Toucan Whisper, Toucan Sing

by Wintner, Robert;

  Mrs. Mayfair watches Antonio far past the dictate of good taste and in fact gazes shamelessly. And she’s grinning! And now nodding as she rises repeatedly in her seat as if responding to a little portable pinga on the upthrust, which no man or woman would put past her after one look at that dress! It leaves nothing to the imagination, including what a man might do with such a woman. Or better yet, what such a woman might do to a man. Oh, she is her own magnetic field.

  Tonight Mrs. Mayfair dines with a man of commerce, like her husband, Mister Mayfair, though this is not Mister Mayfair, because Mrs. Mayfair purred only yesterday, or maybe the day before, that Mister was freezing his lilywhite buns on the frozen tundra of Texas, just as he deserves.

  Besides, this man is more attentive than a husband would be. What husband would look so fervently down a dress? He appears mannerly, moneyed, and patient, and perhaps he will have a bit of luck a esta noche, unless of course he suffers coronary complexity in the stretch. She’s ready to romp, as anyone can see. But who can blame her for having fun?

  Mrs. Mayfair helps this man along, out of his stodgy shell. He nods at her husband’s fabulous success with one development after another. They share a wonderful understanding, she says, she and the Mister.

  She gazes off, igniting her date’s curiosity, because it’s a game you play, or you watch until the fire burns to ashes and you wish you’d played. Still, a man who lives in a shell is wary of social blunder. It makes such a mess, and nobody wants to live in a messy shell. Easy as a move can be, it can also be elusive.

  He smiles, assessing a back flip with a gainer and a full twist on the one hand and belly flopping on the other.

  She shares her quest for fulfillment. She lives to the fullest, she says, with everything she wants most of the time, because nobody gets it all the time. Most integral to her happiness is creature comfort. “I make no apologies. I love to be warm and soft. I’m not a bad person, and I love it. So there.” Another key component is sex; make that good sex. “I love good sex, and my one wish in life would be for great sex once every day in the morning and once again every day in the evening. Is that too much to ask?”

  Mrs. Mayfair’s escort is so heavyset with worldly experience relative to restaurant dining, that an observer might think she only taunts him. The jowls flap, the gout hurts, and the skin flashes crimson. Apparently cognizant of the fleshy treasure before him, he remains tentative. Perhaps she’s merely jerking his chain. But why would she do that? He ponders the parameters of good taste and says, “Yes, well, no.” He frowns and smiles again. “I suppose it’s not. Too much, I mean. To ask. I … haven’t given it much thought.”

  Like hell, she thinks, plucking the paper parasol from her piña colada and twirling it before her eyes as señoritas used to do. Well, they did it in the movies, anyway.

  Frederick Wendell leans forward as if to clarify his position on the subject, rising slightly to facilitate movement or relieve pressure. Then he eases back again like a man of global import. “You know,” he begins timorously, looking up with a crooked grin, so much as saying, This is the best I can do. Is it adequate? “You’re a very beautiful woman.”

  She touches him lightly, looks down, and admonishes, “Oh, aren’t you sweet?” He knows that tonight he will get none, until the touch goes to a grasp, giving Frederick Wendell hope that his concession to beauty is suddenly adequate and that he will shine till midnight or fatigue, whichever comes first. He may rise again in the morning, before he simply must return to Dallas.

  But she’s looking past him, and he shudders, sensing the husband, unannounced. He follows her gaze but can’t find her focus. All he sees is a Mexican boy and girl dressed in department store clothing, endearing them on one level but causing regret on another. End of an era, Frederick Wendell thinks, when the help eats at the same restaurants.

  Antonio wonders if a man was ever tested so frequently as he has been these last few hours. Siesta seems like a hundred hours ago. He knows the odds of random encounter remain constant at medio a medio. So who can be surprised? It’s a small town.

  Lyria sees Mrs. Mayfair, who isn’t exactly making a scene but is ogling long distance, stretching her neck and waving like it’s grand reunion time.

  ¡Hola! ¿Sí? But Antonio calling across Jimi Changa’s in response to her wanton leer and patently seductive greeting would surely throw fuel on the fire. Maybe just a nod and a fond smile will suffice in light of her generosity and understanding. But no—

  “Antonio! Darling!” She turns to Frederick Wendell, who Antonio recognizes from the fat and red contingency poolside but can’t be certain with so much tailoring. Who can fathom hundred-dollar trousers, a hundred-dollar shirt—dollars!—and a five-hundred-dollar suit on a man who brings his own Styrofoam cooler to the pool? The gordito who has no pride smiles like a pooch caught sniffing the flan, a cheap pooch unworthy of instant pudding much less this smooth and creamy company.

  Mrs. Mayfair stands and embraces Antonio like she hasn’t seen him in years, and he fears she will whimper like she did on Tuesday with his tongue thrust between her legs with such proficiency she nearly triggered the smoke alarms. No, wait; it was Wednesday. Where does the time go?

  In his pocket he comforts his sleepy pinga that, like a troublesome child, seems so sweet when it’s napping. The other hand grasps the three crisp fifties that will pay for his romantic dinner with Lyria, in case Jaime the Weasel is not here tonight and another scene must be avoided. He grasps those three fifties plus two more or maybe three, in case they find the magic rhythm leading to true romance after many sour drinks, a long, exquisite dinner, and hours of disco dancing.

  Mrs. Mayfair is still embracing Antonio, practically writhing, rubbing her melones against him so he can feel the dark jalapeños protruding from the ends, as if such grotesque presentation of her mutant nipples through sheer translucence isn’t enough.

  Who can see such a woman with such tetas rubbing against Antonio and not imagine him suckling like a piglet? Nobody is the answer, because the translucence is enough to stir mild nausea in any decent woman, especially with those wiry hairs growing horribly around the ends.

  Mrs. Mayfair gushes in matching translucence and flourish, telling Frederick Wendell, “You must meet this man. Antonio. He’s fabulous! Really, he can do anything. And I’ll tell you something else; if you want a good point man for your project, Antonio is the man. Antonio! It’s so good to see you out. Who is your young lady?”

  Shy and tentative as the teenage boy he was only last year, or the year before anyway, he bows like a cleric and says, “This is my friend, Lyria.”

  Lyria looks at him with startled confusion. My friend? Is it not more than that? Especially in the face of this puta? She wonders briefly what she would best be called, for they are not betrothed, nor has the subject been broached. So what could he say, that she is his future wife? Would she actually want that introduction to the woman who sucks his pinga while he holds her ears? Of course Lyria cannot be certain that he holds her ears; he often exaggerates shamelessly. Even so, such an introduction may not be desirable, but still, my friend?

  “Isn’t she lovely? Where did you get that dress, dear? I adore it. Oh, you must forgive me. I just never know when to shut up.”

  Yes, you do, think Antonio and Lyria, in synch at last, or at least in concurrence. Lyria imagines the worst, with the gagging and gulping and the obscene mess running down her chin and, for all we know, gumming up those fake red curls. Antonio warmly recalls a kinder, gentler largesse.

  “This is Wendell Frederick.”

  The fat red man who travels with a Styrofoam cooler rises and offers a puffy hand, as rich gringos are compelled to do. He leans forward and mumbles, “Buenos noches. Frederick Wendell.”

  “Oh! My! I meant Frederick Wendell!”

  Frederick Wendell blushes, his sunburned apoplexy purpling around his half smile. He wears a khaki suit and a tie, as if this were a sixty-year-old movie. He won’t look at Mrs
. Mayfair now, much less down her dress, lest anyone in view suspect him of the worst. He is focused on keeping his shell clean.

  Mrs. Mayfair beams in the light of her own making, her splendid bronze bosom presented on a satiny platform rather than grasped by fiberglass hands. The deep and endless cleavage preempts the lift and spread, but any reasonable man, including Antonio, thinks this display only fitting and proper. Evening calls for formal presentation, unless you’re dancing after dinner, in which case lift and spread might be more appropriate and less floppy. Which is the main problem with huge breasts and cleavage longer than the Line of Demarcation between what is owned by the church and all else. Oh, Antonio knows his history; he took a correspondence course, for the background and the polish.

  “Antonio!”

  “Yes.”

  “I asked you what your young lady does!” Mrs. Mayfair moves like initial tremors, rumbling plates below the surface, sliding boulders over plains like mere toys.

  “She works.”

  “I’m a maid at the hotel. I clean your room. Under the bed. In the bathroom. A maid.”

  “Oh, and what a lovely job you do! You know …” She leans forward in a display of spherical grandeur. “Wendell plans to build a hotel. A very nice one. I’m telling him he ought to look into you kids, you know, for some real ground-floor connections.”

  “I don’t clean rooms on the ground floor,” Lyria says.

  Antonio blushes. “Oh, my,” Mrs. Mayfair giggles, covering her mouth and the faux pas as well.

  Since no one else has anything to say, Frederick Wendell takes the lead with a twenty-four carat phrase plucked directly from the handbook of the worldly wise. “It’s been pleasant meeting you.”

  Antonio, missing nary a beat, replies with a bow, “Yes. The honor is all mine.”

  Now Mrs. Mayfair is blushing. Frederick Wendell looks puzzled. Which leaves only Lyria to unabashedly lead her friend away, just as the boat with the engine tows the big banana.

  Antonio doesn’t mind, but feels none of the romance and sensitivity appropriate to such an evening. He orders wine. Lyria can’t believe that anyone in his right mind would pay as much for a glass of wine as two bottles would cost back in the neighborhood. He wants to tell her that certain events in life have nothing to do with money and in fact transcend expense. Besides, it will likely be free! Because of the bird! But why start? He would sooner savor the buttery complexity of an exotic vintage while living in the esprit of esprit de corps. But he sips and feels tired, which is only natural. And guilty, which is not a good sign.

  She takes his hand in both of hers and scrunches forward like Mrs. Mayfair with less firepower. He is amazed again at her fresh scent and flawless skin. Still, he regrets the apparent motive of her body language, which is to gain advantage, to ask for and to receive. “Please, Antonio. I cannot be happy here tonight. I want to come here again with you, I think perhaps sometime soon. But not tonight. Tonight …”

  She pauses, and into the interlude he lopes, “She only …”

  “Not her. I worry for Baldo and what you said. Please, let us get something hot in a bag and go to him. You can drink all you want.”

  Well, he has to admit: he should cut his losses. All is well with Lyria. They simply picked the wrong night to express their love over romantic dinner and wild discotheque. He is very tired anyway, and it’s not easy, reading the left side of this menu without factoring the shifts required to pay for the right. And where is the Weasel when you need him? No, a smart man saves his load for opportunity.

  So, okay for now, we go, maybe stopping at Manny’s Tamales on the way for some tamales and pickled chilies. We’ll get out of there for thirty pesos for three of us, instead of two hundred forty pesos here for only two—and that’s before the wild dancing and the drinks.

  Oh, and the tips!

  VI

  A Time for Reason and Rest

  Not only does Baldo appear to be mentally secure on this night or, for that matter, on most nights, he seems more sanguine than most. He is more reposed than most men picking up a check at Jimi Changa’s. Stargazing in glittering communion as blithely as some people might watch TV, he knows the difference between nature and discotheque.

  Here he has the cool sand to soothe his feet as he lies back astride these seductively comfortable chaise lounges. He has the moon in its risen glory and the stellar bodies twinkling overhead. Here is unbound fantasy in the untold populations inhabiting some of these twinkles, and glistening solitude with no populations on the rest. Peace and gentle slumber cover the turtle babies like a soft blanket, imbuing their tiny hearts with security and perhaps a small knowing of the love of a boy who would give his all for them and then some. These things are here for the taking, for free.

  At the discotheque, on the other hand, are noise, sweat, and lust arcing short circuits for a pretty peso. Does not a wealth of natural riches mark a man as wise?

  Antonio can’t remain oblivious to violent events. But who can tell what worry lurks below Baldo’s placid surface? Antonio suspects Baldo’s natural redemption to be so complete, that his violent slaughter of another human is already settled on the still bottom, fuzzy with first growth and blending with the rest. Unless of course Baldo’s worry is merely masked by serenity, just as the tall grass can hide gooey pollo squat among the cool green blades. Surely Baldo must understand what has happened here.

  Yet Brother Baldo relaxes with his tamale and lemonade as if worries are for poor people, for those less secure in their calling. Who can tell if remorse for the fisherman is among his concerns? He shows little but guilt for the death of a frigate bird and the condition of the frigate’s cousin. These birds committed no crime beyond feeding, as nature requires them to do. They did not kill wantonly or for sport. So why should they suffer?

  When Antonio and Lyria returned to the beach with the oily, aromatic bags of dinner and a few more beers, Baldo was gone. Not to worry; he was only down in the water, waist-deep in a pounding surf, conducting his special mass for the blessed slain. He emerged naked, which was only practical, since a man in wet shorts is far more vulnerable to eruptions of the skin.

  Still, Lyria didn’t need to stare with such scientific intensity. Has she never seen a pinga? Well, come to think of it, she most likely has not. Which was a good reason to laugh; just wait until she sees the magnitude of her destiny.

  Baldo stared in disbelief that his wise brother could find anything humorous on such a night. Antonio shook his head. Never mind. So Baldo pulled on his pants—the new pants that are the lower half of his security uniform. He took them from the hanger on the tree where they’d hung all day. No need to soil them with so much work to be done. Donning the official shirt of the security guard’s uniform as well, he cut a different figure. Still remotely and perhaps idiotically serene he seemed more sanctioned and, yes, more employed by society in general. Antonio smiled proudly and patted Baldo on the back for doing so well. He wanted to say, Good boy. Good boy, Baldo, but he held back to avoid further confusion.

  Baldo was either too tired or too distracted to celebrate. He adjusted the bedding and water dish of his convalescent bird and stroked its head feathers with a finger. He stared at the bird, whose head grew heavy as it lolled off to sleep. Baldo smiled in confirmation of a night on the mend; things were progressing as well as could be expected under the circumstances.

  Easing back onto his chaise lounge he eats quickly, guzzles his lemonade, wipes his mouth, and gazes up at nothing, or proof, or perhaps meaning and guidance in the firmament.

  Lyria watches him as if to see the wheels turning or some inkling of movement between the ears. Her curiosity remains scientific, as if he is a rare creature indeed, a wild one with an unpredictable nature, available here for personal observation.

  Antonio eats a tamale con polloy poblano in a cornhusk. Its warmth and simple flavor dull the edge of the razor-sharp evening, so he reaches for another, this one in a banana leaf, which takes longer to unfo
ld and requires more room to prepare for eating. This one is so messy and drippy you could never eat it in a fine restaurant like Jimi Changa’s where you would pay eighty-five pesos for it instead of eight pesos, which is what it should cost in the first place. It isn’t even so big, but … ¡Ay! This is how a tamale should taste.

  He swills another beer and belches, realizing the importance of dullness from time to time for a man on the fast track. He farts out loud, looking up to see who will laugh, ready to quip about the barking tree frogs or the mice on motor scooters that are out tonight. But Baldo remains moony, and Lyria keeps her vigil. Oh, well, a man who can fart out loud in peace and comfort is a lucky man too. No doubt about it, dull is good, and from time to time, fat has its merits. Thinking of which, he wonders if Wendell Frederick is now mounting his matron. He thinks not.

  Still, you never know; Señor Wendell is one of her kind, and with the lights turned low, fat blends with shadows and really is no bother until morning. Who knows? Maybe he, Wendell, was once adept at the thing with his mouth, which skill a man never loses. Or at least if lost, he can find it again. Mrs. M can make a man want to find it, especially if she’s having a good night and especially again if he, Señor W or whomever, is drunk or hungry. He looked hungry. But then surely Mrs. Mayfair would be more selective, unless her hunger ate her discretion, or maybe she needs to be needed in compensation for Antonio’s preoccupation with another.

  Antonio farts again and finishes his beer.

  Who knows how many hours pass between the last of gazing and eating and drinking and farting and the first of gentle slumbers? Somewhere in the night Lyria retires from her chaise lounge to the sand, where she eases back on two cushions propped against a palm tree. Baldo is beside her, curled like an infant mammal not yet weaned from the nurturing warmth of motherhood, not yet exposed to the cruel requirements of this world. Her hand lies fondly on his head, which lies gently in her lap. They breathe deep in this position when sleep finds them. This is not a lascivious scene but rather one of familiarity and brotherly, sisterly love. So Antonio laughs at the irony of the scene were Lyria to observe it and the roles were changed to other, familiar players, namely himself and the M.