Evening in Paradise

by Lucia Berlin

  Señor Huston motioned to Hernán for a raicilla. Hernán took the drink over himself, curious to know why the director was talking to Audrey so angrily. Señor Huston thanked Hernán, sent regards to his family. Then he told Hernán that Audrey was the daughter of a dear friend, a great stage actress. Audrey had run away from home last year.

  “Imagine how her mother feels. Audrey was younger than both your daughters when she disappeared.”

  Audrey pleaded with Señor Huston not to tell where she was.

  “Beto loves me. Finally somebody loves just me. And now Beto has a job. We can get an apartment.”

  “What drug are you on?”

  “I’m sleepy, you silly. We’re having a baby!”

  She rose, kissed the old man. “Please,” she said and went to sit a little behind Beto, singing softly to herself. Señor Huston stood, stiffly, knocking over his chair. He stood over Beto, began to speak, then shook his head and strode out of the bar. He crossed the street to the malecón, where he sat smoking, looking at the water.

  Hernán noticed that the newsmen and women and the movie crew all knew Victor; many stopped to talk with him. Victor went to the men’s room often, before or after an American went in. He was the main marijuana connection in town, and had a few discreet heroin customers. This was different. No one went out afterward for a stroll down the beach.

  Hernán had heard that it had come to Acapulco. Well, now Puerto Vallarta has its own cocaine, he thought.

  Sam Newman pulled up in a taxi, waved to Hernán as he went through the courtyard to register and have his bags sent up. He went over to Tony and Ava Gardner, hugged Tony and kissed Ava’s hand. He stopped at tables along his way to the bar, shaking hands, kissing the women he knew, checking out the new ones, who all visibly cheered up. He was a handsome, easygoing American, married to a wealthy older woman who kept him on a loose rein. They lived down the coast in Yelapa. Sam came to town every few weeks for supplies and a rest. Living in paradise wore him out, he said. Grinning, he sat on a bar stool, handed Hernán a bag of Juan Cruz’s coffee.

  “Thanks, Sam. Socorro was missing her coffee.” Hernán mixed him a double Bacardi and Tehuacán. “You come over on the Paladín?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. Packed with tourists. And John Langley. Guess what he said.”

  “We’re all in the same boat.”

  “He always says that. He’s got a new one. We passed the movie set and this lady grabbed his arm. ‘Sir, is that Mismaloya?’ Langley removed her hand from his arm and said in that English snob way of his: ‘Mr. Maloya to you, madam.’ So, besides Tony’s boat, what’s happening?”

  Hernán told him about Beto’s movie career and about Audrey being a runaway and pregnant and on drugs. He invited Sam to Amalia’s quinceañera party. Of course Sam would be there, he said. Hernán was pleased.

  “Señor Huston is coming too. He is a great man, a man of dignity.”

  “It’s cool that you know that. I mean without knowing that he really is a great man. A famous man.”

  Alma came up, kissed Sam on the lips. John Apple moved back to the bar and Sam bought him a double margarita.

  Luis and the American woman were leaving in a cab. Victor was sitting with some reporters. Hernán didn’t know what to do about Victor. He would never have him arrested, but he didn’t want him dealing in the Oceano. He would ask Socorro tonight. She always knew exactly what to do.

  “Sam, take me over to meet Ava Gardner, please,” Alma said. “I want to invite her to stay at my house.” She and Sam went and joined the enamored couple. On the way over Sam stopped to talk to Victor. They nodded to one another, looking down while they spoke.

  Señor Huston came back inside and sat in “his” large booth. Richard and Liz arrived. Wherever they went it was as if a grenade had been thrown through the window. Flashes exploded, people moaned and screamed, cried out, “Aah! Aah!” Chairs scraped and fell over, glass shattered. Running footsteps, running.

  The couple smiled all around and waved, like for a curtain call, then sat with Señor Huston in the booth. Liz blew a kiss to Hernán. He was already fixing a tray with a double margarita for her, agua de Tehuacán for Burton, who wasn’t drinking. A raicilla cut with plain tequila for the director. Some guacamole and salsa, the way she liked it with plenty of garlic. She was cussing away. Hernán liked her; she was warm and bawdy. She and Burton had big booming laughs, were simply in it, each other, the place, life.

  Little by little the bar emptied as people went to dress for dinner. They left walking or in one of the dozens of cabs outside the hotel. Victor went on foot with five or six men, heading north, to the “bad” part of town. Sam and Alma took off in her Jeep with Tony and Ava.

  Ruby, Beto, and Audrey were all fast asleep. John Apple offered to take them home in Ruby’s car. Hernán knew John was thinking of her liquor cabinet and refrigerator. At least he was still in shape to drive. Memo and Raúl helped them out to the car.

  Left in the bar were two old men, drinking Madero brandy in big snifters. They set up a chessboard and began to play. A young honeymoon couple came in from a walk on the malecón, asked for wine coolers.

  Hernán wiped down his bar, straightened and replaced bottles. Memo was already asleep, sitting up, as if at attention, on a chair by the kitchen. Hernán looked out at the sea and the palm trees, listening to Liz and Burton and John Huston. They were arguing, laughing, quoting lines from the movie, or other movies, maybe. When he took them fresh drinks Liz asked him if they were making too much noise.

  “No, no,” Hernán said. “It is wonderful to hear people talk about their work when they love what they do. You are very fortunate.”

  He sat down behind the bar with his feet up on a stool. Raúl brought him café con leche and pan dulces. He dunked the pastries in the coffee while he read the paper. There would be some nice quiet hours now. Maybe later some people would have nightcaps before they went to bed. Then he’d walk home, not far, where Socorro would be waiting for him. They would have dinner together and talk about their days and their nights, their daughters. He’d tell her all the gossip. They would argue. She always defended the women. She felt sorry for Alma and Ruby with no one to protect them. He would tell her about Victor and the drugs. Even Sam had seemed to be talking about drugs with him. Socorro would rub Hernán’s back when they got into bed. They would laugh about something.

  “God, I am fortunate.” He said it out loud. He was embarrassed, looked around. Nobody had heard him. He smiled and said, “I am very fortunate!”

  “Hernán, are you lonesome? Over there talking to yourself?” Elizabeth Taylor called to him.

  “I miss my wife. It’s four more hours until I see her!” They asked him to recommend a restaurant. He told them to go to the Italian place behind the church. Tourists never go, they think it’s crazy to eat Italian food in Mexico. It is quiet and good.

  They left and then the honeymooners and chess players went upstairs. Raúl slept opposite Memo outside the kitchen door. They looked like decorations, giant tourist puppets, in their black boleros and red sashes and mustaches.

  Hernán was just about to fall asleep himself when a taxi door slammed. Luis got out with the American woman. She was falling-down drunk. Pancho went to help him get her upstairs and to her room. Luis didn’t come back down.

  Several minutes later there was the slam of another taxi door, a woman yelling “You dickhead!” and then Ava Gardner came in wearing only one high-heeled shoe so her walk made a hiccup sound through the courtyard and up the stairs. The same taxi door slammed again and Hernán was surprised to see Sam, with no shoes and no shirt. He had an enormous black eye, a cut and swollen lip.

  “Which is her room?”

  “Top of stairs, second, ocean side.”

  Sam went upstairs, changed his mind and came back down, his hand out for the drink Hernán held out for him. He spoke as if he had novocaine in his mouth, his lip was so swollen.

  “Hernán. You can’t te
ll a soul. My reputation will be in shreds. You see a disgraced man before you. Totally humiliated. I insulted her! Oh, God.”

  Another taxi, another slam. Tony came running in, tears streaming down his cheeks. He flew up the stairs and banged on her door. “¡Mi vida! ¡Mi sueño!” Other doors opened all around. “Hush up, you fool! Shaddup! Shaddup!”

  Tony came downstairs. He embraced Sam, apologized and shook his hand. He cried in little gasps, like a child.

  “Sam, go talk to her. You can explain. I don’t speak English. Tell her how it was too dark. Explain to her, please!”

  “I don’t know, Tony. She’s really mad at me. Come on. You just go on in there and kiss her, let her see those alligator tears.”

  Hernán interrupted. “I don’t know what went on. But I’ll bet the lady won’t even remember tomorrow what terrible thing happened tonight. Don’t remind her!”

  “Good thinking. Our man, Hernán.” Sam went upstairs with Tony, opened Ava’s door with a credit card, and gently pushed Tony into the room. He waited a little while but Tony didn’t come out.

  Sam stood in the cobblestone courtyard, holding up his card, talking to an invisible camera: “Hi, there! I’m Sam Newman … world traveler, bon vivant, man-about-town. I wouldn’t go anywhere without my American Express card.”

  “Sam, ¿qué haces?”

  “Nothing. Look, Hernán … You have to swear.”

  “On my mother’s grave. Come on, tell me all about it.”

  “Well … Oh, God. So we get to Alma’s and she tells the cook to make us dinner. We’re out on her terrace, drinking more. Music playing. Tony doesn’t have a head for alcohol, usually he never drinks. And I had barely started. But those two women were wasted. It was dark and we were all sort of lying around on those waterbed couches she has when Alma takes Tony by the hand and, well, she drags him into her bedroom. Ava is just looking at the stars, I’m panicking and then she notices they are gone, sits up like a shot, hauls me off with her to find them. Well, they’re on Alma’s bed, naked, balling away. I thought Ava might hit them with a blunt instrument but no she just smiles and leads me back to the terrace. Oh Lord, how have I failed? I am a disgrace. Sick. Right there in front of God and everybody Ava Gardner herself steps out of her dress and lies back on the sofa. Oh Lord, help me. My friend, that woman is magnificent. She is the color of butterscotch pudding, all over. Her breasts are heaven here on earth. Her legs, man she is the fuckin’ Duchess of Alba! No. She is the Barefoot Contessa! So I tear off my clothes and lie down with her. And there she is. Ava, warm, in the flesh, looking into my eyes with those green ones I KNOW. My dick disappeared. It went to Tijuana, my balls took off for Ohio. And this Countess, this Goddess, she did everything possible. It was hopeless. I was dying of shame. I apologized and oh fuck like an IDIOT I said, ‘Gee, I’m sorry. It’s that I’ve been madly in love with you ever since I was a little kid!’ She’s the one who hit me in the lip. Then Tony shows up and really starts beating the shit out of me. Just then the damn cook comes in, turns on the light, and says, ‘Dinner is served.’ I gave the cook some money and asked her to go find me a taxi, put my pants on, and ran outside. The cook came back with a cab. I got in, then Ava got in after me. Tony was running down the street behind us, but she wouldn’t let the guy stop. Ava Gardner. I could shoot myself.”

  Tony ran lightly down the steps and up to the bar.

  “She forgives me, she loves me. She is sleeping now.”

  “Shall we go back for dinner?” Sam grinned. Tony was offended. Then after a while he said he was, in fact, dying of hunger. Memo had been awake, taking everything in. He said he was hungry too, they should go in the kitchen and fix breakfast.

  Victor arrived alone, sat at a far table in the now dim light. Raúl took him hot chocolate and pan dulces. Victor never drank or took drugs. Hernán believed he must be very rich by now. Raúl told Victor that Luis was still upstairs. “I’ll wait,” he said.

  Memo came out of the kitchen just as a few people came in for after-dinner drinks. Tony went over to wait for Luis with Victor. Tony had chocolate too and Hernán sent him over some aspirins. Tony didn’t mention the evening to Victor, just talked about his new boat.

  Sam came to the bar and ordered a Kahlua with brandy. He held his head between his hands. Hernán handed him the drink and said, “You need aspirin, too.”

  Luis came downstairs, carrying one of the woman’s shopping bags. The three friends spoke in whispers, laughing like teenaged boys. They left, loped effortlessly past the open windows of the bar, their laughter trailing back with the sound of the waves, easy and innocent.

  “What was that clicking sound. Maracas?”

  “Teeth. Luis took the woman’s false teeth.”

  Hernán picked up Sam’s empty glass, carefully wiped the circle where it had been.

  “It’s time for me to go home. Want some ice for that lip?”

  “No, it’s okay. Thanks. Good night, Hernán.”

  “Good night, Sam. Hasta mañana.”

  LA BARCA DE LA ILUSIÓN

  The floor of the house was fine white sand. In the morning Maya and Pilla, the maid, raked and swept the sand, checking for scorpions, sweeping it smooth. For the first hour Maya would yell at the boys “Don’t walk on my floor!” as if it were newly waxed linoleum. Every six months one-eyed Luis would come in with his mule and carry out saddlebags of sand, make countless trips to the beach for fresh white sparkling sand washed up by the sea.

  The house was a palapa, the roof made of thatched palm. Three roofs, for there was a tall rectangular structure met on each end by a semicircle. The house had the majesty of an old Victorian ferryboat, that’s how it got the name la barca de la ilusión. Inside, cool, the ceiling was vast, tall tall posts of ironwood, crossbars lashed together with guacamote vine. The house was like a cathedral, especially at night when stars or moonlight glowed through the skylights where the palapas joined. Except for an adobe room beneath the tapanco there were no walls.

  Buzz and Maya slept on a mattress in the tapanco, a large loft made of the veins of palm trees. Ben and Keith and Nathan slept in bunks in the adobe room when it was very cold. Usually they slept in hammocks in the large living room, or outside by the datura. The datura that bloomed in a profusion of white flowers that hung heavy clumsily until night when the moonlight or starlight gave the petals an opalescent shimmer of silver and the intoxicating scent wafted everywhere in the house, out to the lagoon.

  Most of the other flowers had no perfume and were safe from ants. Bougainvillea and hibiscus, canna lilies, four o’clocks, impatiens and zinnia. The stock and the gardenias and roses were giddy with perfume, alive with butterflies of every color.

  At night Maya and her neighbor Teodora patrolled the gardens and the coconut grove with their lanterns, killing the swift columns of cutter ants, pouring kerosene into the nests of these ants that ate their tomatoes and green beans, lettuce and flowers. Teodora had taught Maya to plant during the new moon and to prune when it was full, to tie jugs of water to the lower branches of a mango tree if it wasn’t bearing fruit. Juanito, Teodora’s seven-year-old son, came to Maya’s school in the mornings except when the coffee beans were ripe in the hills and he had to work every day.

  Ben and Keith, seven and six, ranged between first and fourth grades in arithmetic and spelling. Keith loved fractions and decimals, a mystery to Ben and Maya. Ben read everything from children’s books to adult books like The White Nile. Every morning the boys had classes at the big wooden table. Scratching, sighing, erasing, giggling, the boys leaned their bare brown backs over their marbled copybooks. Reading and writing and arithmetic. Geography. Reading and writing in Spanish, with Juanito.

  The house was built at the edge of a coconut grove on the bank of the river. Across the river was the beach and the perfect bay of Yelapa. Up the rocks from the beach and over the hill was the village, above a small cove. High mountains surrounded the bay, so there were no roads into Yelapa. Horse trails throu
gh the jungle to Tuito, to Chacala, hours away.

  The river changed all year long. Sometimes deep and green, sometimes just a stream. Sometimes, depending on the tides, the beach would close up and the river turned into a lagoon. This was the best time, with blue herons and egrets. The boys would spend hours playing pirates in their dugouts, catching crawfish, tossing nets for fish, ferrying passengers across from the beach. Even Nathan could handle a canoe well, and he was barely four. In the dry season there would be no water at all. The children would play soccer with boys from the village, have races on scrawny horses. After the rains began the water would come, sometimes in wild torrents, carrying boughs of flowers, branches of oranges, dead chickens, a cow once, and the swirling muddy water would break through the beach with an enormous gasp and suck of sand, swirling out into the turquoise ocean. And as days passed the river water grew clean and sweet and the warm rock pools filled with the water for baths and washing.

  In the evening Teodora strolled past their house to the river with a huge rattling tin tub of dishes on her head. Donasiano followed her, a few paces behind, carrying a machete, wearing a straw hat with ACAPULCO on it. Teodora was a widow, Donasiano her lover, although he had a wife and family in town. They would return after dark, the dishes clattering, slower now. In the morning before he went to the hills to pick coffee Donasiano would squat on the other side of the river, in the shadow of the strangler fig or yellow-blossomed papelillo, waiting for deer to come to the water to drink. Only once had Maya actually seen him kill a deer, although he did often, sharing the meat with the village. He had sprung out from behind the tree and beheaded the doe with one glittering blow of his machete. The head fell into the sand, blood flowed in the current, the fawns fled.

  Buzz and Maya worked to keep the fence mended against the donkeys and pigs, to keep the garden watered and weeded. Pilla and Luis carried endless buckets of water, from upriver, or from the well in the village during the dry season. Luis and Pablo and Buzz gathered and chopped wood for the fire that burned all day.