173 The pearl of the antilles? 



At length we made the journey downgrade to the town, where 

 Aurencio and his brother left us, and we then prepared for bed. 

 Through the local marinero we had arranged with a fishing-boat 

 captain, who was being hired for the occasion, to meet us on the 

 beach at four o'clock, and it was high time we turned in. However, 

 el capitdn had found his chums again and they were having a great 

 old time of it in the bar. Arturo and I borrowed an alarm clock 

 from Senor Sixto and, setting it for three-thirty, went to our room. 

 In my experience all small Cuban towns take a long time to close 

 down for the night, and Niquero was no exception. We turned 

 out our light and lay there in the stuffy, windowless cubicle, trying 

 to sleep. The shouts and bursts of song from the bar seemed al- 

 most in the next room, and, indeed, there were only half walls, 

 the space beneath the ceiling being open all around to permit the 

 hot, sticky air to circulate. Unfortunately, the noises circulated 

 also, the inmates of other rooms moving about, talking, coughing, 

 and raising the devil in general. Smoke from strong Cuban ciga- 

 rettes and cigars drifted in clouds against the ceiling. Automobiles 

 tore through the streets outside, racing their engines and sounding 

 their horns as if it were high noon instead of midnight. Indeed, 

 at high noon all of these carousers had been sound asleep, which 

 probably accounted for their unrestrained gaiety at this ungodly 

 hour. 



When the alarm clock went off before dawn, I found the bare 

 light bulb, turned it on, and sat for a moment, blinded by the 

 glare and listening to the comparative quiet of the slumbering 

 Sixto. The chorus of snores that I heard was impressive in its 

 range and variety, and, after the uproar of the night before, rela- 

 tively tranquil. Arturo roused himself with difficulty, but as soon 

 as he was out of bed he went down the hall to get the captain on 

 his feet. After an interval, they appeared in the blackness of the 

 hall and beckoned me silently to follow them outside. It seemed 

 that we were conspirators again! 



The marinero lived with his wife, one parrot, and a small radio 

 in a thatch-roofed house near the beach. We found him standing 

 in the doorway in his navy uniform, a .45 automatic in a holster 

 on his hip, and a flashlight in one hand. Without words we trudged 



