Black Pomegranate Page 14

  Twelve scowling faces greeted us in the lobby, relieved we had finally returned. I wonder if any of the men realized just how obvious they were.

  Twenty-One

  The Croc Winked His Eye

  IT WAS A FEW DAYS before Christmas. The Royal Mayan was decorated for the holiday season with foil garlands and crepe-paper wreaths. A large pine tree, imported from the United States and trimmed with tinsel and gaudy ornaments made in China, Korea, Japan, and other non-Christian countries, stood in the lobby in deference to the customs of the Norte Americanos and Europeos who constituted a majority of the resort’s guests.

  While still in college, I once visited London on a Christmas break. Having read Dickens, I expected to have a jolly old time in merry old England over the holidays. Roast goose, plum pudding, wassail and grog, carolers, Yule logs, back-slapping camaraderie in a crowded pub with a name like Boar’s Nose or Damsel in Dis Dress—that sort of thing. In the spirit of the season, I’d even imagined I might meet a nice British girl (not an oxymoron) and get lucky.

  To my dismay—for I had slightly less than a week to see the sights—the entire city shut down over Christmas and Boxing Day and the adjoining weekend. Nearly all the restaurants and pubs closed, the subway didn’t run, and few taxis were on the streets. Not that it made much difference to me. I slipped and fell on an icy sidewalk, broke my ankle, and spent the entire joyous occasion in bed, alone, in a drab Holiday Inn hotel room in the Cottage Grove district of London, with no room service and a broken TV. When I was on crutches, I felt like Tiny Tim. The rest of the time, I identified more with Scrooge.

  But, in Cancun, for the most part, Christmas means business as usual. When the influx of tourists is at the high point of the year and dollars, pounds, and Euros are at risk, the locals willingly adjust and alter and defer their own holiday festivities to accommodate the visitors.

  Cat and I decided to try a nearby seafood restaurant our scuba instructor had highly recommended. About halfway there, I heard a familiar voice calling out to us.

  “Yoo-hoo! Hobson! Catarina!”

  We turned around and saw Heidi Hazelhorst briskly approaching, with Dean Martin trotting along behind, panting, trying his best to keep up with her.

  “Are you going to dinner? May we join you?” she asked.

  I really would have preferred to dine with just Catarina, but decided not to be rude and say so. “Sure. We’re headed for Captain’s Cove. Is that okay?”

  “Perfect,” Hazelhorst assented, without bothering to consult her companion.

  The restaurant adjoined a marina located on the lagoon side of the island. The hostess, a short woman with a round face and classic Mayan features, seated us on an outside deck cantilevered over the water. A temperate, gentle evening breeze belied the sweltering humid heat of a few hours earlier.

  To the west, a sublime sunset spread above Nichupté lagoon like a firestorm, nature proudly proclaiming its prowess. Within minutes, puffy, marshmallow-white cumulous clouds became a mass of fiery tangerine embers, rising up, reshaping, tightening together, smothering their background of azure busily deepening to indigo. The spectacle in the skies was mirrored by the tranquil waters of the lagoon.

  As the daystar further descended, eventually settling somewhere beneath the horizon, the hue of every object in our immediate world modulated; first, to vermilion, then carmine, fading eventually to shades of dusky rose and mauve tinged with pearl, and then to the monochrome of battleship gray, thereafter darkening gradually to charcoal black.

  As evening approached, Dean Martin’s intensely sunburned face faded to old-man gray. He looked and acted tired and drained, as if he was suffering from a severe lack of sleep. Heidi, on the other hand, actually looked invigorated—more vibrant than I’d ever seen her. The kinky games the two of them had been playing apparently sapped Martin’s energy but vitalized her.

  There was no doubt in my mind. None at all. Heidi had become an insatiable nympho, and Martin her obsequious love-slave.

  Perhaps it was the Christmas season that prompted a silent simile in my mind. Heidi, I decided, was like mistletoe, the parasite that affixes itself to a tree, sucks its juices, derives sustenance, thrives and prospers, until it eventually kills the host. Dean Martin was going to have to take handfuls of vitamins and eat shellfish by the peck if he were to satisfy Hazelhorst’s lustful appetites.

  The dean apparently recognized his. He started his dinner with a dozen raw oysters, followed by a large lobster tail. Cat and Heidi had red snapper. I ordered grouper stuffed with shrimp and crab meat.

  A commotion at the railing focused our attention to the water. A crocodile, eleven or twelve feet long, had positioned himself below, his snout above water, his sad eyes pleading for a snack like a beagle not willing to wait for dinner time. An obliging waiter threw a raw chicken to the reptile. With a single snap of his immense jaws, the crock downed the chicken in one gigantic gulp.

  A childhood memory made a flashback. I could not have been more than five years old and was on a stage in a school auditorium. With exaggerated hand and facial gestures, I sang a simple ditty in front of an audience of proud, preening parents:

  Oh, she sailed away,

  On a fine and sunny day,

  On the back of a crocodile.

  “You can see,” said she,

  “He’s as tame as tame can be.

  I will ride him down the Nile.”

  But the croc winked his eye,

  As she bade her friends goodbye,

  Wearing a great big smile …

  For at the end of the ride,

  The lady was inside,

  And the smile on the crocodile!

  I resolved that under no circumstances would I ever scuba-dive in the lagoon. Only in the Caribbean. Maybe I should just stay in the swimming pool. Or, the bathtub.

  I was jolted from my reverie by Heidi Hazelhorst tugging insistently on my sleeve.

  “Hobson, why are those men staring at us?”

  “What men?”

  She rolled her eyes toward another table. “Those two over there. In the suits. With the sunglasses. Other men keep looking over this way, too. I feel as if I’m in a goldfish bowl surrounded by cats.”

  I shrugged sheepishly. “I guess it’s the price Luther and I have to pay for being in the company of two beautiful women. Those men must be envious of us.”

  She ignored what I’d intended to be a compliment. “Well, they’re making me quite nervous. I hope they don’t try to cause any trouble.”

  Catarina lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Don’t be afraid, Heidi. They’re my bodyguards. I’d introduce you to them, but you already have a boyfriend.”

  Heidi’s eyes became saucers. “Bodyguards? Are you in any danger?”

  I decided to take over the conversation. I wasn’t sure what fallacious fabric Cat might weave next. “No, of course not. It’s just that … well, as you know, Catarina’s father is the president of Granada Negra, and the bodyguards are a little precaution her country takes as a matter of course. It’s the same in the States. The First Family always has Secret Service protection.”

  “Were those men watching you in Timberline, too?” Heidi asked. “I don’t recall seeing any of them loitering around the college.”

  “Definitely,” I told her, this time not lying. “As a matter of fact, they were in our apartment just a few nights before we left.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  WHEN WE RETURNED to our villa, I found an envelope had been slipped beneath our door.

  “What’s that?” Cat asked.

  I tore open the flap. “Two tickets for a scuba-diving trip tomorrow. Did you order them?”

  “No. They must be a Christmas present,” Cat surmised.

  “I wonder who gave them to us? There isn’t a card or note inside.”

  “It does not matter. They are a gift. I’m absolutely certain.”

  Cat put one finger over her lips,
but she didn’t have to remind me. I was well aware everything we said in our villa was probably being monitored.

  “I’d just as soon hang out here tomorrow,” I complained loudly, for the benefit of our perceived audience.

  “But the tickets are already paid for. We cannot waste them. We cannot hurt someone’s feelings.”

  “Why don’t we give the tickets to Heidi and Luther?” I asked mischievously, to throw any eavesdroppers off the trail.

  Cat didn’t catch on. “I have an even better idea,” she responded. “Let’s ask Heidi and Luther to join us tomorrow. Our treat. Since they paid for dinner tonight, it’s the least we can do to reciprocate.”

  I didn’t relish the idea of spending an entire day with Hazelhorst and Martin, but neither did I want to argue the matter with Catarina. She seemed to actually like them. Especially Heidi. I wondered if Cat would still feel the same way if she knew Heidi had almost raped me.

  “I’m not sure they know how to dive,” I weaseled.

  “If they don’t, we will teach them. Tomorrow.”

  One more try. I checked my watch. “It’s after midnight. I can’t disturb them now. They’re probably asleep already.”

  She poked me in the ribs. “I’m sure they will still be awake, Alfredo, my love. Heidi told me they stay up late every night to play games. Go ahead. Give them a call.”

  I picked up the phone. Once Cat had made up her mind, there was no changing it.

  Twenty-Two

  Scuba Diving

  SET LIKE A JEWEL in the Caribbean eight miles northeast of Cancun, Isla Mujeres—the Island of Women—is an idyllic tropical paradise only five miles long and a half mile wide. The island’s swaying palm trees, dramatic cliffs, and beautiful white sand beaches surrounded by crystalline turquoise water—all bespeak romance.

  It’s not known why Isla Mujeres was so named, but the answer probably can be found somewhere in its colorful history. Mayans used the island as a sanctuary for sacred virgins. In the 1500s, when Spanish conquistadors dropped anchor in its sheltered harbor, they found stone sculptures of female figures, as well as shrines the Mayans had built to Ixchel, the goddess of fertility.

  In the seventeenth century, pirates kept their women on the island while they forayed on the high seas. According to legend, the notorious pirate Fermin Mundaca became entranced by a lovely girl called La Trigueña, who lived on Isla Mujeres. He built a magnificent hacienda for her and promised to mend his nefarious ways if she would marry him. When it became apparent he had continued his business of slave trade, she left him for another man.

  His spirit broken, Mundaca died. The tombstone over his grave near North Beach, which he is said to have carved himself, bears a skull and crossbones and the prophetic inscription, “Lo que tu eres yo, fui” (What you are, I was) on one side and the words, “Lo que yo so, luego seras” (What I am, you shall be) on the other.

  The Bahia de Mujeres—Bay of Women—has numerous coral reefs. Manchones, Chitales, El Tunel and La Bandera are popular dive sites. I’d expected one of them would be our destination, perhaps followed by a side trip to Isla Mujeres for a leisurely lunch.

  But when we departed from Playa Linda—where Cancun Island separates from Cancun proper and Bahia de Mujeres and Laguna Nichupté meet—the captain of the dive boat announced we were in for a special treat. He was taking us to a more taxing site in deeper waters, farther afield. As a novice diver, I was a little apprehensive, but the others on board seemed enthusiastic about the challenge.

  Heidi Hazelhorst and Luther Martin were thrilled that we’d invited them to join us for the day. I started feeling guilty about not wanting their company. They turned out to be interesting—even enjoyable—traveling companions. Perhaps the only thing wrong with them back at Timberline was that they’d both needed to get laid.

  To everyone’s surprise, Hazelhorst and Martin had long been certified scuba divers and they were overjoyed to discover they had at least two interests in common.

  “I see your bodyguards are on the job this morning,” Heidi whispered.

  Sure enough, the two men we assumed to be FBI agents—still wearing business suits—were aboard. Obviously, they weren’t planning to go in the water. Two others who had been following us were suited up. Apparently, we’d managed to give the rest of the dirty dozen the slip. Either they hadn’t eavesdropped on our plans or had overslept, I thought. It didn’t occur to me that perhaps the various groups had joined forces and decided it wasn’t necessary for everybody to tail us simultaneously—or else they may have had other plans for us.

  A scant hour later, the boat dropped anchor over a coral reef. Soon, we were in the warm, crystal-ball-clear water. I was amazed at the feeling of freedom scuba diving provides. We had entered a totally different world.

  Cat and I swam blithesomely amid schools of exotic tropical fish. Oddly-shaped fish. Fish that looked like long, flexible yardsticks. Fish that looked like lumps of Silly Putty. Beautiful fish. Incredibly ugly fish. Friendly, inquisitive fish that seemed to delight in our presence. Spotted fish. Striped fish. Brilliantly colored fish, with markings of yellow, magenta, white, orange, iridescent blue. All were much larger than I’d expected. I’d assumed the fish would be smaller, the size they are in home aquariums.

  Cat and I had strayed a short distance from the other divers. We descended to the sandy bottom and bent over to better examine an immense conch shell that a hermit crab had donned like a suit of armor.

  Suddenly, I was caught in the vice-like grip of a man wearing a black rubber suit. Another captor, in a red suit, took Cat from behind and held her in a similar grasp. I was certain the men had not been on the boat with us. Were they Granada Negran rebels? Or, were they two of the men who had been following us?

  We attempted to break free from them, to no avail. The men half-carried, half-dragged us to a raft-like rig sitting on the ocean floor. A platform had been mounted on top of two aluminum pontoons. Four injection-molded plastic seats—actually, cheap patio chairs with the legs removed—were affixed to the top of the platform. Two PVC pipes ran the length of the craft and served as handrails. With assertive gestures, the men exhorted us to sit down.

  Just then, Heidi and Luther rounded a large outcropping of coral, saw what was happening, and rushed to our aid. After a brief struggle, Heidi and Luther were overpowered by the men in rubber suits and also forced to sit on the plastic seats. The four of us were now captives of some unknown force. I thought we were probably about to be killed.

  Our sentinels hovered on each side of the platform, as if to prevent us from escaping should we make the attempt. The man in black tugged on a nylon rope. In a few seconds, the line became taut, the craft raised from the ocean floor slightly, and we began moving silently through the water.

  Soon, we were traveling at a speed I estimated as ten to fifteen knots. It was necessary to hold tightly to the side rails to keep from being pulled out of our seats by the strong flow. Above, the shadowy hull of our dive boat appeared to diminish in size as our distance from it increased.

  I checked the new diver’s watch Catarina had bought for me. We had about twenty minutes left before we would run out of air. Ahead, I could see the outline of the boat towing us. We hovered about a fathom above the ocean floor, never going much higher or lower. From the increasing brightness overhead I deduced we were traveling toward shallower water.

  With less than five minutes of air remaining in our tanks, the underwater vehicle slowed and skidded to a halt. The men motioned for us to get out of our seats and swim upwards.

  We removed our masks as soon as we surfaced. Martin and Hazelhorst had terror written all over their faces. Catarina seemed unconcerned, even amused. The two men in rubber suits turned out to be Pablo and Pietro.

  An old fishing trawler—the boat that had been pulling the underwater sled—putted up to where we were treading water. Miguel threw a jack ladder over the side and reached down to help us climb aboard.

  “What’s goin
g on here?” Martin sputtered breathlessly, once he was on deck. “We’re American citizens. Three of us are, anyway. I demand you take us to the American Embassy. Immediately.”

  “Dean Martin, you should not have said that,” I told him sternly.

  “Why not? Someone has to speak up in our behalf.”

  “Mexico—indeed, all the countries on this continent—are American. You should have requested to be taken to the United States Embassy. Even more properly, to the United States of America Embassy, for we’re presently in territorial waters of Estados Unidos Mexicanos—the United States of Mexico.”

  Pablo, Pietro, and Miguel laughed loudly. Martin turned bright red. It had been semantical payback time. What goes around comes around, eventually.

  “A fine job your bodyguards did,” Heidi complained loudly, addressing Catarina. “We were kidnapped right from under their noses.”

  “I’m very sorry, Señorita,” Pietro apologized. “We did not want to take you, only the two others. Had you not interfered …”

  “They’re our friends,” Heidi snapped. “We couldn’t let you do anything to them.”

  Pablo bowed and gestured with an immense flourish. “You acted very bravely, Señorita. Let me reward you with a cold cerveza.” He held out a beer.

  “Humph,” she snorted, but reached for the bottle.

  Despite her protests, it was clear that Heidi was absolutely thrilled with the excitement and adventure of being kidnapped by the two men she assumed to be modern-day pirates. If Dean Martin were not there, Heidi probably would have hit on both Pablo and Pietro. I could see the raw animal lust in her eyes.

  “Someone had better explain what this is all about,” Martin fussed, helping himself to a beer from the opened ice chest on deck.

  “Let’s see if I can enlighten you,” I volunteered.

  “Those men you thought were our bodyguards—they weren’t. Cat told a little fib to keep you from worrying. We’ve been tailed by a dozen men ever since we arrived in Cancun, though we don’t know why. Catarina’s real bodyguards are these two gentlemen, Pablo and Pietro Santos. I’d introduce you, but I still can’t tell you which one is which.”