ibiza part four

        A red eye glowed in the far darkness. The road bent toward the spectral surf. Kit could make out a bonfire with a half dozen bacchanalians orbiting it in silhouette, dancing like werewolves.
        "How is your Spanish, Senor Kit?"
        "You should ask, amigo. Evidently I can order a drink from the bar. In New World argot."
        "El Norte does not lisp."
        "Try not to."
        Suddenly Ramon ground the Morris Minor to a halt. A naked woman with jet black hair streaming like corkscrew eels slapped the front fender.
        "Hola, Ramon!" She shouted, waving. Her coppertone boobs and bread-basket bobbled and quaked.
        A tall gangly gypsy with shoulder-length hair joined her. His long penis hung like a radiator hose with a foreskin. He reached through the driver's window and clasped Ramon's hand with some kind of secret grip.
        Speaking in English like a BBC sportscaster, the gypsy said, "Ah, you brought a new friend."
        "Senor Kit, allow me to introduce Cochise."
        "Howdy, Cochise."
        Yessir, Kit thought. This is gonna be all right.


                                                                                         *


        Great clouds of cannabis roared up like smoke signals.
        Ramon picked up Cochise's guitar and handed it to him. "Come, Gitano. Play something with passion."
        The gypsy tied a scarf around his head. In the firelight he looked just like a Mescalero Apache.
        Men and women cavorted in leapfrog, barking with glee. Kit noted men coupling in the lee. He shucked his togs and, striding forth, he felt the expanding bubble of his mind burst.
        "Senor?" The woman was daubing her body with greasy ash. Her moonbelly moved closer.
        "How are you called?" He asked in Calle Ocho.
        "Veronica."
        She offered a toke.
        "Gracias."
        "Esta nada."
        As her warm hand closed gently around his cock he thought: truly, this is the mother of all nada.


                                                                                            *


           Initiates in animal skins formed the inner ring around the bonfire. Disguised in a horned mask the hierophant began his shamanic dance, and soon worked himself into a frenzy. Crosslegged, Kit sat with acolytes in the outer ring. Somewhere in time he had been plied with a local poison called Yerba. The moon shrieked like a falcon, and, looking up, Kit saw that it had grown magnificent pinions and was now swooping toward earth.
             In a different timezone he found himself counting foreskins.
             "What kind of beast are you?" Cochise asked.
             "Call me Schroedinger's Cat."
             The hierophant ascended into ecstasy and began to chant. Adoni. Or Adonis. Or maybe both.
              Kit tingled all over, body hair electric. He was certain that behind the horned mask he would find Ramon, son of goatherds. Pan was raving now. Mad as a hatter.


                                                                                      *


                 At sundown the following day the prodigal returned to the bungalow, only to find it deserted. A chilly unseasonable wind blew from the Levant. Shutters clapped and foliage thrashed. Well enough. He expected Cassandra to come pedaling up soon, her rucksack clinking with wine.
                  Hours passed.
                  The cupboard was bare, save for a sack of musli and a Valencia orange.
                  On his desk he found a note of farewell and enough money to get him to Paris.
                  His red painted Roman auger had spoken, and, for the first time in his wayward life, Kit Pico was lonely.