“God!” said the kid.
Rio went to the bar, had a small rum straight and left the Cafe El Americano.
The boy who looked like Martin sat, half sleeping, on the sidewalk where there was shade. He still clutched his little whip and Rio noticed that the dried portion of the spider was still fastened to it. When the child saw Rio he jumped up.
“At last, sir mate, are you ready to go to the house of my sister?”
It was mid-afternoon and as hot as a volcano. Rio wanted to find the coolest place he could and take a nap; but he looked at the youngster and said yes.
The boy piloted him through a small market. The siesta hour was over and the stalls were being reopened. The air was heavy with the odor of pawpaw and fish; heavier still with the heat. The cloying scent of khus-khus arose from one section of the market as an ageless woman, more Indian than Spanish, smiled between her shoulders and bobbed in front of Rio, one arm around a bundle of the grass. Rio, enjoying its fragrance, handed her a coin. In the stalls much of the fruit was so thickly covered with flies it was impossible to tell its original colors. The vendors, mostly Spanish, seemed indifferent to sales and followed Rio apathetically. Once, he stopped to admire a woven mat, then walked on laughing at the obscene pattern.
Alongside him the child waved his whip at the flies. At the next corner he stole a piece of dried fish. They passed the square gray box which was the solitary bank, the stucco houses with their virulent colors well moderated by the prodigality of vines, went on to the outskirts of town and into the Street of Curtains.
There was no sidewalk. They walked unhurriedly along the dusty road. Everywhere, the heat fell like individual hammers. It lay in a transparent film between the rows of houses and gathered in blue puddles across their path. It was too early for the girls to work and everything was quiet except for a wind from the harbor which disturbed the curtains that formed the entire front wall of each house. Once a small brown arm reached out languidly, and once they heard a giggle and a soft whistle.
“I like this Street, sir mate,” said the boy. “Everyone gets happy here by ten o’clock every night. Believe me, sir, they get fine and drunk here. Last night a girl smoked weeds and ran nakedly down the Street. She screamed beautifully and nakedly. And a seaman from the Swamp Rat wouldn’t pay El Gaucho.” The boy laughed.