Homr stood still, smelling the whiff of tobacco that followed the waiter.  Argus regarded Homr with cautioun.  “He knew about you for some time, because, you see, your violin once belonged to him.”

“My violin? I’ve had it since I was a small child.”

“Many years ago, he donated it to charity.  Turns out he attached something to it, inside.”

“Attached something?”  Homr’s fingers scooted anxiously along the edge of the sound holes of his violin. 

Argus bent to watch, scrutinizing the violin.  “I myself have looked for it, but couldn’t find anything.  He insists it’s still there, that he hid it well.”

“You never told me.  Is the violin still mine, or is he taking it back?”

  “It’s for you, Homr.”  Swishmitzen’s voice emerged from the conversational din and settled like an open parachute over them.  Homr felt a pressure at his ears, as if everything but the host’s voice was squeezed out.  He regarded the tall, large-headed man curiously, instinctively drawn to his joyful demeanor.  “What is it?”

“A bookmark.”  Homr waited for more.  Swishmitzen set down his glass tumbler of melting ice.  The same waiter breezed by and picked it up.  “Have you ever swum?”

Homr hesitated, wondering if incredibly good fortune might weigh upon his answer.  He saw that Argus had gone for the crab salad, and felt momentarily desperate and irrationally inadequate.  “Well, I’ve waded in the park fountain, sir.”

“That pigeon’s bath?  Brave of you.  With my new invention, it won’t matter if you can swim. 

“Oh?”  Homr breathed a sigh of relief.  For what, he didn’t know. 

“That’s right.  In my underwater safe, swimming is a snap.  Come right away, and bring your violin.”  Swishmitzen strode towards the nearest of three archways that led out of the room.  He did not look back.

Homr looked once more at Argus, who was trying to pick up broiled asparagus with stiff silver tongs.  He backed up a few steps, turned, and followed Swishmitzen.

* * *

I don’t know how the violin capsized.  It was just before the moon set that the waves had gotten bigger and bigger until my bow was of no help in steering or paddling.  Finally, I crawled over and tied Argus to the neck, gripped his hand in mine, and gave us up to mercies of the midnight blue rolls and swells.

Now the pink of sunrise queued up in the east, but not softly.  The light was garish and reflected metallic on the surface of the water as I struggled to turn the violin back over.  If I couldn’t get completely inside, I could at least flop over the top and paddle with the shrinking swells toward the nearest shore.  In the hazy distance were several islands.  But whenever I got a good grip, a wave would send the violin spinning out of control like a canoe I had once seen in a moving picture.  Argus, still secured with the rope, bobbed at half speed, fanning out in a little arc around me.  Meanwhile, the shadow of a huge shark glided repeatedly beneath us, wiggling ominously.  What kept me from panicking was that it was only a shadow, and not an actual shark.  I’m not sure how it was done, but it was clever.  I drew a quick and vague connection to Plato’s Republic, but I couldn’t concentrate long enough to ponder it.  I’d have to ask Swishmitzen about it, if I ever saw him again. 

Finally, I righted the violin and began sorting out the things I had saved from Swishmitzen.  I draped my white concert shirt over Argus’s shoulders.  The sun began to warm me.  The 18k gold bangles, and rings, cool to the touch and flecked with drops of water, I slipped onto the fingers and wrists of Argus.  I lay down and ate my orange.  While I browned in the heat, Argus sat there stiffly with everything drying on him.  He was a little leathery but not rotting—preserved by the salt, I guessed.  The morning sunlight matured into heat…

When Swishmitzen mentioned an underwater safe, I had imagined it was something he had invented for a magician to use on stage.  What he had actually led me to was a huge steel vault.  Before he opened the door, he stopped at a series of shelves and pulled a book out by it’s spine.  The door of the safe swung open, and there was a wall of water, behaving just like a wall. He held out his hand to help me step inside. 

  Pretty tile work, hibiscus bushes. Those are the first things I noticed about the sun-dappled little village as I sloshed to shore.  Pink and green paper streamers wove around trunks of coconut trees.  I could smell an artificial sweetness coming from many of the windows and porches.  Like bottles of coffee flavouring.  I never understood how anyone could have a taste for that stuff. 

A few people came close when they saw me, and a café owner wearing a bright headscarf and large gold earrings came and wrapped a fluffy yellow towel around me.  I could feel more eyes watching, from behind siesta shutters.  I must have looked a mess.  I had lost my comb. 

What would happen to Argus? I asked.  He was a good friend, and I didn’t want him locked up in some cold morgue.  Could we just let him stretch out on one of the beach chairs?  The cafe owner said that was fine.  She wore a long pale blue dress and looked very nice in it.  She introduced herself. Her name was Veta. 

She served me fried octopus in a basket lined with wax paper.  The basket slid nicely across the white tile counter.  There were no stools so I stood and ate.  Her gift of food seemed to entitle her to ask me a few curious questions, which I answered as best I could while I spread out my surviving treasures, piece by precious piece.

Where had I come from?  What was I doing with a mummy?  I explained that Argus was only deceased but a few days, I was sure.  Although, I was finding it difficult to gauge time again I noticed.  On the boat, I had an acute sense of every hour and when it passed, although I had now way to check.  It was just something I could feel in my chest.  Was I boring her? 

Not at all, she said.  Even now, she said, someone was borrowing a printing press in the next town over to issue a special edition of the paper featuring my story.  Would I please mention to the reporter that I had my recovery meal at Fancy’s Place?  I was welcome to sleep in the hammock out back. 

She waited for me to respond to all of this.  I suddenly felt very thirsty.  How much salt had she put on the fried octopus?  Enough to serve eight, I think. 

I said I needed to learn how far off course I had gone, and then I would patch together my trip as best I could.  This had to happen soon, especially because of my now stiff friend.  We both watched him, unmoving in the shade.  For a moment I felt very much at fault and I wanted to go shed a few tears near him. 

As if she had just remembered, she said there was to be a small parade.  That could explain the streams on the palm trees. I had to stay at least for the parade, she said.  No, my clothes were a mess.  I was in no shape to be presented to anyone, I said with enough scorn to conceal my excitement.  But I would seek out a barber, right after my nap.  I wondered if the barber would cut Argus’s hair too.  I had always heard that people’s hair grows after they pass on.

  Over the course of the evening I learned that everyone in the town was diabetic, which explained the sickly sweet smells. Newer residents were still weaning themselves from sweets entirely, using artificial flavorings.  Community guidelines state that no type of sweets should be consumed, said the café owner.  He had long sad eyebrows, which got sadder as he told me this..  But with tomorrow’s festivities requiring picnic treats, they were permitted to make sweets.  She had been so anticipating making a chocolate cake. 

So then, I wasn’t the original reason for tomorrow’s parade and festivities.  No, she said, but assured me I was a welcome addition.  It felt, she said, as if I was meant to be a part of it along.