Lemon Curry?
© 2025 by Walter Reimer

Bernie Phlute ©  eocostello
Titles by  marmelmm
Music by Ferde Grofé
Suits by ‘Rick’ of Altoona

Thumbnail art by  rockbaker

Part Nine.


Two days later, the S.S. Oriente arrived at Veracruz on Mixteca’s east coast with the sun low on the western horizon.

Again, there was a minor traffic jam on one gangway as a woozy stork was assisted to the dock by a short Boston terrier whose eyes pointed in disconcerting directions at times.

Despite the precaution of taking his seasickness medicine before getting aboard in Havana, Bernie Phlute had not had a comfortable passage across the Gulf of Mixteca. The food had given him heartburn, and he had, as one wag put it, “Spent more time on the rail than on the boat.” Clearly, Phlute was not the nautical type.

After dropping to his knees and kissing the dock while the other disembarking passengers made their way around him, the stork staggered to his feet and asked Dorpf, “Where are we?”

“Veracruz, Bernie,” Jacob replied. “Come on, we have to get through Customs and then to the train station.”

“Oh, okay. Veracruz. I knew that,” Phlute said as he took his suitcase from Dorpf and he started off.

“Sir?”

“Call me Bernie, Jacob.”

“Bernie?”

“Yeah, Jacob?”

“You’re going the wrong way.”

The stork dismissed this. “Nonsense. I have a great sense of direction,” and he almost stepped off the dock, changed course at the last second, and started following Dorpf. They joined the line of passengers who were waiting to have the Mixtecan customs officials permit them into the country.

After their luggage had been searched and their passports stamped, the stork and the terrier headed for the nearby train station.

Dorpf squinted up at the train schedule, his lips moving, while Bernie studied the other side of the posted schedule. “Here it is,” the terrier said, tracing a finger along the line. “Cardel, El Carrizal, Jalapa, Perote, Oriental, San Lorenzo, Texcoco and Mixteca City. The train leaves at . . . 7:35 PM, and we’ll arrive around 9:30 in the morning.”

“Tonight?” Phlute asked. The terrier nodded and the stork grumbled, “And I wanted to see some of the sights . . . oh well. We’ve got a couple hours. Let’s get tickets and find somewhere to eat.”

“Good idea,” Dorpf said, and the two agents went to the ticket booth.

“Wow, that was cheap,” Phlute enthused as the pair left the train station. “Prices are really low here.”

Dorpf glanced around to see that at least one of the locals knew English, judging from her frown. “It’s a hundred pesos to the dollar,” the Boston terrier said absently.

“Not bad at all,” the stork said, oblivious to the woman’s glare. “I might settle down here when I retire. Well, we’ve got our tickets, so let’s get something to eat.”

The nearest place that the stork could recognize as a restaurant was part of the Hotel Puerta. The sign was picked out in rows of flickering incandescent light bulbs, and as the two agents entered three of the letters went dark, leaving behind OTEL PU TA. They were shown to seats and given menus.

Dorpf glanced through the various items and when the waiter arrived he asked, “Do you speak English, Sir?”

The feline held his index finger and thumb a small distance apart. “Un poquito – um, a very small, Señor.”

“Okay.” Dorpf looked at one item. “Is this fish?”

The waiter looked, “Si.”

“I’ll have that, please,” the terrier said with a smile, “with water.”

The feline nodded, jotting a note on his pad before turning to Bernie. The stork said, “I’ll have the . . . Ca, ma, ronees . . ah, la . . . Dee, ah, blow,” he sounded out, “and a soda, okay?”

The waiter nodded again and walked off, shaking his head slightly as the two Americans settled back to wait.

A short while later their food arrived. Dorpf’s was a fried fish served with a tart citrus sauce, rice and beans; he started eating and smiled at the taste while Phlute studied the contents of his plate quizzically. “Huh, looks like shrimp,” the stork said, and he started eating quickly, pausing a few times to sip at his soda. Before very long, he had cleaned the plate. “Mmm, that was tasty stuff – “ he stopped short and his exposed feathers suddenly fluffed out as his eyes went wide. He grabbed his glass and chugged the remainder of his soda before taking his partner’s glass of water and downing that as well, then gaping his beak wide and fanning one paw in front of his mouth.

“WATER! WATER!” he began to shout in between harsh panting breaths.

The waiter brought him a glass of milk, and Dorpf got another glass of water. Phlute guzzled the glass, some of the milk soaking the front of his suit. He placed the empty glass on the table, visibly shaking.

“Do you want to get some dessert?” Dorpf asked, earning him a glare from the stork.

They settled their bill, leaving the waiter to mop up the mess, and headed back to the station to wait for the train. Taking a seat on a bench, Plute looked at Dorpf. “Since we’ll be going by train for this part of the trip,” the stork said, “I’ll take the top bunk.”

The terrier nodded. “That’s fair,” Jacob said.




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