But this is not the time or place. He’s working. He shakes his head and looks away, so she relaxes and tucks back in, because he’s right, public displays with hungry eyes can disrupt the reverie around the pool, which can threaten a livelihood.
With new intuition he thinks now that she is leaving. She must be, with this flagrant display of receptiveness. He can do without the display but is willing to fill her need as long as she understands that it must be quick, because he has plans with the family. Well, not that quick, but not more than an hour, or two on the outside.
Baldo gathers six coconuts for a group slash for the happy hour rush. But Milo intervenes again, after taking a call and making small talk to a guest. Today is very important, he tells Antonio. He waits for the meaning of ‘importance’ to sink in. Baldo grasps the importance before him, hacking coconuts. Milo moves to stop him and make him pay attention but then moves back. Baldo swings effortlessly with an impressive resolve that no man could absorb and tell about, especially Milo, who flinches in the line of fire. Only a fool would step farther in to such a swing.
Anyway, it is very important, today. By the power vested in him, Milo, under the auspices of El Secretario Pesco and the Mexican Navy, Baldo is hereby promoted.
Stepping forward, Antonio asks, “Promoted?”
Baldo replaces the hacked cap of his second coconut and seeks its proper fit. Once all six are cut and the caps are set neatly in place, he will prepare the straws; two straws in each with the paper wrappers bunched up at the top. This presentation appears fresh and sterile, which purity is very important to a hotel guest who wants a refreshing drink and no more. The ice cubes will be added prior to serving by the bartender, whose hands are on a higher level of purity. Otherwise, they would melt too soon, allowing the drink to water down and warm up, which is not acceptable to anyone and would generate no tips. The liquor too is dispensed at the bar if the guest wants liquor. Baldo is not allowed to handle the liquor. Liquor is valuable.
“Yes, a promotion. As of today—make that tomorrow. No, today. As of today, Baldo will be …” Milo steps up as Baldo fiddles with the caps. He sets a stubby hand on Baldo’s shoulder and announces in a harsh whisper, “El Capitán de las Tortugas!”
“Captain of the Turtles? Do the turtles need a captain?”
“¡Ay, sí! Not just any tortugas. ¡Las chicas!” With a spurious grin and the marginal flourish of a chubby man, Milo turns to the six plastic tubs now lining the low wall beside the steps leading down to the beach, or up to the pool deck if you’re going the other way. A parasol has been installed overhead, and, peering into the shade over the rims, Antonio squints to adjust his vision. In the tubs are baby sea turtles, just hatched, maybe twenty to a tub. He comes back out to the bright light and asks what is expected here of Baldo.
Milo explains that all of Mexico is now changing.
Antonio nods in compliance.
Milo goes on to say that El Secretario Pesco of the Federal Government of all of Mexico has decreed, and the Navy will enforce the law, that anyone taking or tampering with turtle eggs will face fines and imprisonment. The Navy has taken what eggs it can find and secured them for safe incubation. These babies are part of the seasonal hatch, distributed to hotels on appropriate coastlines for safekeeping for ninety days. In only ninety days these small turtles will grow big enough so that ninety percent of them may survive instead of merely two percent. The time has come to restore the turtles: no more turtle steaks or turtle soup or turtle oil or turtle shells.
No more.
Just look: a swimming pool lined with guests who are willing to pay four dollars—four dollars!—for a simple drink by the pool. Willing to pay six dollars for something fancy. Willing? Nay, they are happy to pay and looking forward to paying again and again. With tips! Does Antonio realize what this means?
Hey, to whom does Mister Milo think he speaks? Who knows better or stimulates more paying for more drinking? Who profits more from the happiness of Hotel Oaxtapec guests than Antonio himself does?
But Milo is a bump on the proverbial log, so Antonio merely nods once more as if to confirm comprehension, as if to say, Oh, so that’s how it is.
Baldo hacks his sixth and final coconut. He glances up briefly at the dialogue and determines that he will not be missed for a brief run to fetch the straws, two each, which makes twelve straws in all.
“What can Baldo do? He is very busy serving coconuts. He is very conscientious with his work. He makes them happy. They love him.”
Milo nods condescendingly. “He is the man for the job. He will now be part of Hotel Security. He will wear a uniform. There.” Milo points to the khaki pants and matching shirt with official sleeve patches. It hangs on a wire hanger from a low limb of a nearby tree. “He will be proud to serve the turtles and the hotel, and we will be proud of him.” Milo shifts quickly here from pride to confidence. “Antonio, I have seen your brother walk the beach. No other man I have known—and I will call him a man now that he is grown; no other man takes such effort to return the boxfish to the waves whether they are alive or dead. He gathers rubbish with no regard for hotel boundaries. He throws dinner scraps to los pelicanos when they have nothing else to eat because the small fish have not appeared. He swims alongside los cocodrillos! Who but a crazy man would do such a thing? I will tell you who. A man who walks with God is who. A man who is touched by St. Francis himself. Antonio, do not doubt the wisdom of this promotion. Today we are blessed. You are blessed. Baldo is blessed. We are all blessed. And so. It is late. You must prepare for bingo. No?”
“But what of tips? He makes tips with coconuts. The turtles will be happy, but will they pay tips?” He pokes his head into the shade again for a display of the antics that make him invaluable poolside. “Hey, chicas! You got some money? Hey! What you got in there?”
“Antonio, I am told from on high that it is no longer acceptable to have Baldo near the pool, near the guests. Do you now see how much we are blessed?”
Antonio feels the sting of this uppercut but shrugs it off as a true champion must and presses his case. “You want to affect the livelihood of my family here?”
Milo nods and opens his mouth to speak but cannot, for first he must calculate the amount of money required to make Antonio happy without straining the budget. After all, how much can anyone be expected to pay for a babysitter of turtles? It wasn’t Milo’s idea. Nor does El Secretario provide a budget but rather advises the hotel that it will be good for business, just you wait and see, and don’t forget the fines and imprisonment.
Baldo finishes prepping the last of his twelve straws so that anyone desiring their thirst quenched with a cool, refreshing drink can now be served by adding ice cubes, garnish and liquor if necessary. A simple slice of lime will do for garnish, this late in the day, because the evening hour is less playful and more serene and calls for less garnish than the midday drinks. Midday drinks get two slices for eyes and a pineapple wedge for a nose and a little paper parasol for a hat. Oh, they do like the midday garnish. He scans his inventory and nods, set to go, recalling the days not so long ago when he would need fifteen or eighteen straws to get it right. Not anymore; twelve up with no mistakes, and though this isn’t exactly the same as Antonio’s unique skill at float walking, it is a proficiency resulting from diligent practice and establishes his rightful place as one of the two Garza brothers.
He stands straight and turns to where Antonio waits and Milo stutters over this and that. He looks up at the new parasol over the wall beside the beach steps as if it didn’t exist before his preparation was done. He too steps into the shade with a squint and then leans into it.
Milo and Antonio turn together at the sound of Baldo’s gasp and the high-pitched, eerie squeal of a mute in undeniable ecstasy. Baldo reaches into the shadow and backs out grinning, his brow wrinkled as if in anguish, holding a baby turtle gently near his face with both hands. The little turtle flaps all four legs briefly, then stretches its little neck up to Baldo, p
ractically touching him nose to nose.
Milo nods and grins. “So. You see?”
“Milo. You are right. No man is better than Baldo at many things. Las chicas among them. How much does it pay? He makes thirty, sometimes thirty-five pesos a shift now.”
“That’s too much.”
“Too much for what?” Antonio waits while Milo ponders what. “Milo, I know what we can do. Baldo can watch the turtles while serving coconuts.”
Milo shakes his head. “No. It is decreed. Twenty-four-hour security for the turtles. The other is decreed as well. No more Baldo by the pool or the guests.”
“Twenty-four hours? How can he work with no sleep?”
Milo nods. “He will take time off to sleep. And to eat. And to take care of the rest. You will see that he is clean and groomed.”
“Milo, has he yet to be unclean or failed to groom?”
“He will be paid … Two pesos per hour. No. Twenty pesos per day.”
“You said two per hour.”
“But he needs time off. Antonio, this is best. Besides, nobody really knows what the hotel guests are willing to leave tips for. Or how much. Eh? Do you not think they will love the man who loves the turtles? Do you not know how our guests most often express their love?”
Antonio knows what makes the world go round. He cannot refute Milo’s logic, but he also knows that a bird in hand is often worth more than the murky whim of hotel guests. They tip to ensure continuing comfort. But to tip simply for the love of turtles? This is highly conjectural. He sighs audibly, factoring twenty pesos times six days times four weeks. Well, times seven days, really, if this is only a ninety-day promotion. Baldo will be here and so will be paid. And make it times four point three weeks, really, because Mrs. Mayfair’s husband is in business and always insists, she says, on factoring four point three weeks to the month. Otherwise you take it in the shorts, she says he says, which is okay if the shorts is where you want to take it, but not okay if you’re out to make some money.
Antonio further understands the importance of initial agreements. Now is the time to bump twenty pesos a day to twenty-five, or at least to twenty-three, but no sooner does he turn to speak than Milo’s waddling rump is all that’s left to see as it bounds for the lobby. Milo beat him to the punch with urgent distraction. Well, it’s true; Baldo is the best, already counting, inspecting, observing, checking for life and viable turtle spirit; in a word, nurturing.
A new guest approaches. Petite in a classy one-piece with a gold chain and a suitably expensive watch and long, blonde hair, she lets her eyes drop to Antonio’s abs. He watches and waits and lets the electricity ripple its magic arc to her lovely orbs. He fixes her gaze, then stops, subtly facilitating a lifting of the eyes with a gentle flex of a perfect pectoralis major. His shirt is still on, but she sees and blushes and asks in delightful confusion if today will be bingo.
“Ah, yes! Bingo!”
He bounds for the head of the pool, leaving the new blondie flushed in his wake. They love the rejection; she’ll be along for more. Plugging in his little amplifier and testing for sound with a spicy salsa disco number that challenges all stillness, he gyrates shamelessly side to side, in and out. He smiles warmly as the Latin lover of your dreams, and soon poolside attention is all his. At least the attention of the women is his; this is a given. He holds the microphone provocatively and says, “Testing, uno, dos, tres … Hey! Wake up! No more siesta! Time for bingo! Wake up! Er! Er-Er! Er-Errrrrr! Wake up! Bingo! We play for twelve beers today. Not all at once, because it’s too early to be drunk. Maybe later. Okay, amigos y amigas. Doce cervezas hoy día! Wake up! No more siesta!”
He stacks his bingo cards behind his jar of dried beans. He preps his music and glances up to see that Milo is back and yakking at Baldo, who towers over the short, fat manager with a simmering glower. Each grasps the handle of Baldo’s machete, causing Antonio to grab the mike again and hurriedly announce once more to get ready and hold the fort, “Er! Er-Er! Er-Errrrr! Wake up! Bingo! Come up for your cards and your beans!” And he bounds back around the pool to see what’s up.
“You don’t need a machete to guard the turtles,” Milo insists.
Baldo grumbles and reddens and easily tightens his grasp beyond the limited strength of Milo.
“Why not, Milo? Let him have the machete. Who ever heard of a security guard with no weapon? What? You want to give him a carbine? That would not look very nice.”
Milo scowls. “He needs no weapon! It scares the guests.”
“No, they think this is colorful. They think we all carry these things around, just like our fathers did. Just as they think the coconuts are colorful.” Now Milo reddens at the mention of his unskilled father and lets go of the machete with a scowl. Turning squarely to face Antonio and stepping forward, he huffs and puffs but doesn’t say that enough time has been wasted already on this half-wit brother who has passed for too long as an “assistant” and makes far more money than he should. But such is understood; Antonio reads the prevailing sentiment as though it was written and says, “Milo. Make it twenty-five.”
“What? Make what twenty-five?”
“Twenty-five pesos a day. Here. Here is the machete.” Antonio takes the machete from Baldo easily, as only he can do.
Milo turns and walks, shaking his head. “I better not hear,” he says but doesn’t say what he better not hear.
Antonio hands the machete back to Baldo, who sets it down on the top ledge or the wall because he needs two hands to properly care for the small turtles. Milo has left a fish fillet, which Baldo now tears to small bits. Antonio watches briefly and taps Baldo on the arm. He tells Baldo to wash his hands, miming the act of washing with emphasis on rinsing all the soap and never allowing suntan lotion into the turtle water. Baldo stares with a grimace and a nod, first imagining the awful potential of poisoning by suntan lotion, then comprehending the remedy. “Where will we be with buckets of dead babies?” Antonio asks with brutal practicality. The idea is drawn in pain across Baldo’s face as he’s off to clean his hands.
Antonio bounds back, scans the pool, and asks the microphone, “Is everybody ready?”
“Sííííí,” they reply.
“Okay.” He spins the basket with his biggest, warmest smile, which is not a grin, and pulls out a ball. “B twenty-three. Bay vente tres.” The game is on. “For two beers we play this game. Dos cervezas. Up, down, diagonal. Any which way, one line. Okay. G-seventeen. Hey, diezy siete.”
III
A Mostly Uneventful Evening
Bingo passes uneventfully, except for the third game requiring two diagonals plus both a vertical and a horizontal for four cervezas. Four guests playing poolside all call at once, “Bingo!” and demand the full payout. But four beers each times four winners makes sixteen.
¡Diezy seis cervezas!
What do they think, that I have an endless supply of beers to hand out like candy? Let them demand. The game paid four. Period. No more discussion.
¡Terminado! ¡Hola, cabron! ¡The nerve of some people!
As if that isn’t enough, the new blondie lying on the first chaise lounge facing the head of the pool plays with her bingo card between her legs, which are spread in such a way that no man seeing her can think of his mother. It is no accident that she spreads them, the legs, with her most provocative display for the most alluring eyes before her. They sparkle in Antonio’s head, hinting playful thoughts. She plays along, demonstrating her flexibility by bending studiously forward for a most titillating buffet, which is hot, not cold.
Smorgasbord is cold, even in Mexico at your finer hotels, and a man rising with the tide and times knows the differences in such things, down to nuance and flourish. She seems alone, available, wealthy, interested in the maestro, and between one and two decades younger than Mrs. Mayfair.
Not one to take defeat lying down, Mrs. Mayfair holds the attention of four men convening here to discuss annuities and to fish. Their foam cooler full of beer and ice repr
esents the height of rudeness to those whose ancestors made the ultimate sacrifice so that their modern descendants could earn a decent wage by shagging beers for tips by the pool. Some people will never learn, no matter how much affluence and influence they wield. These four businessmen from El Norte look like brothers, with the same ruddy hue and beer bellies that sag like boda bags filled for a long journey. Antonio thinks another pair of hands must hold such bellies up so the first pair can wipe them free of the sweat and smegma assuredly growing in the dark crevasses beneath them. These modern moguls look eleven months pregnant as they strain against the gordo guts hanging over their droopy shorts. They wear gold chains and are very burned on their chests and shoulders. They laugh and drink until the beer trickles down their necks and onto their chests and tickles them into great, good cheer. They taunt each other over who will win tomorrow, who will lose, and why. Matching boisterous wagers, they yell that one city or another will defeat the rest.
Ain’t no way in hell ’ey won’t.
They savor prospects for Sunday and six hours on the beds in their rooms watching American football.
Interspersed in their joviality are gamy glances at Mrs. Mayfair and lewd suggestions, but none stare longer than mortal men can look at the sun for fear of melting their eyes. They look away with playful smirks for each other when she looks majestically off.
Antonio smiles, wondering what each would pay for what he is paid for. Ah, Mrs. Mayfair. She can work a poolside as deftly as he, and Antonio hopes she feels gratitude for what he has shown her. He hopes as well that one of these fat red men will strike a chord, because the maestro is frankly too tired to squeeze her in tonight. Well, maybe not too tired but certainly not predisposed. He would honestly rather introduce the new blondie to his twilight cocktail program, and he doesn’t want to keep Lyria waiting too long. And Mrs. Mayfair gets so emotional. Well, he shall see what he can do.
Toucan Whisper, Toucan Sing Page 4