But he was not to get off so easily. There followed a long, long conversation, or monologue, on various subjects, of which Filiberto Marin was the principal one. Filiberto Marin had once w'orked 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 Marin 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 Marin and his wife had produced one half a battalion for the British Queen! “Fifteen children — and puros varones! Ahl son, senor! So fahst wre 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, senor.”
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 Marin 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 (“Dev 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 knowr how to cotch croc-o-dile by dive for him? Who can tell you? Filiberto Marin 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 Marin did know all these things and, out of a pure and disinterested desire to help a stranger, wanted merely to put his extensive knowledge atjack’s disposal.
Of this much, Limekiller was quite clear the next day. Fie w as far from clear, though, as to howr 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 elderlv man with a sharp face w'hich 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 walkw-ay. 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.
But neither had there been anything reassuring.
Jack made his way back into the cabin. The walls let the moonlight in, and the fine rain, too. But not so much of either as to prevent his falling asleep again.
Next day, passion — well, that was not exactly the right word — but what was? Infatuation? Scarcely even that. An uncommon interest in, plus a great desire for, an uncommonly comely young woman who also spoke his own language with familiar, or familiar enough, accents — oh, well — Hell! — whatever the word was, whatever his own state of mind had been, next morning had given way to something more like common sense. Common sense, then, told him that if the young woman (vaguely he amended this to the young women) had intended to come to St. Michael of the Mountains to stay at a hotel… or wherever it was, which they thought might take a reservation. had even considered writing for the reservation, well, they had not intended to come here at once. In other words: enthusiasm (that was the word!. damn it.) enthusiasm had made him arrive early.
So, since he was already there, he might as well relax and enjoy it.
— He was already where?
Filiberto Marin plunged his hands into the river and was noisily splashing water onto his soapy face. Jack paused in the act of doing the same thing for himself, waited till his host had become a trifle less audible — how the man could snort! — “Don Fili, what is the name of this place?”
Don Fili beamed at him, reached for the towel. “These place?” He waved his broad hand to include the broad river and the broad clearing, with its scattered fields and cabins. “These place, Jock, se llame Pahrot Bend. You like reside here? Tell me, just. I build you house.” He buried his face in his towel. Jack had no doubt that the man meant exactly what he said, gave another look around to see what was being so openhandedly — and openheartedly — offered him; this time he looked across to the other bank. Great boles of trees: immense! Immense! The eye grew lost and dizzy gazing upward toward the lofty, distant crowns. Suddenly a flock of parrots, yellowheads, flew shrieking round and round; then vanished.
Was it some kind of an omen? Any kind of an omen? To live here would not be to live just anywhere. He thought of the piss- soaked bogs which made up too large a part of the slums of King Town, wondered how anybody could live there when anybody could live here. But here was simply too far from the sea, and it was to live upon the sunwarm sea that he had come to this small country, so far from his vast own one. Still. might not be such a bad idea. well, not to live here all the time. But… a smaller version of the not-very-large cabins of the hamlet… a sort of country home… as it were. ha-ha. well, why not? Something to think about. anyway.
“Crahs de river, be one nice spot for build you cabanita,“ said Don Filiberto, reading his mind.
“Mmm. what might it cost?” he could not help asking, even though knowing whatever answer he might receive would almost certainly not in the long run prove accurate.
“Cahst?” Filiberto Marin, pulling his shirt over his huge dark torso, considered. Cost, clearly, was not a matter of daily concern. Calculations, muttering from his mouth, living and audible thoughts, struggling to take form: “Cahst. May-be, ooohhh, say-be torty dollar?”
“Forty dollars?”
Don Filiberto started to shake his head, reconsidered. “I suppose may-be. Not take lahng. May-be one hahf day, collect wild cane for make wall, bay leaf ior make techo, roof. An may-be ’nother hahf day for put everything togedder. Cahst? So: twenty dollar. Torty dollar. An ten dollar rum! Most eeem-por-tont!” He laughed. Rum! The oil which lubricates the neighbors’ labors. A houseraising bee, Hidalgo style.