Because my academic, military, business, and literary careers had all been cut short, as had my marriage, I was left with no purpose. I marched in one spot paralysed by the notion that I was destined to perform the same role for the world as pornography does for a eunuch.
The despondency did not last long. Deep inside I knew that, no matter how overcast the horizon, it was impossible for someone with my intellectual attributes to be simply another raindrop in the drizzle of human mediocrity. My natural joy of living and my indestructible good nature prevailed and I quickly recovered most of my sparkling personality. Nevertheless, like a prospector who constantly stakes sterile claims, I developed a veneer of fatalism that I used to disguise my naturally ebullient nature. I took this stance because I came to doubt the possibility of love. It seemed a fiction, perhaps created by those who, like me, had failed the attempt to grasp the brass ring on the marriage carousel.
The abrasions on my ego did not heal as easily as those on my spirit, and so one evening I went to the Café Dos Lunas to put salve on the wounds by indulging in one of Don Emilio’s famous dinners. I chose a table in a quiet corner where I could be alone to ponder the vagaries of human relationships. I decided a pre-dinner brandy would be the perfect lubricant to mitigate the friction remaining in my soul. I was savouring the first biting taste, imagining the joy it would bring to hold my ex-wife’s hand to the flame of the candle burning in the centre of the table, when someone behind me said, “Pardon me. Are you dining alone?”
The voice soared and dipped like a tinkling music box and it penetrated my sombre mood the way thrown pebbles perforate the surface of a pond. I turned and there she was: dark hair in ringlets, an oval face with a complexion the colour of roasted pecans, and black eyes that reflected the candle flame — eyes so hypnotic I couldn’t turn away.
I summoned my wits. “Yes I am. Would you care to join me?”
She smiled. “It’s easier for you to join me.”
I hastened to her table and introduced myself, my negative feelings vanishing like smoke from the candle. She held out her hand. “My name is Rosella,” she said. “But I’ve been called many things since my accident.”
I noticed that she sat in a wheelchair. “What happened?” I asked.
“An unfortunate mishap,” she said. “You’re probably not interested.”
“Au contraire,” I answered. Sometimes, when I anticipate an amorous encounter, French expressions come unbidden to my lips.
“Very well, I’ll tell you, but you must promise not to castigate me.”
“I promise,” I said.
She sighed. “It all started when my church held a bingo to raise funds to buy our priest, Father Sebastian, a bus ticket to San Ignacio so that he could visit his ailing sister, Bettina, who was feeling poorly as a result of being constipated for thirty-two days without relief.”
“Go on,” I said. “Did he make the trip?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “The bingo was successful. We raised more than enough money for the ticket. Father Sebastian went to San Ignacio and he was a great comfort to his sister because he took along a jar of special salsa made by Señora Sanchez. The señora’s salsa is famous for bringing relief to those who suffer the same affliction as Bettina. Yes, the bingo was a success. It was the incident during the bingo that affected me.”
“Tell me,” I said.
“Very well, but remember your promise.”
“I will. What happened?”
“The final game was played for a prize coveted by everyone — a chicken donated by Señora Rodriquez — not just any chicken, but one of the señora’s prize hens, which are known everywhere for laying the most, the biggest, and the tastiest eggs.”
“What happened?” I asked again.
“I won! I was so excited I jumped to my feet and shouted, Bingo! My shout startled the chicken which had been dozing on the lap of Señora Rodriguez. It flew up and perched on the bingo board which was suspended above where I was sitting. The weight of the chicken caused the board to topple and it fell, hitting me simultaneously on my back and on my head.”
“You poor thing,” I said. “Did you suffer a spinal injury?”
“Yes I did. But Dr. Alvarez, who was also playing and who witnessed the entire incident, has examined me and he says the injury is temporary. I will soon be able to leave my wheelchair.”
“You are lucky,” I said.
“It’s not just the spinal injury,” she continued. “As I mentioned, the bingo board also hit my head and ever since that evening I’ve suffered from spontaneous orgasms. They come without warning, sometimes when I am least inclined to want one.”
Suddenly her eyes rolled so the pupils were not visible and her lips drew back in the manner of a wolf defending its dinner. “Oh my God … Oh my God … I’m having one now.” Then she shouted for the entire restaurant to hear, “Bingo! Bingo! Bingo!” Her body trembled as if she was experiencing a small earthquake. After a few moments she relaxed. “They can be intense,” she said.
“It would appear so,” I replied.
“The affliction is bad enough,” she continued, “but it has also led to social pain. My tendency to shake and cry, ‘bingo’ at inconvenient times has caused many of my neighbours to believe that the Devil has gained possession of me. Others think that I have been maimed by God for a grievous sin of which they are not aware. I have become a social pariah.”
“That’s terrible. You mean you have no friends?”
“No I don’t. Not since I attended the funeral of Señor Ramon Hernandez. The poor man collapsed and died after ingesting an entire bottle of the salsa made by Señora Sanchez. It took a toll on his heart. He never recovered after rushing to relieve himself more than seventeen times in one afternoon. It was during the service as Father Sebastian was commending the soul of Señor Hernandez to heaven that I was unable to contain myself. I jumped up from my wheelchair and shouted, Bingo. That by itself was bad enough, but the interruption was also lengthy as I am frequently multi-orgasmic.”
My heart melted for her. “You poor thing,” I said. “Your plight has touched me.” And indeed it had. To have the most intense joy one can experience lead to isolation is a terrible form of social disease. Just because public orgasms are rare is not sufficient reason to shun one who is pioneering such displays.
“Have you tried medication?” I asked. “I have heard that the word orgasm is short for organ spasm. Perhaps all you need is a muscle relaxant.”
“No,” she replied. “Dr. Alvarez has tried everything. Nothing works, except when I am able to clear my mind. The episodes sometimes come uninvited, but often they are triggered by an idea.”
“What kind of idea?”
“It embarrasses me but when I saw you I thought, Holy Mother of Saints, I wouldn’t mind if he parked his huaraches under my bed. And like that, it happened. I’ve tried but I can’t control my mind. I even decided to become a nun, but Father Sebastian talked me out of it. He said that until I was cured and able to train my brainchildren to wear loose underwear, I would be a distraction in the convent.”
A sensation settled over me and I recognized it immediately. Oh no, I thought, I’m falling in love again. With hindsight I now recognize that the sensation was sympathy. But hindsight is just foresight with no future so I remained ignorant of my true feelings. Regardless of what I now know, by the time we had eaten Don Emilio’s butterscotch-covered flan and ingested four after-dinner liqueurs a delicious longing was roosting on every nerve. I revelled in the same bloated feeling of well-being that affects all good Samaritans and in my naiveté I called it love.
Our relationship, which commenced that very evening, was difficult. Rosella yelled, “Bingo,” at the most inopportune times and always became detached from what I was saying during the entire time of her ecstasy. I found this disconcerting as sometimes it seemed that the most banal words would cause her eyes to roll and spittle to appear in the corner of her mouth. At other times my most inten
se foreplay produced no reaction whatsoever. I occasionally tried shouting, “Bingo,” myself but she did not respond and, in fact, seemed to resent my encouragement. It was demanding being constantly on standby for Rosella and I was only able to cope by developing the discipline of a Samurai warrior. Nevertheless, we continued to see each other and I became more enamoured with each passing day.
She soon moved in with me and she brought the chicken, which she had named Max. “No harm must come to Max,” Rosella said. “She’s not an ordinary chicken. She has the power to cause injury and ecstasy at the same time.”
I did not argue although I frequently felt like turning Max into soup, particularly when she perched on my back and pecked at my buttocks while I endeavoured to devote my entire attention to Rosella’s erotic needs.
Adriana choked on her mirth so that it was many minutes before she could speak. “I’ve had encounters that lasted until I made sounds that only dogs could hear,” she said. “But I’ve never had anyone bellow ‘Bingo’ in my ear.” She pounded her knee and exploded again. “So tell me old Under-the-B, did Rosella ever escape her torment?”
“You’ll see, my pretty purveyor of pansophism.” I found it annoying that Adriana gained enjoyment from hearing about Rosella’s and my predicament.
Rosella became preoccupied with the attempt to find some method of control for what appeared to be uncontrollable. As Dr. Alvarez predicted, she eventually left her wheelchair. Her back was restored and she gained true mobility. Her other problem remained as before, however, and with the increased ability to move some of her prolonged orgasms became truly frightening.
The incidents even occurred during sleep. She often progressed from warning cry to culmination without waking. In the morning she had no memory of the event.
After some months the inevitable happened. The unpredictability of life with Rosella began to chafe my equanimity as did the loss of sleep. I had never been a boy scout so I found that constantly being prepared caused more agony than the bruises that appeared on my self-image due to Rosella’s occasional lack of response.
I often tiptoed out during her nocturnal episodes and walked the streets until morning, killing time and pondering the unfairness of our dilemma. However, walking to kill time makes as much sense as passing wind to get rich so I decided that I needed to do something useful during the late-night, early-morning hours.
On the street I regularly met anglers — men who gained enjoyment by testing their cleverness against the intelligence of fish. They were always in a hurry, heading off early to try their luck on Albatross Bay. I envied them their single-mindedness and so decided that I too would become a fisherman. After all, how difficult could it be to match wits with a flounder?
Without telling Rosella, I purchased a tiny wooden boat that was powered by a small motor. Every morning I cruised to the middle of the bay, cast a hook into the water, and trolled in large slow circles. For hours I enjoyed the peace and tranquility. Not once were my reveries broken by even a slight tug on my line … or by the shout of “Bingo.”
One morning I returned home to find Rosella awake and waiting for me. She was agitated and curious. “Have you a secret lover?” she inquired.
“No,” I replied. “I have purchased a boat and become a fisherman. However, due to some conspiracy that only the fish and perhaps other fishermen are party to, I have not, as of this hour, caught even the glimpse of one fish.”
Rosella pursed her lips into the shape of a cat’s anus. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “I’m going with you tomorrow. I’ve always been an avid angler so I’ll know if you’re lying.”
The thought of fishing must have cleared her brain because there was no disruption to my sleep that night. Before daybreak we walked to the water, untied the boat, started the small motor, and putt-putted to the centre of the bay. I steered and Rosella, surprisingly mellow, snuggled against me as the sun rose to lighten a grey ocean.
I readied two lines and handed one to Rosella as she whispered in my ear, “I’m sorry for doubting you. This is so romantic. I feel like I could … Oh God! Here it comes … it’s happening.” Her hands flew out tossing the line. The hook caught my shirt and bit into my shoulder. My own hook swung free and penetrated my pants to lodge perilously near my most important bedroom machinery. The boat tipped and began taking on water as Rosella’s cries of, “Bingo,” carried over the early morning calm. Soon we were surrounded by a half-dozen boats watching as our small motor sent us in tight circles. I attempted to extricate myself from the hooks as Rosella shouted and rocked the boat. We took on more water and began to submerge.
The hooks and lines inhibited my movement and I was dragged underwater, almost drowning before I was able to free myself and swim to the surface. A young man pulled me into one of the watching boats. Rosella surfaced and was also taken into the boat. She lay on her back coughing and choking. I bent over her. She opened her eyes, looked into mine and whispered, “Bingo,” for the last time. We didn’t know it then, but the near death experience had repaired Rosella’s impairment.
Unfortunately the fishing trip signalled the end of our relationship. Rosella attributed her restored health and miraculous escape from drowning to divine intervention. In gratitude, she decided to devote her life to God. She told me of her decision one afternoon after we had made love in blessed silence. “Father Sebastian says I’m cured. I’ll be leaving as soon as I train my brainchildren to wear loose underwear.”
I looked at her with new eyes. Her ankles stood out over large feet. She had a birthmark on her left hip, a triangle of soft hair at the bottom of a rounded belly, alert nipples on sloping breasts, long fingers on short arms, and a semi-permanent tilt to her head that gave her a coquettish look. She tasted like ripe strawberries and smelled of crushed almonds. She took all that with her when she entered the convent and once again I was left to ponder the irregularity in human relationships and to bask in undeserved loneliness.
Adriana poured herself a brandy. “So orgasm comes from organ spasm. Does that mean that you suffer from brainism, Old Fish Bait?” she asked. “Perhaps you need a muscle relaxant to start your thinking.”
She tittered at her own joke and continued. “Your feelings for Rosella were fleeting, about as deep as your common sense.” She pointed a finger at me. “Admit it, you were simply intrigued by her condition.”
“No, it wasn’t that. After she recovered I found that I no longer felt sorry for her and my feelings changed. I have always been hooked to the idea of love. Though it has been often scorched, my yearning inevitably percolates into my soul and binds me to a vision of what could be. It was my passion that allowed me to confuse pity for love.”
“Hmm … I wonder. What about your boat? Did you get it back?”
“No, I didn’t. To this day my boat rests on the bottom of Albatross Bay. Some craft are just not designed for multiple orgasms.”
“One further question,” said Adriana. “Whatever happened to the chicken? Did Rosella keep it … and why did she name it Max?”
“They wouldn’t allow a chicken in the convent so I inherited her. After a period of time I gave Max to my friend Chang Lee, the proprietor of the only Chinese restaurant in the city. Sometime later Chang Lee invited me to his establishment so that I might try a new item on his menu. Listed along with chicken chow mein, drunken chicken, and poached chicken balls was the new dish which I ordered and found delicious — bingo chicken with salsa.”
“And the chicken’s name … Max?”
Oh yes, the name … Max was an abbreviation … short for climax.”
“Did you find Rosella on your travels?” Adriana asked. “Is she still alive? Is she a nun?”
“Yes, yes, and yes,” I answered. “All of the above.”
Finding Rosella had been easy. She was now known as Sister Rose and had taught all of her years at an elementary school run by her order. She was much older but she still carried the same beauty that had originally attracted me. She app
eared downcast although she now exuded an aura of contentment that had eluded her all those years ago. Time had not been kind to her in one way. She was healthy but her short-term memory was on strike so she had been given tasks that did not bear as much responsibility as teaching children. She assists in the school library and with extra time she has authored a series of children’s books based on the exploits of a super chicken named Max.
I asked what memories she had of our time together. She remembered our relationship, although initially she was reluctant to talk about it.
“It was long ago,” she said, “ … a period of my life that I would rather forget. However, I will always be grateful to you for sharing my burden. I needed you, though I knew that your interest was only sympathy. After the fishing incident there was no point in staying together. I always wanted to join the church, and once the bishop knew I was cured there was no weather bad enough to stop my boat from sailing.”
“I understand,” I said. “Did you ever have a relapse?”
She smiled. “No, I didn’t. However, to this day I experience a faint quiver whenever I attend a bingo game.”
I thanked her and prepared to take my leave but she motioned me to stay. Her eyes stared into mine. “There is something you can tell me,” she said.
“Anything,” I answered. “What do you want to know?”
The Greatest Lover of Last Tuesday Page 10