Finally I got too tired to run anymore and we went back up to the patio, where Sala and Chenault were still talking. They both seemed a little drunk, and after a few minutes of conversation I realized that Chenault was fairly out of her head. She kept chuckling to herself and mocking Yeamon’s southern accent.
We drank for another hour or so, laughing indulgently at Chenault and watching the sun slant off toward Jamaica and the Gulf of Mexico. It’s still light in Mexico City, I thought. I had never been there and suddenly I was overcome by a tremendous curiosity about the place. Several hours of rum, combined with my mounting distaste for Puerto Rico, had me right on the verge of going into town, packing my clothes, and leaving on the first westbound plane. Why not? I thought. I hadn’t cashed this week’s paycheck yet; a few hundred in the bank, nothing to tie me down — why not, indeed? It was bound to be better than this place, where my only foothold was a cheap job that looked ready to collapse.
I turned to Sala. How much is it from here to Mexico City?
He shrugged and sipped his drink. Too much, he replied. Why? Are you moving on?
I nodded. I’m pondering it.
Chenault looked up at me, her face serious for a change. You’d love Mexico City, Paul.
What the hell do you know about it? Yeamon snapped.
She glared up at him, then took a long drink from her glass.
That’s it, he said. Keep sucking it down — you’re not drunk enough yet.
Shut up! she screamed, jumping to her feet. Leave me alone, you goddamn pompous fool!
His arm shot out so quickly that I barely saw the movement; there was the sound of a smack as the back of his hand hit her cheek. It was almost a casual gesture, no anger, no effort, and by the time I realized what had happened he was leaning back in the chair again, watching impassively as she staggered back a few feet and burst into tears. No one spoke for a moment, then Yeamon told her to go inside. Go on, he snapped. Go to bed.
She stopped crying and took her hand away from her cheek. Damn you, she sobbed.
Get in there, he said.
She glared at him a moment longer, then turned and went inside. We could hear the squeak of springs as she fell on the bed, then the sobbing continued.
Yeamon stood up. Well, he said quietly, sorry to subject you people to that sort of thing. He nodded thoughtfully, glancing at the hut. I think I’ll go into town with you — anything happening tonight?
Sala shrugged. I could tell he was upset. Nothing, he said. All I want is food, anyway.
Yeamon turned toward the door. Hang on, he said. I’ll get dressed.
After he went inside, Sala turned to me and shook his head sadly. He treats her like a slave, he whispered. She’ll crack up pretty soon.
I stared out to sea, watching the sun disappear.
We could hear him moving around inside, but there was no talk. When he came out he was dressed in his tan suit, with a tie flung loosely around his neck. He pulled the door shut and locked it from the outside. Keep her from wandering around, he explained. She’ll probably pass out pretty soon, anyway.
There was a sudden burst of sobbing from inside the hut. Yeamon gave a hopeless shrug and tossed his coat in Sala’s car. I’ll take the scooter, he said, so I won’t have to stay in town.
We backed out to the road and let him go ahead. His scooter looked like one of those things they used to parachute behind the lines in World War Two — a skeleton chassis, showing signs of a red paint job far gone with rust, and beneath the seat was a little engine that made a sound like a Gatling gun. There was no muffler and the tires were completely bald.
We followed him along the road, nearly hitting him several times when he slid in the sand. He set a fast pace and we were hard pressed to keep up without tearing the car to pieces. As we passed the native shacks little children came running out to the road to wave to us. Yeamon waved back, grinning broadly and giving a tall, straight-armed salute as he sped along, trailing a cloud of dust and noise.