There was a large mahogany wardrobe, called a “press” in the best Dickensian tradition, but there were no hangers in it. There was a large bathroom off the hall but no towels and no soap, and the urinal was definitely out of order, for it was tied up with brown paper and string and looked like a twelve-pound turkey ready for the oven.
But all these shortcomings were made up for, by one thing which the Grand Hotel Arawack did have: out on the second-story verandah was a wide wooden-slatted swing of antique and heroic mold, the kind one used to see only at Auntie Mary’s, deep in the interior of Prince Edward Island or other islands in time. - Did the Hiltons have wide wooden swings on their verandahs? Did the Hiltons have verandahs, for that matter?
Limekiller took his seat with rare pleasure: it was not every damned day that he could enjoy a nostalgia trip whilst at the same time rejoicing in an actual physical trip which was, really, giving him just as much pleasure. For a moment he stayed immobile. (Surely, Great-uncle Leicester was just barely out of sight, reading the Charlottetown newspaper, and damning the Dirty Grits?) Then he gave his long legs a push and was off.
Up! and the mountains displayed their slopes and foothills. Down! and the flowery lanes of town came into sight again. And, at the end of the lanes was the open square where stood the flagpole with the Union Jack and the National Ensign flapping in the scented breeze. and, also, in sight, and well in sight (Limekiller had chosen well) was the concrete bench in front of which the bus from King Town had to disembogue its passengers. If they came by bus, and come by bus they must (he reasoned), being certainly tourists and not likely to try hitching. Also, the cost of a taxi for fifty miles was out of the reach of anyone but a land speculator. No, by bus, and there was where the bus would stop.
“Let me help you with your bags,” he heard himself saying, ready to slip shillings into the hands of any boys brash enough to make the same offer.
There was only one fly in the ointment of his pleasure.
Swing as he would and as long as he would, no bus came.
“Bus? Bus, sir? No, sir. Bus ahlreadv come orlier todav. Goin bock in evening. Come ahgain tomorrow.”
With just a taste of bitterness, Limekiller said, “Manana.”
“¡Ah, Vd, si puede hablar en espanol, serior. Si-serior. Mariana viene el bus, otra vez — Con el favor de Dios.” An the creek don't rise, thought Limekiller.
Suddenly he was hungry. There was a restaurant in plain sight, with a bill of fare five feet tall painted on its outer walclass="underline" such menus were only there for, so to speak, authenticity. To prove that the place was indeed a restaurant. And not a cinema. Certainly no one would ever be able to order and obtain anything which was not painted on them. - Besides, the place was closed.
“Be open tonight, sir,” said a passerby, observing him observing.
Jack grunted. “Think they’ll have that tonight?” he asked, pointing at random to Rost Muttons and to Beef Stakes.
An emphatic shake of the head. “No-sir. Rice and beans.” Somew-here nearby someone was cooking something besides rice and beans. The passerby, noticing the stranger’s blunt and sunburned nose twitch, with truly Christian kindness said, “But Tia Sani be open now.”
“Tia Sani?”
“Yes-sir. Miss Sanita. Aunt Sue. Directly down de lane.”
Tia Sani had no sign, no giant menu. However, Tia Sani was open.
Outside, the famous Swift Sunset of the Tropics dallied and dallied. There was no sense of urgency in Hidalgo, be it British or Spanish. There was the throb of the light-plant generator, getting ready for the night. Watchman, what of the night? — what put that into his mind? He swung the screen door, went in.
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', sw'eet Spanish. “How: may I serve you, sir?”
“What may I encounter for supper, sehora?”
“We have, how do they call it in ingles, 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, senor.”
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 chickemvire 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 floe 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.