Sunsets of Tulum. Mr Raymond Avery Bartlett
to the air.
“To friends you meet on the road!” Lance said loudly, and they all drank.
Midway through pouring another round he stopped and held up a hand.
“Haflinger, I think I hear Marisol.”
Returns of the Evening
Marisol was a short, curvaceous woman with lustrous, shoulder-length hair. Her neckline cut deeply downward to a silver sun medallion that floated atop her ample bosom like a piece of Styrofoam on the open sea. Reed guessed she was about his age, mid-thirties or so. She wore no makeup or lipstick, but her face was naturally striking, with long eyelashes that made her eyes appear dark and flirtatious. As he approached, she looked up at him and smiled.
“Here for a room?”
“Actually, no.” He held up the volume in his hands. “I just came to return a book. I think a girl staying here left it at my hotel. Dark brown hair, slender, about this tall?”
She nodded and looked at the book quickly. “Nobody can read that book anymore. It’s ruined.” She pointed to a five-gallon bucket filled with paper and soda cans. “Drop it in the basura there. The trash.”
“I’d rather…give it to her in person.”
“Sorry. I don’t allow guests inside the courtyard. If you don’t want to leave the book, you’ll just have to spend a night here. But we don’t bite.” She changed her tone. “Unless you want us to.”
“This place is the fucking best!” called out Lance, poking his head out the dorm doorway. “The best! Marisol, you’re awesome. The best.”
“If nothing else, it appears to come well-recommended,” Reed said.
Marisol winked. “Only the finest stay here.”
“And how much does it cost to become ‘one of the finest’?”
“Sixteen dollars.”
He wished he knew when the last bus left in the evening. He wondered what Laurel was doing. Did she miss him yet? At all? Images of scorpions and spiders went through his mind. Didn’t all places like this have bedbugs? But at the same time he didn’t want to argue with the price. Fourteen dollars was a sandwich and a cup of coffee back in Boston. Here it was a whole night’s roof over one’s head.
Marisol tapped her fingers on the desk. “Or one hundred sixty pesos. Money is money. All that matters is that you give and I receive.”
“Here,” Reed said, placing the cash into Marisol’s hands.
“She’s a pretty girl,” Marisol said, catching sight of the wallet, where a photo of Laurel was encased in plastic along with several credit cards. “Your girlfriend?”
“My wife.”
“She’s not here with you? ¡Qué lástima!”
He shrugged. “Long story.”
Marisol smiled. “Oooh, I am invading your privacy, I can tell. You will have to tell me all about it later. For now, we have a decision to make: dorm or a single?”
“What’s the difference?”
“If you choose a dorm,” Marisol pointed to the room where Lance and Ambrose were, “they’d be your roommates. It’s good if you’re looking for camaraderie, bad if you’re looking for…” she paused. “Privacy.”
“I’m a light sleeper.” He didn’t care, really, since he wouldn’t be staying. But he liked the idea of having a door with a lock on it. Some place that, if only for a few hours, he could call his own.
“A single, then. But be sure you get good and drunk first, because even the casitas have pretty thin walls. A light sleeper might have problems,” she said, making quotation marks around “light sleeper” with her fingers. Then Marisol scribbled down some notes and tore off a receipt, which she handed to him along with a key.
“Let me show you your room.”
She led him to the bungalow near the back of the garden, close to the row of hammocks. It was smaller than it looked from a distance, with round walls and a palm-thatched roof that was open around the edges. At one point someone had pressed mosquito netting into the gaps but it was torn in places, and on one whole side it had fallen away, hanging vertically like black gauze on a ruined veil, offering any biting insects free entry inside. Reed was glad he would be back in the Grand Medallion by nightfall.
Still, there was something touching about the care with which someone had tried to spiff it up. A tiny deck had been made with hardwood branches, stained a dark color that went nicely with the pastel peach walls. A hammock hung across the doorway, and Marisol slipped under it with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. Reed followed, feeling guilty for getting such an involved tour when he was only going to be there a few hours.
“Here,” Marisol said, spreading her arms. “Your private piece of paradise.”
The bed, a mattress-size area of raised cement with a thin futon and two almond-colored sheets, took up most of the walking area. A shelf ran along the edge of the wall above the headboard, and a small writing desk and chair were on the other side. From the center of the room a large white piece of gauze hung suspended like a giant spider web. A mosquito net. Looking up at the roof, he realized it was completely open—the palm fronds would protect from downpours, but the flimsy netting he’d seen outside would not prevent bugs from flying up and in.
“There’s a lock on the door, but we can keep valuables at the desk if you have any. Nobody ever really steals anything here. But we take no responsibility.”
“I didn’t bring anything with me. I didn’t expect to stay here. It’s all at the other hotel. In Cancún.”
“Oh, Cancún? Which hotel?”
“The Grand Medallion.”
She giggled. “Oh, well then, I should have upped the rate just for you. If you like I can call and have them forward your things here.”
“I can deal without them for a few hours.”
“Suit yourself.”
Nodding, the woman deftly undid one end of the hammock and tied it up so that it was no longer blocking the doorway. “Need anything, just ring the bell if I’m not there. The name is Marisol. It means ‘sea and sun’ in English.”
“How could I forget? It’s beautiful.”
She laughed.
“Why is your English so good?” Reed asked, knowing it was rude but too curious to stay silent.
“Oh, I grew up in San Diego. Then my family got deported, and we came back here.”
“Oh,” Reed said. “I’m sorry.”
“Why? It’s not your fault.” She turned to go.
“Sorry, one other thing,” Reed said. “Do you have any wrapping paper?”
“What? You’re already thinking about Christmas?” She paused. “Maybe I have some. I’ll go look.”
Laughing at him, the proprietress made her way back across the courtyard, looking for wrapping paper. A few minutes later she’d brought him a large sheet of blue shimmery paper that featured cartoon monkeys shouting “Feliz Navidad.”
“It will have to do,” she said, handing him the wrapping and a roll of tape.
When she had gone, Reed closed the door and then sat down on the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable, the cement underneath providing firm, cool support, the worn mattress had just enough cushioning and give. He placed the warped Murakami book into the paper and folded it as best he could, sealing it with tape. He set it next to the pillow and stretched out, letting his legs hang off