Miss Sani, evidently the trim grey little woman just now looking up towards him from her stove, did not have a single item of Formica or plastic in her spotless place. Auntie Mary, back in P.E.I., would have approved. She addressed him in slow, sweet Spanish. "How may I serve you, sir?"
"What may I encounter for supper, señora?"
"We have, how do they call it in inglés, meat, milled, and formed together? ah! los mitbols! And also a caldo of meat with macaroni and verdants. Of what quality the meat? Of beef, señor."
Of course it was cheap, filling, tasty, and good.
One rum afterwards in a club. There might have been more than one, but just as the thought began to form (like a mitbol), someone approached the jukebox and slipped a coin into its slot—the only part of it not protected by a chickenwire cage against violent displays of dislike for whatever choice someone else might make. The management had been wise. At once, NOISE, slightly tinctured with music, filled the room. Glasses rattled on the bar. Limekiller winced, went out into the soft night.
Suddenly he felt sleepy. Whatever was there tonight would be there tomorrow night. He went back to his room, switched the sheet so that at least his head and torso would have its modest benefits, thumped the lumpy floc pillow until convinced of its being a hopeless task, and stretched out for slumber.
The ivory was tanned with age. The sharp face seemed a touch annoyed. The elder man did not exactly threaten Limekiller with his pole or spear, but . . . and why should Limekiller get up and go? Go where? For what? He had paid for his room, hadn't he? He wanted to sleep, didn't he? And he was damned well going to sleep, too. If old what's-his-name would only let him . . . off on soft green clouds he drifted. Up the river. Down the river. Old man smiled, slightly. And up the soft green mountains. Old man was frowning, now. Old man was—
"Will you get the Hell out of here?" Limekiller shouted, bolt upright in bed—poking him with that damned—
The old man was gone. The hotel maid was there. She was poking him with the stick of her broom. The light was on in the hall. He stared, feeling stupid and slow and confused. "Eh—?"
"You have bad dream," the woman said.
No doubt, he thought. Only—
"Uh, thanks. I—uh. Why did you poke me with the broomstick? And not just shake me?"
She snorted. "Whattt? You theenk I want cotch eet?"
He still stared. She smiled, slightly. He smiled, slightly, too. "Are bad dreams contagious, then?" he asked.
She nodded, solemnly, surprised that he should ask.
"Oh. Well, uh, then . . . then how about helping me have some good ones?" He took her, gently, by the hand. And, gently, pulled. She pulled her hand away. Gently. Walked towards the open door. Closed it.
Returned.
"Ahl right," she said. "We help each other." And she laughed.
He heard her getting up, in the cool of the early day. And he moved towards her, in body and speech. And fell at once asleep again.
Later, still early, he heard her singing as she swept the hall, with, almost certainly, that same broom. He burst out and cheerfully grabbed at her. Only, it wasn't her. "What you want?" the woman asked. Older, stouter. Looking at him in mild surprise, but with no dislike or disapproval.
"Oh, I uh, are, ah. Ha-ha. Hmm. Where is the other lady? Here last night? Works here?" He hadn't worded that as tactfully as he might have. But it didn't seem to matter.
"She? She not work here. She come help out for just one night. Becahs my sister, lahst night, she hahv wan lee pick-ney—gorl behbee. So I go ahn she stay." The pronouns were a bit prolix, but the meaning was clear. "Now she go bock. Becahs truck fah go Macaw Falls di leave, señor." And, as she looked at the play of expression on his face, the woman burst into hearty, good-willed laughter. And bounced down the hall, still chuckling, vigorously plying her besom.
Oh, well.
And they had been good dreams, too.
Tía Sani was open. Breakfast: two fried eggs, buttered toast of thick-sliced home-baked bread, beans (mashed), tea with tinned milk, orange juice. Cost: $1.00, National Currency—say, 60 cents, 65 cents, US or Canadian. On the wall, benignly approving, the Queen, in her gown, her tiara, and her Smile of State; also, the National Premier, in open shirt, eyeglasses, and a much broader smile.
Jack found himself still waiting for the bus. Despite the Night Before. See (he told himself), so it isn't Just Sex . . . Also waiting, besides the retired chicle-tappers and superannuated mahogany-cutters, all of them authorized bench-sitters, was a younger and brisker man.
"You are waiting for the bus, I take it," he now said.
"Oh, yes. Yes, I am."
And so was he. "I am expecting a repair part for my tractor. Because, beside my shop, I have a farm. You see my shop?" He companionably took Limekiller by the arm, pointed to a pink-washed building with the indispensable red-painted corrugated iron roof (indispensable because the rains rolled off them and into immense wooden cisterns) and overhanging gallery. "Well, I find that I cannot wait any longer, Captain Sneed is watching the shop for me, so I would like to ahsk you one favor. If you are here. If the bus comes. Would you be so kind as to give me a hail?"
Limekiller said, "Of course. Be glad to," suddenly realized that he had, after all, other hopes for If The Bus Come; hastily added, "And if not, I will send someone to hail you."
The dark (but not local-dark) keen face was split by a warm smile. "Yes, do—Tony Mikeloglu," he added, giving Jack's hand a hearty, hasty shake; strode away. (Tony Mikeloglu could trust Captain Sneed not to pop anything under his shirt, not to raid the till, not to get too suddenly and soddenly drunk and smash the glass goods. But, suppose some junior customer were to appear during the owner's absence and, the order being added up and its price announced, pronounce the well-known words, Ma say, "write eet doewn"—could he trust Captain Sneed to demand cash and not "write it down?"—no, he could not.)
Long Limekiller waited, soft talk floating on around him, of oldtime "rounds" of sapodilla trees and tapping them for chicle, talk of "hunting"—that is, of climbing the tallest hills and scouting out for the telltale reddish sheen which mean mahogany—talk of the bush camps and the high-jinks when the seasons were over. But for them, now, all seasons were over, and it was only that: talk. Great-uncle Leicester had talked a lot, too; only his had been other trees, elsewhere.
Still, no bus.
Presently he became aware of feeling somewhat ill at ease, he could not say why. He pulled his long fair beard, and scowled.
One of the aged veterans said, softly, "Sir, de mon hailing you."
With an effort, Limekiller focused his eyes. There. There in front of the pink store building. Someone in the street, calling, beckoning.
"De Tork hailing you, sir. Best go see what he want."
Tony Mikeloglu wanted to tell him something? Limekiller, with long strides strolled down to see. "I did not wish to allow you to remain standing in the sun, sir. I am afraid I did not ask your name. Mr. Limekiller?—Interesting name. Ah. Yes. My brother-in-law's brother has just telephoned me from King Town, Mr. Limekiller. I am afraid that the bus is not coming today. Breakdown?"