"Good afternoon, sir. May I help you, sir?"
"Uh . . . yes! I was wondering . . . uh . . . do you know if there are any North Americans in town?"
Police-sergeant Bickerstaff pondered the question, rubbed his long chin. "Any North Americans, you say, sir?"
Limekiller felt obliged to define his terms. "Any Canadians or people from the States."
Police-sergeant Bickerstaff nodded vigorously. "Ah, now I understand you, sir. Well. That would be a matter for the Immigration Officer, wouldn't you agree, sir?"
"Why . . . I suppose. Is he in right now?" This was turning out to be more complex than he had imagined.
"Yes, sir. He is in. Unofficially speaking, he is in. I am the police officer charged with the duties of Immigration Officer in the Mountains District, sir."
"Well—"
"Three to four, sir."
Limekiller blinked. Begged his pardon. The police-sergeant smiled slightly. "Every evening from three to four, sir, pleased to execute the duties of Immigration Officer, sir. At the present time," he glanced at the enormous clock on the wall, with just a touch of implied proof, "I am carrying out my official duties as Customs Officer. Have you anything to declare?"
And, So much for that suggestion, Limekiller thought, a feeling of having only slightly been saved from having made a fool of himself tangible in the form of something warmer than sunshine round about his face and neck.
The middle-aged woman at the Yohan Yahanoglu General Mdse. Establishment store sold him a small bar of Fry's chocolate, miraculously unmelted. Jack asked, "Is there another hotel in town, besides the Grand?"
A touch of something like hauteur came over the still-handsome face of Sra. "Yohanoglu. Best you ahsk wan of the men," she said. And, which one of the men? "Any men," said she.
So. Out into the sun-baked street went lonely Limekiller. Not that lonely at the moment, though, to want to find where the local hookers hung out. Gone too far to turn back. And, besides, turn back to what?
The next place along the street which was open was the El Dorado Club and Dancing (its sign, slightly uneven, said).
Someone large and burly thumped in just before he did, leaned heavily on the bar, "How much, rum?" he demanded.
The barkeep, a 'Paniard, maybe only one-quarter Indian (most of the Spanish-speaking Hidalgans were more than that), gave a slight yawn at this sudden access of trade. "Still only wan dime," he said. "Lahng as dees borrel lahst. When necessitate we broach nudder borrel, under new tox lah, iay! Pobrecito! Going be fifteen cent!"
"¡En el nombre del Queen!" proclaimed the other new customer, making the sign of the cross, then gesturing for a glass to be splashed.
Limekiller made the same gesture.
"What you vex weed de Queen, varón?" the barkeeper asked, pouring two fingers of "clear" into each glass. "You got new road, meb-be ah beet bum-py, but new; you got new wing on hospital, you got new generator for give ahl night, electricity: Whatt? You teenk you hahv ahl dees, ahn not pay uh new tox? No sotch teeng!"
"No me hace falta, 'ahl dees,'" said the other customer. "Resido en el bush, where no hahv not-ting like dot."
The barkeep yawned again. "Reside en el bush? Why you not live like old-time people? Dey not dreenk rum. Dey not smoke cigarette. Dey not use lahmp-ile. Ahn dey not pay toxes, not dem, no."
"Me no want leev like dot. Whattt? You cahl dot 'leev'?" He emptied his glass with a swallow, dismissed any suggestion that Walden Pond and its tax-free amenities might be his for the taking, turned to Limekiller his vast Afro-Indian face. "Filiberto Marín, señor, is de mahn to answer stranger question. Becahs God love de stranger, señor, ahn Filiberto Marín love God. Everybody know Filiberto Marín, ahn if anyone want know where he is, I am de mahn." Limekiller, having indeed questions, or at any rate, A Question, Limekiller opened his mouth.
But he was not to get off so easily.There followed a long, long conversation, or monologue, on various subjects, of which Filiberto Marín was the principal one. Filiberto Marín had once worked one entire year in the bush and was only home for a total of thirty-two days, a matter (he assured Jack) of public record. Filiberto Marín was born just over the line in Spanish Hidalgo, his mother being a Spanish Woman and his father a British Subject By Birth. Had helped build a canal, or perhaps it was The Canal. Had been in Spanish Hidalgo at the time of the next-to-last major revolution, during which he and his sweetheart had absquatulated for a more peaceful realm. Married in church! Filiberto Marín and his wife had produced one half a battalion for the British Queen! "Fifteen children—and puros varones! Ahl son, señor! So fahst we have children! Sixty-two-year-old, and work more tasks one day dan any young man! An I now desires to explain we hunting and fishing to you, becahs you stranger here, so you ignorance not you fahlt, señor."
Limekiller kept his eyes in the mirror, which reflected the passing scene through the open door, and ordered two more low-tax rums; while Filiberto Marín told him how to cast nets with weights to catch mullet in the lagoons, they not having the right mouths to take hooks; how to catch turtle, the tortuga blanca and the striped turtle (the latter not being popular locally because it was striped)—
"What difference does the stripe mean, Don Filiberto?"
"¡Seguro! Exoctly!!" beamed Don Filiberto, and, never pausing, swept on: how to use raw beef skin to bait lobsters ("Dey cahl him lobster, but is really de langusta, child of de crayfish."), how to tell the difference in color between saltwater and freshwater ones, how to fix a dory, how to catch tortuga "by dive for him—"
"—You want to know how to cotch croc-o-dile by dive for him? Who can tell you? Filiberto Marín will answer dose question," he said, and he shook Limekiller's hand with an awesome shake.
There seemed nothing boastful about the man. Evidently Filiberto Marín did know all these things and, out of a pure and disinterested desire to help a stranger, wanted merely to put his extensive knowledge at Jack's disposal. . . .
Of this much, Limekiller was quite clear the next day. He was far from clear, though, as to how he came to get there in the bush where many cheerful dark people were grilling strips of barbacoa over glowing coals—mutton it was, with a taste reminiscent of the best old-fashioned bacon, plus . . . well, mutton. He did not remember having later gone to bed, let alone to sleep. Nor know the man who came and stood at the foot of his bed, an elderly man with a sharp face which might have been cut out of ivory . . . this man had a long stick . . . a spear? . . . no . . .
Then Limekiller was on his feet. In the moon-speckled darkness he could see very little, certainly not another man. There was no lamp lit. He could hear someone breathing regularly, peacefully, nearby. He could hear water purling, not far off. After a moment, now able to see well enough, he made his way out of the cabin and along a wooden walkway. There was the Ningoon River below. A fine spray of rain began to fall; the river in the moonlight moved like watered silk. What had the man said to him? Something about showing him . . . showing him what? He could not recall at all. There had really been nothing menacing about the old man.