"James Tiptree Jr - Beyond the Dead Reef" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiptree James Jr)

"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 crabтАФunaskedтАФwe 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
placesтАФlike 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 gentesтАФa really good guy. Un poco de dificultadesтАФ" he made an almost