Chapter 16 -- "Welcome to Tonnalo"

staring up at the dark green, over sized (four or five times the average human) figure...
not feeling welcomed at all.

he found himself looking at the sculpted and cast monument too critically...nonplussedly...
not knowing for sure how he even came to this spot. A weed grown area in the ruined
courtyard, still green but plainly little-visited.

Hadn't he intended to go in a different direction?


The statue had its hands forward in what was supposed to be a greeting to all the island's
visitors. But, they were both upturned almost like shrugging, drying his nail polish, yearning
to catch some falling heavenly martyr, or, worse yet, waiting for yet another handout from
continents West or East.

It inspired no confidence. Nor, really any feeling at all, save diffidence.

The tourist began to reel with sudden, alternate views of the thing, as though floating
above and behind it's head.

Nauseated, he tried to focus instead on the dark olive, hard-to-read plaque closer to
his actual, standing level. The back of his head was throbbing fiercely.


the name on the plaque was BOTIN...as in "bot 'n' paid for" went the local joke.

BO-teen'---the guidebook made strains to emphasize.

He suddenly felt like vomiting. An apolitical vomit that doubtlessly would not be taken
that way were he observed by the wrong fanatic policeman or working class loyaliste.


he only wanted to feel better...and not become known, citywide, as in the caravan tour's final
station, as 'the tourist hit by luggage'.

But could not, in fact, recall his own name...what he, himself, was called.

Somewhere in the ruins a dog barked.