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Authors: Robert Sheckley
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cowhides out there, and ugly little embroidered purses from India. And feathers; you had bales of feathers.”
“Nothing strange about that. I was selling that stuff to hippie merchants, for the weekly bazaar.”
“You had all sorts of things. And glass beads—my God but you had glass beads. Let me see, what else was there?”
Kate struck a pose of thinking. She was the most beautiful woman Hob had ever known, and the most exasperating. It was always like this when he needed a simple straight answer to a question, she was off in never-never land with her memories.
“Remember Phillipe?” she asked. “You gave him all your hash pipes.”
“Yes, I remember him. He was going to write something about different styles in smoking paraphernelia. But Kate, about the glass bottles …”
“I’m thinking,” Kate said. She looked at him squarely. “I’m thinking how good we were together back in the old days, Hob.”
Hob felt his heart give a sort of convulsive leap of joy, then settle back to its old business of keeping his humdrum life going. They had been good once for about two weeks, bad for about two years; that was the story of Hob and Kate in a nutshell filled with bile.
“Yes, we were good, weren’t we?” Hob said. “Too bad Pieter Sommers came along.”
“Pieter? You’re blaming our breakup on Pieter?”
“I did find you in bed with him.”
“Yes, but that was after I found out about your little affair with Soraya.”
“Well, what difference did it make? That was the year we were trying our open marriage, remember?”
“The open marriage was only theoretical. We never definitely agreed on it.”
Even in a T-shirt, Hob felt hot under the collar. There were memories here he’d forgotten. He didn’t want to stir them up. The breakup had been her fault—and if it hadn’t, he didn’t want to know.
“Theoretical?” Kate said, with a short barking laugh he suddenly remembered all too well. “I suppose Annabelle was theoretical as well?”
“Annabelle? But, Kate, I never had anything with her!”
“That’s not what you told me at the time!”
“I was trying to make you jealous.”
“Well, you didn’t succeed. And anyhow, you’ll get your chance all over again. She’s living on the island again.”
“I don’t care where she’s living! I never had anything to do with her nor wanted to.”
“You always could lie,” Kate said. “You and she will have a chance to go over old times now, won’t you?”
“What are you talking about? I have no intention of seeing Annabelle!”
“You’d better. She’s the one I gave the bottles to.”
Hob turned to go, then stopped. “Do you know a man named Etienne Vargas?”
“I’ve met him once or twice at the beach. Nice boy.”
“Do you happen to know where he’s staying? I hear his father has a finca on the island.”
“So I’ve heard. But I don’t think Etienne is staying there. He’s staying with Peter Two, I think.”
3
Peter Two was Ibiza’s second best-known dealer. Peter was a specialist in hashish and a fanatic about quality. He was said to have his own farm in Morocco, where he personally supervised the conversion of marijuana leaf into hashish.
The fact that there was a Peter Two implied that there was a Peter One. The island was divided on the question of who Peter One might be, of if there were anybody of that name. It was believed that Peter Two had taken his name expecting that the police, when they got around to investigating the hashish situation on Ibiza, would look for Number One and leave Two alone. So far it had worked out. Peter Two was doing well and living handsomely.
Not every finca on Ibiza was traditional. Peter Two’s farm had been remodeled to give it overhanging roofs that curved up at the ends like a Japanese house out of Kurosawa. The oriental look was further accentuated by the long Tibetan flags set on high bamboo poles that fluttered bravely in the wind that usually
“Nothing strange about that. I was selling that stuff to hippie merchants, for the weekly bazaar.”
“You had all sorts of things. And glass beads—my God but you had glass beads. Let me see, what else was there?”
Kate struck a pose of thinking. She was the most beautiful woman Hob had ever known, and the most exasperating. It was always like this when he needed a simple straight answer to a question, she was off in never-never land with her memories.
“Remember Phillipe?” she asked. “You gave him all your hash pipes.”
“Yes, I remember him. He was going to write something about different styles in smoking paraphernelia. But Kate, about the glass bottles …”
“I’m thinking,” Kate said. She looked at him squarely. “I’m thinking how good we were together back in the old days, Hob.”
Hob felt his heart give a sort of convulsive leap of joy, then settle back to its old business of keeping his humdrum life going. They had been good once for about two weeks, bad for about two years; that was the story of Hob and Kate in a nutshell filled with bile.
“Yes, we were good, weren’t we?” Hob said. “Too bad Pieter Sommers came along.”
“Pieter? You’re blaming our breakup on Pieter?”
“I did find you in bed with him.”
“Yes, but that was after I found out about your little affair with Soraya.”
“Well, what difference did it make? That was the year we were trying our open marriage, remember?”
“The open marriage was only theoretical. We never definitely agreed on it.”
Even in a T-shirt, Hob felt hot under the collar. There were memories here he’d forgotten. He didn’t want to stir them up. The breakup had been her fault—and if it hadn’t, he didn’t want to know.
“Theoretical?” Kate said, with a short barking laugh he suddenly remembered all too well. “I suppose Annabelle was theoretical as well?”
“Annabelle? But, Kate, I never had anything with her!”
“That’s not what you told me at the time!”
“I was trying to make you jealous.”
“Well, you didn’t succeed. And anyhow, you’ll get your chance all over again. She’s living on the island again.”
“I don’t care where she’s living! I never had anything to do with her nor wanted to.”
“You always could lie,” Kate said. “You and she will have a chance to go over old times now, won’t you?”
“What are you talking about? I have no intention of seeing Annabelle!”
“You’d better. She’s the one I gave the bottles to.”
Hob turned to go, then stopped. “Do you know a man named Etienne Vargas?”
“I’ve met him once or twice at the beach. Nice boy.”
“Do you happen to know where he’s staying? I hear his father has a finca on the island.”
“So I’ve heard. But I don’t think Etienne is staying there. He’s staying with Peter Two, I think.”
3
Peter Two was Ibiza’s second best-known dealer. Peter was a specialist in hashish and a fanatic about quality. He was said to have his own farm in Morocco, where he personally supervised the conversion of marijuana leaf into hashish.
The fact that there was a Peter Two implied that there was a Peter One. The island was divided on the question of who Peter One might be, of if there were anybody of that name. It was believed that Peter Two had taken his name expecting that the police, when they got around to investigating the hashish situation on Ibiza, would look for Number One and leave Two alone. So far it had worked out. Peter Two was doing well and living handsomely.
Not every finca on Ibiza was traditional. Peter Two’s farm had been remodeled to give it overhanging roofs that curved up at the ends like a Japanese house out of Kurosawa. The oriental look was further accentuated by the long Tibetan flags set on high bamboo poles that fluttered bravely in the wind that usually
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