Toucan Whisper, Toucan Sing

by Wintner, Robert;

  Well, for all Antonio or anyone knows, Baldo is as mentally undisturbed as a man or boy could hope to be. He beheaded another man as casually as hacking a coconut; this is true, but this other man was engaged in multiple commission of the same crime.

  ¿Que? ¡Ay, cabrone! Imaginary voices from the upper level heckle and jeer. You compare a man’s life to that of a fish?

  Antonio’s eyebrows rise like flotsam as he weaves through the breakers with a smooth response: Yes, well, it was two fish, actually, Your Honor. And who knows how many fish before we got there? He grimaces at this glib flirtation with the firing squad and follows a falling star with a wish: How I wish I had another beer. He muses over what is worse, one beer or no beer at all. And as if the evening were made for dreams come true, good dreams and bad dreams, Baldo reaches into the shadow at the base of the wall by the steps between the beach and the pool and pulls out a beer. He hands it over to Antonio, who cannot accept without first knowing where this beer came from and how it was purchased. Baldo smiles and shrugs and flops his arms in a silly reenactment of prepping his pants for washing, which begins, of course, with emptying the pockets. That is, the fisherman had enough for three beers with a peso left over.

  “Where is the clothing?”

  Easy, it’s in a pillowcase just here, ready for delivery anywhere you might like.

  Antonio nods and wonders. He drinks when Baldo urges him to drink. Baldo waits with another beer, because one is enough for him, and besides, he got the third one for Antonio. The third beer slows things down and smoothes them out, and Antonio eases into the easy sense a few beers can make.

  I will be late for dinner because I was on the beach, Your Honor, having a few beers with my brother Baldo. Baldo is unusual, Your Honor, a boy of rare skill and potential who applies himself with diligence. We spend this time together to enhance his further development.

  Antonio nods, sustaining himself, and stands, telling Baldo he will return later with something to eat. Baldo shrugs and rises as well, to step forward and lean over and look in on his chicas. He makes sure they are resting well and that none are having bad dreams after the evening’s rude intrusion. Antonio takes the pillowcase full of the fisherman’s clothing and steps up to the pool deck. He looks back to see Baldo adjusting the injured bird.

  He stops in the lobby tienda for three more beers. No, make it two, which will make five altogether. No, make it three, in case Lyria wants one, or two; no, make it four. Four beers, please.

  He knows that any man must be crazy to pay three times the price here in the lobby, but he feels crazy. He has the money. He is on the rise, and the beer is here. And this pounding chaos in his head could absorb all the beer in the cooler.

  He is surprised and gratified when Juanita the clerk rings in a fifty percent discount and dourly informs him that he is an employee and therefore entitled. Antonio loves entitlement but is none too certain that employee classification fully recognizes, much less captures, his essence.

  Think of it: an employee might need to restock a cooler, but he is responsible for the basic happiness of the hotel’s most precious commodity, its guests. Two hundred people look this way every day for fun. You call that an employee?

  Never mind. He pops a beer for the walk out front to the bus stop and laughs when his arrival at the curb is timed perfectly with the bus. He doesn’t break his stride but steps right on board and smiles like a happy man. He welcomes the view of a full bus, because these people saw me, Your Honor, heading home after a few beers.

  Besides, it’s good to stand up on the ride home on a night like this, because too much luck must average out sooner or later. Besides that, a beer is easier to drink while standing up.

  Across the road and up and down the hill feels like a long way from a few hours ago, but it’s not. Carrying the extra beer is a good thing too, because it distracts anyone’s attention from the pillowcase. Still, he would like to burn the pillowcase if he can find a fire. Maybe he’ll build one.

  In the meantime, he tosses the bundle into a corner and plops onto his hammock, suddenly feeling age catching up and surging ahead. Dios mio, the mesh never felt so good. Ohhhh, he moans, helping the tension ooze from his muscles and bones. Mmmm, he shifts for another angle of release. Ahhhh, he reaches for one more beer, but it’s just beyond his reach, but that’s okay. Lyria will be here soon to hand it over and sit beside him carefully so as not to tip him from his hammock.

  ¡Caray! Can you believe the nerve? He will soon share his disbelief with her. Four beers each for four winners in a single game? Is their good fortune supposed to spell doom for my own? No, let them drink one and buy three more if it’s three more they want to drink.

  Or maybe she will swing her legs up and they will lie together. What can it hurt and who can it scare with clothing on in a hammock, least of all Lyria, who could lie back and spread her legs if she wanted to, but what can he do in a hammock, arch his back like a pelicano and dive for his dinner? A man can do nothing on a hammock, except perhaps for a gentle feel here and there, which can only enforce the bond between himself and the woman of his dreams.

  True, his gluepot is full, but such is the way of true romance in the beginning, and besides, Mrs. Mayfair won’t leave without a formal goodbye. Then he can coast with indifference to the blondie for two days, after which she too will be served.

  Sexual desire is an old familiar for him but only now emerges in Lyria. And a girl needs time.

  Proper timing underscores Mrs. Mayfair’s contribution. She should be invited to the wedding, which perhaps should be soon. He ponders the night of nights, or perhaps a lazy afternoon. He will deny himself the pleasure of others before immersion with his beloved. Not that it matters with such a renewable head of steam. Two hours should be adequate. Besides, Mrs. M will doubtless have a special wedding gift for the groom.

  Feeling his pinga rise to the kindness and generosity of his friend from the north, he deflates directly in deference to a day that began a long time ago. Er er-er er-errrr, he thinks, drifting, drifting. Jesu Cristo, what a mess.

  He half mumbles, half snores, falling quickly and soundly asleep. Time enough, he dreams, for a short, revitalizing nap. Then he will rise and clean himself, and they will go for dinner and stay out late and maybe dance. Maybe he will touch her breasts and breathe fast as he tells her of his intentions. Maybe she will want to touch his pinga, which could lead to trouble but may help her overcome her fear of such a ruthless beast who can be a most agreeable fellow, once you get to know him. Er! Er-er! Er-errrr!

  But maybe this is not a good plan, he is still such a young man, and no woman, not even Lyria, would allow customer relations with Mrs. Mayfair if he and Lyria were married. As the saying goes, Antes que te cases, mira lo que haces; before you marry, look what you do.

  You multiply a hundred fifty pesos times four for an average week but sometimes six, depending on her need to be needed, and once it was eight. Already you’re talking terrific loss, and then you multiply that by two, because she now talks of one week not being enough, and then multiply by two again because she comes twice a year now.

  “What, are you loco?” he asks, suddenly waking to her vigorous insistence. One scent of her tells him he has let a rare opportunity pass by, for she smells of sweet gardenia, and he sweats like a fat man from too much beer. She shakes her head and appears to be disgusted, as if this is not the evening she had in mind. Moaning again like a much older man, he swings his legs over. He breathes laboriously, hurrying himself into coherence and then calming himself. He offers her a beer. She declines, standing pertly back as if to see what he has to say for himself.

  He smiles and says, “Well, then. I’ll have one for both of us.” Rubbing his face and head as if to clear the fog, he reaches another beer, drinks half of it and says, “Please, sit down.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Lyria, please. We have trouble tonight. Very much trouble.” She waits, and so he tells her of Baldo’s prom
otion to El Capitán de las Tortugas, which makes her laugh, but more with amusement for Baldo’s antics than with tolerance for Antonio’s shenanigans. He moves directly to Baldo’s obsessive concern for the baby turtles and his, Antonio’s, attempt to bring Baldo home. From there they went for a walk on the beach and, as luck would have it, encountered the fisherman who lopped off the trumpets of Baldo’s friends, the trumpet fish. Or at least he, Baldo, thought they were his friends, and they likely were. At least they could have been. But anyway, Baldo cut the man’s head off.

  She waits for more. He shrugs, terminado.

  “He cut the man’s head off?” She thinks Antonio is onstage again, exaggerating as if Lyria, who has known both him and his schtick ever since when, is supposed to laugh on cue like a good audience. But he’s late and dirty and smells like a butcher, which could be the lingering scent of the aging puta for all she knows.

  Lyria simmers with disappointment verging on rage with a dash of disgust. Tonight was not meant to be a casual rendezvous but a Saturday night of anything goes with a possible inching toward who-knows-what and a certain probability of you-know-what. “So what? You think this is funny?”

  But Antonio is not reaching for humor. He reaches low instead with both hands and slowly rises to neck level with his best air machete. “Sí. He cut the fisherman’s head off.” Antonio drags a finger across his neck, then nods to the corner. “There. His clothing is in the pillowcase. The fisherman’s clothing.”

  “But what of the man? Where is he? And why is he without his clothing?”

  Antonio shakes his head. “Please, don’t ask. The poor fisherman is without much more than his clothing. He is without his head, and worse yet, without his life. Satisfy yourself to know that he was put to good use.” He stops shaking his own head and goes to a nod. “Recycled.”

  She turns and walks to the doorway for fresh air and fresh perspective. She moves seductively as a beautiful woman in a dress and high heels, though these are not high heels but only sandals, because she has no high heels. Where would she wear such shoes? Cleaning rooms? Having dinner with Rosa? No, she needs no high heels, but even with sandals a man can imagine how gracefully her dress would fall past the curvature of her lower spine and over the luscious ripeness of her hindquarters if only she were propped just so. Just look at how much grace flows forth this very moment. And for what? For a crazy story from a man who remains blind to everything?

  Antonio, however, isn’t blind to some things. He sees the grace. He wants to step up, hike her dress, and feel her high thighs but determines quickly that discretion here will pay off in a few short hours. She will be smooth as rayon. Tonight, his gluepot will bind the woman of his future. High thighs will be his. He will kiss the space between them. Then we’ll see who calls him disgusting, when she trills like Toucan over fresh berries. Too much waiting is no good. Abstinence beyond a point feels mas larga que la cuaresma, longer than lent.

  She comes back and sits beside him. “This is terrible,” she says.

  He shrugs. “It could be much worse. Everything is taken care of.”

  “How can you say such a thing; everything is taken care of? The man’s clothing is there in a pillowcase.”

  He shrugs. “I will burn them in the morning.”

  She can’t believe his casual response to a heinous crime. “And where is Baldo?”

  “Where else? Baldo is exactly where he wants to be, where he should be, babysitting the babies.” He smiles at his own grace, offering the soft opening to a few hours here together, alone at last on a Saturday night with the whole world waiting between now and sunrise.

  She stands again, requiring him to check his balance. “We must take him something to eat. He must be starving. He eats nothing all day, you know.”

  “He eats nothing all day by choice. And he sleeps with the turtles by choice.” Antonio rises. “I will only be a minute. Then we can go as we planned. We can take him something to eat. Okay? Okay.”

  From behind the curtain he tells her they will dine at Jimi Changa’s, because he feels good in spite of a very demanding day. She won’t respond when he talks like Rico Suave on Money Street, so he ignores her silence. He says he has decided on lobster for himself and one as well for her. She hasn’t eaten lobster since seeing them walk in a line a mile long across the ocean floor on The Discovery Channel in the hotel laundry room. Baldo watched too, seeing the face of God.

  Antonio watched too but still craves lobster, even as she refuses a reply. He finishes washing his armpits, butt crack, and scrotum, reaching deep under his nuts with a daub of scent just in case. “Hey, Jaime the Weasel owes me something, so maybe tonight we let him pay. Con langosta.” He sorely wishes his new T-shirt was in hand for such a night but resigns himself to a camp shirt with a pattern of tiny gabiotas winging across the front and back and around the sleeves, too. It’s not a bad shirt. It’s just so regular for such a night.

  He emerges and steps up behind her where she stands facing the night sky in the doorway. He bends to kiss her neck softly, to set the mood and to eliminate the distance he feels has grown between them. It’s only a minor misunderstanding that will soon be repaired. She moves away in irritation, but that’s only her way of telling him that his gesture is not enough. She wants more, which is what she will get, the whole enchilada, before or after dinner, at her leisure.

  They watch the night sky for a minute more, perhaps thinking of stars twinkling or the moon waxing or love or youth or passion. He bends near again until his lips barely touch her neck and whispers that she is a beautiful woman.

  It is just this expression and this sensual contact that she has imagined for so long, but it falls shorter on the second try in the gruesome context of events. Her skin tightens under his lips as if to repel him, but he perseveres here as in all things. Resistance will melt and move with warmth. Just you wait and see; like a dam bursting it will soon flow forth.

  Perhaps it would flow if Lyria could ease the nagging questions. How can he be so casual after disposing of a body on the beach? How well can you know a man, if you’ve only known the boy? She stands motionless with no resistance, and Antonio senses discretion may still be the better part of breast-tweaking.

  He takes her hand for the lovely stroll to Jimi Changa’s, where some disco dancing will follow an extravagantly touristic dinner with cocktails. Then we will see what’s up and who’s ready. Glancing back in the shadows, he sees her beauty enhanced in the half-light. Unbuttoning another button on his shirt, he sighs and squeezes her hand.

  It isn’t so bad, not talking but simply walking, holding hands, in a way cementing the bond between them. They haven’t held hands since they last peed in their pants together, and the years have changed the feeling in their fingertips. Now they’re electric, wired for transmission and reception. When she twitches as any woman might, holding hands with Antonio and sensing the eruptive potential of any given evening, he gives her a rest and leads the way like a lead dancer. Up the sidewalk and onto the patio of Jimi Changa’s they arrive. He is as handsome as any young man; she is as beautiful as a starry night.

  They pass the cage bought cheap by Jaime Ruíz because of so much rust covering its ornate Victorian grillwork. Now the old cage is painted white but shows up electric blue under the black light overhead. Toucan perches inside, solitary as a single bird in a very large cage. It’s past his bedtime, so he’s in his sleeping position with his bill pointed back and tucked under his wing. But he’s given up on sleep, and his eyes move with the movement around him as the wild diners come and go. Antonio belches in passing, and Toucan jumps with a squawk.

  “I belched,” Antonio explains, but Lyria pushes him onward as if she knows better. At least Baldo isn’t here, and they’re spared that embarrassing scene, with the hyena squeals, the gyration and genuflection, the preening and cooing between birds of a feather.

  Antonio knows this place, where judgment is instantaneous and measures a man by the woman on his arm and the
respect shown by the maitre d’. It’s hard to say why a weasel like Jaime Ruiz is so admired and famous. Yet he has everyone performing according to the social standard here. Some of these men are fat and red. Some have gray temples. All appear to be flush.

  Antonio announces softly, with confidence, “Two, please.” He palms twenty p into the hand of the host, who is no older than himself and just as eager to fill a role.

  The host quickly inventories Lyria up and down and what’s in his hand. He looks surprised, then he takes the lead with authority. “This way, please. I have a beautiful table for you.” So the gavel falls, and judgment is secure. Lyria avoids looking back at those who ogle by keeping her eyes straight ahead. Something makes her wince. Never mind. She most likely shaved with a dull blade, and a little black nub stuck to her dress stings when it’s pulled.

  Antonio smiles with serene confidence, carrying himself with the poise of a man out on the town. They wend their way through the maze of lesser echelons, on their way to the top.

  The diners obsequiously observe as they remain obsequiously oblivious, until Antonio notes the presence of the hot salsa dance combo, Autoridad, musical misfits who will charge the evening with a throbbing pulse after an exquisite dinner.

  The scrutiny gauntlet is the first course at Jimi Changa’s. It’s why they come, to ignore it and then sit and burn whoever comes next with merciless assessment. And it’s fun, or it could be fun and would be fun if not for the nemesis of the common man, which is circumstance, that, in the end, must occasionally be faced. But Antonio has not been among the common ranks for quite some time now. So, qué pasa aqui?

  Alas, the sting in Lyria’s panties is Mrs. Mayfair, having dinner with a fat red man with gray temples, who appears unqualified for Mrs. M’s favorite forced march. He’s so red he matches her hair.