us casually strolled past the police who stood there looking at us. At last we rounded a corner, and then took off at the fastest pace we could, but we still couldn't outdistance the woman.
"Can't you say something to her?" MacClayne demanded impatiently, "Tell her to get lost!"
"I might as well call out to the storm god and ask for some rain to wash her away," I replied helplessly. But as I spoke, it began to rain and within seconds it was pouring down in torrents.
We stepped out into the middle of the street and continued on; when I glanced back, the woman was gone.
So again we were drenched to the skin. It was dark, the night was cold, I was shivering, and we had no idea where we were. Some deserted street. But it didn't matter at the moment.
"Thank god we're rid of that nutty woman!"
I said it and MacClayne said it. Maybe Cuauhtémoc said it too.
Poor bird! He was soaking wet; there hadn't been time to take out the plastic bag which served has his rain coat.
We stepped under the eaves of a building. I stood there and tried to wipe the bird off as best I could. "What a disgusting experience!" I said, grimacing.
"Was she coherent?" MacClayne asked. "Or was she just babbling nonsense?"
"Yes. In fact she was even articulate."
"What was she saying to me? Insults?"
"Insults?" I repeated, and only now did I realize that MacClayne hadn't understood any of the woman's monologue. Often enough he did catch the gist of a conversation, and I just assumed that he had this time as well.
"Quite the opposite." I said. "You're a handsome prince from a faraway kingdom and you live in a magnificent palace."
He chuckled, then said, "Poor woman. Probably abused as a child. This must be the only life she's ever known."
I couldn't deny that her lot was probably tragic and undeserved, but at that moment I could only think of how creepy she'd made me feel. I wasn't sure if I were shivering from the cold or from the experience with her.
But MacClayne was sympathetic to the woman's plight. He had a soft spot for the ne'er-do-wells, for the star-crossed unfortunates who wind up sleeping on park benches and sidewalks, for the ones you find in sleazy bars, soup kitchens and jails. His heart went out to those people, and they seemed drawn to him, like the downtrodden who came to Jesus. A distant street light somewhere behind MacClayne shone through his hair and gave the effect of a faintly shining halo.
The rain continued to pour down as we remained under the shelter of the narrow eaves, pressing ourselves against the wall. Not that it did any good; we were soaking wet anyway. Having wiped as much water as I could off Cuauhtémoc, I held him close to keep him warm. I hoped he wouldn't get sick.
At last the rain slowed to a drizzle, and we set out down the nearly empty street. From a passerby we got directions to a hotel.
Like most hotels, this one consisted of rooms built around a rectangular court yard. The room we were brought to was big enough for a family of ten, with two king-sized beds. But there were no blankets. "Es la tierra caliente," the lady said when I asked her for some. Yes, I knew, this was indeed the "hot country," but not this evening.
The bare concrete walls were painted a cold, dismal blue, matching the weather, and the bare electric bulb was so tiny that it only lit up the small space around it, leaving the rest of the room in shadows. The room was neither pretty nor charming, nor in any other way attractive, but at least it was clean.
"What does it cost?" said MacClayne.
"I haven't asked yet," I said. In previous hotels we'd found that that king-sized beds generally cost considerably more, especially if the room were large. "Shall we take it even if she wants three prices?"
"Tell her it's too big for us, and see what she says," MacClayne said.
"Do you have a smaller room with small beds?" I asked the lady.
"We have another room, but it's identical."
I then asked what the price was. It was 150 pesos for the two of us, she told us. This was more than what we usually paid.
"We need blankets, not a huge room or big beds," I said, and suggested the price was high.
My protest brought us no blankets, but she lowered the price to 130 pesos, which was still a lot.
It wasn't raining at the moment, but it soon might be. Not a good night to be wandering the streets looking for a hotel. I glanced at MacClayne. Yes, we'd take it.
We paid the rent and returned to the room, where I took a towel and wrapped Cuauhtémoc as warmly as I could. Then I opened my pack and took everything out, laying the stuff on a table to dry. My books and journal were safely stored in plastic bags, but everything else was wet. This was getting to be routine.
The dampness brought out the faint but unpleasant odor of smoke, which still lingered from our campfires. Neither the several days that had passed since our last night on a beach, nor the washings I'd given my stuff while in Caleta, had sufficed to completely remove the stench.
"One could get lung cancer from this," I said.
I went to take a shower, but there was no hot water. Like blankets, it wasn't considered necessary in the hot country. Fortunately, the tap water was no colder than the rain we'd just been walking in.
It was still relatively early in the evening, but neither of us felt much like reading. I sat up for some time with my journal. When I finally went to bed, I wasn't as warm as I would have liked; in fact, I was slightly chilled. But finally I dozed off.
Dozens of bluish figures with huge ears and red lips were dancing in a circle around me, swirling in and out of clouds of cold orange dust. "¡Llegó! ¡Llegó!" they screeched in a cacophonic chorus of shrill voices.
Rain suddenly began to pour down on us. The orange dust settled and the bluish creatures seemed to dissolve into the water. But the rain didn't stop. My bird and I were soaking wet.
While the water poured down from the sky, it also began to flood the land around me. The water rose to my knees and then came up to my waist. Cuauhtémoc was riding on my shoulder. We were now in the midst of a river and trying to reach the distant shore which kept getting farther and farther away. I found myself clinging to a log. We'd been washed out to sea.
There was just the ocean around us, with no land in sight. Waves splashed in my face.
I came out of my dream and lay awake for a while before I dozed off again. I slept fitfully for a while, alternatively waking and sleeping, but always returning to the same dream, always clinging to that same log, in the midst of that same ocean.
The next time I awoke, I took out my journal and recorded the intermittent dream I was having. Although I could barely make out the shape of the page, by now I was used to writing in the semi-darkness. For a while I sat there on the edge of the bed, writing and contemplating, hoping that by putting the dream on paper, it would go away. I wished for a warm blanket, or at least dry clothes.
Then, without realizing that I'd lain down and gone back to sleep, I found myself once again in the ocean. This time, however, strong arms were suddenly pulling me out of the water and onto the deck of a vessel.
"My bird!" I gasped. "Please save my bird!"
A bedraggled-looking Cuauhtémoc was soon hauled aboard and set at my side, wet and shivering.
Thank god! We'd been rescued! Then I realized this was a patrol boat, manned by seamen of the Royal Navy.
"Willkommen an bord."
It was Major Benson, and, as usual, he was smiling sardonically, as though amused to see me.
The sailors snapped handcuffs on my wrists, and on Cuauhtémoc they put small, bird-sized leg irons.
"Blankets," said the major in English. "They need blankets."
At his orders, the sailors wrapped a blanket around me, and another around Cuauhtémoc.
The major said, "We British are a civilized people and make a point of treating prisoners properly."
There were bright lights shining in my face. We seemed to be in the interrogation room of the ship's brig.
Suddenly I was awake, sitting up in bed. The bright light in my face was nothing more than the dim ceiling bulb.
"Are you all right?" MacClayne was asking me.
A bed sheet was draped about my shoulders, and I was shivering. The bird was sitting in my lap. I glanced around, and, then asked in a low voice, "Is this the brig?"
"The what?"
"Are we in the--?" I stopped myself in mid sentence as I began to realize that this large room with king-sized beds couldn't possibly be anything aboard a ship.
MacClayne gazed at me for another moment, seeming to be perplexed by my strange question. "We're in Lázaro," he said at last. "At a hotel. We got here last night."
Yes, of course. I remembered that now, and my brief confusion made me feel silly. It was always embarrassing when I woke up not remembering where I was.
"I guess I was having a dream," I said.
"Do you feel better now?"
"Maybe. I'm not sure," I said. "I kept waking up, but each time I went back to sleep I kept returning to that dream. Finally I got up and wrote it down, hoping that would make it go away."
"Sometimes it helps to talk about things," he suggested. "If it's something you'd care to share, I'm here to listen."
I told him about the bluish figures, dancing about me like trolls. We were soon recalling and discussing the bizarre events at the hotel. The freaky lady. Our adventures seemed both sad and funny as we sat there talking about them.
That led to other topics and we were soon chatting nostalgically about some of our other experiences of the last few days. Finally MacClayne said, "I didn't mean to sidetrack you. Was there anything more about that dream that you'd like to share with me?"
I hesitated. There were times when MacClayne could be sympathetic and even helpful. Having spent some five years in the Royal Marines, he was likely to have some understanding of those people. Maybe he could suggest an explanation. I related the details of my capture by the major.
"He always speaks to you in German?" MacClayne asked.
"Usually. Tonight he also spoke in English. His accent is the one you hear on the BBC."
"Being an officer I'm sure he'd be from the middle class. Most of them attend the public schools, which are actually private schools, and that's where they acquire that accent. In Britain you can tell a person's social class by his accent. Anyway, they're bastards. The officers I mean."
I knew how much MacClayne disliked officers, and the middle class as well. He'd come from a poor family. But I didn't want to get into a discussion of that now. I just said, "That major's a scary figure. He even had Cuauhtémoc in irons."
MacClayne nodded thoughtfully, then suggested, "If you see him again, you might try asking him what he wants of you."
"I know what he wants of me!" I snapped.
"And what is that? If you know, tell me." MacClayne's voice turned slightly truculent.
"He thinks I'm the German torpedoman who sank the ship." I was irritated at MacClayne for asking such an obvious question.
"You really think he believes that?"
"It's obvious," I said.
MacClayne shook his head. "Major Benson was a member of military intelligence. And he had a reputation for competence, if I remember right."
"Military intelligence is an oxymoron. Even Churchill said that!" I wished I hadn't told MacClayne about my dream. Less than two minutes earlier he'd been calling the officers bastards. Now he seemed to be taking their side.
"You asked for any insight I could offer," MacClayne reminded me. "If you don't care to hear me, I'll be quiet."
I took a deep breath, and decided to hear him out. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get upset."
"It's okay. You're under stress."
"This major keeps hunting me down. Haunting my dreams. It's terrifying. What do you suggest?"
"Try asking him," he said, repeating his advice. "If you continue to meet him in your dreams, you'll certainly have the opportunity."
At last we turned the lights out and lay down again, but for a long time I couldn't get back to sleep. I lay on my back, eyes closed, Cuauhtémoc at my side.
"Guten Abend."
Had I heard that? I tried to sit up, intending to use one hand to lean on. But when I put one hand back, the other hand followed it. I seemed to be wearing handcuffs. Was this a dream? I was sure I hadn't even dozed off. I peered into the murk.
"Guten Abend," came the familiar voice again, and there they stood, three shadowy figures. Two were sailors, armed with Enfield rifles. The man in front wore civilian clothes, blue jeans and a denim jacket similar to mine. On his head was a wide-brimmed hat, the kind that was popular throughout much of southwestern México. Nevertheless, he carried his swagger stick. Uniform or no uniform, he was, every inch of him, the quintessential British military officer.
For a moment I froze. I wanted to just pull the sheet over my head and make him disappear. But the logical part of my mind told me that wouldn't help much. I managed to swing my legs around and sat up on the edge of my bed, trying to think of what to say. Beside me was Cuauhtémoc, apparently also in irons.
MacClayne's suggestion came to mind, and I said, "What do you want of me?"
The major nodded to a sailor, who removed the handcuffs from my wrists.
"And my bird?"
The officer nodded again, and the sailor took off the leg irons.
"Thank you," I said.
"Perhaps you'd prefer that I spoke English?" he said.
"Yes, I certainly would."
He dismissed the two sailors, then to me, "You don't mind if I take a seat, do you?"
"Be my guest," I said, first running my hand across the chair to make sure there wasn't any bird crap on it. "And feel free to turn the light on."
"It won't be necessary," he said as he sat down. There was barely enough light to make out the general outlines of his features. I sensed that he was peering at me, though I couldn't tell for sure.
"So, you're American? From Minnesota I believe."
"Yes."
"Some of the crew seemed to think you were German," he said. "I've determined that you are not, though you do seem to understand that language well."
"Thank you," I said, uneasily.
"Me dicen que usted habla Castellano también," he said.
"Sí, lo hablo," I replied.
"Bueno," he said, and spoke for a while in Spanish, beginning with a lighthearted anecdote or two, as though to break the ice and at the same time establish the fact that we shared a knowledge of the language.
"Dithen" was how he pronounced dicen, using the "th" sound which is unique to formal Castilian--the Spanish equivalent of British public school English. It was the version of the language which befit his persona, and he was fully at home in it as in German and English.
Our conversation touched on Quevedo, García Lorca and Neruda. A knowledge of these poets and their work is part of knowing the language. So I was impressed but not too surprised to find that an intelligence officer would have such a background. He appeared distressingly well suited for his mission, whatever it might be. Hallucination or not, this officer was a phantom who seemed determined to haunt me until his purpose was achieved.
I glanced over at MacClayne's bed, but could only make out a bulge in the dark. I heard him snoring faintly. It might even be that he was sharing this same dream, but that seemed doubtful. Our dreams seemed to overlap and interconnect, but only over a span of years.
The major had changed the subject, but continued to chat with me in Spanish. Had I seen the bufadero at Caleta? he asked, and also mentioned other locales. He seemed as familiar with the geography of Michoacán as with the poetry of Spain. Our discussion was casual, the kind of talk that an executive might indulge in with a subordinate. I had the feeling I was being interviewed for a job.
"So, you may wonder why I have called this meeting?" he said, reverting to English.
"Yes, I have." I wondered if I should be saying 'yes sir' and 'no sir' as a matter of military courtesy.
"Very well," he began. "You may have noticed that I have only sailors at my command. No Marines."
"Yes, sir, I've noticed."
"You know why that is, I presume."
"No, sir."
"They're detained elsewhere."
"Detained? You mean? In that--"
"Yes, precisely. They remain where you last saw them."
"In that hellish bunker-bar?" I said.
"Correct. I believe you Norsemen call it Niflheim, the land of cold mist?"
"Yes, sir, we do." I nodded.
"Nifle is related to the German word 'nebel' and the Spanish 'niebla.'" he paused. "Is there an English cognate?"
"Nebulous," I suggested,
"Ah yes, of course. From the Latin 'nebulosus.' I would venture to guess that in Old Norse the word meant 'icy fog,' something to do with the extreme cold of the near arctic."
"I would believe that to be so," I said, not wishing to admit that I didn't really know much about Old Norse, which is quite different from modern Norwegian." It seemed strange to be sitting here in the dark, discussing etymology with a British officer who might have died many years ago.
I could hear MacClayne turning over on his cot, letting out a deep wheezy breath or two. The bedsprings squeaked their complaint as he settled into a new position.
"A land of nasty weather and bad Scotch," the major said. "Ice and snow everywhere. Only the beer is warm. That's the Norse hell. It's where those Marines are. And not easy to get out of, is it? Well, you found that yourself. But you managed to escape. Jolly good for you."
"With help from my friends."
"You do indeed have good friends," he said. "Including a remarkable avian."
At hearing himself mentioned, the bird fluffed out his feathers and clucked with satisfaction.
"It's tragic," he said. "Those Marines died in the course of military action. They don't belong in that place."
"No, sir. They certainly don't."
"Good, I believe you understand that something needs to be done. They have to be gotten out of there."
"A rescue mission?"
"Not exactly. A word in the right place would do it."
"How?"
"That's where your part comes in," said the major. "I'd like you to speak to the One-Eyed man. Will you do that?"
"Where would I find him?"
"Exactly where you'd expect," he major rejoined.
"In Asgarð?"
The major nodded.
"But no living man has ever visited Asgarð," I objected.
"True."
"So how do I get there?" I asked. I glanced around the murky room. I was still sitting on the edge of my bed with Cuauhtémoc at my side. All of this seemed incredibly real, in every way. I couldn't believe this was a dream, yet at the same time, here I was having this bizarre conversation with a British intelligence officer.
"You'll find your way," the major assured me.
Moonlight, apparently having broken through the rain clouds, poured in through the window and flooded the room with its soft silver glow.
I closed my eyes and sighed. When I opened them, the major was gone. I was sitting there alone with Cuauhtémoc, just the two of us on the edge of the bed.
continued in Chapter 47
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