Toucan Whisper, Toucan Sing

by Wintner, Robert;

  Checkmate. No other persons are now required.

  Antonio coyly concurs, but in the cordial aftermath he suggests that we’re not talking increased overhead here. We’re talking standards in service.

  My assistant can cut and serve the coconuts. He has experience. With his young charges already beating the reaper by a hundred percent growth with only twenty percent mortality, and with care and feeding down to a routine that El Capitán de las Tortugas can do in his sleep, slicing a few coconuts amounts to nada. What’s more, Baldo is now a man of esteem, willing to serve it up with expertly presented coconuts.

  They love him, the guests.

  This proposal requires a day and a half gestation, but it too achieves new life from on high. Halfway into week seven as El Capitán, Baldo approaches Antonio himself in tips, because now he, Baldo, has two sources, which anyone even remotely aware of personal advancement can tell you is better than one source.

  Antonio anticipates approval and buys a new machete, since a requisition for that item could draw attention to an unsavory and as yet unresolved circumstance. Not that circumstance remains unchanging. In week two and again in week five, Señor Simón Salvador himself makes personal visits poolside in irrefutable proof of Antonio’s innocence. At least such a visit proves Antonio’s inevitable exoneration, or at the very least it proves that Antonio’s benefactress is deeply solvent and will go the distance on this one.

  Antonio rises to these occasions of svelte, suave dialogue with a man in a tailored suit and shoes of appropriate pliability. In his heart of hearts, Antonio wishes Señor S would wear a different fine suit from one visit to the next, from the many fine suits obviously hanging in his closet. Never mind; the staff won’t notice that it’s the same suit as last time, what with three weeks between visits, and the guests can’t know, because they only arrived last weekend.

  Señor Salvador assures his client, though he describes a reality based in motions, filings, response times, defaults, summary judgments, and possible proceedings. This is all very good indeed, Señor Salvador reiterates, assuring Antonio that Mrs. Mayfair is staying in touch, just as he too will stay in touch. So don’t worry.

  Well, to tell the truth, Antonio wasn’t worried, not like he is now, for Mrs. Altmont Caruthers of the Dallas Carutherses steps serenely into the personal space between Antonio and the lawyer. She glistens in full sheen between the two, plucking a pesky gnat from its death wallow in the grease pooling just below her sternum. The portentous tributary running down the center of her chest is not as spectacular as that of Mrs. Mayfair with her grasping hands, but Mrs. Caruthers knows how to work a crowd, even if only a crowd of two, as long as they’re men. “You are so good at that water exercise. Are we going to, you know, do it again today?” Not waiting for the affirmative but turning quickly to Señor Simón Salvador, she offers her hand. “Hello. I’m Elizabeth Caruthers. Call me Liz.”

  “Con mucho gusto.” Señor S responds on cue with his instant non-click of the heels and a gracious bow that puts his lips a hairsbreadth from her greasy hand, his nose a whiff’s distance from the dazzling cleavage. Antonio smiles, proud as a facilitator on ascent among the long-standing denizens of the social stratosphere. He feels perfect, knowing when to stay as mum as a mute brother so nature can take its course, which it most often wants to do.

  Mrs. Caruthers understands that Señor Salvador is of professional status in the legal field and wonders if he might be available for, you know, legal advice on the purchase of real estate here on the, you know, beach.

  “Si claro. But please, Liz, I am not well-versed in such matters. I have a friend who will call on you, if he may.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose. I just thought it might be nice to …”

  “Yes. It will be very nice. We will be in touch. Tomorrow. Or the next day.”

  Mrs. Caruthers is unaccustomed to such power than can avoid a well-preserved woman more easily than a mighty river can avoid a rock.

  Here may lie a lesson for a young man on the rise. Would not a romp with Mrs. Caruthers be a good and possibly lucrative experience for a rapidly developing portfolio? Of course it would. Yet this man long ago risen tells her that it may be a good thing, and maybe not.

  ¡Ay! This is power.

  So a time is set for nature to play out, which may be tomorrow or the next day. Or never! Such is the whim of power.

  At this juncture Antonio worries less and accepts more the idea that the steep fees piling up are well spent. This is not only defense but also continuing education toward the advanced degree. Besides, the expense of a thing is of no concern to a man so thoroughly covered.

  Two weeks later, just after Baldo’s promotion to the double tier, Señor Salvador returns. He waits in the shade watching Antonio until a break in the action presents itself. Antonio is schmoozing with a guest, delivering happiness and the exotic charm that memories are made of, if you’re a certain kind of guest. He pours it on so Señor Simón Salvador can see the substance of his performance.

  Señor S nods warmly, indicating his appreciation of a job well done and says that it’s time. The hearing is set for next week, in which the future may be told, whether they will proceed to further legality, or if the matter will be resolved with prejudice. The lawyer is optimistic toward the latter, anticipating best-case scenarios and potentialities of varying parameters. Antonio need not attend. Strategy calls for a straightforward motion for summary judgment in favor of the defendant. The appropriate, shall we say, powers are, shall we say, in place. Mrs. Mayfair will be here.

  “With prejudice?”

  Señor Salvador broadens his smile in effusive tolerance of the legally uninitiated. Grasping the muscles across Antonio’s shoulders again precisely on the sore spot, he tweaks it with uncanny effect. “Don’t you worry, my friend. It is good.” He scans the face of his client as the little massage finds deep tissue.

  Antonio bows his head for the relief of the thing if not in abeyance, and he moans. Yet he wonders how a best-case scenario can be good with so many variable parameters.

  Señor S says, “I know you’re a busy man, and really, I must go.”

  Antonio is left standing alone rubbing his own shoulder and assessing legal prospects. He smiles over prospects for a romp with Mrs. M, only a week away.

  True, he releases the pressure from time to time among the poolside women, but such frolic has limitation and risk. A man in the spotlight with such a fantastic body must never initiate sexual contact with a guest, no matter if she is gringa or Mexican, for that is grist for the harassment mill, and many would as soon share this spotlight as soothe the swollen pinga. Besides, after a day of nonstop entertainment and optimism, a nonstop night can leave a man sorely pressed to shine tomorrow. And what if the level of tipping is less than decent? Sure, it is mostly enjoyable with these women, once initiative is established as hers and the charming chitchat is done and the piston properly slides in the cylinder at adequate rpm so the little engine purrs. But with the lights out it all feels the same. Maybe not exactly the same but close enough. Falling fast asleep at two a.m. with a rise and shine only four hours away, the days seem terribly long. They start again with too little rest in between.

  At least with Mrs. Mayfair initiative is foregone and it’s money in the bank. The cock crows an hour before sundown and an hour after with gymnastics uniquely hers. Then it’s all comfy cozy with three pillows each, lying in bed with thirty-two channels and the remote in hand. He wonders briefly if Mrs. Mayfair will have enough money to see him through. But of course she will.

  He wonders how a natural beauty like Lyria could approach her prime in life and turn suddenly morose. Like now, with one foot in the laundry room and one foot out, sorting and folding and watching the clouds in sad resignation. He suspects she is hitting the bottle with Rosa and hopes this is the case. The bottle would explain her depression and sudden weight gain. He has seen a special report on heredity and alcoholism. Could it be the gin that turned Rosa
gorda? Her gut, Rosa’s, is not the low-slung tub of fat hanging like a water bag from most gordas but is round and firm like Joaquin the bartender’s.

  Can it be that Rosa has guzzled gin all these years when he thought her so nice and so caring and so much the mother in place of his own? Of course it can be, and such a state of affairs would require re-examination of those events, in which Rosa was actually dead drunk on gin. She must have been. Drunkenness wouldn’t make her less loving.

  If it’s the whiskey gut growing spherical on Lyria too, then she can be spared. With help and guidance and Antonio’s encouragement, Lyria can break any habit.

  And yet: Caras vemos, corazones no sabemos; faces we see, hearts we don’t know. Could it be that a thing exists, of which he had no clue whatsoever? If so, what else could be misperceived, misconstrued, and unknown?

  At least he doesn’t need to wait ten years or ten months to see if his betrothed will turn fat, nor must he press his beloved to quit the gin to spare the gorda. In a month or two we will see if a thing is true, a thing so strange a man can hardly imagine. He will speculate no further, because worry is a futile endeavor, and numbers cannot lie.

  The women in their last days of voluptuous glory need what Antonio can give. They pose and look their best for sultry seduction with many cocktails and low lights. They love the power of a Latin hot-blood with tantalizing charm, high spirit, and rippling body. They swoon to conquer, then whimper in submission. Yet they know nothing of humble origins or manifest destiny. Except for one who does, who offers respite from his current uncertainties.

  Soon Mrs. Mayfair will arrive. Perhaps she will help sort things out.

  XII

  Rapid Development in its Varying Phases

  Antonio Garza has long felt his prime approaching. He anticipates seasoning with bulk and definition to age thirty-five or even forty, because even an old man has more power if he’s developed. Due diligence on a hundred fifty times three each morning will lead to dominance on all levels. One hundred forty-six. One hundred forty-seven.

  Besides the practical return, a grunt and a sweat can also remove a man from thoughts of greater difficulty. How can you worry about romance and what simply cannot be true but is, if you’re straining to complete your reps?

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  Yet a pain seeps into his heart even in triumph over physical limits. Blood vessels bulge on bulging muscles while breathing is controlled. Focus seems secure but warps with the burden of life and its wily ways.

  Is he not kind and compassionate, willing to give back love for love? He thinks he is, and that his heartfelt anticipation of Mrs. Mayfair’s arrival is not a sign of weakness but rather a symptom of what Mrs. M herself would call maturity. The women of the world raise a common voice against the men who want nothing but to feel the chichis and pump the bushes. Then they’re gone, the men, with a frivolous adios amiga that gives nothing to the women who give their all.

  Antonio Garza is not like that, or least that part of him fades as he moves ineluctably toward his prime.

  Mrs. Mayfair is the bearer of many wonderful openings that welcome his surge, and she loves him for it. But she is more now a true friend and confidant, not to mention savior. Is he then wrong to count down the days from one hour to the next until her arrival, until she relieves the pressure with a vengeance and tells him life will be good again, just you wait and see? No, he is not wrong.

  But the arrival of Mister Mayfair along with Mrs. Mayfair jolts Antonio in this tender phase no less than a blind speedbump on the autopista at night in the rain with the wind blowing. What is he doing here? What will he think of his wife’s lavish expenditure on a man with abdominal muscles like these?

  That she merely enjoys his company?

  Well, of course she merely does, but surely her own husband knows of his wife’s weakness for horizontal recreation. Unless he is old or infirm or no longer inclined to the wild dance. Antonio can’t know until they meet. But meeting the husband won’t assuage the terrible pressure of these lonely weeks of not knowing and not ventilating, unless of course the Mister is willing to have a few dozen drinks in the lobby bar while Mrs. M and Antonio merely enjoy each other’s company.

  Ha and again ha.

  Ninety-one. Ninety-two. Ninety-three.

  Baldo is waking up with his guttural complaint, processing his own difficulty, which is no more than a reach for consciousness. What a simpleton he really is.

  Antonio winces at these harsh thoughts toward his younger brother, but some things are unavoidable. To think, their father insisted that Baldo possessed a mystical knowing just because the younger could say nothing to prove his stupidity. Truth be told, Baldo gives poignancy to the adage, es burro que no rebuzna porque olvidó la tonada.

  He is a burro who will not bray because he forgot the song.

  He behaves as if nothing is changed, nothing is wrong. It may be natural for a woman to take something to eat each night to a man she loves like a brother. But this is not such a love. For days Lyria has not shared a word with Antonio, which wouldn’t be cause for alarm, since she can hardly share more than paltry dialogue with Baldo. But she swells in the womb, and this is no gorda blossoming.

  No, she retches and cries, and Rosa wails.

  Baldo merely drags himself up, drags his legs over, and stands like a man in a dream. He yawns and stretches and slumps again, asleep as a man can be.

  Look at him, also swelling in the gut like a man twice his age with nothing to cause it but an excellent repast each evening that begins with tamales and ends with a nice serving of sopapillas as only Antonio’s beloved can muster.

  A hundred forty-eight. A hundred forty-nine.

  Perhaps the standard should be raised to a hundred seventy-five. Well, maybe tomorrow. You give in to whimsical modulation any old time; next thing you know, the rapid rise to anywhere is derailed. No, a man of diligence and reason will encounter those times when the left foot must go forward and then the right. Change nothing for now. Don’t worry about the pain. You cannot know now what you will know in due time.

  Rising and wiping the sweat from his face and chest, Antonio counts the due time. If he calculates correctly, due time will be in August, when the sweat rolls most. He throws the towel aside and prepares for another day that may well be the day of days.

  Who can know?

  Hardly spitting distance away comes the awful sound of reverse squishing, then the retch and lament. Baldo turns to hear better, then he turns away, on his way to brush his teeth.

  Antonio lights the stove and puts the water on and watches and watches and watches and realizes he is no closer to the sterling coffee service with real cream available this minute to both Mrs. and Mister Mayfair than he was two years ago or twenty. He is no closer than the man in the moon. No closer than he will ever be. Today is merely a day like the rest, and maybe this insight is part and parcel to the developmental process, however rapidly or slowly it transpires.

  I am a clown who leads a bingo game by the swimming pool, and sometimes I make money on the side as a gigolo. And there, just there, drooling like an infant is my half-wit brother, who is also a murderer who makes ficky fick with my beloved every night after dinner.

  She cooks.

  In a few months they will be three, and then what? Do they move in here and send me over for a happily ever after with Rosa?

  “Then what?” he calls softly. “Then what will you do?”

  Baldo looks up and over at Antonio, who waits for an answer. Baldo smiles, leaving the toothbrush in his mouth and grabbing the sink by its sides. He humps the sink in eerie playfulness as a high-pitched squeal rises from him. Antonio nods; how nice it must be to live blissfully as a half-wit, now or then or ever; it’s all the same.

  He wants in the perverse way of men to know how it happened thus far. Did she come to him? Did she initiate? Or was it his idea? Did she resist? Did he force himself upon her? Did she resist? Of course she doesn’t resist anymore. Ho
w could she? His beloved?

  Growing larger than the nagging questions of a man betrayed in love is the question of a man betrayed by life. How can a man work so hard and care so thoroughly for his brother and his betrothed, and then receive such harsh treatment? Maybe he is more sensitive to the short shrift in view of Mister Mayfair’s arrival, which may leave a stunted clown of a man alone outside, leashed to the steps like a dog because he no longer fits indoors.

  What is he supposed to do, go down to the pool for the cock-a-doodle-doo and a rousing round of bingo for a beer, and then join his wealthy friends from el norte, the Mayfairs, for brunch?

  Well, in fact that is what he’s supposed to do, but truth be told, he would rather crawl back in the sack under the covers and sleep. Is this a symptom of maturation? Maybe it is, and maybe today it would be best darle un beso a la botella, to give the bottle a kiss. Such a quench seems suitable to the thirst now burning. Today feels like bits and pieces before we even begin.

  Waiting for neither his brother nor his formerly beloved, he selects a new T-shirt saved for a special occasion. Not the ciento-peso number showing Toucan in splendid surroundings but the one Mrs. M bought last time. This T is plain white and properly reflects the stark reality he feels inside, the one no cartoon can adequately convey. He slips into it and checks his posture briefly before striding out the door on his way up to the bus stop.

  People on the bus smile as if they know, but they don’t ask about his brother or Lyria. Nor does he invite their questions. He stares out the window, and thinks the bumpy, smelly ride a perfect backdrop to his thoughts.

  He walks through the lobby without a single hello or nod or wave, and out at the table by the pool he turns the microphone on, knocks it twice, and somberly says, “Testing. Uno. Dos. Tres. Okay. Bingo. You want to play, come get your card and your beans. You want to sleep, Okay by me. You be dead a long time, maybe then you will wish you could play bingo, but, never mind, okay by me. Bingo. Take it. Leave it. Okay? Five minutes. Cinco minutos. ¿Sí? ¿No? Okay.”