A woman poolside in a lumpy one-piece stares incredulously, then laughs pitifully. This is not the kind of delight Antonio wants to generate, so he returns her stare with a smile and asks, “You want to play? Three beers, one line, up, down, diagonal. Three beers. I think they will make you happy. ¿Sí?”
The woman declines, more in disdain than direct response.
So he mumbles, “Gringa puta,” just close enough to the mike to raise eyebrows among the staff around the pool. Fortunately, the woman doesn’t look back but walks up to freshen her coffee. Who cares about her, every day with her poo poo eyes for bingo and volleyball, joining in the pool aerobics but never once getting excited or saying thank you for a very nice time?
Who cares? Lumpy one-piece. Who?
And who cares if only one woman wants to play bingo? She seems nice, skinny and pale, most likely a schoolteacher from Chicago, who looks in need of three beers. But “You can’t have a three-beer game with only one player. You can’t even have a game with only one player. So, here. Here is a chit for one beer. You win just as if you played. Now go back to sleep. You win.”
She is nice, lolling her head, smiling shyly, glancing quickly at the maestro’s abdominal section and perhaps as well at his pinga before returning to her chaise lounge and the rest of her nap.
She’s having fun, which everyone can clearly see, but the maestro underscores the moment with the microphone. “Okay. Back to sleep. In forty-five minutes we play volleyball! Okay. Too early for you to play bingo, all of you except for one. She wins. Have your coffee and have some more. Er errr! Go back to sleep, then wake up. Forty-five minutes. No more!”
Antonio Garza has never experienced such a morning, in which all the parts are properly placed but none will fit the puzzle. He can’t find the old momentum. Is it his fault if the system fails with so much failure around him? Does he not waken every day to the combined and compound failure of his brother and his beloved? What next?
I’ll tell you what next; I will move into my own casa. I will not begrudge them money in times of dire need, because I would not do such a thing. But basic need? They’re on their own. When the daughter is twelve and the worries begin over the proper morality or lack thereof that got her mother into this fix, Lyria will change.
So fast it will seem like overnight, she will gain the weight a gorda needs to gain so she can become caring and loving. At least she won’t tilt my bed. But truth be told, she won’t tilt Baldo’s either. He’ll be long gone by then. Won’t he? I think he will. He’s worse than half-witted. He’s impulsive to the extreme. First murder and then ficky fick with his own brother’s beloved. He knows not right from wrong. So what should I do, justify this behavior too in terms of natural innocence? Maybe he is the archangel of justice for me too. And maybe for Lyria. Time will tell. But I justify nothing. Baldo will seek a life of instant solution to his private problems. The instant of truth is all he can grasp.
This is the knowing that grows and gnaws in Antonio’s head and in his gut on such a worrisome day. Though it’s only forty-five minutes to volleyball, he looks up again at the clock and it’s only twenty. Has he been standing here twenty-five minutes thinking darkly of what has come to pass? Was his brow wrinkled? This is not the pose of confidence.
He will have Mrs. Mayfair and in the meantime, plenty of Mexican women come here too, single women from families who have taught them the proper morality.
He awakens yet again from the loss of ten more minutes, this time by the waving hand attached to the delicately jeweled wrist of the evenly tanned arm leading up to the pouting lips and down to the fulsome breasts and supple thighs of Mrs. Mayfair. She is sitting very near yet distinctly apart from Señor Simón Salvador and another man of equal spit and polish.
In spite of a physique that was years in the making and widens the eyes of hungry women, Antonio pulls in here, pushes out there. This is not in compensation for anything lacking, except of course it is. And lo, what is this, the result of tainted sausage from the buffet line that now causes this squeeze in his gut?
Stage fright? The maestro?
¡Nunca! It is merely a chill in the air that accounts for the queasy tremble in the kneecap region as well. Or maybe this weakness is from so much preoccupation and so little of the old verve. It may be the latter, because such symptoms were long ago purged from the man of proven resilience in ascension.
Tainted sausage? Cool breezes? Never mind.
A man must suck it up and move, mindful that each step approaches independence from the distraction undermining his strength. Even so, the earth quakes beneath his humble left, right, left as he approaches that to which he aspires. Well, it’s not the earth that’s quaking but the atmosphere surrounding it, not that an atmosphere can actually quake. It’s made of air, but still. He’s no drunk and this is no hangover, yet beneath him is the timorous gait of a man with marginal confidence.
She is all heart, and he wants to nestle under her wing, to take succor until the shakes go away so he can rise again and drive her down their private byway of madly careening love. Of course such is not the next step up. The obstacle before him calls for clarity, for strength but softness.
It requires dominance but sophistication. He must display wealth in the classic mode, which has nothing to do with money.
He calls on the power of few words and rises to the occasion, aided for starters by a more level playing field. That is, Simón Salvador now wears baggy jams and huaraches below. Above is an elegantly tailored shirt in the campo cut worn open to reveal a hairless chest on which reposes a silver fist on a silver chain. The single earring is a simple stud and wasn’t there before but now matches the earring worn by Mister Mayfair, who is dressed in casual tailoring of equal elegance. The two men touch shoulders and sit slightly apart from Mrs. Mayfair. With body language as efficient as any verbalization Baldo ever made, they tell a story of a thousand words with a simple picture.
Antonio fixes the warmth onto his face and reminds himself of what is said, cada perico a su estaca, cada changa a su mecate, which allows each parakeet to pick his perch, each monkey to choose his vine.
The threesome gazes at the approach of Mrs. M’s young ward as if waiting fulfillment of an exquisite anticipation, which is his splendid presence at last.
Antonio turns his stage warmth up a notch to match what he sees, sensing plenty of room at the top for those who qualify. Though Señor Simón Salvador has already met Señor Antonio Garza on several occasions, this is an occasion for equal footing with everyone here.
This could be a day that may endure among the days. Isn’t this the way it goes? You feel so bound for destiny, for your chance to face your best crowd yet. And once finally in place to give your all, you feel reduced to hardly more than your half. Never mind! Stand tall, take control but only subtly, emote and be happy, or at least display happiness.
“Antonio!” Simón Salvador exclaims, standing to meet this up-and-comer.
“Hola, Simón.” Antonio feels the surge sputter as the old verve turns over. First names are a presumption on both sides, a good one.
“Hola, Antonio. I’m Thornton Mayfair.” Mister Mayfair offers as much warmth; well, not as much as Mrs. Mayfair, but still. He offers his hand for a hardy pump but still sits, presenting a dilemma early in the lift-off phase. First-name presumption here could be bad. He offered it but does not stand, maybe because he’s older or comfortable or had too much breakfast or feels his superiority might be called into question.
Antonio adapts instantly with a move borrowed from his close friend, Simón Salvador. He brings his heels quickly together, which is perfect because they don’t click, because he is barefoot, which some people might view as appropriate to his station in life but he knows is appropriate to the responsibility of assuring the comfort, ease of mind, and sheer happiness for hundreds of guests. So he nods, bringing his eyes into focus on the ground, which is the focus they bulge onto as Mister says, “Mrs. Mayfair has told me ever
ything …”
¡Qué!
“… about you.”
Ah.
But he calls her Mrs. Mayfair, indicating the preservation of distinction between classes, or maybe that’s just ages. He is what? Sixty? Not so fat, decent color, hardly bald. So what?
Antonio smiles with magnitude now, careful not to slip into the grin but reaching deep for substantive camaraderie. He pumps Mister Mayfair’s hand with feeling and allows the playful truth to romp in his head: I’ll tell you what; you cannot do for her what I do. That’s what.
But wait—Antonio glances over at the Mrs. to see her reaction at this meeting of her men.
Nothing changes. What a woman. She is like a warm spring in her tireless, endless flow. Surely she has told her husband about Antonio, but not about you-know-what. He’s her husband, so it isn’t at all the same as telling such things to Lyria, even if you call Lyria his betrothed. Because Lyria has been like a sister all along, a sister he would not touch in that way ever. Well, maybe not ever, but by then she will be more than a sister. In the meantime, she is surely grateful to know that another is easing the pressure, which isn’t the same thing at all as telling a husband.
No, that cannot be. Can it?
The contemplation of that question is set aside, because another glance in the next fractional moment reveals warmth of an equal nature exuding from Simón Salvador.
“Sit down, Antonio. Do you have time?” The invitation to sit is from the lawyer.
“A few minutes. Yes.”
“You know, we’re very pleased with progress on the case. I have to be perfectly honest with you. Falta lo mero bueno” Simón Salvador allows a dramatic pause so the news can adequately twist Antonio’s face. He explains for the Mayfairs, “We are not out of the woods yet. But …” He turns back to Antonio. “We feel that your prospects for complete exoneration are excellent.” The salvation trinity beams its approval, for which Antonio wants to mirror effusive gratitude and tries heartily to do so. “You know, this man they call Quincy; he has nothing. Really. Nothing.” Another beaming consensus is strung up the flagpole for a salute.
Mrs. M takes initiative and orders a round of drinks.
What can be better? What can feel better? Liberation and independence appear to be ongoing. The sun is shining. Antonio has risen from despair to this, his destined echelon, the rare atmosphere in which happiness is an abundant resource requiring management.
Mister Mayfair leans in and says with authority, “We want to move on to new business.”
And so they do, beaming, nodding, sipping, and trading trinkets of dialogue relative to nothing but an extension of life as we know it, which could be viewed as the same old same old on a dark day of somber reassessment. But a different feeling is available to those who will grasp it. That is, the summit of development is no different today than it ever was, except of course for one difference.
The difference is that today Antonio is here.
Lyria observes these things from under the shade tree she once leaned upon languorously to elicit the admiration of her former suitor. Oh, Antonio will nearly burst from pride and will feel like the man of destiny he wants to be, once he repeats in hearing range the job he has been offered. So what? What does he want from me? Regret? Misery? Shame and poverty? Will that make him happy or crown his glory?
Lyria sees clearly as if it were written on the page before her that Mister Mayfair likes to have his ears grabbed as well, especially by Señor Rico Suave the lawyer, who perhaps is willing to lower his fees in trade. How convenient a ruthless beheading on the beach at night is turning out to be. Maybe these two gentle men will make further arrangements for further convenience along with separate rooms for Mister and Mrs. If they throw in a nice job for Antonio it’s a regular happily-ever-after, which is the least the men of power can do in appreciation of their young ward getting the old lady out of the way.
Lyria has only now come from cleaning Mister Mayfair’s room on the twelfth floor. She found both beds mussed with Señor Simón Salvador’s personal brief case on the dresser and one foil packet on the floor.
Only one in the twelve hours since their arrival? These men of power could take a lesson from the old lady and the maestro. Then again, maybe they were tired from travel.
Then again, Lyria doubts that the number of foil packets can measure the dirty habits of anyone in the whole ear-grabbing family.
Prospects for hygienic safety are greatly enhanced on her own. And on her own is where she will stay. How can it be otherwise?
XIII
The Things a Young Woman Must Consider
Baldo is a boy and worse. You can’t very well call him a simpleton in all things, because in some ways he exceeds the insight and skill of most men. Experience is limited in a young woman like Lyria, but she suspects few people anywhere can commune with little turtles as well as Baldo can. She suspects him gifted as well with his sexual skills.
Granted, he is of the tireless age, but he is more, so slow and deliberate and sensitive to a young woman’s needs. He makes eerie sounds and sometimes wants to commandeer awkward positions, but that’s only an effort to ape his hero. Lyria wants to keep this phase of experiential data collection simple, straightforward, and concise, and she maintains authority quite easily, given her superior age and wisdom.
Okay, so she allowed an ear-grab once to see what there was to see but will not try it again. For one thing, it doesn’t work so well. With his pinga pointing skyward and him squeezing her ears, nothing fits properly. No, lying down is the only way. Besides, what’s to see? A scenic coastal drive this is not. Please, leave my ears alone. For yet another thing, she will not do that again. It is disgusting and made her gag, and riding the tapioca flood, Baldo shrieked like a monkey, wild with flailing and flopping.
Well, a girl can learn certain things only by experience. Now she knows. She might try these things again, but only with the man who takes her for a wife. Short of marriage, she might consider these contortions with he who is willing to keep her in a casa chica. In either case, repetition will not be with Baldo; he is so far removed from the practical world.
This interlude is merely an experimental phase for all parties concerned, because experience is the best teacher. But who is she kidding? Who would take a woman for a wife when everyone knows she is soiled? Antonio will not. On this we can depend.
She briefly considers enticing Antonio shamelessly to the ficky fick, but he’s too smart. Even if she succeeded, he has only to count the months. But maybe if he becomes very drunk. Well, maybe, we shall see. We can only be certain at this point that the little fling with Baldo will not survive the experimental phase. He is crazy. Le patina el coco. He could hold his head in one hand and a coconut in the other and not know the difference. Worse yet, he is a boy who needs constant supervision.
Already the line is drawn ending his nightly indulgence, except for last night, because he really is very good, and once a young woman knows certain things, she can’t very easily forget, as if she doesn’t know. She knows; yet knowledge comes at no less expense than originally paid by Eve with her apple and Adam with his serpent.
The lesson was there all along; no sooner is knowledge acquired than it reveals vast ignorance. The simple question rising from the ashes of recent experience asks what a woman can do now. A gawky fellow with huge hands and many teeth on TV assures her that she can do anything she imagines with a properly directed mind. He will direct for her if she attends his seminar for only nine thousand pesos, which seems out of the question, even though Lyria knows where to find the down payment. It’s in the jar under the dirty clothes Antonio keeps in the corner. Well, she could borrow it and then pay it back, once she gets direction and some money coming in.
But what good is guidance for a woman big with a child? No good at all is the answer, because the condition is a direction all its own that will not detour to whim or fancy. Of course there is the other, but abortion would haunt her the rest of h
er life. Then again, a child would haunt equally with far more needs, unless of course she was married to a proper husband to support her and the baby.
But she is not.
And an abortion would be known by herself and the church and by Rosa too, which seems altogether too much to bear for now.
Well, a raven-haired beauty with big, dark eyes and a figure as svelte as the disco dancers on TV should need no seminar to test her fortune. The world demands maximum efficiency in resource utilization. This is the fallow field waiting only for sowing. The village may not be optimal for testing potential, but then what is a girl to do, ride the bus to Mexico City, where beautiful women abound on every corner? No, she can test things at home, where failure is easier to absorb.
So she shortens the hem of a rayon dress and tries it on with no brassiere, which might have worked on a bold day before the swelling, but not now. Except of course it works very well to heighten the drama of the presentation and erase all doubt on potential, once the mind is properly directed to the objective at hand. She’s not yet lactating and does want to measure the market that is the real world.
So why not?
She has no reason not to proceed, and besides, she will not be a prostitute, never that. She only wants to test the water, so to speak, for a relationship acceptable on practical terms. Prospects for a young man of wealth and gentility would be greater in Mexico City, but there is time enough for that if this works. In the meantime several more months as a maid will help with a down payment on the trip. The focus for now is faith that a big fish will take the bait. Besides, testing skills in the city would require new equipment, like a brassiere and shoes. Staying home represents savings for now.
She shaves her high thighs, shins, and armpits smooth as peach skins. She hurries, because a girl with a few more months knows that the swelling is relentless, one week to the next. Still, she takes time in applying her resources, conveying warmth to a world in need of warmth, to assure perfect strangers of her weakness for sweets and liquor, and of course comfort and security. Who can know what luck will bring before time runs out, and life will be foregone?
Toucan Whisper, Toucan Sing Page 19