by R. M. Green
And here he sat, drenched and bilious and gripping the steering wheel, he steeled himself, took a deep breath and opened the door. He was here at the brand new Daly superstore with ‘everything to make your house a home’ to meet the new regional director, Brandon Suarez from Mexico City. What kind of name is Brandon for a Latino? Rafa asked himself through gritted teeth. Daly Group had invested heavily in a huge home-improvement store, and with so many retired wealthy folk in the area, business was good. The store employed over 100 people and was an asset to San Lorenzo but apart from the jobs, there had not been the same commitment in the town as other outsiders had brought. The KFC and McDonalds sponsored the children’s unit at the health clinic. Sears had paid for all the school books, and the supermarkets, banks and upmarket chain stores had all contributed to the social wellbeing of the town.
Daly had done nothing despite several letters from the Mayor. So the Mayor had come in person to meet with Sr Suarez who was visiting San Lorenzo as part of a tour of his region. The objective for Rafael was modest. He was seeking sponsorship for the local youth soccer league; some kit, maybe a minibus, a few thousand to have the Daly name embroidered on shirts and painted on a bus and lots of goodwill and free advertising in return. Everyone played the game. Mutual back-scratching made the world go round. But this Brandon, instead of falling over himself to cooperate suggested a meeting at the store to discuss the matter. To discuss the matter! At his store! Who the hell does he think he is? Rafael’s heartburn flared again and instead of going into Daly, he stopped off at the little pharmacy in the mall to buy some Maalox. His spirits were lifted a little at the warm reception he received from the staff and one young mother even presented her baby for him to bestow a kiss on her forehead. Puffing out his chest and drawing in his Armani belt a notch, Rafael Avila took a swig from the bottle of chalky antacid and marched purposefully toward the sliding glass electric doors of the Daly superstore.
Tom Wyche seldom hurried. From his space in the parking lot to the door of Daly was less than thirty yards but that could often take Tom ten minutes. He would say hello and exchange a few words with the omnipresent security guards stationed outside just about every store in town. Each armed with baton, cuffs and a superannuated Taurus 38 revolver, which had never been, nor, God forbid, ever would be fired. He stopped to say hello to friends and acquaintances effortlessly slipping between Spanish and English depending on the need and he paused to watch the old, almost psychedelically painted ex-American school bus pull noisily out of the parking lot, belching thick black smoke from its broken exhaust. Waving to Angelo, the young security guard who was leaning on the wall by the door of Daly trying to look cool and failing, cracking a huge boyish grin as he chatted with Maria, one of the till girls on her break who giggled at his antics, Tom, dressed oppressively for him in a white cotton short-sleeved shirt, blue shorts and a pair of green deck shoes that invariably gave him blisters, walked from the searing heat of the parking lot and through the automatic sliding doors into the freezer-cold of the highly air-conditioned megastore.
Wilfredo walked a little hesitantly through the open doors into the vast warehouse and he might as well have been walking onto the surface of an alien planet. To begin with, it was freezing cold and the loud hum of the air conditioners reminded him of the sound of bombers in the old war films he liked to watch on his ancient black and white TV set. Delia had teased him about that as she had a colour portable in the kitchen to watch her ‘novelas’ but Wilfredo said he only liked old films and they were always in black and white anyway.
Gazing around the two-storey mammoth of a building with shelves stacked twenty feet high on both levels with gadgets and tools, paints and all manner of items that seemed very unfamiliar to him, Wilfredo could see no taps or sinks or anything remotely resembling what he had come to find. From somewhere above the din of the air conditioners, he was aware that some indistinguishable pop music was playing, interrupted every now and then by the enthusiastic, almost frenetic voice of someone urging him to buy Sherwin Williams white emulsion at ‘two for one, only at Daly’! He already felt like a foreigner in his own country and standing in the middle of the ground floor, his hat still in his hands, he looked around and felt even more of out of place. The store was populated by black and yellow uniformed staff with broad smiles and nametags with Anglicised versions of their names. Pablo had become Paul, Ricardo was now Richard and Consuelo, was just Connie. But stranger than the staff were the customers. Almost all Americans, Wilfredo supposed, he hadn’t seen that many in real life. The new highway had bypassed Santa Maria and very few visitors made it to the village as there was not much of interest for them; no curio stores nor ancient ruins, and only the locals knew about Delia’s red snapper. He looked at them. He stared. He couldn’t help it. All the men, mostly over sixty, looked so tall, so healthy. They seemed to be wearing some sort of uniform too; pastel short-sleeved shirts, expensive-looking gold watches, white linen trousers or white or khaki shorts, white socks and leather sandals. Wilfredo thought the men looked handsome, most of them with paunches spilling magnificently over their leather belts. A paunch was a sign of prosperity and highly regarded in Santa Maria. The few women all seemed to have golden-grey hair peeping out from large straw hats and were too skinny for Wilfredo’s taste. “A woman should have the figure of a guitar,” his oldest brother, Manuel, used to say.
“Or a bottle of Coca-Cola!” chipped in his younger brother, Rodrigo.
Wilfredo felt very uncomfortable. He shivered slightly and nervously approached ‘Paul’. Half afraid the young man wouldn’t speak Spanish, Wilfredo asked slowly and clearly whether the store sold kitchen sinks. “Of course, Caballero. Upstairs, first floor at the back,” and with a vague wave of his hand indicating the heavens and a winning smile, Paul was gone.
But there were no stairs! Suddenly and to his horror, Wilfredo saw a tall man with a shock of thick white hair seemingly ascending to heaven without walking! Wilfredo crossed himself and checked to see whether anyone else had witnessed this miracle. Then another man, then another, then a couple, all seemed to be levitating. Now, Wilfredo was not a stupid man but he had little experience or use for the modern world. He hadn’t even been in San Lorenzo for fifteen years so superstores resembling ice-cold caverns and now flying people were all a little overwhelming. But not being a stupid man, Wilfredo also reasoned that these ascending souls were not angels but that there must be some sort of moving staircase to the upper floor. He walked round a display of immense barbecue sets and arrived at the bottom of the escalator. And he froze.
About the same moment that Wilfredo stood rooted to the spot at the foot of the escalator while a couple of people squeezed past him to climb aboard, one of whom, a sharp-featured, sharp-elbowed woman, tutted audibly, Rafael Avila emerged from the store manager’s office after the briefest of meetings with Sr Brandon Suarez. Rafa was wearing a very self-satisfied and not-too-discreet grin on his face and his heartburn had disappeared. The meeting with the Mexican had gone well. Rafael had lied his head off but got what he wanted. He explained that he was delighted to welcome such an important and distinguished businessman to San Lorenzo but was terribly sorry that he could not tarry as he had a meeting with the representatives of a large… (and here he hesitated. For the life of him he couldn’t remember which country the main competitors to Daly came from. He knew it was one of the Nordic ones, full of snow and tall blondes with great teeth. He had read about their management techniques in Forbes) … err, Scandinavian company who had just applied for a permit to build a store by the highway. Suddenly, the haughty Sr Suarez crumbled. “Well, of course, Sr Mayor, I know you are busy but I am delighted to say that Daly will be honoured to accommodate any proposal you have for youth football sponsorship… in full.” The ‘in full’ was so pregnant with meaning it practically gave birth in the room, Rafael would later say.
As Suarez hurried to open the door for the Mayor, Rafael Avila pa
used and turned, and with the meerest twinkle in his eye asked, “You don’t happen to play golf do you, Sr Brandon?”
Now, a few moments later and still congratulating himself on his cunning victory, Rafael was just about to step onto the down escalator but stopped mid-stride and reversed a pace to watch the most extraordinary scene unfolding down below.
Dressed in a white shirt buttoned up to the collar, faded jeans. Sunday-best black shoes and clutching a battered straw hat stood a short, slender old man with short black hair, flecked with grey. His skin was dark-tanned, deeply lined and leathery from years out in the sun. He was chattering and laughing nervously and was flanked by Paul and Connie in their smart Daly uniforms, each gripping an elbow gently encouraging the reluctant man to step forward onto the escalator while bemused shoppers edged round the trio and continued their upward journey. The old man was blushing in embarrassment although you couldn’t tell from his dark sunburnt skin. Wilfredo knew now what the escalator was but never having seen one in his life, let alone been on one, he was ashamed to say he was scared to take that first step and the gentle cajoling of the well-meaning staff was just making him more flustered.
Rafael Avila was about to call out some words of encouragement when a tall, white-haired man tore past him and sprinted down the steps of the down escalator shouting for the trio planted at the bottom of the up escalator to wait. Rafael, driven by an unknown impulse and in a manner not at all in keeping with his lofty and dignified position as mayor of San Lorenzo and, panting slightly, followed close behind at a slightly less rapid lick.
Rafa recognised the white-haired man. That American boat builder who lived just out of town, Bob was it, or Tom, something monosyllabic. All Americans seemed to have just one syllable names. But this one was a decent sort. He spoke Spanish and every year at the Christmas fiesta at the town hall he discreetly handed Rafael two generous cheques; one for the school and another for the animal welfare programme started by Susana. It was a distinguished fact that there were no stray dogs in San Lorenzo. A programme of neutering and a slightly chaotic but large sanctuary was another thing to be proud of.
The two staff had now stepped back from the old man’s side and he was engaged in an animated conversation with the tall American who was offering him his arm as you would to a blind man to cross a busy road. Feeling sheepish but clutching the arm offered to him, Wilfredo was about to take the plunge onto the moving bottom step but his nerve failed him at the last moment. Tom just stood by his side patiently and continued talking to him gently.
“Wilfredito! Is that you?” It had been almost forty years since he last saw him, but Rafael Avila recognised his former classmate from the Ceiba tree. “Wilfredo Hernandez! It’s me, Rafa Avila!”
This was almost too much for Wilfredo and he gasped and in his open-mouthed shock didn’t notice Tom gently walk him onto the escalator. As the two men, one tall, one short slowly began to ascend, Wilfredo dropped his hat and it bounced gently down to the bottom of the escalator. Seizing the hat before it had ceased rolling, the Mayor bounded up the escalator after the most recent passengers and all three stumbled off the top at the same time.
With a nod to Tom whose arm was still solidly in the clutch of his recent travelling companion, Rafael Avila brushed off the battered straw hat and without pausing for breath began to talk nineteen to the dozen to his childhood friend. Wilfredo could not get a word in edgeways which was just as well as he was dumbstruck by the events of the last few minutes. As Rafa handed back the hat to the astonished old man, Wilfredo reached out for it in an almost trance-like state and was aware that Rafael had paused for breath and seemed to be waiting for some sort of response. Tom, correctly judging the man’s confusion took the opportunity to gently prize his arm from the nervous grasp of Wilfredo and buying him a few seconds to collect himself warmly greeted the Mayor and asked how Sra Avila was. Before Rafael could answer, Wilfredo came to his senses and not only recognising the bald, chubby but immaculately dressed man before him suddenly remembered that this man was the mayor of San Lorenzo and the richest man in the province… “Rafael! Err… Sr Mayor. I don’t kn-know what to say. It is such an honour, Your Honour. My hat, we thank you,” Wilfredo was babbling.
“Fredo! It’s me, Rafa. How long has it been? How old were we, what fifteen, sixteen? Ah, remember those days? Before the civil war, before the Junta? How’s Paco and Lucho? Is Soledad still alive? How’s that beautiful girl who was sweet on you, Delia? Tell me everything my friend!” Rafael Avila was punctuating his every word with the most extravagant, sincere and almost alarming handshaking of his stunned companion who held his hat limply in one hand while the other was embraced in the warm clasp of the Mayor.
Of course, Wilfredo knew that the Avilas had made good and that Rafael had been mayor for fifteen years but he never imagined meeting him again or that Rafa Avila would remember him. Even though the two men had spent the bulk of the last sixty years (save the five years that Rafael was at college in the States) living less than fifteen miles apart, the trajectory of their lives might just have well meant they had lived on different continents.
Tom, ever gracious, wanted to make things a bit easier for the old man. “Well, well. Fancy that, so you know Rafa from school, do you Sr?”
“Wilfredo. Wilfredo Hernandez. Yes, from Father Pierro’s class. He taught us to read and write.”
“But you were better at spelling than I was, Fredo,” chuckled the Mayor.
“I’m Tom. Mucho gusto.”
“Yes, mucho gusto, Sr Tom.”
The next fifteen minutes were a blur for Wilfredo. The mayor taking him by the arm walked him round and round the upper floor of the store and the two men rode down and up the escalator half a dozen times while lost in their animated reminiscence. Tom, having excused himself and taking no offense at being virtually ignored was on his way down the escalator as the two old friends were on their seventh or eighth trip up. As the three men passed each other, Rafael Avila turned to Tom and said to his rapidly descending back, “Sr Tom, Fredo is a fisherman. He has a wooden boat. You should see it.”
Tom smiled and as he stepped off the bottom step just as the other two men stepped off the top step, he gesticulated that he would wait there.
There had been quite a commotion in Daly since the Mayor and an old man had been going up and down the escalators for a good while now and the staff and customers had watched in amused fascination. But things were returning to normal and as the Mayor and Wilfredo came down the escalator for the final time to join Tom, the three men walked out of the frigid air of the store into the blaring midday heat of the parking lot. The acrid smell of cheap petrol, burnt tarmac and exhaust fumes bit deeply into their lungs and shouting to be heard over the traffic, Rafael invited the two men to have coffee at the Town Hall. Wilfredo felt self-conscious and to go to the town hall as the guest of the Mayor was really too much. Tom, again judging the situation perfectly, and with a suspicion that Sr Avila was not a pompous snob, suggested that he would take Wilfredo in his truck and that the Mayor follow him in the Hummer. Rafael agreed. It was noon now and he didn’t have the meeting with the chief of Police until three. Besides, the Police Chief was his youngest sister, Esmerelda’s, oldest boy, Francisco, so Uncle Rafa might be a bit late without a problem!
Eschewing the Starbucks and the new cocktail bar in town, Tom drove the couple of miles to the familiar corrugated-iron awning of the Terrazas café at the Mini Super and going round to let Wilfredo out of the passenger side because the door always stuck, the two men took a seat at one of the lopsided plastic tables. With a blast of the horn and a cloud of dust, the huge silver Hummer pulled up and the Mayor, now divested of his grey suit jacket and Hermes tie came and joined his companions.
Simon, the owner of the Mini Super and his wife, Teresa, were stunned to see the Mayor perched on an upturned Fanta crate (there was only one chair today. Bloody kids!),
flapping his manicured hands to ward off the persistent buzzing of the odd fly and calling for a rum and coke with a slice of lime! However, within an hour or so and after a few glasses and a generous helping of the breaded chicken fingers and the extra hot sauce, it seemed as if the three men had been coming there to meet for years.
“So it’s decided then,” said Rafael. “I am cancelling my meetings and we are going to see your boat and Delia, and try some of that snapper you have been going on about.”
“No, Sr Mayor, err, Rafa, we cannot. Delia isn’t expecting company and I am late already.”
“Nonsense, my friend! Call her! Here, use my mobile,” and Rafael handed Wilfredo his Gresso Regal titanium phone, one of only 333 made and a snip from the Russian company of opulent excess at $4700 bought by Susana, on her last trip to Miami for his birthday. (Tom had a $15 Alcatel).
Wilfredo protested, “I can’t do that, Sr Rafael.”
“Go ahead, it’s just a mobile!”
“But Rafa, we don’t have a phone!”
Nevertheless, although the Mayor was a bit drunk, he was the Mayor, so the three men rose, a trifle unsteadily, and made their way to their cars.
“Better come in the truck, Mr Mayor,” said Tom. After all, despite the rather lax attitude to drink-driving, it wouldn’t do for the Mayor to be caught driving a little the worse for wear.
Nodding deliberately and appreciatively, Rafael agreed and the three men squeezed into the rusting truck and drove the ten miles to Santa Maria.
“Did you get it?” were Delia’s first words to Wilfredo. “Did you get the sink?”
“Oh Dios, the sink! Delia, I…”
“You daft old goat! Where have you bee—” Delia stopped in mid-scold. Emerging from the far side of the truck was the grinning face of a friend she hadn’t seen in a lifetime.
What followed were hugs and kisses, introductions, more rum, the famed and indeed delicious red snapper; someone produced a guitar, and Jorge and Rosa arrived. People sang, people laughed, people wept a little and Tom, lighting a pipe (which he very seldom did), strolled off with Wilfredo to talk about fishing and look at his boat.