Montezuma’s Revenge

He smiled and shook his head, the other employee in the bow nodding equal linguistic ignorance. No matter, it was all cutting throats with fingers and thumbs up under water, the same in Spanish and English. The boat putted up and down over the rollers, Tony nodded half asleep, the speckled youth made retching noises over the side. When the others looked away in embarrassment Tony came quickly awake and slipped the knife from the towel, waited for a shuddering moan to cover the splash, then let it slip from his fingers, this time vanishing for good. It was a marked relief to have it gone.

It took the struggling boat over half an hour to round the point and reach an anchorage in the lee of the rocky walls of Isla la Roqueta. Here, away from the silt and floating debris of the harbor, the water was incredibly clear, limpidly blue. One by one the novices followed their instructors over the side, sitting on the gunwale and falling backward, dropping into the soft embrace of the sea. Tony was amazed how easy it all was once he sank beneath the surface. Another world of different dimensions with a new-found freedom. Silent too, other than the whistling of his breath as he sucked at the tank, comfortable and calm.

When he became more secure in this new medium, Tony dived deeper along the rope secured to the bottom. The instructor floated over and made a circle of his thumb and forefinger with the other fingers raised, reminiscent of a television beer ad but meaning underwater Are you OK? Tony returned the same signal signifying that indeed he was. A school of small fish moved past him, turning together on some secret signal. On the bottom among the rocks there was an aureate glint. Gold perhaps, lost treasure? He kicked down to it but the treasure was only a discarded beer can. His cares were lost for the moment in the depths of the sea.

But, when his air finally ran out and he had to surface, memory and reality returned. What next? He was still on the run and in addition, he realized with the onset of a stabbing complaint in his middle, he was very hungry. Other than the nocturnal pastrami he had had no food in—how long?—twenty-four hours at least. Flight was important, but hunger became of more overwhelming urgency as the ancient boat struggled slowly toward the land. When they finally did touch shore he was first off, even before the painter was tied, rushing to the Long Porker premises and changing quickly out of his wet trunks. His wallet and papers were intact, the redhead and infant had been on guard all the time, and when he unlocked the bathroom door he could see the box with the painting still safely buried under the pile on the shelf.

Food! The sun was nearing the horizon, the search would have moved out of this area by now. So, close by would be safest—as well as the quickest way to get some nourishment. He climbed the steps to the first cross street on the hill and there, like a beckoning beacon, the sun reflected from a pendant sign before an open door, el restaurante italiano. Acapulco had German, French, Chinese restaurants, so why not Italian as well? His stomach signaled with a growl that anything would do for the moment and he hurried toward it, pushing into the dim and cool interior. Checkered tablecloths and the mandatory candles in wax-laden bottles. A waiter emerged from the back after Tony had seated himself at the nearest table and tapped a coin against the bottle, bringing the menu and digging out a match to light the candle. Even before he had done this Tony had opened the menu, glanced at the first item, then closed it.

“Spaghetti and meatballs, a glass of red wine now, and some bread please.”

“Sisisignore”

He sipped at the wine and had demolished the entire plate of bread long before the spaghetti came. An older man, the owner presumably, came out of the back, polished a glass or two at the bar, nodded at him gloomily and vanished again. In the distance could be heard a radio playing a constant string of commercials interrupted by an occasional brief selection of music. Then the spaghetti arrived, steaming and saliva producing, heavy with the spheres of the meatballs. Tony ate, half aware of the four men who came in and sat at the table across the room. Then two more at a different table. The food was very good.

Tony blinked and realized he was very tired, his head almost nodding. The owner was back, arms folded behind the bar, looking his way. The waiter joined him in the silent perusal. All that was missing was the cook—was he on display here! Only the great fatigue prevented him from getting angry. And the men at the other tables, weren’t they looking at him too? They were speaking to each other, the words somehow strange—not Spanish at all.

His vision blurred and it was as though the film had been spliced in a projector. These men weren’t Mexicans at all—they were all Italians!