Toucan Whisper, Toucan Sing

by Wintner, Robert;

  Things are mostly uneventful beyond the pool as well, except for three tourists in the chaise lounges down on the beach, who call shamelessly for joven to bring some cool, refreshing drinks, right now if you please. Baldo is playing with pieces of fish fillet, then changing the water in each tub after dinner because it’s fouled by the mess the baby turtles make, as babies will. He asks Antonio to please keep an eye on las chicas while he requisitions another tub, because anyone can see that a spare tub for changing will greatly facilitate the task at hand. Baldo nods fore and aft. He spreads his arms and chops his choppers, and the message is conveyed. And that would be that, except for the three helpless gringas down on the beach who need cool refreshment and pronto.

  But what? You want what? You want the maestro to fetch you a drink? This is not in my contract and seems unnatural, Antonio thinks, scratching his huevos. Then he smiles; after all, it is nothing but show biz, where a headliner sometimes helps with the props. He moves casually into service, shagging ice cubes and garnish with his bare hands at no extra charge. Then he serves the three coconuts. He waits for the tip but there is none, perhaps in deference to what is obvious to all involved, which is simply that a maestro does not serve coconuts on the beach.

  Never mind, happy hour is here.

  Response to the floating squares is marginal and worse; it’s embarrassing when two little boys want to try it, which isn’t the same thing at all when you think about it, because they only weigh fifty pounds and can walk easily to the end.

  So? What does that mean? Nada is what. What can Antonio do, outshine mere boys? Give them a beer? I don’t think so. Pool volleyball generates an equally weak response, but some weeks are like that, where the crowd is devoid of life. Let them sleep.

  Antonio cranks the Latin love ballads to deepen their slumbers, and in another little while he whispers into the microphone, “Wake up. Beach volleyball. No more siesta. Er! Er-Er! Er-Errrrrr!” Let them sleep. Meanwhile, Antonio is well served by shagging coconut drinks if he is covering for his errant brother. Baldo will handle both jobs better tomorrow once the babies are nestled in and a routine is set. As for Baldo serving drinks, he has not yet been instructed otherwise. Tomorrow he will resume. Just wait and see.

  Antonio is amazed at the traffic in coconuts, which is more than usual. He calls on Baldo to prep another six. Antonio doesn’t mind covering now, because the tips are adding up, and though Baldo looks like a child at play in the sand, tomorrow will be like yesterday with yet another revenue source. The coconuts will continue adding pesos to the tally, and along with them the little turtles may yield the greatest tips of all, which are those paid in tribute, which is certainly nobler than convenience and should not be overlooked as a viable revenue center.

  Baldo has moved the plastic tubs off the wall by the beach steps because the setting sun comes under the parasol and hits the babies directly. He restores them to the shade by setting the tubs inside the wall. At sunset they will go back on the wall, and tomorrow morning they will go outside the wall. A rhythm in nature emerges, and Baldo moves more gracefully with each passing hour as if ordained and risen, guardian of the turtles.

  As the sun sets, the new blondie orders a double strawberry margarita, tips thirty pesos for personal delivery from Antonio and hands him the lotion for her shoulders. She removes one strap, carelessly revealing a breast that is much smaller than either of Mrs. Mayfair’s but is nonetheless plump and pert and inviting to the touch. Mrs. Mayfair is of course watching, but she can’t very well follow suit without a Sawzall to cut through the fiberglass.

  “You know,” Blondie says. “You’re very good-looking.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Antonio says. “I wear contact lenses. I don’t take them out for swimming. Do you find that amazing? I can show you my trick in one hour. Here. You don’t need this. The sun is down now. Excuse me.” He hurries off to nowhere because he’s too tired for such complexity, even with such a blushing young blondie. But don’t worry; he’ll know what to tell her before the hour is up. And if he doesn’t know, so what? She’ll be here a week.

  To his unfathomable gratitude Mrs. Mayfair is accepting the lead of a fat red man. She casts a furtive eye back for revenge or regret; Antonio can’t tell which. He only hopes the fat, red man will dress well and will neither sweat nor smell like a pig, that he will treat her gently or roughly as her taste predicates. Who knows? Maybe he, the fat red one, will even give her a hundred pesos for her trouble.

  Ha. That’s a good one, and he, Antonio, laughs at his own joke, turning to yet greater relief. Just there under the poinciana, leaning languorously against the trunk, Lyria waits and watches. She has seen his indifference and strength in the face of shameful temptation. This bodes very well as proof of his long-standing love, for Mrs. Mayfair obviously represents no threat but in fact serves the family objective with wonderful practicality, providing money and relieving pressure. The young blondie, however, could mean trouble on the home front.

  Antonio warms to the surge of victory in circumstances that could have gone either way as he warms to the sight of Lyria. Pointedly curved, smooth, and sharp in every detail as a brand new Chevrolet, she waits only for the one who will turn the key and drive her home. Like an elixir, she fills him with energy and light, because he is the one.

  “Would you like to meet at eight?” she asks.

  “Yes, I said I would meet you at eight.” Antonio doesn’t slow down but sends his affection in passing, employing a technique tried and true with the poolside women, because all women are the same in certain areas. She reminds him as he passes that they had yet to set a time, and for all she knows, algo sucedió; that is, something came up, or maybe it will come up between now and this evening.

  Slowing only to train his grievous hurt on her, he assures her that nothing came up nor will it. “Ocho. Perfecto.”

  She watches, granting him the smile he needs, knowing he’s showing off. She wishes him free of his constraint and considers an act of daring. If she doesn’t take the initiative, who will? She eases out and down the road to prepare for a night out.

  In thirty more minutes, it’s over. Day is done for the Garza brothers, who have assured poolside happiness since coffee time this morning. Happy hour turns to dusk and then twilight as the infantry digs in for one more. A few troops turn to dinner, a few to more deliberate intake, and a few take one for the road on their way to somewhere else.

  Antonio ducks behind some shrubs to pull a handful of tips from one pocket and put them in the other. He doesn’t need a count to know he topped a hundred twenty. At least! Maybe more. He only needs to balance the weight. Now he looks like his balls are swollen, but who cares? It’s getting dark. Time to go. And maybe they are!

  He fetches Baldo, but Baldo looks up like a man entrenched, a man for whom departure is as likely as that of a lioness leaving her cubs. Palms up, he shakes his head vigorously and very nearly whispers, “¡Las chicas!”

  Antonio has neither scolded Baldo nor disciplined him for a long time, not since Baldo was two heads shorter. Antonio tells him that he must come, that these babies are already hatched so nobody needs to sit on them anymore, that twenty-four-hour security is a figure of speech, and nobody expects anybody to guard round the clock. He must come home and clean himself and eat, and besides, he is scheduled to take Lyria and him to dinner. And dancing!

  Baldo shows his palms again and with his machete points at the crimson sky over the breaking waves, where las tijerillas make their way with suspect stealth. These scissortail frigate birds love the nestlings of others, and once their feeding begins, it’s only a matter of minutes before las gabiotas arrive, seagulls screeching and diving on the hapless plastic tubs.

  Antonio explains that no man can sit ninety days without coming home to bathe, sleep, eat, and take care of the rest. Baldo shakes his head and stamps his foot. He mimes that Antonio will bring him things to eat and Lyria as well. As for sleeping, he will bring his hammock and pillow and a
light cover to this place. He’ll have all he needs, and so will las tortugas chicas, because it is time for Mexico to change its ways.

  This last is a loose translation, Antonio knows. But he gets the gist and feels the tenor of his little brother’s insistence. Size is power, he thinks, and though he doesn’t doubt Baldo’s need for discipline, he, Antonio, will not be the disciplinarian.

  With neither threat nor ultimatum, Antonio urges Baldo to come along ten minutes, only ten, just up the beach, from where they can watch the turtles and hurry back if necessary. Baldo ignores him then shakes his head. “Baldo!” Antonio yells as if at a bad dog. He further explains that they will keep watch from up the beach. They must, in order to see and know if in fact Baldo should stay, or if he can come home for just a while.

  Baldo declines.

  Antonio insists.

  Baldo won’t move.

  Antonio turns away and turns back. “All right. Nine minutes. You must grant me this, Baldo. As you are my ward for all I’ve given you. Come with me.”

  Baldo rises, looks into each tub and out at the tijerillas who now dive beyond the surf and pluck little fish easily as from a bucket. He looks at Antonio and holds up nine fingers. They walk in silence. Antonio carries his T-shirt on his shoulder now because it stinks. He may stop in the gift shop on the way out for his new toucan shirt, but maybe he’ll give Mrs. Mayfair another day or two. A hundred pesos are nothing to sneeze at. Baldo carries his machete loosely, as is his custom, in case he needs to run back in a hurry for the slaughter. He looks back at the plastic tubs every few steps. He scans the birds working the surf.

  Silence is normal for Baldo but rare for Antonio, who tells himself it’s not so bad that his brother is obsessed with one thing if not another. What we have here is opportunity. What will happen if the hotel guests catch on to the man who guards the babies night and day? Appreciation will happen, which can lead to tips of significant magnitude with proper management.

  Antonio knows of the tips given on cruise ships at the end of the week in lump sums and ponders such a program for turtle appreciation. It is important to keep an eye open for dynamic application, especially with a brother like Baldo. A brother like Baldo could hamper those of the unseeing eyes. But Antonio has turned his unusual brother into an asset, not a liability.

  Has not Baldo capitalized on his disadvantage so far? Does he not carry his weight? Will he not evolve with proper guidance toward a tangible contribution, for which society will express its gratitude in tips?

  Antonio can easily ask these questions and know their answers by simply opening his eyes and seeing, which is exactly what he’s doing.

  IV

  ¡Algo Sucedió! (Something Came Up!)

  Life can change when you least expect it. Antonio has always known this, but then knowing that life makes sudden turns does not make the road ahead less surprising. Antonio will remember these moments in the days and years to come, just as a man who puts his weight on a first slick step and slides irretrievably down the stairs will remember his failure to anticipate total loss of traction. He will as well remember that first giddy freefall, in which the world of order suddenly loses its binding.

  Antonio will remember the man fishing, walking into the surf with complete disregard for getting his clothing wet. He will remember the trousers with their houndstooth check that tell you this man works in the kitchen of an expensive hotel or else he did at one time before he was fired, or else he stole the pants. Or maybe he bought them or they were handed down. Never mind, the trousers disappear as the man wades to waist deep, wetting his red-and-yellow plaid shirt as well and hurling his baited hand line over the breakers before they break over his head. The water recedes to expose the fisherman still standing like a rock. The fisherman shakes the water from his head and pays the line out rapidly so the undertow can carry his bait deep to where the big fish swim. He backs up to the dry sand and keeps things taut so he can feel the bump and run. The brothers watch. The fisherman glances back. Antonio returns the man’s look with a wave and a greeting. “Buenos noches, Señor.”

  The man nods and the Garza brothers walk on—except that Antonio is walking alone. He looks back to see that Baldo has stopped and now stoops slowly as if struck by the kind of internal affliction felling men far older who are usually infirm. Baldo picks up a fish that flops in his hand. Antonio walks back and says, “He’s alive, Baldo. You can carry him to the surf and release him.”

  Baldo is gasping again, more gently now than a few hours ago when joy overflowed with baby turtles. Now he is stricken with grief, for the fish in his hands is a trumpet fish, first cousin to the sea horse but much bigger. This one is two feet long and thin by nature, maybe three inches in diameter. Its head isn’t exactly shaped like that of a horse, but it and its cousin both have elongated jaws prominently rounded, big oval eyes, and a snout also like a horse’s but again, much thinner. But this one is maimed, its jaw broken halfway back from the nose to the eyes. Baldo lays it on the wet sand and kneels before it. He places his palms over it like a shaman who knows some magic, but Baldo only sobs through labored breathing before raising his machete and removing the balance of the head with a casual but decisive stroke. His own head hangs limp as if broken at the neck, as if the scope of his loss is complete.

  Baldo looks up to his brother with anguished eyes, imploring him to right this wrong situation.

  Antonio shrugs and softly explains. “Baldo. There is nothing we can do here. The fish is dead. You have ended his misery, and now he is dead. We can do no more.” Baldo looks down at the fish again. His mouth opens and closes as the fish’s recently did, but Baldo is not gasping for air; he is, rather, mouthing the words, mi amigo. This fish is known. This fish is a friend of his; he would recognize this fish anywhere. This is the fish he saw only a few days ago, hovering weightlessly over the reef. His small pectoral, dorsal, and caudal fins flapped fast as the wings of a hummingbird and his big eyes rotated to stay full of Baldo, who blew bubbles overhead.

  Look at this fish and say it isn’t so, that this is not the friend who looked up with the same greeting and recognition these last two years since Antonio pulled enough pesos from the coffee can for a mask and a snorkel. This is Trumpet Fish, who swims backwards when he wants to and hovers nearby and changes color at the sight of a friend.

  Baldo weeps, holding his machete gently to his chest, coddling the cold, stained steel. He weeps pitifully, as if for a death in the family, though the deaths in the family never caused so much weeping.

  The fisherman pulls in another trumpet, unhooks it roughly, and holds it like a stick for breaking. “Wait, my friend,” Antonio calls. The fisherman waits but will not look back at Antonio. Rather, he remains poised for the kill, anticipating the plea.

  “It is a life, my friend. A life,” Antonio says. Now the fisherman looks back, but he doesn’t speak. He waits to see if that is all Antonio has to offer. Antonio presses his point, which isn’t his point at all but that of his late father, who speaks through him as if bearing witness and giving voice to the alma, the inner spirit a father might pass to his sons. “It is a life like yours, or mine, or maybe better.”

  “No, my friend,” the fisherman says. “It is not. It is dead.” He breaks this second trumpet fish as well along its jaw and tosses the still flopping fish up higher on the sand, where it can perhaps reflect on the error of its bait-stealing ways while it waits to die.

  Antonio says, “Come. Come, Baldo.” He moves quickly from this cruel scene as the man untangles his line and puts another piece of fish on his hook. But Baldo won’t budge, and the fisherman too is in apparent need for further resolution.

  “Three hundred pesos,” the fisherman grumbles. “Three hundred pesos is what the hotel for gringos is willing to spend on one pelican with a broken wing. Three hundred pesos to mend a bird. A bird, so that it can try again to steal my bait. As God is my witness, Señor, I will break any fish or bird that takes the food from the mouths of my childr
en. Only a man with children to feed can understand this. You cannot. You cannot, unless you have children to feed like I do, and a wife who is already big again with …” He hurls his line again over the incoming waves. “Ah …”

  “Come, Baldo. Come.” But Baldo will not come. “Look, Baldo. He is using fish for bait, just as you feed fish to your turtles. Well, maybe he uses blue fish as you do and not a friend from the reef, but still, it is …”

  “A friend from the reef?” The fisherman gingerly feels his line and may have interest on the other end. “What is a friend from the reef?” He relaxes with this novel concept and is prepared to discourse further with these boys who cannot yet know the world as it must be known.

  These are nearly the fisherman’s last words as he backs out of the water, just before he turns to the startling sound of Antonio’s shrill outburst, “¡No-o-o-o! Baldo! ¡Para nos Madre!” Antonio knows that his plea is of no use. Something rises from a deep recess within the heart of his little brother. With a head wag slow as a verdict, Baldo will not be denied. His shoulders slump as his eyes squint into focus, and he draws from below the waist with both hands on the machete. He swings from the earth to the firmament, meeting the neck and clearing the crown with a thump and a squish on a casual, decisive stroke, a stroke the trumpet fish of Oaxtapec would call a happy stroke.

  The fisherman’s last complaint is “¡Jesu Cristo!” before his face is cleaved, and he learns the dance of the fouled trumpet fish—if not with the same flop, then at least with similar surge and twitch. Baldo stands before the headless man, grasping his machete more firmly than is his custom, but that’s only because of this rare occasion calling for two hands, and because he is risen as well to a state of extreme agitation. The man faces him, as it were, until following the suggestion of Baldo’s gentle shove. He falls back in the lapping waves.

  The half head washes up and back and up and back. A single gabiota senses tidbits and lands nearby to get a feel for temperaments in case nobody will mind him taking a piece of cheek or sampling an eye.