Hell, Sala remarked, chicken’s expensive.
I laughed. Not out there. He shoots them with a speargun.
God almighty! Sala exclaimed. That’s voodoo country — they’ll murder him, sure as hell!
I shrugged. I’d assumed from the very beginning that Yeamon would sooner or later be killed — by somebody or some faceless mob, for some reason or other, it seemed inevitable. There was a time I had been the same way. I wanted it all and I wanted it fast and no obstacle was big enough to put me off. Since then I had learned that some things were bigger than they looked from a distance, and now I was not so sure anymore just what I was going to get or even what I deserved. I was not proud of what I had learned but I never doubted it was worth knowing. Yeamon would either learn the same things, or he would certainly be croaked.
This is what I told myself on those hot afternoons in San Juan when I was thirty years old and my shirt stuck damply to my back and I felt myself on that big and lonely hump, with my hardnose years behind me and all the rest downhill. They were eerie days, and my fatalistic view of Yeamon was not so much conviction as necessity, because if I granted him even the slightest optimism I would have to admit a lot of unhappy things about myself.
We came to Fajardo after an hour’s drive in the hot sun and immediately stopped for a drink at the first bar. Then we drove up a hill on the outskirts of town, where Sala puttered around for almost an hour, setting up his camera angles. He was a grudging perfectionist, no matter how much contempt he had for his assignment. As the only pro on the island, he felt he had a certain reputation to uphold.
When he finished we bought two bottles of rum and a bag of ice. Then we drove back to the turnoff that would take us to Yeamon’s beach house. The road was paved all the way to the River at Lolza, where two natives operated a ferry. They charged us a dollar for the car, then poled us across to the other side, not saying a word the whole time. I felt like a pilgrim crossing the Ganges, standing there in the sun beside the car and staring down at the water while the ferrymen leaned on their poles and shoved us toward the palm grove on the other side. We bumped against the dock and they secured the barge to an upright log while Sala drove the car to solid ground.
We still had five miles of sand road before we got to Yeamon’s place. Sala cursed the whole way, swearing he would turn back except that he’d be hit for another dollar to go back across the river. The little car thumped and bounced on the ruts and I thought it would come to pieces at any moment. Once we passed a pack of naked children stoning a dog beside the road. Sala stopped and took several pictures.
Jesus, he muttered, look at those vicious little bastards! We’ll be lucky to get out of here alive.
When we finally got to Yeamon’s we found him on the patio, wearing the same filthy black trunks and building a bookshelf out of driftwood. The place looked better now; part of the patio was covered with an awning made of palm fronds, and beneath it were two canvas deck chairs that looked like they belonged in one of the better beach clubs.
Man, I said, where did you get those?
Gypsies, he replied. Five dollars apiece. I think they stole ’em in town.
Where’s Chenault? Sala asked.
He pointed down at the beach. Probably sunning herself down by that log. She puts on a show for the natives — they love her.
Sala brought the rum and the bag of ice from the car. Yeamon chuckled happily and poured the ice in a tub beside the door. Thanks, he said. This poverty is driving me nuts — we can’t even afford ice.
Man, I said. You’ve bottomed out. You’ve got to get some work.