Jacques put off the errand till Monday, then, with the hours flying by and everything hanging in the balance, he drove to the Shirley Courts. He was well-known there, a respected Canadian engineer who always paid a week in advance and never caused the least trouble. A bell jingled on the door as Jacques went in, summoning Mr. Shirley to the counter that divided the small office from the lobby. “Mr. Jacson! Have you come back to stay with us?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Oh, too bad. We could give you your old room.”
“No, I’m here to see your son. I want to ask him a favor.”
“You want to ask Bobby for a favor?”
“Yes, I’m going for a climb and I’ve lost my ice ax. You just can’t find them here in Mexico, and I was hoping Bobby would loan me his.”
“Let me get him. He’s in his room.”
A moment later, the boy appeared in jeans and a plaid shirt. He was a sturdy fourteen-year-old with wide-set gray eyes and an earnest disposition. He smiled when he saw Jacques, who looked to be a rather ideal adult. “My piolet?” he asked.
“Yes, just for a day or two. I would offer to buy it from you, but I know you don’t want to sell. I could give you a deposit in case something happened.”
“No, that’s not necessary.” The boy retreated to the family’s living quarters, returning a moment later with the ax.
“These are so well balanced,” said Jacques, taking it in his hand. The polished oak handle was two feet long. The steel head was eight inches from the tip of the prong to the edge of the blade. He patted the side of the cold head against his palm. “You know, with one of these I used to shatter big blocks of ice in Europe.”
“Yes, you told me that. Where are you going?”
“Ajusco. If it’s a good climb perhaps you and I can go back.”
“That would be swell.”
Jacques took out his money clip and peeled off several hundred pesos. “Here, keep this in case something should happen.”
“But that’s far too much.”
“Don’t worry. You can give it back when I return the piolet.”
With the ax in hand, Jacques drove back to Reforma then out to Chapultepec Park, pulling over in an isolated area. He got out of the car with the ax and his raincoat, which he spread on the trunk of the car. The blade would fit easily within the folded coat, but the handle was too long. He turned the coat one way then another, holding it over his arm, experimenting, deciding that the lining of the coat needed something—a loop—to keep the ax from falling out.
Jacques left the park to drive back down Reforma toward the zocalo, veering off in the direction of the city market, where small artisan shops lined the surrounding streets. From a distance, the market had the squalid smell of rotting fruit, the deeper funk of raw meat, fish, live and freshly slaughtered poultry. Meat, chiles, and onions grilled over countless kerosene and charcoal fires. The sidewalks were thronged, the pavement littered with trash. He cruised along slowly in the Buick until he saw crude, newly made pine chairs stacked in a doorway. He pulled to the curb, paid an urchin to watch the car then walked back to the carpintero, carrying the ax beneath the raincoat. He would be remembered—a European, wearing a suit, driving a yellow car.
“Qué sería eso?” the carpenter asked when he saw the ax.
“Soy alpinista. Es para montar las montañas.” Using his thumbnail, he showed the carpenter where he wanted the handle cut.
“Pero no tendrá la misma fuerza.”
“Sí, pero suficiente.” Yes, but enough.
The shop smelled of sawdust and wood shavings. The carpenter sawed through the handle slowly and methodically, then dressed the new edges with a rasp and sanded down the raw cut. Jacques asked the whereabouts of a seamstress and walked half a block to a similar establishment, where three women sat at sewing machines. A woman with thick glasses and an apron listened to what he wanted, a loop of sturdy cord attached inside the coat just below the collar.
The woman’s eyes grew wider when he tested the contrivance by hanging the head of the ax in the loop, then hanging the coat over his right arm. “No, no, the cord is too short,” she fussed. “It doesn’t leave enough coat to drape over your arm.”
She snipped away the first cord and sewed in a longer piece. “Now, that’s perfect,” she said when he draped the coat over his right arm.
He paid the woman then turned away to light a cigarette, and strolled down the street until he came to a vendor of knives. He tried the switchblades before settling upon an ornamental looking ten-inch dagger with a curving blade. “Do you mind?” he asked the merchant, raising the hem of raincoat to see if it was wide enough for the knife to fit.
“Cabe?” the man asked. Does it fit?
“Perfectemente.”
“No caiga?” It won’t fall out?
“Ojalá que no!”