Montezuma’s Revenge

“It’s a fine morning,” Tony said as he hopped about on one foot pulling on the white trousers. The old man watched in wide-eyed astonishment as Tony completed the rest of his metamorphosis, clapped the hat on his head, wrapping painting and clothes hurriedly in the crumpled paper and stuffed them into the morral which he hung over his shoulder, handle of the machete projecting upward as he started for the door.

He emerged with a slow shuffle, head down, the wide brim of the sombrero shading his face, shoulders bent to make him appear shorter. At the last moment he even managed a slight limp to aid in the transformation. He held his breath as he walked past Timberio, visible only as trouser legs and a pair of highly polished and pointed shoes. Then past the other agent—and still no cry of alarm. They were both looking outward for the dark-clad, umbrella-bearing messenger and paid no heed at all to the simple peasant who passed. Ten feet, then twenty, thirty, almost to the corner—when an anguished cry sounded. Tony took one look back to see the old man talking to the Italian agents, then he began to run. Around the corner and down the street, ignoring the hammers inside his head.

Faster still to escape the sound of pursuing feet.

Nine

Tony vanished in the crowd, another drop of water in the ocean of Mexican citizens, his clothes neutral, his wide-brimmed hat like all the others. A turn into a side street, a small market with stands along the sidewalk and in the road. When he stopped running, and even walking, slowed to a reluctant halt by the savage blows of his waning hang-over, his pursuers had vanished. A nearby stall dispensed the cooling drink of pineapple juice, papaya juice, coconut milk—no rum this time!—and orange juice all whipped to a froth in a blender. He ordered a large one of these and while drinking it thought he saw one of the distraught Italians run by, but it was only a glimpse and he couldn’t be sure.

Refreshed, his throat cooled, the hang-over under control, he penetrated deep into the market that he had visited the day before and followed his nose to the food stalls where a booming morning trade was in progress, sliding onto a stool as its previous owner vacated it. There was the quick gush of saliva in his mouth at the richness of the odors, accompanied by a stabbing pang of hunger. A brace of goat enchiladas smothered in rich red gravy and flanked by a healthy portion of fried beans did a good deal toward alleviating this sensation.

“The sauce if you please,” his companion at the narrow board said. They sat shoulder rubbing shoulder, leaning forward so that the parcels of the people pushing by behind did not jar into them. Tony slid over the requested dish swimming with fresh chopped chilies, tomato, garlic and onion, then helped himself as well as soon as the other had done.

“I am looking for the little town where my cousin lives,” he told his eating companion who was diligently pursuing the last drops of goodness around his metal plate with a half tortilla. He was a gaunt old man, somewhere between fifty and ninety years of age, with a few white wisps of beard. He nodded at the interesting information so freely given, but felt no real need to comment. “He said it is on the road to Chilpancingo just outside of Acapulco.”

“That will be Las Graces.”

“No, that is not the name I remember.”

The old man swallowed the last of his tortilla, wiped his finger tips gently on the side of his pants leg, then counted on his fingers, worn scarred and permanently hooked from a lifetime of labor.

“That is first. Then you find El Quenado and El Treinta.⁵’

“The last, that is the very name. Do you know where the bus stops for this place?”

“Two blocks down and one to the right.”

“A thousand thanks for the information.”

Feeling a good deal better, Tony strolled the two blocks down and the one right and was greeted by the sight he had hoped to see. A small crowd of farmers returning from the market, parcels and crates of unsold chickens held high, milling slowly toward the entrance of the third-class bus, a venerable, rusty, dented, crack-windowed, smooth-tired veteran of a fading lifetime of service proudly bearing the name La Nave del Olvido. Tony joined the crowd and became a part of it, swimming with it toward the bus and aboard.