Beyond the Dead Reef
by James Tiptree, Jr
My informant was, of course, spectacularly unreliable.
The only character reference I have for him comes from the intangible nuances of a small restaurant-owner's remarks, and the only confirmation of his tale lies in the fact that an illiterate fishing-guide appears to believe it. If I were to recount all the reasons why no sane mind should take it seriously, we could never begin. So I will only report the fact that today I found myself shuddering with terror when a perfectly innocent sheet of seaworn plastic came slithering over my snorkeling-reef, as dozens have done for years-and get on with the story.
I met him one evening this December at the Cozumel Buzo, on my first annual supply trip. As usual, the Buzo's outer rooms were jammed with tourist divers and their retinues and gear. That's standard. El Buzo means, roughly, The Diving, and the Buzo is their place. Marcial's big sign in the window reads 'DIWERS UELCOME! BRING YR FISH WE COK WITH CAR. FIRST DRINK FREE!'
Until he went in for the 'Divvers,' Marcial's had been a small quiet place where certain delicacies like stone- crab could be at least semi-legally obtained. Now he did a roaring trade in snappers and groupers cooked to order at outrageous fees, with a flourishing sideline in fresh fish sales to the neighborhood each morning.
The 'roaring' was quite literal. I threaded my way through a crush of burly giants and giantesses of all degrees of nakedness, hairiness, age, proficiency, and inebriation-all eager to share their experiences and plans in voices powered by scuba-deafened ears and Marcial's free drink, beneath which the sound-system could scarcely be heard at full blast. (Marcial's only real expense lay in first-drink liquor so strong that few could recall whether what they ultimately ate bore any resemblance to what they had given him to cook.) Only a handful were sitting down yet, and the amount of gear underfoot and on the walls would have stocked three sports shops. This was not mere exhibitionism; on an island chronically short of washers, valves, and other spare parts the diver who lets his gear out of his sight is apt to find it missing in some vital.
I paused to allow a young lady to complete her massage of the neck of a youth across the aisle who was deep in talk with three others, and had time to notice the extraordinary number of heavy spear-guns racked about. Oklahomans, I judged, or perhaps South Florida. But then I caught clipped New England from the center group. Too bad; the killing mania seems to be spreading yearly, and the armament growing ever more menacing and efficient. When I inspected their platters, however, I saw the usual array of lavishly garnished lobsters and common fish. At least they had not yet discovered what to eat.
The mermaiden blocking me completed her task-unthanked- and I continued on my way in the little inner sanctum Marcial keeps for his old clientele. As the heavy doors cut off the uproar, I saw that this room was full too-three tables of dark-suited Mexican businessmen and a decorous family of eight, all quietly intent on their plates. A lone customer sat at the small table by the kitchen door, leaving an empty seat and a child's chair. He was a tall, slightly balding Anglo some years younger than I, in a very decent sports jacket. I recalled having seen him about now and then on my banking and shopping trips to the island.
Marcial telegraphed me a go-ahead nod as he passed through laden with more drinks, so I approached.
'Mind if I join you?'
He looked up from his stone-crab and gave me a slow, owlish smile.
'Welcome. A diverse welcome,' he enunciated carefully. The accent was vaguely British, yet agreeable. I also perceived that he was extremely drunk, but in no common way.
'Thanks.'
As I sat down I saw that he was a diver too, but his gear was stowed so unobtrusively I hadn't noticed it. I tried to stack my own modest snorkel outfit neatly, pleased to note that, like me, he seemed to carry no spear-gun. He watched me attentively, blinking once or twice, and then returned to an exquisitely exact dissection of his stone-crab.
When Marcial brought my own platter of crab-unasked-we engaged in our ritual converse. Marcial's English is several orders of magnitude better than my Spanish, but he always does me the delicate courtesy of allowing me to use his tongue. How did I find my rented casita on the coco ranch this year? Fine. How goes the tourist business this year? Fine. I learn from Marcial: the slight pause before his answer in a certain tone, meant that in fact the tourist business was lousy so far, but would hopefully pick up; I used the same to convey that in fact my casa was in horrible shape but reparable. I tried to cheer him by saying that I thought the Buzo would do better than the general turismo, because the diving enthusiasm was spreading in the States. 'True,' he conceded. 'So long as they don't discover the other places-like Belize.' Here he flicked a glance at my companion, who gave his solemn blink. I remarked that my country's politics were in disastrous disarray, and he conceded the same for his; the Presidente and his pals had just made off with much of the nation's treasury. And I expressed the hope that Mexico's new oil would soon prove a great boon. 'Ah, but it will be a long time before it gets to the little people like us,' said Marcial, with so much more than his normal acerbity that I refrained from my usual joke about his having a Swiss bank account. The uproar from the outer rooms had risen several decibels, but just before Marcial had to leave he paused and said in a totally different voice, 'My grandson Antonito Vincente has four teeth!'
His emotion was so profound that I seized his free hand and shook it lightly, congratulating him in English. And then he was gone, taking on his 'Mexican waiter' persona quite visibly as he passed the inner doors.
As we resumed our attention to the succulence before us, my companion said in his low, careful voice, 'Nice chap, Marcial. He likes you.'
'It's mutual,' I told him between delicate mouthfuls. Stone-crab is not to be gulped. 'Perhaps because I'm old enough to respect the limits where friendship ends and the necessities of life take over.'
'I say, that's rather good,' my companion chuckled. 'Respect for the limits where friendship ends and the necessities of life take over, eh? Very few Yanks do, you know. At least the ones we see down here.'
His speech was almost unslurred, and there were no drinks before him on the table. We chatted idly a bit more. It was becoming apparent that we would finish simultaneously and be faced with the prospect of leaving together, which could be awkward, if he, like me, had no definite plans for the evening.
The dilemma was solved when my companion excused himself momentarily just as Marcial happened by.
I nodded to his empty chair. 'Is he one of your old customers, Sefior Marcial?'
As always Marcial understood the situation at once. 'One of the oldest,' he told me, and added low-voiced, 'muy buenes gentes-a really good guy. Un poco de dificultades-' he made an almost imperceptible gesture of drinking-'but controlado. And he has also negocios-I do not know all, but some are important for his country. -So you really like the crab?' he concluded in his normal voice.
'We are honored.'
My companion was emerging from the rather dubious regions that held the excusado.
Marcial's recommendation was good enough for me. Only one puzzle remained: what was his country? As we both refused dulce and coffee, I suggested that he might care to stroll down to the marina with me and watch the sunset.
'Good thought.'
We paid up Marcial's outrageous bills and made our way through the exterior Bedlam, carrying our gear. One of the customers was brandishing his spear-gun as he protested his bill. Marcial seemed to have lost all his English except the words 'Police,' and cooler heads were attempting to calm the irate one. 'All in a night's work,' my companion commented as we emerged into a blaze of golden light.
The marina to our left was a simple L-shaped muelle, or pier, still used by everything from dinghies to commercial fishermen and baby yachts. It will be a pity when and if the town decides to separate the sports tourist-trade from the more interesting working craft. As we walked out toward the pier in the last spectacular color of the tropic sunset over the mainland, the rigging lights of a cruise ship standing out in the channel came on, a fairyland illusion over the all-too-dreary reality.
'They'll be dumping and cleaning out their used bunkers tonight,' my companion said, slurring a trifle now. He had a congenial walking gait, long-strided but leisurely. I had the impression that his drunkenness had returned slightly; perhaps the fresh air. 'Damn crime.'
'I couldn't agree more,' I told him. 'I remember when we used to start snorkeling and scuba diving right off
