by Thomas Tryon
Peace, she thought, peace. Peace had not come readily to her, she was so used to turmoil in her life; but peace was coming, was just around the corner. Nan was right: Boca was both restful and gay. There was a mariachi band consisting of young men from the village who played familiar melodies like “The Mexican Hat Dance” or “La Paloma,” which Lorna knew meant “The Dove.” And “South of the Border” and “Maria Elena,” which was one of her old Glenn Miller favorites. She adored that parrot up in the tree; the whistle, too fresh. She loved the wash of the waves that lulled you, the sprinkling hoses, the brush of the brooms, the children’s cries, the profusion of flowers. The hotel help were polite and clean-looking. The maid who did her cabaña—her name was Rosalia—was considerate and friendly. Rosalia had a narrow waist, flat hips, and breasts like apples, and at fifty-two, Lorna could well envy her.
The manager, Mr. Alvarez, was both too casual and too condescending to suit Lorna’s tastes. He was small, lean, dark, and slightly seedy with a Clark Gable mustache and bland brown eyes, one of which seemed to be covering the guests while the other stayed riveted to the cash register behind the bar. He maintained a proper, businesslike attitude toward everyone, leaving Cupie to deal with the social amenities. And no friendlier creature than Cupie had Lorna ever discovered. She was enormous, and never cared what she looked like, but was happy and merry the day long. Her face, for all its poundage, was really very sweet; she must have been a pretty girl at one time. Everyone loved her. Even with all that weight she moved gracefully, on light feet, but how she could have let herself get so large was a mystery Lorna wasn’t prepared to plumb. Each morning she would bring her child, Sashia and the baby, Heidi, out for their morning swim. You couldn’t help adoring Sashie either, only four years old but already a coquette. She had a plastic mirror-and-comb set which she carried everywhere, her ears were pierced with gold hoops, and her mother let her use lipstick. She owned “a whole buncha” dresses, and wore a doll-size bikini. How daintily, how balletically she would point her foot into the water, how she would laugh, squeal, flirt with the world. Lorna’s daughter, Carrie, had certainly been no Sashia….
When Lorna arrived at Boca de Oro she had initiated a strict regimen which she observed religiously, a kind of back-to-health-and-sanity program, and adhering to this self-imposed discipline gave her a sense of worthiness. She had not had a cigarette since boarding the plane in Los Angeles. She did not drink, but permitted herself one glass of wine with lunch, another with dinner. She avoided starches and desserts. She performed her exercises unfailingly, both physical and mental. She spent two half-hour periods meditating, and she did her gymnastics twice a day, and swam three times, once in the morning, twice in the afternoon. When she came out of the water she was always careful to cream her elbows.
When her skin had adjusted to the climate she began working on her tan, step by careful step. Meanwhile she kept to herself behind her glasses, under the hat, and improved herself with Dr. Fleischer’s A Guide to Inner Peace. Still, complete concentration was impossible, for her eyes, behind their plastic lenses, wandered continually, following the steps of the boy named Emiliano. She had been watching him since the very first day.
The awful business of the cucaracha hadn’t got her off to a particularly good start at Boca. It had been in her bathroom, crawling around the shower pan—imagine mistaking a cockroach for a scorpion! When she finally composed herself, she had to sit on the patio and meditate until the other guests left the dining room; she couldn’t face them after such a scene. It was while sitting, admiring the view, that she had a second shock, but of a different kind altogether—a shock of joy, of recognition, yes, even of mystery. She had had in her mind for some time pictures or images of two particular types of men; one was a solid, down-to-earth pipe-and-tweeds sort, stable and intelligent, who would act as her anchor, her rock, who would tell her what to do, and when and how to do it. He represented Security. Richard, who was on the MorryEll, was this type. Then there was a second type, a man whose sheer physical impact caused her heart to beat faster when she just looked at him, made her juices gush, made her feel all hot and cold—a man who might carry her off without a thought of what had gone before, of what was left behind, into some bright, silver-shining future where there would be only love and passion through every day and every night. Naturally this man represented Romance. For her, he would be a god she could worship, and how strange it was, how incredible, how miraculous, that on this very first morning at Boca de Oro the god should have appeared to her.
She had completed her meditation period and was looking out past the point of rocks extending from the walk below her patio, where the water lay calm and blue in the early sunlight. Suddenly she saw a shape under the limpid surface of the water. She thought at first it was a large fish of some kind, until the shape came closer to shore, and closer, and then with a sudden, wet, dazzling rush, emerged from out of the depths, walking through the shallows. This god. A type of merman, with fishfeet, and carrying a kind of trident, which had a fish impaled on it. Like a sea god. His face was masked, so she couldn’t see it, but she knew how beautiful he must be. His skin was brown and shining, he had a perfect body, a torso like a piece of Roman armor. She thought she could span his waist with her two hands, it was so slim. On he came, drops of water like jewels flinging about as he shook his arms, his hair, that dark, glossy blue-black hair.
“Emiliano!” one of the beachboys called, and the god waved. He pushed his snorkeling mask onto his forehead, slipped his feet out of his swim fins, and carrying his spear gun and catch, he went loping along the sand toward the hotel. Emiliano? She hadn’t heard of any gods named Emiliano, but in her private pantheon, he would do. She rushed through breakfast, and put on her brightest bikini and went onto the beach. She had the beachboy put up the umbrella where she could observe this wonder, Emiliano, without being noticed. He was around all day, in his white trunks, being friendly with everyone, a flashing white smile, so lithe, so graceful, so … godlike. Tall, dark, and handsome, every coed’s dream. At lunchtime she inveigled Cupie into sitting a moment at her table, and information was subtly elicited concerning Emiliano’s true self. The god, it seemed, was employed for the season as a flamenco dancer; he and his partner performed every night in the bar. And his partner, it turned out, was Rosalia, the maid.
Well, Lorna said, she had traveled all through Spain, and adored flamenco; she certainly would enjoy seeing the team perform. In addition to dancing, Emiliano sometimes tended bar, or oversaw the beachboys, or helped Steve manage the hotel. Behind her dark glasses, Lorna watched him carefully that afternoon; he seemed to enjoy everyone’s respect and admiration, he had presence and authority and the grace of a caballero of old Mexico. In short, a most special man.
Starting at sundown and continuing through the evening and into the night, everyone gathered at the bar. It opened out onto the beach patio, and the guests all congregated to drink banana daiquiris or coco locos, a deadly concoction of four rums, brandy, cream, and other exotic ingredients—no one was ever specific as to the recipe—served in a coconut shell and made pretty with a flower. Coco locos cost four dollars and were meant to last a long time. Lorna wouldn’t touch them; she had an orangeade or a Coke with lemon. Nor did she go into the crowded bar itself, preferring instead one of the patio tables, well away in a corner. There was candlelight and music and it was really very lovely. Over the bar was a mural, a curved panel behind the cash register, framed in bamboo. The scene depicted an Aztec temple, with renderings of Montezuma on one side and Cortés on the other. Between them was an eagle, and below this a serpent, crowned by a bird. The serpent was intricately decorated with reticulated designs on its scaled back, and a forked tongue protruded from the mouth; the bird was brightly feathered. Lorna had no idea what these figures represented. From her conversation with Cupie she knew about some of the people in the bar: the honeymooners, always hand-in-hand—he was plain, she plainer; they nudged and touched and whispered
and laughed; their skins were unattractively red and Lorna didn’t know why people didn’t take more care in the sun; she speculated as to what the newlyweds had in common and how they would make a go of things. There was the couple from Duluth—she’d heard “Duluth” several times—God knew what people did in Duluth. There were the people called Atwater; she knew those types: he was hearty and full of jokes, she was gushy; both were to be avoided. Mr. Atwater ankled over, introduced himself as Walt, and asked if they mightn’t buy her a drink; she thanked him politely, but no. She had nothing in common with them, they would only talk about themselves and would ask how she was in order that they could tell her how they were; wasn’t that always the way? There was Joan Taylor, who ran the handicraft shop—she was tall and cool and stylish, though hardly what you’d call beautiful—and the man she lived with, Bob something—craggily handsome, with one of those healthy year-round tans and bright eyes; an innocence about him, the innocence of age, Lorna decided. Though they nodded and smiled pleasantly, they didn’t trouble her, but continued talking with an elderly couple named Tashkent, who lived in a house up on the hill and came down in the evenings to socialize. They seemed sweet enough. Later the group was joined by the young local doctor, Patrick O’Connor, who ordered a coco loco and tried to smile at her. She avoided him. There was also a smart New York couple; he a fashion photographer, she a writer of children’s books. Cupie said they had a town house that had been featured in a magazine and were often mentioned in Suzy Knickerbocker and even Earl Wilson. Cupie came and asked if Lorna would like to sit at the communal table; Lorna appeared to give it thoughtful consideration, it honestly sounded so tempting, then with a rueful laugh said perhaps she’d better just take one by herself in the corner, if that would be all right. Be our guest, Cupie said.
After the meal she resumed her place on the patio, half hidden in the shadows, but her face attractively illuminated by a candle, to watch the dancing. The couple appeared in a spotlight in ruffled costumes, snapping castanets, and they were really quite good. They put on that scowling gypsy look flamenco dancers always have, and stamped their feet and cried out Spanish words no one understood, and arched their backs and profiled their heads and clapped their hands, Rosalia throwing her long shining hair across her face and swirling her ruffled train, Emiliano flashing his dark eyes, grimacing passionately so his teeth shone white, his black wet hair falling over his eyes, the material of his shiny mohair trousers cut so tightly it showed the bulges of his thighs and the incredible curve behind. When the dancing was over she hoped they would come past her table so she could tell them how much she enjoyed them, but instead they sat with Joan and Bob and the doctor, who, at last catching her eye, indicated an empty chair. But she shook her head and left.
She went along the walkway, where the dried bougainvillaea petals fell like confetti; she stood looking out on the beach. Couples were huddled in the dark and she supposed some were making love. She went to her cabaña, and when the Delco went off she lit her lantern and read herself to sleep: Centennial by James Michener. She’d been meaning to get to it.
She found herself getting up earlier than she had for years; she liked the quiet morning, the little boats going out with their long rods and nets, the busy beachboys, the barking dogs, the sweeping maids; she thought of her cleaning woman’s vacuum on the wall-to-wall carpeting; none of that at Boca de Oro. She sat on her patio and did her meditation exercises, and when she would again open her eyes, bringing her from that inner peaceful world she sought, there would be Emiliano out on the point of rocks. She would wave and call Qué tal? which her Spanish phrase book said was “How are you?” She liked watching his lithe brown body in the water, to see his powerful legs kicking the blue rubber fins, like a dark brown fish down there. She simply had to bring her camera and take some shots of him and his catch and have him tell her the names of the fish in Spanish. Oh, trucha? and Oh, bacalao? She was glad she could appreciate his remarkable qualities without falling all over him, as the other women were inclined to do, thinking up little extras for him to bother with, showing him snapshots of their daughters, suggesting he give them snorkeling lessons, asking to be shown his spear gun. Though his Buen’ días, señorita, was no more friendly to her than to them, though his smile for her was exactly as it was for the others, she liked to think he harbored the secret knowledge that they were fellow entertainers, and thus kindred spirits. And after all, when you came right down to it, he was just a beachboy; but muy simpático.
It had occurred to her that in the matter of Emiliano she had perhaps made a mistake darkening her hair, she had heard that Latins liked blondes, but there was nothing to be done about that now. She wondered what impact it might produce on him to learn who she really was, so she dropped hints to the maid, Rosalia, but evidently Rosalia hadn’t seen her movies. Then she removed her glasses right in public; still nobody recognized her. Finally, one noon when the excursion boat had come in and she was having lunch, a little girl came and poked a camera in her face. Click! Don’t do that, she told her. My mother says you’re a movie star, the child said; are you? Lorna smiled, wouldn’t say, and then the mother came over. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, she began, but we’ve been wondering just who you are. So have I, thought Lorna, and smiled. The woman seemed to recognize the smile. Why, you’re Lorna Doone—the Perkies girl! Lorna’s smile faded. Nearly forty movies and she was remembered for pop-up tarts. Word got around the beach fast after that; the dreadful woman Mrs. Atwater hurried over and said, Well, Miss Doone, we tried. Tried? Lorna repeated. Tried to keep your secret. We knew who you were and we want you to know you can just go on being any way you want to. She said her name was Celia and just to call her “Ceel,” and if Lorna wanted to play cards or join them for drinks, her daughter was crazy for her on Hollywood Squares and who would have thought that Lorna Doone would be a brunette and what was that lovely nail polish? Oh, Revlon’s Misty Lilac?
The loss of her incognito seemed to do nothing to alter her effect on Emiliano. He was as friendly and smiling with her as he was with everybody; but no more. She would wave, he would wave back. She tired of waving, and beckoned instead; he came. Her beach mat had oil on it; might she have another? Cierto, señorita. At least he didn’t say señora. When the exchange of mats had been seen to she initiated a little conversation. She was edified to learn that he was named after Emiliano Zapata, savior of Mexico; Emiliano’s brother, Benito, was named for another savior, Benito Juárez. Oh, Juárez! Very interesting. She thought it was nice, rather like colored people—no, blacks—naming their babies George Washington or Abraham Lincoln. She watched him lope away, those long brown legs, the pale soles of his feet.
At lunchtime she told Cupie that Emiliano ought to be in the movies. Cupie laughed her rich laugh and said, oh, that was just what Emiliano would like.
Ah ha.
Cupie must have mentioned this, because he was more attentive after that. He nodded pleasantly when she asked him the next day if she might be served lunch in the library, it was so restful and shady there. He would check to see. He ran off, she watched him go. He returned, she watched him come. Sí, he said, if the señorita wished it; the señorita did. She handed him a bottle of lotion and asked him to put some on her back. She had on another of her bikinis, aqua and yellow; she lay on her mat while he dropped the oil on her shoulders and she watched the round shapes of his brown knees as he knelt by her to perform this task, and when he was done she offered him a violet tissue to wipe his hands on. Then he went away.
Yes, she thought; a very good type; definitely in the movies.
She sunned on her stomach for half an hour, then half an hour on her back, then went into the water. Afterward she called Emiliano again and asked him to put more oil on her shoulders. Following lunch, carried by a smiling Rosalia to the library, she took some more sun, first on her back, then on her front. The glass of wine must have made her drowsy, for she fell asleep. When she awoke she touched her abdomen: her finger made
a white spot which immediately became red. She hurried to her cabaña and tore open her cosmetic case, looking for sunburn lotion.
Oh, she said, oh. It was going to hurt and it was going to peel. It was stinging badly by the time she got out of the shower and at dinnertime she felt sick to her stomach. She sent for Rosalia, who sent for Cupie, who got Steve Alvarez, who sent a boy up the hill for the doctor. Dr. O’Connor came and gave her a sedative and a painkiller and a salve. She stayed indoors all next morning, hurting, and gingerly applying the ointment. Returning at cocktail time to see how she was, the doctor brought his drink from the bar, and sat by her bed and made small talk. Call him Pat, he said; Doctor was too formal. He was boyishly affable, red-faced, puffy and bibulous. He cracked jokes while his eyes roved the lines of her body under the light nightdress. His risibilities escaped her; she knew what he wanted. He held her hand in a professional manner, but his hand was as hot as hers. After he left she lay burning on the sheets, and when they brought her a tray she only picked. Emiliano didn’t come, as she had hoped he might, to see how she was. She took more painkillers and a Tuinal to make her sleep.
By the following day the burn had stopped hurting but the red remained, sore-looking and ugly, and she fretted about the extent of the peeling. She shrank from the thought of anyone seeing her this way, so she sat under her straw hat and behind her glasses on the patio, first meditating, then reading or doing needlepoint, a therapy she had taken up after Menninger’s.
Rosalia was sympathetic, and they had many conversations. The girl seemed intelligent and spoke good English. Lorna professed an interest in her and—what was his name? Oh, yes, Emiliano. Rosalia’s face glowed, her eyes shone as she talked of him. He spent six months of the year in “México,” which was what they called Mexico City, dancing in a club. There he had another partner, but one day Rosalia hoped to work with him as a team in the capital or in Rio de Janeiro. Had he made love to her? Lorna asked. Rosalia smiled; Emiliano was the best lover in the world.