Sometimes at dusk, when you were trying to relax and not think about the general stagnation, the Garbage God would gather a handful of those choked-off morning hopes and dangle them somewhere just out of reach; they would hang in the breeze and make a sound like delicate glass bells, reminding you of something you never quite got hold of, and never would. It was a maddening image, and the only way to whip it was to hang on until dusk and banish the ghosts with rum. Often it was easier not to wait, so the drinking would begin at noon. It didn’t help much, as I recall, except that sometimes it made the day go a little faster.
I was snapped out of my reverie when I turned the corner into Calle O’Leary and saw Sala’s car parked in front of Al’s front door, and next to it was Yeamon’s scooter. The day turned instantly rotten and a sort of panic came on me. I drove past Al’s without stopping, and kept looking straight ahead until I turned down the hill. I drove around for a while, trying to think it out, but no matter how many reasonable conclusions I came to, I still felt like a snake. Not that I didn’t feel perfectly right and justified — I just couldn’t bring myself to go up there and sit down at a table across from Yeamon. The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. Hang out a shingle, I muttered: P. Kemp, Drunken Journalist, Suckfish Snake — hrs. noon to dawn, closed Mondays.
As I circled the Plaza Colon I got jammed up behind a fruit peddler and blew my horn savagely at him. You stinking little nazi! I shouted. Get out of my way.
My mood was turning sour. My sense of humor was slipping. It was time to get off the street.
I headed for the Condado Beach Club, where I hunkered down at a big glass table on the deck with a red, blue, and yellow umbrella to keep off the sun. I spent the next few hours reading The Nigger of the Narcissus and making notes for my story on The Rise and Fall of the San Juan Daily News. I was feeling smart, but reading Conrad’s preface frightened me so much that I abandoned all hope of ever being anything but a failure. . .
But not today, I thought. Today will be different. Today we will whoop it up. Have a picnic. Get some champagne. Take Chenault out to the beach and go wild. My mood swung immediately. I called the waiter and ordered two special picnic lunches with lobster and mangoes.
When I got back to the apartment, Chenault was gone. There was no sign of her, none of her clothes in the closet. There was an eerie sense of quiet in the place, a strange emptiness.
Then I saw the note in my typewriter — four or five lines on Daily News stationery with a vivid pink lipstick kiss above my name.
Dear Paul,
I can’t stand it anymore. My plane leaves at six. You love me. We are soul-mates. We will drink rum and dance naked. Come see me in New York. I will have a few surprises for you.
Love,
Chenault
I looked at my watch and saw that it was six-fifteen. Too late to catch her at the airport. Ah well, I thought I’ll see her in New York.
I sat on the bed and drank the bottle of champagne. I felt melancholy, so I decided to go swimming. I drove out to Luisa Aldea where the beach was empty.
The surf was high and I felt a combination of fear and eagerness as I took off my clothes and walked toward it. In the backlash of a huge wave I plunged in and let it suck me out to sea. Moments later I was hurtling back toward the beach on top of a long white breaker that carried me along like a torpedo. Then it spun me around like a dead fish and slammed me on the sand so hard that my back was raw for days afterward.