Oh, Lyria would insist that his tongue was all but between her legs if the head was his and the lap was Mrs. Mayfair’s. Never mind; this scene is not only pure and loving, but of practical value as well. Bringing dinner late to Baldo and then innocently falling asleep will help assuage the lament in the morning from gorda Rosa over her virgin daughter staying out all night. No problema ahora, not while babysitting little Baldo and his baby tortugas.
Hours pass between Antonio’s practical strategy in the middle of the night and his sudden waking at sunrise. His eyes open before his slumbers have properly ended. He senses things north and south, up and down, and sniffs for the trouble that feels tangible in the air. He lies still and breathes easily, instinct telling him that sudden movement could bring on the bite or sting if in fact the snake or scorpion he senses is also awake and alert. He reaches for alertness and feeling, and in a blink he knows that he will never make it home to change and prepare in time for another day of fun. But so what? This is Mexico, the land of mañana, of laughable delay and balmy blue skies to fill the time of waiting. Can he not compensate with the verve and example of a true maestro on any given morning or afternoon? Of course he can.
Though a man tangibly rising in social status is intuitively attuned to get up and get going, Antonio drifts back, suffering fatigue from a most demanding evening. In sweet surrender he sleeps again briefly and sorts the images. Color and movement rise and fall like the tides and break like the breakers; swoop like a machete in a harsh harvest. Images flash and darken with the pulse of a blinding new day that throbs with horizontal sunlight on his closed eyes.
Everything is garishly red and smells like dog breath, until he turns away from the blinding light and presses his cheek into a cold nose. Eyes open on Lyria sitting and staring beyond the black dog who sniffs his face. Above her are three men in uniform.
One is Baldo.
One holds a leash; he and the third man have machine guns slung over their shoulders and nightsticks on their belts.
Antonio swings his legs over and sits up with a long and mighty stretch and a yawn to match, opening his mouth wide enough to swallow the beautiful crisp morning. So wide does he yawn in deference to the greatness of another day in Paradise that his eyes squeeze shut again. He holds this pose briefly to set the scene and himself. Closing his mouth, smacking his lips and easing his arms to the same angle as He who died for our sins, he opens his eyes, looks up with cheerful optimism and says, “Buenos días.”
“Buenos días, Señor. Have you slept here all night?”
Antonio looks troubled briefly, and then nods. “Well, yes, I am sleeping here since falling asleep here after dinner.”
“And what time was that?”
“Well, it’s hard to say, since dinner was takeout tamales from Manny’s, which really are superb and only eight pesos, which is incredible if you happen to have read the menu from Jimi Changa’s lately. We went there first, to Jimi Changa’s, that is, and would have stayed for more than a single glass of wine that cost half as much as six tamales … Hey, we got one left.”
Antonio smiles to himself in the paltry shadow cast by his down-turned face. Will the young men in uniform expect a glass of wine? He picks up the bag and looks inside. “Si.” But he doesn’t offer it, because a fine line is tricky enough without a foolhardy lean to one side. So why did he lead with a straight chronology in reverse? Where can that go but back to happy hour, which establishes a presence here?
Well, that’s okay, because a presence somewhere is a fundamental requirement of reality and/or existence. Is it not, Your Honor? And right here is where existence occurred for me, no, for us, no, make it only me. Why not only me? Am I my brother’s keeper? Or my sister’s? But let’s not rush the details or mire scenarios in strict chronology. A circuitous route might be best for now.
Antonio considers, “Eighty-five pesos for a tamale? It’s ridiculous.” Okay, let it drop, lest undue attention be drawn to the circles. “Why do you ask? What is wrong?”
“Were you here yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes. I work here. I must work here this morning, and I must go home and prepare. I am the director of poolside activities here at the hotel.”
“How late were you here?”
Antonio shrugs. “What? Five-thirty. Six. I don’t know. I can tell you it was no longer light, but not quite dark. What time was that?”
The two men with guns step back for a private conference. Antonio looks at Baldo and nods halfway and then at Lyria with the other half. Back to the men with guns and sticks, he says, “I must go now.” He rises and turns with a singular quickness up a step. He tells the police, “I must go now. It’s time for work. Everyone must work or things will turn back to how they were. If you need more information, everyone who was here yesterday will be back in only one hour, when we can talk as long as you like.”
But unlike the longest walk that begins with a single step, this single step comprises the entire walk. One of the policemen intervenes with his nightstick and insists, “Please. You will you come with us?”
Antonio doesn’t follow but displays a look of honest curiosity. “Can you tell me what is wrong?”
“A man is dead.”
Antonio waits. When nothing more is said, he shrugs, “So?”
“Murdered, Señor. Here, on this beach.”
Twisting his honest curiosity to socially conscious concern, he allows for brief, personal agony before repeating the assertion. “Murdered? On this beach? When?”
“Last night, Señor. Please, you may have very valuable information for us. You may not even know it. We will have a word with your manager. You will be excused. When we’re done, we will bring you back.”
A word with the manager will not be necessary, for the time to begin work is now, and Milo watches from the top step leading to the pool deck. He nods slowly with a wry smile, assenting to Antonio’s absence and affirming a wry truth. He, Milo, has known all along that it would come to this, and though he’s too much a gentleman to say so, his smirk reflects his further understanding that Antonio’s absence may span the entire morning, perhaps the afternoon, and maybe thirty years to life.
Antonio forfeits a moment’s composure in registering the verdict in Milo’s eyes. Milo is master of nothing but what the New World of tourism has taught him, which is a practical envy to match his practical greed. Who knew he would turn so quickly against a loyal colleague? But then who thought he wouldn’t, given the chance?
The policeman now asks how long Lyria and Baldo have been here. He already asked Baldo but got nada in reply and then learned from Milo that the boy doesn’t speak but was yesterday appointed to guard the little turtles in accordance with the decree of El Secretario Pesco and the Navy. The cop’s posture corrects slightly in audible range of such monumental authority.
Milo further explains with churlish annoyance that the job of guarding the baby turtles is described as round-the-clock. “But who can be expected to babysit turtles around the clock?” Milo turns his palms up and turns his head with fey indignation. He waits for an answer with growing exasperation over this scene on the pool deck. Affluent guests arriving only yesterday don’t need a disturbance, much less news of violence on the beach.
The cop is not simpático, shifting his machine gun to his other shoulder with a grunt and curling his lip to reveal teeth at once terrible and perfect. Hardly his own but perhaps better suited to his calling, they flash like polished steel in the morning sun, which is what they are. Stainless steel uppers and lowers serve to clarify the source of real power in this emergent world of wealth and comfort. He turns to better question the mute boy’s girlfriend, the one whose lap he slept in, because a cop needs answers, even from a woman who may be loosely connected to The Secretary of Fishing himself. He glares with keen intensity to be sure.
She hangs her head. Well, she is female. What can she know? And what could she have done? Commit such a crime of violence? Every policeman knows the fur
y of a woman scorned, but she is not such a woman. She is submissive, possibly partially mute herself. She was with the mute boy. What does that tell you? “Tell me,” the policeman says to Antonio. “How long have your friends been here?”
Antonio won’t look at Baldo or Lyria. Baldo can swing either way here but will likely play along. Glancing north and south, east and west, like a man seeking the big picture, Antonio sees no machete, so he glances up and steps out on a limb. “They must have come back later,” he says. “I came here to spell my brother, so he could have time to clean himself and eat. And be alone.”
Let Milo stare. What does he know?
“I fell asleep. Now they are here.”
“So you had wine by yourself? Then you went for tamales by yourself, and you brought them back here?”
“No. And yes. I brought the tamales back here by myself but then I was not by myself, because my brother was here with the girl.” But no sooner is Antonio pleased with his sophistry, referring to Lyria blithely as the girl and leaving her name out of it, than the cop looks troubled.
“But you said you spelled him so he could eat. Are you saying he left to eat, or he ate here and then left and then came back?”
Antonio realizes he has stepped unwittingly into logistical stalemate, for which nothing will do but finesse de force. “And so? You are talking now in circles. I don’t know what you’re driving at, Your Honor.”
Now the cop laughs sardonically with an appalling display of dazzling steel, indicating the last of free dialogue until the lawyers are retained. “I am driving at nothing but the police station, Señor. Please. Shall we go?”
Antonio shakes his head and prays with dire urgency to his late father that both his younger brother and his nearly betrothed are granted the common sense to continue standing still as bumps on a log while he trods off to Babylon. Or is it Gomorra? This may be the last chance for communication until a private space can be secured, which may be never. Luck must be given room to breathe for any chance to stay alive.
Looking up only at Milo, Antonio says, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I wish these fellows were less presumptive.”
Milo arches his eyebrows but only in mockery of a fool, of a wannabe highbrow on his way to the jusgao. Presumptive? Ha! Oh, Milo has known the inevitability of this embarrassment, and though the arrogance doesn’t surprise him, the sheer, raw bravado is a sight to behold, here before God and the law. Milo smiles ruefully at his presumptive maestro. Guilt was inevitable and now is presumed, unless innocence can be proven beyond a reasonable doubt, which it obviously cannot be. Where does he think he is, en los Estados Unidos? Too bad, my friend, that we are only un poquito to the south.
Antonio Garza is familiar with intense gazing from svelte, blonde gringas honing on his mid-section. But this intense gaze seethes with the envy of burrito-built Milo, whose sweat flows like runoff in the shade. Perhaps the justice system appears dark for now, as it too hones on Antonio’s midsection. But what can the gordo manager Milo gain from such unbridled contempt? Does not Antonio fulfill the responsibilities of his position? Are the guests not happy and in some cases thrilled?
Well, if you’re not too fat and green with envy you could see the happy faces around the pool or get up off your fat, hairy ass and read the happiness on the comment cards. Oh, Antonio keeps them coming on. Er. Er-er. Er-errrr! That’s Milo’s rub. He will not rise. Such is the way of a five-star resort spotlighting Antonio and his muscles and giving him the sweet reward while the fat manager must change his shirt twice a day.
It’s a sad dawn indeed when the cock won’t crow, but neither will he hang his head in shame or remorse. Back by late brunch is what he’ll be; just you wait and see. This Antonio conveys to his roly-poly manager as he continues up the steps and passes so closely he can smell the frijoles y huevos on the gordo’s breath, already sour as putrefaction. Antonio winces in disgust and shakes his head. “Comida frijoles y eructar jamón,” he says in passing. You eat beans and belch ham, meaning that Milo will never rise from the basics, even as the maestro demonstrates how easily the job is done.
Let Milo fire me. Let him try. Let him explain poolside that he, the fat bastard of a whore for a mother, is now maestro for the guests, of whom thirty percent on any given week are repeat guests. Repeat! At these prices! And for what? A puff pastry of a manager with flàn where his spine should be? No lo sé, pero no lo creo. Ha!
Antonio crosses the arched bridge over the pool. He walks as resolutely as an innocent man, which the morning forces him to be. He moves with dignity, impervious to the slings and arrows of relentless circumstance.
Still, he wishes his feet didn’t shuffle so much from too much beer and too much tamale and way too much yesterday. Heavy legs must clear the steps from the pool deck to the brunch terrace.
Difficulty compounds when the cops behind him grip Antonio’s biceps on approach to the lobby. Here is the perfect place to make a run for it, which they must not allow. Antonio pauses with a scornful laugh and an easy flex that throws off the grubby mitts of the little cops as easily as flies flicked by a stallion’s tail. Stainless steel teeth? Ha. Ask your dentist for muscles of steel.
But his small triumph is brief. The cop who doesn’t talk responds to resistance with a sneer, showing he has not yet marshaled resources for new bridgework in steel, and the ivories remaining are more rotten than not, mere stumps in a once-youthful sneer. Perhaps he has seen Antonio at work and now cowers in his inner self, knowing he will never ascend to such levels. At any rate, upon losing his grasp, he unslings his automatic rifle and lowers the barrel to nudge Antonio’s kidney, which pushes back by sheer reflex. But this is a machine gun, wood and steel, not a horsefly or a grubby mitt. A gun feels no muscle flexing and kills a man’s pride here in the lobby. The stump-mouthed cop achieves his own small triumph over circumstance and briefly feels his dominion.
This is humiliation, which can foul the balance of an entire life. Antonio stops short and turns to lock eyes with the cop pointing the gun. This is wrong, he wants to convey, and with sheer confidence of expression further conveys to the punk cop that bullets are nothing.
He stands taller and breathes casually, expanding his chest like a bull frog so much as croaking, Go ahead my little cop, shoot me many times. The cop will not meet this gaze but prods again, into the ribs this time. Antonio wants to take the gun away from him but sees Baldo watching just down the steps. Baldo pleads with silent eyes.
Antonio checks his anger, because rectitude in men is less forgiving than in nature, and survival is now of critical importance. So he nods slowly, turns and walks as directed through the lobby at gunpoint for the guests to see and murmur recognition of the one known as Antonio, or Tono by the end of the week. He is what? Chief suspect in a murder on the beach?
Lyria comes to the fore, surprised and confused at this maddening presumption. Baldo straightens his uniform to begin another day of work, oblivious to the world of men and their guns, focusing on the needs of nature and its salvation. He moves to the morning task of feeding the baby turtles. Then he’ll change the water and arrange the tubs for maximum shade.
Lyria can only stare, striving to know whether Baldo is actually so callous to his brother’s arrest, or if Baldo performs for the manager as well. But with guests in full migration to the dining room and the pool, industry calls. She seeks the younger brother’s eyes for understanding, for something to go on, if not a plan then at least a tacit collusion, a time and a place to meet and talk. Well, not talk, actually. But Lyria can approximate dialogue with Baldo as well as anyone, except of course for Antonio.
But Baldo is mute and moreover numb to her silent call.
So she gathers her things and strides resolutely back to the chaise lounges where Baldo preps breakfast for his baby turtles. She rifles the sand as if searching for her sandals, waiting to gain his attention. She doesn’t look at him but says lowly, “Nueve horas. Baldo! Nueve.”
Baldo won’t look he
r way but nods and continues ministering the needs of his new ward, the injured bird, who is amazingly alive and awake, accepting care from this unlikely mentor by swallowing gobs of fish stuffed down his gullet.
She can only hope for the best, that Baldo’s emotions and instincts are not as mute as his speech and will apply to his own flesh and blood as they do to a lice-infested, half-dead bird. She can only accept his oblique affirmation with faith. Her faith fails, however, on remembering what she now misses, which is not her sandals but the machete, without which Baldo looks like an amputee. He so often holds the machete either as an extension of his arm or else cuddled to his chest like a loved one. And now it is missing. Anyone who ever watched TV knows that without a murder weapon the prosecution has nothing.
She shuffles the sand to find it. If she can find it, she can go up for a towel, come back and wrap it and then dispose of it. She looks up to Baldo’s grasp, his half-smile and half-nod seaward. So, he does know. At least he seems to know.
Milo steps forward. Baldo returns to the motion of only a moment ago as if nothing intervened. Lyria puts on a show of exasperation for Milo, who turns away to tell a guest it was nothing, nothing. A minor matter that will be cleared up in no time. Lyria drops a shoe and kicks sand over it, and as Milo turns back she brightens. “Ah! Here it is!” She smiles gratuitously and hurries to begin the new day of delivering happiness by way of cleanliness to the guests of our deliverance. “I will change my dress,” she says in deference to Milo’s countenance. He scoffs. What does he care what a maid wears?
At the top of the other steps leading to the brunch terrace above the pool, she looks back and sees a woman and five children to the south, the family of the fisherman, she thinks. She further fears the circumstance emerging, which is the need that will fervently remove her from the ranks of those destined to succeed. She needs money and power, great money and great power, which might as well be a need to fly, or to make caga that smells like gardenias.
Toucan Whisper, Toucan Sing Page 9