advantages of mutual respect and fair play

Author’s note: This is a continuation of a series. For more information see, Shades of Hemingway and Shades of Hemingway / Medium Exposure.

*

And then a strange thing happened. Not that talking to a ghost no matter how often you do it doesn’t seem strange. But in the weeks that I had been associated with the spirits, this was something that I had not witnessed before. Hem, the shade of Hemingway that was the representative of his age at mid-life, where he had achieved his international celebrity began to morph into Papa. This was the Hemingway at the twilight of his years on earth, the image of his most reflective self.

“Best not to utter that name to Lord Cristobal, Chris. I doubt he’d receive it or you too kindly.”

After witnessing such a transformation from the back end of beyond I was temporarily awestruck. My meetings with the spirits were generally not as theatrical. As a matter of fact, they seemed no less than normal had I been chatting with a neighbor. Papa’s reassuring countenance helped me quickly regain my composure. Papa raised his hand and touched his nose, a gesture that recalled the antics of St. Nick inThe Night Before Christmas.

“But take heart… you may be on to something.”

“Papa?”

“Hello, Chris.”

I had not spoken with Papa Hemingway since we had last met at the public library in Key West. It was there that he told me of the kyklos tod mene’ and warned that I might be it’s next victim. In all the excitement of coming to Cuba to try and rescue Rachel I had almost forgotten about him.

“Am I glad to see you!”

Papa seemed genuinely warmed by the fact that I expressed my relief and optimism at meeting him once again. He sat at the desk that Hem had occupied only moments before and looked regal, poised and reassuring. He smiled that grandfatherly smile of his and my heart’s rapid percussion seemed to ease a little.

“It is good to see you again, Chris. Sorry I had to materialize in such a fashion but I haven’t been available much of late. Tell me about your progress, how are things going?”

“Whoa… Papa! This is a tough nut to crack! I keep getting in deeper and become more confused with each step I take! And now I see this man in the picture with Rosetta? How could this be? I had no idea what was going on around me with this guy. Now I find out he is involved with this Lord Cristobal? And Lord Cristobal is your godson? When did all this happen? And what about Rachel? Am I to presume that one leads to the other?”

“Easy, Chris… all in good time. The association between that man and Lord Cristobal is a fragile alliance at best. How did that relationship begin? As usual, one is in it for the money and prestige, of course. The other wants his control and influence to spread. Originally each saw the collaboration as a means of furthering their individual goals. But it is not that solid of an arrangement now.”

“And finding Rachel, Papa. How do I find her if not by using this guy’s influence? I need some way in to see Lord Cristobal or they’ll turn me away at the gates.”

“Well, Chris… you can’t just march up and accuse someone like Lord Cristobal of kidnaping. What would you say even if you could get in to see him? ‘Hello, I’d like my girlfriend back?’”

“I haven’t worked it out that far, I’m afraid. I figured having a name as a calling card might open up some doors. I was going to ad-lib the rest.”

.
“Listen and believe me. Ad-libbing can get you killed, especially if you go up and announce yourself uninvited. Your friend’s dabbling with the practices of the Santeria faithful has gotten their babalaos very upset.”

“This forced suicide thing Hem was speaking of? That is based in the Santeria practice?”

“Exactly. The cycle of the death moon is more a condition than an adversary, Chris. Humans are at their most vulnerable state and easily influenced by the kyklos tod mene’. I’m sorry I couldn’t make that distinction clearer to you before now.”

“Wait a minute! What about exposing the killer, Robert Jordan and possibly Rosetta’s? I presumed them to be one and the same. I mean, I figured it was… he was…”

“A person, place or thing? I’m afraid that was your own conclusion, Chris.”

“Meaning that this exposure business that I have undertaken is about a condition, not a perpetrator?”

“Well… there are certain elements of human influence that agitate the kyklos tod mene’, Chris. Methods to direct it’s desired effect, ways to accelerate it’s potential outcome. This is one of the tools used by the babalaos, or his progeny, to punish an enemy. But the ‘killer’ you are to expose is more diabolical than the cycle of the death moon in itself. It just isn’t as easily resolved as walking up and pointing him out.”

“Sheesh, you didn’t leave much else to go on beings everything helpful seemed ‘out of bounds’.”

“There is such a thing as a need to know. What you will need… you will know.”

“Okay, what about this being Lord Cristobal’s godfather? I didn’t need to know about that? Just whose son is he, anyway?”

“My guide, Tenete’s. His relatives christened his son ‘Miller’ and asked that I return with him to Cuba after Tenete’ had been mauled to death by a lion while we were on safari.”

“Miller?”

“My middle name, Chris. I was named after my grandfather on my mother’s side, Ernest Miller Hall. Tenete’s Miller came to Cuba with me and when he grew older took the name ‘Cristobal’ after the cathedral in Havana. Later he searched out his ancestry and took to the Santeria faith, progressing rapidly to the rank of babalaos.”

“What does this have to do with my friend, Keith?”

Naty looked up at me, her eyes moist with tears. I had spoken the name out loud standing there in her living room. Naty was in anguish, that was plain to see. But it had more to do with my discovery of who the culprit in the photograph was than what the outcome had been. Her sister had taken her own life, but the reason given earlier was because she had been rejected and another woman had been chosen to take her place. That other woman, as it turned out after a long and tearful confession, had been Naty.

I tried to recall my first meeting with Keith, long before that fateful first trip to Key West. I had made the habit of visiting a local coffee shop in the early morning hours on my way to work. Keith would occasion the place and we would acknowledge each other politely as ‘regulars’ and go about our business. One day as Keith was reading the paper he asked me a question.

“Have you been following the news on these Cuban refugees washed up over on Sanibel Island?”

I had been. Our area on the S.W. corner of Florida was still regarded as a sleepy little retirement community. All the newsworthy things happened over on the east coast. Even Hurricane Andrew managed to pass us by to the south. So this refugee news was international, CNN stuff placed right at out back door.

“Yeah,” I replied, more interested in the sports section than the local news or world affairs, but I was polite. Keith and I had made comments back and forth in the past, but nothing real substantial… until now. “What a thing to have happen, right?”

Keith let his paper drop to the table. “How do you feel about them coming here?”

I hadn’t really thought about it before. Florida gets reports of Cuban refugees arriving fairly often, those that are fortunate enough to make it to land. More often than not we heard of the Coast Guard turning away the rickety crafts that the hopeful bind together and make the 90 mile trek with.

“I can’t say as I blame them.” I said, finally setting my sports report aside and looking squarely over at Keith sitting a few empty tables away. “I imagine if I lived in a country like that under the thumb of a cruel dictator I’d want to get away to a better place, too.”

“I’ll bet it has those rich folks over on Sanibel singing a different tune.”

“Oh? How so?”

“You know that everyone that moves over there wants to be the last one, don’t you? Once they have their little piece of paradise they want to close the causeway down to keep anyone else from coming over.”

“Really, you think so?”

“Oh yeah, the ones that complain the loudest about the overcrowding and the pollution are the new arrivals. I call them the NMIs, ‘new money islanders.’ Now that they’ve achieved that status of living on Sanibel or even better yet, Captiva, they don’t want the riff raff coming over and spoiling it for them.”

“You think these people from Cuba are ‘riff raff’?”

“I don’t, THEY do!”

“Yeah, well… I feel badly for them. Like I said, you can’t blame people for wanting a little piece of paradise, too. I think that we as a so called ‘Christian Nation’ ought to be more concerned about the plight of these poor immigrants that through no choice of their own have come to be suppressed by the likes of Castro.”

“Now you’re making it a moral issue.”

“It is a moral issue, we have plenty… like you say about the ‘new money islanders.’ They have plenty. Why should they worry if the lower class want to bask in the same sun they do?”

“There’s more to it than spending the day on the beach. I think you know better than that.”

“All I know is that if I were living in poverty without hope because of some cruel dictator I would hope that someone would be willing to stand up to him and end his regime.”

Keith looks at me with a devilish grin, like he had stirred up the pot and all the heads have come bubbling to the surface.

“Who says he’s cruel?”

“What?”

“Castro, how do you know he’s a cruel dictator?”

“It’s in the news! People that have left tell us what is going on over there!”

“They only tell you what they want you to know, you realize that right?”

“How do you mean?”

“The government they had before wasn’t all that great. Besides, we were only interested in Cuba for our own gain, not for the liberty of it’s people. American interests, that’s the bottom line. Castro dared to defy us, that’s his crime.”

“I suppose there is some politicking in there.”

“You KNOW there is. Besides, one man’s dictator is another man’s liberator, it’s all in how you look at it.”

The conversation is veering off into a direction I’m not that familiar with but Keith was just getting warmed up.

“Here’s a moral issue for you. Imagine you were someone that could profit off another person’s misery while at the same time rendering them a service. Would you still provide that service?”

“You mean like selling booze to an alcoholic?”

“Kinda sorta. You had nothing to do with that person’s choices, had no control over conditions or locations or politics. But you could make money by providing them a service even if it seemed a little unethical by some people’s standards. Would you do it?”

“By providing them this service, would it help in making them better? Would it lead to a cure for the condition they found themselves in? Not like putting fuel to the fire, or giving them more poison to slowly kill themselves with?”

“Let’s just say it could give them the opportunity for a better life, if they took advantage of it.”

“Then… yeah, I probably would have a clear conscience about doing it, why not?”

“Hmm… that’s very interesting. Given that, how do you feel about the guy that brought the boat and dumped those refugees off over on Sanibel Island?”

Author’s note:  This is a continuation of a series.  For more information see Shades of Hemingway and Shades of Hemingway / Medium Exposure.

     I must have been out for several hours because I could see the sun was setting outside through the windows.  The bed was not much more than a cot stuck in the corner of a barren room.  There is a crucifix hanging on an exterior wall framed with rough hewn studs.  The rafters above have been left exposed; there is no insulation, electrical wiring or drywall anywhere.  The house rests on an elevated foundation with a wooden floor. 

     My head has a dull ache which accentuates every time I try to roll myself around or sit up.  In fact, it throbs with each heartbeat, but I am grateful to be alive.  The old man has left the room.  The woman with the cloth returns to kneeling beside me, dabbing my wound and forehead with a cool, wet cloth that she continues to refresh in a basin of water.  The daughter of Juan Revuelta is nowhere to be seen.

     “Do you speak English?”

     “Yes.”

     “Are you Mrs Revuelta?”

     “Yes, I am Miriam.”

     “Hello, Miriam, my name is Christian… that was your daughter, yes?”

     “Yes.”

     “She is very lovely, what is her name?”

     “Naty.”

     “Naty?  Yes?  That is a good name, Miriam.  Your daughter is very lovely.  Thank you.  Thank all of you for helping me.”

     I don’t know why but I find myself feigning a Spanish accent, thinking it may make my English easier to understand.  Miriam smiles and continues to sooth my head with the damp cloth.  I can smell cooking in the next room and hear the laughter of children.  Soon Naty appears with a plate and Miriam rises, moving towards the head of the bed and out of my sight.  Naty sits down on the cot next to me, produces a fork and then dips from the plate.  I realize I am hungry, having not eaten since the fruit Sgt. Garcia’s men provided earlier at my hotel room.  I am not familiar with the aroma but my stomach growls with eager anticipation.

     “What is it?”  I ask as the food is inserted in my mouth.

     “Steamed yucca and rice… shush now and eat.”

     I do as I am told and chew carefully, trying not to force my throbbing temples any more than necessary.  Naty watches me swallow then dips into the plate and offers more food.

     “Who are you and why are you helping me?  How do you know about Lord Cristobal?”

     “No more talking!”  She has a warm but stern face, concealing a smile that lies just below the surface.  I could draw that smile out if I tried, I thought.

     “Okay, I’ll be quiet.  But tell me who you are, Naty.  It is Naty, isn’t it?”

     “Yes, that is my name…”  Her eyes are dazzling, she is flattered that I must have inquired her name of her mother, otherwise how would I have now known to ask her.  “And you are?”  Her conversational manner is one of polite respect and curiosity.

     “Christian…  Christian Fiore.  Are you in the habit of rescuing strangers left along the road to die?”

     “You are not going to die!”  She smiles, rewarding my persistence.  “You’ll just have a slight headache for a while, Mr. Fiore.”

     “Please… call me Chris, and you are not answering my question.”

     “And you are not lying quietly!”

     “Yes, you’re right… I’m sorry.  But please, tell me about yourself and where I am… there is so little I know about Cuba…”

     “There will be enough time for questions after you rest.”

     “Tell me about Lord Cristobal, how is it that you know of him?”

     She stops feeding me for a moment, looking at me intently.  I try to smile at her but it hurts my head.  With a sigh she eventually relinquishes.

     “Everyone in Cuba knows or has heard of Lord Cristobal, he is babalaos.”

     “Babalaos?”

     “A supreme priest of Santeria, a form of religion amongst my people.”

     I nod towards the crucifix.

     “And yet, your family is Catholic?”

     “Yes, we are.  But Cuban ancestry goes further than the Spanish who came here.  Many of us have distant relatives from Africa.  In Cuba, the man who doesn’t have an ancestor from the Congo has one from the Carabali.”

     “And because of this ancestry  Lord Cristobal is Santeria?  I don’t get the connection, what does it all mean?”

     “Because of this ancestry Lord Cristobal moves freely amongst the people of Cuba.  There are those that believe Castro was placed into power by the Santeria, that he has maintained his power and longevity by means of the Santeria.  Because of this, our government allows Lord Cristobal to roam freely and conduct himself as he wishes.  For Castro, Santeria means power and influence over my people.  In Cuba, Santeria means voodoo and the hold this has on our faith strangles us.”

     Naty falls silent, slightly stirring the vegetable and rice mixture on the plate.  In my mind thoughts of voodoo conjure up chicken claws dripping in blood and ancient rituals being danced to in the pale moonlight.  After a few moments Naty scoops up more food and offers it to me.

     “You do not approve of Castro?”  I ask, accepting what she has placed before my mouth.  She then sets the plate down on my stomach and firmly thrusts the fork into my hand. Then she rises to leave, pauses and glares back down at me.

     “I despise him.”

     “And what of Lord Cristobal?”  I ask, but she has stepped away from the bed.  Naty exits the room and strides out of my sight.  But the voice of Miriam comes from above and behind me.

     “Lord Cristobal is a murderer.”

     Miriam moves to the side of the bed, picks up the plate Naty left behind and gently takes the fork from my hand.  She thoughtfully pools the scattered food fragments into a mound and then scoops some up with the fork.  But she pauses in mid-air, as if it took all of her energy to address me further.

     “Naty returned to us from Miami to help bury her sister.  Lord Cristobal sacrificed her on his altar of deceit.”

     Now my imagination stirs up images of a satanic cult and half naked savages whooping it up as a man with a demonic mask makes ready to carve up a beautiful, naked virgin with a meat cleaver.  Satisfied with food and troubled by conversation, Miriam presses my hand as I fall off to sleep again.

     There is a clearing that is spread with several tents and a couple of vehicles, I realize I am back on the Serengeti.  A fire burns in the middle of the camp, seated nearby is Hem.  He stares into the fire and puffs absentmindedly on his pipe.  There are tribesmen working on hoisting up an impala on a sling.  Off to one side I see Tenete’ squatted on the ground, whittling away on something.

     “Hem, what am I doing here?  I’m no closer to finding Rachel than when I started!”

     Hem stirs from his trance and looks over at me, a bottle dangling from one hand.

     “How’re ya doin’ there, Sport?  How ’bout that ride in the Fairlane?  Damn, those were some classy cars!”

     “I’m doing awful, Hem!  I can’t seem to get my bearings here!”

     Hem rises from his seat and comes towards me.  He reaches out and clasps a hand on my shoulder.

     “Naw… come on, now… you’re doin’ great!”

     “Great?  I could’ve been killed!  Why didn’t you warn me?”

     “Out of bounds, Sport, ya know the rules!  Besides, had I done that you’d've never met Naty!”  and Hem gives me a sly wink.

     “What does Naty have to do with anything?  I thought I was to find Lord Cristobal?”

     “Naty has to do with everythin’!  What’re ya goin’ to do once you’ve found your sweet lil’ Rachel… swim back to the States?”

     I’m moving around the fire pit towards where Tenete’ has been working.  I look into his hands at what he has been whittling on.  The object is bone in color, it appears to be ivory.  Tenete’ offers the same toothy grin I had witnessed earlier.  He raises the piece up to me and I take hold of it. 

     It is ivory, fashioned into the shape of a shoehorn…

Author’s note:  This is a continuation of a series.  For more information see Shades of Hemingway and Shades of Hemingway / Medium Exposure

     “Hey Mac!”

     I lay there looking up at a high open ceiling uncertain of where I am.

     “Hey Mac, gotta smoke?”

     I turn on my side and look at a man virtually bandaged from head to toe.  Past him are several more beds with patients in different stages of hospital care.  This man has one good eye bulging out through the gauze and I realize he is talking to me.

     “No… I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.”

     “Shit fire and save matches!  Goddamn hospital ain’t got shit!”

     I look about at the men, the beds and the hospital accessories being used in their care.

     “Where am I?”

     “Milan.”

     “Milan, Cuba?”

     “Cuba?  You’re in Italy, Mac!  What happened to you, get knocked in the head?”

     “Italy? Huh? Yes… well, I guess so.  What happened to you?”

     “Flammenwerfer, dirty Huns burned me!”

     “What’s a flammen… what ever you said?”

     “A German flamethrower…”

     “A flamethrower?  Jesus, where am I?”

     “Put me next to a looney, did they?  some amnesiac!  At least the guy over there has some fags… used ‘em to plug up his wounds, or so I hear.”  Then past me to the man on my opposite side he yells, “Hey Mac… Mac!  You got any smokes?”  But there is no answer.  The man pushes his head back into his pillow in disgust.  I am just about to mention that they probably would not allow him to smoke in the hospital anyway as I roll over to look at the man “smoker” had been yelling at.

     Ring Lardner, Jr. is in the hospital bed next to me.  We are in a military hospital ward of wounded solders and he lies bandaged about his mid-section and legs.  An attractive nurse has taken a tray away having just given him a shot.  Ring looks over at me.  His eyes seem vacant and lost.  He is a young man far from home who as just witnessed first hand the spectacle and barbarian tactics of war.  But his voice is strong.  Ring speaks softly to me.

     “Wake up, Chris.”

     “What?  I am awake!”

     “No, Chris… you’re not.  Wake up this instant.”

     “I’m awake!  Ring; I see you, I can hear you… my eyes are wide open!  The guy next to me needs a cigarette!”

     I look back over my shoulder at “smoker” but he is flat on his back now and completely out of it.

     “She is still alive, Chris.  She is still alive and needs your help.  Wake up, Chris… rescue her.  You’re not too late.”

     I turn away from Ring Lardner, Jr. and look up and down at the rows of hospital beds.  Now they are all empty, even “smoker’s” bed is vacant.  My mind is racing.  I can sense my body detaching, a booster rocket falling away into space… am I dying?

     “Help me, Ring, help me wake up!  Help me find her!”

     “Find who?  Who is she, Chris?  Who is the one you are searching for?”

     I drop my head back down and try to concentrate.  This one is lovely but not the cover girl type which is 13 and playing dress up like some pampered prima donna.  She has never owned a mirror.  A comely servant girl at the well, deep and cool… like the Song of Solomon.  I draw her up to my lips and quench a re-occurring, never ending thirst.  My love is shade on a day made weary by the relentless sun.  She is rain on my parched, dry skin… an angel that is a revelation unto my soul.  A portrait in a gallery; she is the frame, the artist’s name obscured but made most recognizable by the work she displays.  This woman is distance overcome, a flock of geese in flight.  She is the dawn, the dusk and the day in between.  My lady is of the night; the twilight, the moon, the stars, the very heavens above.  Aphrodite is my dream of beauty.  I roll her over in my mind, may I never awaken… there is peace.  Let it go… that is the celebration of being fearless.

     “Chris!  What is her name?”

     I find myself swelling inside; fighting to release, clawing at unseen walls, pulling my body to the surface, grabbing for a lifeline.  Who is she?  What is her name?  I know it.  I must say it.  I must scream it out loud.  I feel myself panicking and losing my form… balancing between substance and fading away into sweet nothingness where there is no conflict or pain.  I begin to slip…

     I want to… surrender.

     “Chris!”

     Am I dying?  It is not so bad…  I tell myself, I hear my voice saying, “It is not so bad…”

     “Wake up, Chris… tell me her name!”

     With everything I can conjure up from within I am kicking towards the surface, reaching for the light, gasping for air… then I erupt.

     “Rachel!”

     Quite frankly the past 24 hours or so had not been very kind to me.  I had  1) been kidnapped, drugged then abandoned on highway A1A in the middle of the Florida Keys,  2)  been interrogated by a KWPD detective that wanted to pulverize me for sleeping with his ex,  3) run like a scalded dog from an apartment that I couldn’t find my way back to if my life depended on it without my money, I.D. or shoes,  4) shuttled across the Florida Straits as a stowaway in an outdated Cuban yacht with a man that I thought wanted to kill me and then  5) been El Ka-bonged by a scrawny thug looking for loose change in the back seat of his car.  And through all of this I am trying to rescue a woman I had only known ever so briefly and yet felt a spiritual connection to (and shared earth moving sex with) that made me willing to go wherever and do just about anything for.  I lay thinking of all this in that place where you have been awakened but have not fully opened your eyes to yet.

     Apparently when Enrique drew his pistol back then brought it crashing down on my skull he had inadvertently placed his finger on the trigger which clenched at the point of impact and fired the gun, causing him to panic.  Leaving me for dead at the side of the road, Enrique had hauled ass back to Havana.

     I lay there in my semi-conscience state for a while, wondering where I was and how I had gotten there.  I was not where I had been left on the road but placed upon a bed.  I could hear activity, children in the background while something like cooking utensils clamored in a sink.  I blinked my eyes open and caught a leathery faced old man with the bristle of a beard peering down at me.  He said nothing but eased back and motioned to someone out of my range of vision.  An older woman appeared with a concerned look and a cool, damp wash cloth and began dabbing my forehead.  The old man said something to her and she shushed him then smiled down at me.

     “Rela’jese ahora, ” she tells me, “usted sera’ fino.”

     “No comprehenda Espanole.”

     “shh… shhh” she whispers, “rela’jese… rela’jese.”  as I fade off.

     My eyes open to the woman again and I try to move my head but it hurts, throbs…

     “Lie still.  Who was it that tried to kill you?”

     It is a woman’s voice, but not the one who has been taking care of me.  She is out of my sight, but nearby at the head of the bed.  I can sense her.  I try to turn my head to look at her but again the throbbing starts.

     “Lie still.  You have a mild concussion.”

     “Mild?”  I replied to the woman I could not see.  “Man, I’d hate to have had a spicy one…  and I don’t know who he was, we’d only just met… and then he tried to rob me.”

     I hear her moving, rising… standing up beside me, her voice traveling towards the ceiling.

     “Good!  You have a sense of humor.  Rest easy, you’ll be fine in a few days.”

     “I haven’t got a few days, I haven’t got a few hours.  Don’t you have some aspirin or something?”

     The voice moves in front of me.  She looks down.  An attractive but plain faced Cuban woman in her mid-30′s dressed in a t-shirt and khakis lifts my arm up checking my pulse.  The woman beside her whispers something but I can not make it out.

     “You need not worry, the Lord will wait for you.”

     “I’m hoping He’ll wait a few more decades for me.”

     She laughs openly.  Her teeth are even and white, when she smiles her entire face radiates, transforming her from plain to gorgeous.  She shakes her head.

     “Not thee Lord!  Lord Cristobal.  He knows you are coming and he will wait for you.”

     “How do you know I am looking for him?”

     “You come to pay a ransom, I presume.  Why else would they go to all the trouble of trying to rob you… an American in our country.”

     “A mistaken identity, he thought I was a guy with money.  What makes you think I am American?”

     “Only an American would be so trusting as to accept a ride with a stranger.”

     “That’s what I get for having faith in Cuban hospitality, I guess.”

     “Oh?  And what are you enjoying now?”

     I tilt my head up a little to see the other woman and the old man nearby, watching me and listening carefully.

     “Yes, you’re quite right… I’m sorry, thank you for helping me.”

     She smiles.  Her face changes dramatically when she smiles, a jack-in-the-box waiting to pop out at any moment and when it does… surprise!  beautiful…

     “Where am I?”

     “In the house of my father, Juan Revuelta, just outside the city of Pinar del Rio.”

     “How did you happen to find me?”

     “The road your driver turned off on leads to our home.  My niece and nephew were outside playing and heard a gunshot.  Papa found you alongside of the road.”

     I presumed the old man who was hovering nearby was Juan Revuelta.  I looked up at him and tried to smile.

     “Muchos gracias, senior.”

     He does not smile, only stares down at me briefly then speaks softly to the woman who has the damp cloth.  The younger woman smiles again.  I am trying to sit myself up but she presses down on me with her hands until I relax again. 

     “What did he say?”

     “You speak poor Spanish.”

     “Poor?  That’s nothing.  My understanding of it is near the poverty level.”

     She laughs again.  It is as though she has been storing up all this glowing personality for me to unlock and release out into the world.

     “And yet you come all the way here to find Lord Cristobal?  You must be a very brave man.”

     “Or very stupid, I’m not sure which.”

     “Perhaps we will know soon enough.”