The Ancient. Muriel Gray
yeah. I got the stingy bastard call collect bit, sweetheart. Where the fuck you say it’s from again?’
There was a pause as the operator pondered whether to hang up on the profane recipient or not, and then she said curtly, ‘Peru. South America.’
‘No shit!’
Esther heard him chuckle.
‘And it’s Benny Mulholland’s girl, you say? The one without the fuckin’ dimes?’
‘Will you accept the call?’
‘Huh? Like all of a fuckin’ sudden I’m an answerin’ service for her old man? Tell her to send a fuckin’ postcard.’
He hung up. The operator cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry, caller. The number will not accept.’
‘I gathered. Thanks.’
Esther put the phone down gently. She had absolutely no idea why she’d made that call. Even if a miracle had happened and Mort Lenholf had taken her call, what did she expect him to do? Benny would be blind drunk by now, asleep in the green armchair in front of a blaring TV. Mort could hammer on Benny’s trailer door as long and hard as he liked but she knew it would take a sledge hammer to the kneecap even to make him stir. And the thought of her dad being able to help out in a situation like this was equally ludicrous. Benny Mulholland had probably just enough cash left from his welfare cheque to get ratted every night until the next one was due.
He wasn’t exactly in a position to call American Express and have them wire his daughter a ticket home. She decided she had simply been homesick. Only for a moment, and only in a very abstract way, since home was ten types of shit and then ten more. But it had been an emotion profound enough to want to make contact, and now it left her feeling even more bereft than before. Despite having been to the most remote and inhospitable corners of Peru on everything from foot to mule, it was the first stirring of loneliness she’d felt in the whole three months of travelling.
Esther sighed and turned back into the room. The formation team of drinkers were now all looking her way. The men, although similar in posture, were varied in nationality. A handful were obviously Peruvian, their faces from the unchanged gene pool that could be seen quite clearly on thousand-year-old Inca, Aztec and Meso-American sculpture. Stevedores by the look of their coveralls, and not friendly.
There was a smattering of Filipinos and Chinese, some with epaulettes on stained nylon shirts that at least meant they were merchant crew and not dangerous. Only one face looked western, but it was such a familiar mess of mildly intoxicated self-pity mixed with latent anger that she looked away quickly in case she somehow ignited it. The barman was staring at her with naked hostility, but it was another kind of look in the assembled male company’s eyes that was making her uncomfortable. Esther wished she wasn’t wearing shorts. One of the Peruvians taking a very long look at her tanned, muscular legs said something that made his hunched companions snigger like schoolboys, and a flicker of indignant rage began to grow in Esther’s belly. It was important to leave, so she lifted her pack and made for the door.
‘He’s pissed off on account you didn’t buy a drink.’
It was an American voice coming from the western face. Esther stopped and faced him, but he had already turned to the TV again, his back to her.
‘Who is?’ asked Esther in a voice smaller than she would have liked.
‘Prince Rameses the third. Who d’you figure?’
Esther stared at the back of his head until her silence made him turn again. He spoke without taking the cigarette from his mouth so that it swayed like a conductor’s baton with every word.
‘The barman, honey, that’s who.’
‘I guessed they don’t serve women in here.’
He took the cigarette from his mouth, blew a cloud of smoke and squinted at her. ‘They don’t. Only liquor.’
Most of the men had joined this objectionable man in turning back to the TV, maybe thinking western man to western woman was a cultural bond too strong to break or maybe because they were simply bored with the task of making her uncomfortable.
Only a very drunk Filipino and a dull-eyed stevedore continued to stare. She was grateful for the shift in attention and it emboldened her.
‘Uh-huh? Well maybe you can explain to him it’s a shade up-market for me. Guess I’m not dressed smart enough.’
The man looked at her closely and this time it was with something approaching sympathy. Maybe he heard the slight break in her voice. Maybe he’d listened to her fruitless call home. Maybe neither of these. But it softened his face and the tiny glimmer of warmth in his bleary eyes relaxed a part of Esther that was gearing up for a fight.
‘Shame. Looks like you could use a drink.’
He said it softly, almost as though he were talking to himself, and since the tone lacked any kind of lascivious or suggestive undercurrent, the words being nothing more than an acutely accurate observation, Esther inexplicably felt a lump of emotion welling at the back of her throat.
For no apparent reason, she wanted to cry, and at the same time, yes, her mouth was already moistening at the realization that a beer would be just about the most welcome thing in the world right now. She gulped back her curiously unwelcome emotion.
‘They serve anything apart from paint stripper?’
The man smiled, then turned to the sullen barman and said something quietly. Reluctantly the man bent and Esther heard the unmistakable rubber thud of a concealed ice-box door being closed. A bottle of beer was placed on the wooden board, the cold glass misting in the heat.
Esther looked from the bottle to the American and back again, wrestling with the folly of continuing this uneasy relationship.
What was she afraid of? In the last three months she had travelled and slept under the stars with a band of near-silent alpaca shepherds, walked alone for weeks in the mountains, and resisted the advances of two nightmarish Australian archaeologists.
She had stood on the edge of the world, as awed and terrified by the green desert of jungle that stretched eastwards to seeming infinity as the Incas who had halted the progress of their empire at almost the same spot had been. A dipso American merchant seaman and a few ground-down working men were not going to cause her trouble, even if they wanted to, which judging by their renewed attention to the Brazilian game-show host now hooking his arm round what looked like a Vegas showgirl, was not high in their priorities.
She walked forward, touched the bottle lightly with her fingers and gave the barman a look that enquired how much she owed him.
‘On me,’ said her self-appointed host.
Before she could protest and pretend that she would consider it improper, the man behaved outstandingly properly and offered his right hand as though she were a visiting college inspector and he the principal.
‘Matthew Cotton. Enriched to hear my native tongue.’
Esther studied him for a beat then took the hand. ‘Esther Mulholland.’ She removed her hand and touched the bottle again. ‘Thanks.’
The beer was delicious. She took two long swallows, closing her eyes as the freezing, bitter liquid fizzed at the back of her dry throat.
‘They write up Pedro’s joint in some back-packers’ guide, or did you just get lost?’
Esther wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. ‘The guys at the dock gate said this was the only phone.’
Matthew Cotton nodded through another cloud of smoke. ‘Yeah. Guess it is.’
‘Nice,’ said Esther, gesturing to the room in general with her bottle.
‘It’s also the only bar.’
Esther took another swallow, watching him as he shrugged to qualify his statement. ‘You off a boat?’