“You have seen it again… or another like it?” asked Tomas in a guileless tone that caused the colonel to suspect that Tomas knew something he himself did not; but then he thought that even if Tomas knew nothing, he would wish to give the impression that he did.
He told Tomas of his experiences the previous evening; when he had finished his story, Tomas said, “Hmm… curious.”
“‘Curious’?” said the colonel. “I expected more of a reaction. A lecture on spirit lizards, perhaps.”
“There are no such things. At least not that I’m aware of.”
“What is it, then?” the colonel asked after a pause.
“The lizard?” Tomas made a casual gesture, writing with his forefinger a sequence of quick little loops in the air. “How would I—a poor deluded hechicero—understand such a phenomenon? I think you should seek the help of a real expert. Perhaps there is someone at the Botanical Station who will advise you.”
The colonel refused to rise to this bait. “You painted a lizard on your wall like the one I saw. A lizard of a type neither of us have seen before. Can you explain it?”
“I was kneeling by a corner of the mural, trying to think what I should put in the space directly above the space where I intended to paint the face of Satan. It came into my mind to paint a lizard. An indigo lizard. With orange eyes. I recall that I felt rather strongly about this decision. Certain that it was correct. Since my artistic choices do not usually incur such a feeling of certitude, I made note of the fact. Apart than that… the world is replete with these strange correspondences. Who can guess their cause or their meaning?”
The girl set a plate of fried eggs, tortillas, and peppers in front of the colonel and asked Tomas if wanted something.
“Aguardiente,” he told her.
“Drinking so early?” The colonel tore off a piece of tortilla and dipped it in yolk.
“Early for one is late for another. All my life I have been a sober man. Now, at life’s end, I wish to be drunk. There are things to be learned from both conditions.”
“You’ll outlive us all, Tomas,” said the colonel, chewing.
“You speak as if you know, yet you know nothing.”
Tomas seemed aggravated; the colonel let the subject drop.
“I’m certain there’s no connection between the lizard I saw and the one you painted,” he said. “But nonetheless…”
“Do you know why you have come here this morning? You want me to tell you that the lizard is magical. It climbed down from my wall and sought you out. It is a message, a supernatural being compressed into the shape of a message. It has great import in your life. It is a sending from Oxala or Jesus or some primitive black shape whose name has the sound of a bubble squeezed up through jungle water from some terrible netherworld. It wants you to see yourself as it sees you. Henceforth, you must always give homage to this lizard and the god who sent it. That is what you want me to tell you. Because hearing such shit will make you believe nothing happened to you last night. That it was a dream, a mental slip. Then you’ll be comfortable. You’ll be able to ignore it.”
The girl handed Tomas a glass and an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid. He poured a stiff measure. Startled by his vehemence, the colonel could not think what to say. At a nearby table a blond girl in a navy blue T-shirt with the word “Wolverines” printed on the chest collapsed in laughter and shrilled, “I just can’t believe you said that!” Margery, the colonel saw, had departed.
Tomas drank, let out a sigh, wiped his mouth on his forearm.
“I apologize if I’ve angered you,” said the colonel.
The old man made a popping sound with his lips and shook his head sadly. “When I came to Puerto Morada many years ago, I liked this place.” He tapped the table top. “This right here. This stretch of beach, I liked it very much. I knew I had to build my restaurant here. It was simple as that. I did not say to myself, This is a magic place, and if I build here, it will be a magic restaurant. Magic is an unwieldy word. It fails to communicate its true meaning. It has come to mean great works. A system of spells, a logic of supernatural connections. I am an hechicero, not a magician. I have no system, no history of great works. I see things, I feel things. I sometimes recognize certain sights and feelings that may have slightly more significance than certain others. Because I have done this for many years, on occasion I can create small effects. So small you might not notice them. But I cannot paint a lizard and cause it to come alive. I cannot ask it to seek you out and make you see through its eyes. If I played any part in what happened to you, I was acting without intent or forethought. This does not mean, however, that what happened was not magical.”
Two small boys ran past on the beach, yelling and waving their arms, chasing a skeletal yellow pariah dog that was so weak on its legs, it barely could outrun them; it stopped to catch its wind, panting, its body curled, gazing with desolate eyes back at its pursuers, then loped off as the boys drew near.
“It may have no importance,” said Tomas. “This lizard of yours. It may signify nothing. The energy of the world will sometimes express itself in singular ways and for no apparent reason. But you must try to understand it. It is yours alone to understand.”
The colonel thought that the old man’s advice about going to the Botanical Station was the most salient thing he had said. He wished now he had never mentioned the lizard. Tomas would likely go on at length about the subject of magic, its subtle nature, and the colonel did not want to be rude. But Tomas only looked about at the tables, at the bar, and said, “Tell me, Mauricio. Have you ever had a place that was yours? Not a place owned, or a place occupied. I’m speaking about one that called to your heart, your soul. One where you felt you absolutely belonged.”
“Not for a long time, certainly.”
Tomas poured another glass of aguardiente. “But you like my restaurant, eh? The place itself, not just the food and drink.”
“I come here as often as I can, don’t I? Of course I like it. You’re a fortunate man to have such a beautiful home.” As an afterthought, the colonel asked, “Why did you name it the Drive-In Puerto Rico?”
“The words have a pretty sound.” Tomas touched the edge of the colonel’s plate. “Your eggs are cold.”
The Botanical Station, operated by Princeton University, was located some miles from the center of town. Several dozen acres of plantation were enclosed by a hurricane fence and centered by a long, low building of pale brown concrete block, topped by a shingle roof edged in darker brown. Air conditioners were mounted beneath each window. The glass panes spotless, the lawn out front manicured. A healthy-looking parrot sat on a ring perch beside the door, clucking gently to itself. Automatic sprinklers whirled. It was so thoroughly American a place, everything so shiny and neat, that when the colonel stepped into the frosty interior, he felt that he had crossed a border illegally, bringing with him the dust of a poorer land. He pictured the beads of sweat on his brow popping like champagne bubbles.
He presented himself at the reception desk, inquiring if there was anyone about who had some expertise in herpetology, and moments later he was standing in an office, leaning over the shoulder of one Dr. Timothy Hicks, a sunburned young man with shoulder-length brown hair, looking at pictures of lizards on a computer screen.