fastidiously and put his phone away.
“I guess you want to know who was that on the phone,” he said.
“No.”
“It was my wife.”
“Of course it was your wife.”
He was silent for a moment. He drank from his cup and looked around with some satisfaction, savoring his deception. Then he pulled a crumpled McDonald’s bag from his pocket and held it out for me to inspect.
“I’ll bet you I can throw this thing into the trash can,” he said. He pointed to the trash can, which was close, not more than ten feet.
“I’ll bet you a hundred and fifty dollars you can’t.”
He was unnerved by this response, which had surprised me as well. “Let’s say twenty.”
“Deal.”
He missed, but then he fished out his wallet and paid me the money.
“Try again,” I said, touched by his honesty. “Double or nothing.”
“I can’t. I have a gambling problem.”
“Then I’ll bet you this twenty that I can do it.”
“Deal.”
The trash can seemed so close that I could almost reach out and drop the bag in. He called me a ringer. Again he paid what was owed.
“The name’s Tom Rath,” he said.
“Is it? I think that’s a name out of literature somewhere. Isn’t it the man in the gray flannel suit?”
“It’s my alias that I use for traveling.”
“It sounds made-up. What do you do for a living, Tom Rath?”
“I own an advertising agency in St. Petersburg.”
“In Russia!”
“In Florida. Pinellas County. I also have a boat. The Tampa Bay area is home to many attractions and destinations.”
Azar asked the ancient mariner if he had known Christopher Columbus. I thought he was baiting him a little. It was like asking a tourist in D.C. if he’d met the president, and either he says no, in which case fine, or he says yes, in which case you know he’s a madman.
“Of course I knew him,” said the ancient mariner. “I sailed with him in the Dirty Mary . We called her the Dirty Mary . I was right there on deck when we slid into that coral sea and discovered the Lucayan archipelago. It was a beautiful tropic morning at the beginning of the world. I say that I was on deck, but so was everyone else. We slept on deck. It was a different time. We didn’t use forks because they were against God, for instance. They were condemned by the Inquisition. If God wanted us to use forks, why would he have given us fingers?”
Azar winked at me. I had nothing to contribute. The ancient mariner talked and talked.
“His name was not Columbus. Another thing I should explain is why I sailed with him in the first place, because after all it was a crazy thing to do. It happened like this. I’d just returned from the Canary Islands. We had heavy seas the whole way, all the wrong winds, and three men in succession were taken by a sea snake as each went to pee into the ocean one fiery dawn. When I got back to Triana, I told myself I’d never go to sea again. I wanted to start a new life as a converso, a new Christian, and live out my days in a pious and retiring manner. No more canary wine, no more gambling, no more waterfront brothels. Truly I felt I’d turned a corner and put the mistakes of youth behind me. But then, to celebrate my resolution, I agreed to sip a little wine with a shipmate. We drank it from the skin like calves at the teat, and after that there was nothing, a splash of wild color, cartoon faces, a house of negotiable affection, a whore with breasts like watermelons and teeth like artillery shells, vomit sick, vomit sick, and a week later I knew I had to get away, I had to flee to the ends of the earth, and I went looking for a ship.”
“So you went to the New World,” I said, trying to be encouraging.
“There wasn’t any New World. There was only one ocean, and India lay just over the horizon in the west, and the only land between Seville and the out-islands of the China Sea was an island called Antilia, where seven kings lived in seven golden cities. I know because I saw it.
“I guess you want to know who was that on the phone,” he said.
“No.”
“It was my wife.”
“Of course it was your wife.”
He was silent for a moment. He drank from his cup and looked around with some satisfaction, savoring his deception. Then he pulled a crumpled McDonald’s bag from his pocket and held it out for me to inspect.
“I’ll bet you I can throw this thing into the trash can,” he said. He pointed to the trash can, which was close, not more than ten feet.
“I’ll bet you a hundred and fifty dollars you can’t.”
He was unnerved by this response, which had surprised me as well. “Let’s say twenty.”
“Deal.”
He missed, but then he fished out his wallet and paid me the money.
“Try again,” I said, touched by his honesty. “Double or nothing.”
“I can’t. I have a gambling problem.”
“Then I’ll bet you this twenty that I can do it.”
“Deal.”
The trash can seemed so close that I could almost reach out and drop the bag in. He called me a ringer. Again he paid what was owed.
“The name’s Tom Rath,” he said.
“Is it? I think that’s a name out of literature somewhere. Isn’t it the man in the gray flannel suit?”
“It’s my alias that I use for traveling.”
“It sounds made-up. What do you do for a living, Tom Rath?”
“I own an advertising agency in St. Petersburg.”
“In Russia!”
“In Florida. Pinellas County. I also have a boat. The Tampa Bay area is home to many attractions and destinations.”
Azar asked the ancient mariner if he had known Christopher Columbus. I thought he was baiting him a little. It was like asking a tourist in D.C. if he’d met the president, and either he says no, in which case fine, or he says yes, in which case you know he’s a madman.
“Of course I knew him,” said the ancient mariner. “I sailed with him in the Dirty Mary . We called her the Dirty Mary . I was right there on deck when we slid into that coral sea and discovered the Lucayan archipelago. It was a beautiful tropic morning at the beginning of the world. I say that I was on deck, but so was everyone else. We slept on deck. It was a different time. We didn’t use forks because they were against God, for instance. They were condemned by the Inquisition. If God wanted us to use forks, why would he have given us fingers?”
Azar winked at me. I had nothing to contribute. The ancient mariner talked and talked.
“His name was not Columbus. Another thing I should explain is why I sailed with him in the first place, because after all it was a crazy thing to do. It happened like this. I’d just returned from the Canary Islands. We had heavy seas the whole way, all the wrong winds, and three men in succession were taken by a sea snake as each went to pee into the ocean one fiery dawn. When I got back to Triana, I told myself I’d never go to sea again. I wanted to start a new life as a converso, a new Christian, and live out my days in a pious and retiring manner. No more canary wine, no more gambling, no more waterfront brothels. Truly I felt I’d turned a corner and put the mistakes of youth behind me. But then, to celebrate my resolution, I agreed to sip a little wine with a shipmate. We drank it from the skin like calves at the teat, and after that there was nothing, a splash of wild color, cartoon faces, a house of negotiable affection, a whore with breasts like watermelons and teeth like artillery shells, vomit sick, vomit sick, and a week later I knew I had to get away, I had to flee to the ends of the earth, and I went looking for a ship.”
“So you went to the New World,” I said, trying to be encouraging.
“There wasn’t any New World. There was only one ocean, and India lay just over the horizon in the west, and the only land between Seville and the out-islands of the China Sea was an island called Antilia, where seven kings lived in seven golden cities. I know because I saw it.
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