Toucan Whisper, Toucan Sing

by Wintner, Robert;

  Matters will trend downward for a while anyway, and Mrs. M comprehends more than Antonio imagines. She knows, for example, that life and love allow no winners except for those dying very young. She plans to be around a few more decades herself and knows full well what the romp will come to. For now an easy score seems propitious. So she rises in her majesty and leads the tawny, muscular one by the hand for the service a has-been movie vamp can only remember from a script.

  The long walk down the length of the pool jostles the former movie queen, who in fact also adapts to a pesky new phase in life, which is that of competition. She ignores Mrs. Mayfair’s obsequious gaze at the goddess of victory for now. Soon enough she will draw a line in the sand, demanding that Antonio say where she stands.

  A maestro smiles at all in passing, moving with the rhythm. A man must make do, and in a few short hours when the sun goes down, he must make do again, which calls for pacing, timing, nuance, and of course the seasoning so visibly underway.

  Baldo is not mentioned in Antonio’s presence. Nor do friends and acquaintances commonly discuss the younger brother’s effect on him. The common belief is that Antonio was a basically happy man given to gregarious contact with life on a daily basis and soon will be his old self again. Such happiness is the source of his innate skill and must return.

  Everyone agrees that such a man must naturally take a fall in the course of life, and de la subida más alta es la caída más lastimosa. Antonio is a very important man even at his tender age. Perhaps a fall as hard as this one should have been foreseen, given the steep grade he chose to scale. Disagreement prevails on the net result of Baldo’s absence. Some say losing a younger brother is a terrible thing, but this younger brother was not exactly cherished. This one was rather a liability and may have caused severe trouble, rendering his demise a blessing and a relief.

  So why do you think he, Antonio, keeps staring at the sea? Does he expect his brother to come walking out of it?

  Everyone sees. Some have remained quiet but come forth now to insist that Baldo was cherished more than your average brother. Baldo and Baldo alone proved that a young man so driven for money and power could also be a man with a caring heart. Now he, Baldo, the proof, is gone. Who else could teach Antonio the lesson of selfless giving if not Baldo?

  The answer to some is obvious: Lyria would have done so just as she does now and will into the future with their sons. Others say no, she knew nothing of magnanimity until it swelled inside her and forced her to give. And this, too, derived from the younger, perhaps deranged, brother.

  But assessment is brief and for the most part idle, limited to sparse opinion over beer with a few nods at Antonio, who continues to keep them moving, bodies and minds. He keeps them happy and entertained, albeit with occasional glances you-know-where.

  XIX

  Y Colorín, Colorado, este Cuento se ha Acabado

  And they Lived Happily Ever After (mas o menos)

  With authenticity in mind along with residual consolation to Antonio, the mentors present a concept deferring to the spirit of the jungle that rightfully belongs here on the one hand, and on the other hand is the spirit of a late and most authentic naturalist.

  Simón Salvador does the talking, one countryman to another, as Mister Mayfair observes. The idea is that a foyer alcove be set aside in the lobby of La Mexico, the Resort, designated, as it were, to specific purpose. In it, among the creepers and flowering vines, the bromeliads and ferns, including the dazzling staghorns and radiantly aromatic cereus, will stand a bronze likeness bigger than life but proportionate to the myth of Baldo in baggy jams and an open camp shirt revealing his lithe and sinewy self.

  Sally pauses to let the drama and beauty of the thing sink in and perhaps to let the meaning of life itself absorb into the pores of the threesome gathered for their regular review of the general situation.

  The pool next door at Hotel Oaxtapec seems distantly past and just as empty.

  Here at La Mexico, the Resort, we see and feel what greater minds hath wrought. The fronds here simmer more seductively in a profusion never dreamt next door. Seething greenery balances the greater abundance of chaise lounges around the greater pool that will soon serve the greater number of guests. Seventy-eight percent occupancy isn’t bad, especially when you factor a nine-week waiting list until the next available Sunday for renting The Little Wedding Chapel by the Pool.

  Antonio Garza made the market and began a family of his own in one fell swoop. It was the swoop that culminated his efforts these many days and years and now places him in enviable overview of his realm. He sits back with the apparent languor of a man of power, a landed man with a beautiful wife and a healthy baby named Teodoro after his great-grandfather who worked livery on a hacienda so that he may thrive today.

  And of course the doting Venezuelan nanny who is not a nanny per se visits often, though this peculiar nanny will not soil her hands with Teodoro’s mess, nor will she rise in the small hours to feed and comfort the chica. Who cares what people say of the nanny’s demands and the baby’s inordinate length and small diameter and continuing silence?

  Sally presents Antonio with the consensus among the directors: both long-term and short-term margin enhancement can be achieved through the fabrication and installation of the bronze likeness of said brother, to be followed directly and pointedly by promotion and mythical embroidery at the expense of La Mexica, the Resort.

  They, the directors, want Antonio’s assessment of the idea and will not proceed without his approval. His contentment is just that critical to the operation, they say. They wait in surreptitious repose, their eyes underscoring their pregnant anticipation.

  Antonio lets his own eyes wander in a casual drift with impressive indifference, the kind of indifference that best profiles a position of strength in a seasoned man at a bargaining table. In a moment his chin juts as if to make room for the assessment that approaches completion, but will not yet flow from the mouth.

  He turns seaward momentarily and turns back, but not to the mentors. He stares obliquely at something or other, perhaps at a phantom still eluding form.

  Simón Salvador is more than a colleague. He is a friend and is hardly insensitive to the difficulties at hand. With a quick glance at Thornton Mayfair he is granted a nod at the same, quick pace, and he proceeds.

  Antonio is a vital cog in the freshly spinning machinery, he says, which vitality has been factored into this concept. That is, a bronze statue will bear significant cost, at this phase more appropriately considered as additional capitalization. Not to worry, because many new hotels around the world have proven the efficacy of terribly expensive sculpture so guests can feel artistic, or in the presence of art or something of that nature. These things are factored as being worthwhile. What remains to be determined is the capital budget for such a monument in the lobby.

  Antonio returns to the living with a laugh. “Budget? What budget?” Perhaps here he surpasses benign indifference with a dip back to the old, cocky presumption. The mentors share another brief eye lock in possible concurrence that such a dip may be an integral spice to the general seasoning. They laugh along with him, until he asks, “How much can it be?”

  Sally digresses here to delineate this opportunity to clear the air and claim the history that will in time, we feel, be fundamental to merchandising.

  People want history as a destination in their travels now, because they experience so little of it at home. Here we have all the movement and color a history could ever want. Baldo was not merely El Capitán or the coconut boy, Sally contends.

  He was the turtle boy. He was the tijerilla boy. He was Toucan, Comadreja, Panteray todos los pescados.

  He was the archangel, human as an animal can be, animalistic as a human can be.

  Thorny nods, though his chin can’t dip too far for hitting the fists that support it.

  “You know, Antonio. We feared him, but we loved him,” Sally says. He further embellishes on the abiding spirit that
should not be forgotten but should in fact be the stuff of legend and lore. Baldo should stand here where the jungle rightfully belongs. Here in our lobby is where he should live forever in bronze.

  The mentors relax in a moment of silent devotion to the spirit on the table that may well be embodied, and pronto, in this monument to Baldo. Antonio relaxes with them, perhaps savoring nothing but the silence.

  “All that we want,” Sally resumes from the blue, “is to offset our capital requirements by considering a merger. We want to join the forces of La Mexico, Inc. with Maestro de Ceremonia LTD. Antonio, let’s face it, you make more money on a wedding reception than the hotel makes all day at seventy-eight percent occupancy, which is where we are, my friend. Of course our occupancy will increase. In the meantime, you have once again shown us where impressive margins may derive from the thin air. We run seventy-eight percent all week, and you are at a hundred percent on Sundays for months in advance. You must also be aware that we can require all hotel functions to pass directly through food and beverage at any time. We don’t want to do that, because, after all, you are … our friend.”

  “I am the maestro,” Antonio corrects. “That I am your friend does not enter into our discussion here. You are free to offer your own services through food and beverage. You may enlist the services of Milo. I think he’s a free agent these days.”

  Antonio rises in his seat and cranes to the north.

  “There he is. He will look striking once you dress him like a vaquero and teach him to dance. Don’t you think so?”

  Sally and Thorny’s next shared glance arcs with the short circuitry of certain disadvantage.

  Antonio eases down and leans in for the easy score, which is this: “I will gladly merge my company with your own, because we have grown to be friends who love and trust each other. You may have all of my company and with it comes all of my services at no extra charge. Weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, whatever you like, no problema.”

  He pauses for absorption of magnitude, but the mentors are way beyond the delusion that any lunch is free.

  “For myself, I ask only three percent of this company, which now shall include one hundred percent of my own. We shall sit together on a single board of directors in the capacity of senior management. That’s three percent. One for me. One for my new wife and one for my baby, who is doing quite well, thank you, and may one day stand on the edge of this very pool to call the numbers and keep them happy. You know, my friends, genius cannot be taught. So, we can only hope it will be inherited.”

  The mentors feign abusive scorn at the ravages of their new, official colleague who just raked them over the coals for three percent! This percentage will derive from the gross, not the net, of course, which derivation shall occur before management salaries and shall only derive for purposes of payout, not for purposes of deficit. What? He should merger into liability? Or loss? ¡Por favor!

  Said percentage shall accrue as soon as money stops passing through this place like scratch through a goose and starts to stick where it should, which shouldn’t be too much longer with any luck. How long can it take to turn the tide with a new format featuring special event services with a maestro included in the package—in addition to the airfare, the car, the room, and not one piña colada daily by the pool but two?

  Antonio openly shares Sally and Thorny’s secret smirk. Who doesn’t know twenty-four carat potential when they feel it? Who can’t see that these two dar la suave with their anguish? Do they think I have never polished a wormy apple? Besides, what do I have to lose? Will they foreclose on my employee housing? Three percent! Take it or leave it! The league is big and very hungry for a free agent.

  You wait and see what happens to occupancy here at La Mexica, the Resort. Format? I’ll give you format.

  So the likeness of the late brother is first drawn and then modified as necessary according to the recollection and guidance of the elder brother. Baldo is granted the stoic resolve of their poor, dead father. Likewise, Antonio suggests a manlier chiseling of the face, but of course not beyond the soft compassion predominantly characterizing both his late father and brother.

  But whom do I kid with soft compassion? Call it soft in the poor, dead father and potentially murderous in the missing brother. Still, it is common to both, the compassion. De tal jarro, tal tepalcate, as the saying goes. Let them see for themselves that from such a pot, such a potsherd.

  Following artistic modification to enhance the essence of his inner self, Baldo is cast and poured, not actually in bronze, but there is some bronze dust in the mix, and you can’t tell the difference, really. Besides, this mix does alleviate some capitalization pressure.

  The statue is then burnished and set in place.

  Unveiling is a quiet event highlighted by lifting the peak of the bed sheet and revealing the statue. “Here is to my brother, Baldo,” Antonio says with little ceremony, as he insists Baldo would want.

  The molded face is alert and benign. The left hand hangs down. The right hand is offered in friendship or peace or giving or something. Vines are planted at the feet along with a few shrubs, and mounted at the base is a small plaque that says, Baldo Garza, Turtle Boy and Abiding Spirit.

  Guests come and go and in time swerve on their course to review the unusual shrine with its little hedge and bronze statue of this fellow who saved the turtles from something, something they heard about, and now here it is. They can see it.

  In only a week the vile children left to run untended through the lobby at night tape a machete to the left hand so it hangs like it did, as an extension of the arm.

  Antonio sees this modification the very next morning on his stroll through the lobby. He stops in his tracks for the first time since first stopping there to gasp for the benefit of the mentors. He can’t say why, but the addition of the machete seems an improvement, bringing the statue into greater alignment with Baldo’s actual presence. Baldo carried a machete more often than not. Who needs to know the foul deed such a blade committed? This machete is good.

  Yet only two days later a coconut sits on the open right hand with two lime slices for eyes and a pineapple wedge for a nose and a little paper parasol for a hat. And a piece of dead fern for a long, droopy mustache and thick, congealing salsa for blood that streams down the coconut face.

  Antonio removes the vile object and carries it back out to the front and tosses it into the hedge out by the street, which he crosses to the gate of Jimi Changa’s, which is locked now, since all the revelers are passed out cold, all the disco dancers fast asleep.

  Climbing a wrought iron fence may seem normal for a boy or even a young man, but it seems unseemly for a man of seasoned distinction, not to mention distinctive seasoning. Never mind; hurdles are made for clearing.

  With only his hoarse gutturals interrupting the easy sounds of morning, Toucan whispers from somewhere under the blanket covering his cage. Perhaps he complains of a life sacrificed to perverse timing, in which nights are for staying up and a blanket covers the mornings. Unveiled by a tug at the peak of the bedsheet, he gazes into the light, a little bit bleary-eyed from such a late night, perhaps recognizing the brother of his former mentor.

  Antonio opens the cage and takes a chance on love by presenting his perfectly hued and muscular forearm to the weary bird, who takes a single step forward and then another to catch up with himself and then a few more to ascend toward the shoulder, as some birds want to do.

  Back across the street Toucan takes another step, onto the metal likeness of his former mentor’s forearm. He looks up and looks around.

  Antonio thinks the bromeliads and ferns in masonry pots nearby may be very heavy but will never come near the amazing burden a simple mop bucket can come to. Besides that, a man should not be so muscular for nothing but show. Then again, these aren’t clay. They’re concrete.

  Again, never mind, it is not for nothing that a man or an animal knows the difference between adaptation and slow death. Well, nobody needs to die over
a little transplanting.

  So he goes to the buffet for a serving spoon and a bowl of berries while he’s at it, and in a shake he’s back at the alcove off the foyer near the entry of the lobby, digging in.

  It’s a mechanical, thoughtless little project first thing in the morning that lends itself to sprightly contemplation of life in simple terms, like roots and dirt and water and abiding spirits and the amazing difference between two brothers.

  Toucan eats his berries from Baldo’s bronze hand.

  Antonio hears the berries squish and wonders if this is all that Baldo knew or cared for. Of course Baldo understood more than the imbecilic happiness derived from a measly feeding of a bird. Yet his happiness seemed singular with focus on the moment and greater in proportion to the moment’s proximity to life in its most basic element. Is this what their poor dead father believed was so unique as to verge on magical, when it’s really nothing if you think about it? It’s nothing but the sound of the dark dirt displacing briefly to accept a new plant.

  Nothing is what he hears but the tinkling of water pouring forth from this pitcher with life for these plants.

  Nothing else is heard but the tender squish of berries in a bird’s beak.

  Antonio looks up with a sudden chill. Goose bumps rise in a breaking wave, head to toe, on sensing immensity in these simple sounds of comfort and growth. How can a life reconcile so much love and loss, much less the strange and awful knowing, on such simple terms?

  Hey, wait. What is that? What is that rasping sound striving to gain an octave on its guttural rumbling toward melody?

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.