When he finally drifted in, dressed to the nines in a crisp white shirt and Nantucket red shorts, his crystal blue eyes blazing, it would have been hard to stay mad, even for Michael.
“I never had a good sense of direction,” Jonah flatly declared, raking his hand through his gray buzz-cut.
I avoided Michael’s gaze and agreed that Vieques was tricky to navigate.
Michael thawed out quickly. It helped that Jonah had great charm, the kind you don’t stumble across much anymore.
For one thing, he was a terrific storyteller. He’d travelled just about everywhere and had at least one hilarious story about each destination. Also, when it was your turn to talk, he was a generous listener. And if you made a joke, he laughed. To top it all off, he could hold his booze, a wonderfully endearing quality in a friend.
In short, we liked him.
The next time we arranged to get together for dinner with Jonah, I suggested (at Michael’s behest) that we meet at a new restaurant in Isabel, slightly nearer Jonah’s house in Bravos de Boston. I hoped against hope he’d be more punctual this time.
No such luck.
Admittedly, Michael and I are notoriously punctual. In fact, we have trouble arriving anywhere more than five minutes late. As a result, we’ve faced more than our share of hosts through the years who were clad in little more than a towel and a sour expression when we arrived on their doorstep at the appointed cocktail hour.
But we made a concerted effort to arrive fifteen minutes late this particular evening. By handicapping ourselves we hoped to give Jonah the advantage.
But being even fifteen minutes late was tough for us. Michael swept the balcony. I emptied the dishwasher. We sipped our cocktails and watched the sunset. We were even considering breaking out the old Scrabble board when Michael finally cracked.
“Let’s go,” he said. “We can drive around.”
But it was all for naught.
When we arrived at seven-fifty (a full twenty minutes late) our waiter told us Jonah had called to say he was running behind schedule, “due to an emergency.”
Michael rolled his eyes
“I hope someone died,” he said.
I gave him a dirty look.
“Okay,” he conceded. “I hope someone came down with a debilitating illness.”
At eight-fifteen Jonah called again. Our waiter, a friendly young fellow from (of all places) Lithuania, appeared to be totally in Jonah’s thrall already.
“Your friend is so nice,” he enthused when he came back from the phone.
“What’s the problem now?” Michael asked abruptly.
“There’s an iguana in his bedroom.”
We barely batted an eye. It was Jonah, after all.
Instead, I invited our waiter, whose name was Alex, to join us for a drink. By the time Jonah arrived an hour later, we were feeling no pain.
Jonah pulled out his iPhone and showed us a photo of the iguana. It was actually pretty big.
“How did you get it outside?” Alex asked.
“Well,” Jonah began in his vague, fluttery way, “I tried everything I could think of. I shook a pillowcase at it, I turned on the house alarm, I shone a flashlight in its beady little eyes, but nothing seemed to have the slightest effect. Then I turned on the stereo and played a Justin Bieber CD one of my guests had left behind. And by God, that lizard shot right out the door.”
Thirty-Nine
Past Imperfect
History is a slippery concept in Vieques.
People who live their daily lives firmly entrenched in the past (e.g., riding horses to the grocery store) don’t draw the same sharp distinctions between past and present that we do.
In our daily lives in Washington it seems like Michael and I are either overdosing on technology or abruptly jumping off the grid and dashing into a museum for a quick infusion of history.
Middle ground is hard to find.
In Vieques, on the other hand, past and present happily cohabit. Those same young guys who ride their horses to the market for a beer can be spotted chatting on their cell phones as they trot along.
We even saw a kid cantering down a country road one afternoon texting away just like any teenager from Podunk, U.S.A.
☼ ☼ ☼
Architectural vestiges of the past aren’t particularly numerous on Vieques either, but the few remaining ones are memorable.
The most prominent of these is the fort in Isabel, perched in stately isolation atop a hill just above the town. This fortified mini-castle—possessing the dubious distinction of being the last Spanish fort constructed in the Western Hemisphere—was built to protect Vieques from foreign attack. Now it’s a museum. Cool and dark inside, it offers not only a permanent exhibit of artifacts relating to the history of the island but the occasional temporary exhibit of works by local artists.
Vista from the fort
All interesting enough, but the fort’s ace in the hole is its view. When you exit the museum and walk down several steps past a low garden wall you’re socked in the eye with a truly breathtaking panorama.
There’s also a pretty terrific lighthouse situated on a lower promontory in Isabel, with gorgeous views of its own.
Punta Mulas lighthouse
It was allegedly built on the site of a Frenchman’s villa called, rather unoriginally, Mon Repos, which eventually became known to the locals as Morropo. But as picturesque as this lighthouse may be, it doesn’t hold a candle to the deserted lighthouse on the Caribbean side of the island, a couple of miles below the gates of the old Navy base.
Inaccessible by car, the Puerto Ferro lighthouse has been on our list of must-sees for years. When we finally decided to bike out one day, not long ago, to take a look, we weren’t disappointed. If you worked with every fiber of your being to create a structure that screamed “lighthouse ruin” you couldn’t do a better job than time and chance have done here.
Puerto Ferro lighthouse
Set on a high pitch of land (called Verdiales, for the family who maintained the lighthouse for decades) that juts out into the water like the prow of a ship, the structure is probably best described as Spanish Colonial. Although stripped by the elements of its stucco finish and tower, the base is handsomely rugged, all exposed brick walls, decaying pilasters, and lashings of atmosphere.
Michael took a great photo from the base of the ruin towards the low, craggy, sea-grape-covered cliffs below and the swelling sea beyond.
This shot, which has become the screensaver on my work computer, has helped me survive many a dreary winter afternoon.
Sugar mill ruins at Playa Grande
Other architectural ruins pop up here and there around the island—most notably the sugar mill at Playa Grande—to remind us, in Vieques’ understated, reluctant way, that many came before us, and that their lives were hardly the proverbial “day at the beach” so many of us have enjoyed there since.
Speaking of those who came before us—the skeleton of a man dating back some four thousand years was found in the Puerto Ferro area of Vieques in the 1990s. Nobody knows how this young fellow got to the island or what he was doing there.
Personally, I like to imagine him junketing over for an afternoon of snorkeling.
Even Prehistoric Man deserved to have a little fun.
Forty
Sticks and Pics
Having lived in apartments most of our adult lives, we’d gotten used to lots of furniture in small spaces. Sometimes too much.
But in Vieques we had the opposite problem—the house didn’t seem quite furnished enough. Despite our best efforts to wrangle sofas, chairs and dressers out of the hands of unwilling Fate and into the cavernous, high-ceilinged rooms of our vacation retreat, the place still seemed rather sparsely decorated.
At least to me.
So when I read online that Martineau Bay, the island’s boom-or-bust resort that had changed hands twice in the past four years, was liquidating its furnishings to make way for its next incarnation (a
W Hotel), I felt more than a shiver of excitement. But when was the sale to begin? No one seemed to know, not even Jane.
I called the hotel’s main number. Although the man who answered the phone was pleasant enough, the information I managed to extract from him was on the distinctly meager side.
Was there going to be a sale?
Yes.
When?
Don’t know.
How long will it last?
Until everything’s gone.
For one brief, crazy moment I thought about calling Daniel—he was sure to know all about the sale—but almost immediately nixed the idea.
So I called the police. This was a trick I had learned growing up in a small town. My friends and I thought nothing of calling the police station to ask what was showing at the movie theater, what time the bowling alley closed, the name of the fire chief’s dog.
Our theory was that if the police were doing their jobs even reasonably well, they should know just about everything that was going on. And as odd as it seems nowadays, they never let us down.
So I called the Vieques police. The chief wasn’t available but his bilingual deputy was, and he knew all about the sale. It had begun the weekend before and was likely to go on for months. There were hundreds of pieces of furniture. He was certain I’d find lots of bargains when I came to the island in three weeks. He even provided directions to the warehouse where the sale was being held.
I couldn’t wait.
Twenty-two days later—the morning of our first full day back on the island—Michael and I were standing in the middle of a huge warehouse crammed full of hotel furnishings. There were hundreds of everything—pictures (the same print of a seashell over and over again, ad infinitum), upholstered benches, lamps, candlesticks, and (occupying most of the space) row upon row of very large armoires in two distinct styles.
Although Michael seemed notably underwhelmed by the selection, I positively drooled. Getting even remotely decent furniture to the island had been a massive task, and here was an Aladdin’s cave full of furnishings less than a mile from our house.
I wanted one (if not two or three) of everything. And yet I knew I’d have a hard time convincing Michael. For one thing, he was sure to balk at any large expenditure after our slow rental season. Second, he’d undoubtedly make the boring argument that we didn’t actually need anything. And finally, as I knew from previous experience, he would be standing at the door within ten minutes anyway, panting to leave.
I comforted myself with the thought that the armoires would be far too expensive for our budget. But they weren’t. In fact, they were disconcertingly affordable.
Heart racing, I moved up and down the aisles, making a mental list of everything I’d like to buy, estimating the bottom line. It didn’t come to much. But out of the corner of my eye I could see Michael lurking near the open door of the warehouse, already giving me the evil eye.
Time to strategize.
As I drifted in his general direction I considered my options. I could, of course, try my famous “bottom line” offensive, whereby I argued that by spending money we’d make even more.
“If the house were more attractively furnished,” I’d say, “we could charge a higher rent.”
Or I could trot out the “don’t worry, I’ve got it” nuclear option, a truly desperate measure that involved my paying for a coveted item out of my own pocket rather than charging it to our joint credit card.
But it was no use. Michael’s expression told me that nothing was going to work that day. We went home empty-handed. And yet I wasn’t about to give up.
Late afternoon found me gazing longingly at the skimpily-furnished back wall of our great room. Any fool could see that it was crying out for an armoire, right?
As dusk fell, the idea of armoire-ownership began to assume almost mystical powers in my mind. If I were the proud possessor of an armoire, I told myself, my hair would grow thicker, my temperament would improve, I’d stop wasting my time watching TV cooking shows. In short, I would become an upgraded version of myself.
The hard part, of course, was conveying this sense of urgency to Michael without simultaneously convincing him that I was in need of emergency psychiatric intervention. I waited until the cocktail hour to broach the subject. As a subtle preamble I began pacing up and down the room, back and forth, to and fro.
Surely Michael would ask what I was doing, which would force me to confess (reluctantly of course) that I couldn’t get the armoire out of my mind, and that I was trying to figure out where we could possibly fit it in. But he didn’t say a word.
I made myself another drink and kept pacing. He got out his laptop and started playing Solitaire. I paced even more. Eventually he brought up the subject of dinner. Dinner! Who could eat at a time like this?
“You know that armoire we saw today?” I blurted out, unable to contain myself a second longer.
“Which one?” he asked innocently, looking up from his game.
“All of them,” I threw back, exhausted from all the pacing.
“I remember that there were lots of armoires,” he said in his most reasonable tone.
“I think I’m going to buy one of them.”
“Duh.”
“You knew?”
“Let’s have chicken.”
I went back to the warehouse the next day and bought three framed prints, a bench, and an armoire.
It was a moment of supreme triumph.
And although I’m fairly sure it was an unnecessary precaution, I used the nuclear option and paid for everything myself.
Forty-One
Up Against the Wall
Once we’d decided we liked the new house just below ours—the one that had sprung up so quickly and unexpectedly a few months earlier—we were anxious to meet its owners.
But they never seemed to be around.
Ever.
For two years we watched and waited. The one and only time we spotted the owner’s brother (aka Hal, the contractor) working in the yard, we walked down and introduced ourselves. We asked what shade of yellow he’d used for the exterior of the house (I wanted to paint one of our downstairs bedrooms the same color). He gave us the information and that was that.
Then one day, a few months later, I ran into Hal again and he announced that our yard was tumbling down not-so-slowly into his sister’s property. The rickety chain-link fence dividing our land had essentially given up the ghost. I was listening, but barely.
“This is kind of serious,” he said, in an understated New England way.
“I’m sure.”
“And it could be expensive.”
“What’s not?”
“This could undermine the foundation of your house,” he went on.
That got my attention.
“Did you say undermine?”
“Yes.”
“As in, our house could fall down?”
“Eventually.”
Hmm. I thought fast.
“Do you think your sister would be interested in sharing the cost of the wall?”
“Possibly,” he responded. “Let me give you her number.”
Later that morning I filled Michael in on my conversation with Hal.
“I’m not surprised,” he commented. “I’ve been talking about our erosion problem for months.”
“You have?”
“Yes, for months. You were probably too busy obsessing about your new armoire to pay attention.”
He really had a grudge against that armoire.
In any case, we decided to call Hal’s sister, Corinne, once we got back to D.C., but she beat us to the punch by appearing on our doorstep a few days later.
“Your brother didn’t tell us you were in Vieques,” I remarked.
“He’s very discreet.”
“No kidding.”
As usual, Michael cut right to the chase.
“So what do you think about sharing the cost of a wall?”
“I think it makes se
nse. Let’s get some bids and take it from there.”
He had clearly met his match in the straight-talk department. We exchanged pleasantries and showed her around our place.
“My brother and his wife are coming by for dinner tomorrow night,” she said. “Why don’t you guys drift down for a drink beforehand?”
We’d be delighted.
☼ ☼ ☼
Considering that Vieques is really nothing more than a small town surrounded by water, it was strange that we never heard any gossip. Ever.
Not that we hadn’t tried our best over the years to extract the odd tidbit of information from Jane, but she always clammed up the minute we started asking questions; and while we admired her professionalism, it seemed like she could have thrown us a juicy morsel here and there.
In any case, Hal and his wife Margot, a realtor, had lived on the island for two decades, and after a couple of glasses of wine they told us more about Vieques than we’d learned during the past four years.
Not that any of it was mean-spirited. Actually, none of it. Just interesting. When you’ve put your heart and soul into a place, it’s nice to know a little bit about how it works, and Hal and Margot were happy to share what they knew.
Case in point: Margot was able to tell us how long our house had been on the market when we bought it, why it hadn’t sold previously, and so forth. Real estate junkies that we are, we found this fascinating.
We were also charmed by Corinne and Mark, who told hilarious stories about the trials and tribulations of getting their house built, something we could relate to only too well.
And they served great snacks with our cocktails.
Better still, when it came time to talk about the wall, they were clear-eyed and realistic about how complicated a seemingly-simple project like this could become in Vieques. They were well aware that the whole thing might take months longer than predicted and would almost definitely go somewhat, if not significantly, over budget.
The Coconut Chronicles: Two Guys, One Caribbean Dream House Page 24