Earlier in the week to impress her I had bought a suit of cotton that the tailor was forced to fit especially for me. My feet were uncomfortable in the new dress shoes over the stone path. The shirt tight at my neck. I was nervous. When I came into the entry of the house Ramón was coming down the stairs with a beautiful woman. Rodríguez hurried behind them trying to get Ramóns attention.
Que chingón! Ramón yelled ignoring Rodríguez. Many turned to look. Who is this?
I handed a bottle of expensive tequila to Rodríguez.
At least one of you dog fighters has some courtesy.
Ramón shrugged and said.
I invited the women. It is not my fault you do not enjoy the company of women.
Ramón laughed more and squeezed the girl toward him while Rodríguez blushed trying to think of a response. Ramón recognized this and laughed more at the young businessman.
I am joking hombre. Everyone here knows that you love women. Ugly ones. But still.
There were many people in the house. It was very well built and similar to no other house I had seen in Canción. The floors were of stained hardwood with intricate designs around the doors and hallways. The walls were of stone but inside lath and plaster. On these walls someone had hung many paintings of the sea. There were also several portraits of one man who I guessed to be Rodríguez but older. Young men and women well dressed went from room to room carrying drinks or eating from plates of food. Several businessmen I recognized from the fighting sat on a large couch in the corner before a large stained glass window of the malecón and the Bay of Canción. These businessmen sat by themselves but with their mistresses constantly at their sides. One of the mistresses wore a close fitting green dress. She was a little drunk and begging one of the businessmen to dance with her but he wagged a stubby finger between them and shook his head no. His face very serious. Holding her hand tight like some treasure. Ramón and the young woman he was with had gone outside where I saw him through a window near the fountain making a group laugh. The women in this group stared at him with fixed eyes. The young woman he came down the stairs with continued to put her hand on his arm but it fell to the side ignored when he spoke with his great gestures. I turned from the window to the paintings.
I have a nephew with one eye and a clubfoot who rubs his snot on the furniture and it looks better than this. Vargas said suddenly standing next to me. He was dressed in black but wearing old comfortable huaraches. Nice shoes. He smiled.
Who is the man in these paintings?
The father. The mother died when Rodríguez was young. Or maybe she is still in Spain. I do not remember. I was drunk when he told the story.
And the father.
Dead. Vargas said sipping from a green bottle without a label. But not after making plenty of money in oil to leave to our friend here.
I think so. I said.
Do you? Vargas asked.
Cómo? I was confused by this answer from the fugitive. I was accustomed to speaking with the poet who when I said things such as this it was usually just to let him know that I was listening to his rambling. But now I did not agree with the tone of voice Vargas spoke in.
Nothing. He drank from the bottle.
What is that? I asked him.
Mescal. Homemade by some old man Rodríguez is friends with. Later we are going to drain the gasoline and see if Cantanas limousine will run on this. He held up the bottle for me to try. You want some?
I shook my head. Looked over the crowd. I was disappointed not to find Cantana. Not to see her. But I did not risk mentioning her or the businessman to Vargas.
I am surprised you came tonight. He said to me.
Why?
You do not seem like the type for parties.
The fugitive made me uncomfortable. I already felt very uncomfortable in my suit and without a glass of something in my hand I did not know whether to have my hands in my pockets or to cross my arms.
No sé. I said to say something.
You do not know what? The fugitive asked.
What do you mean?
He laughed more. Drank from the bottle and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. His eyes were already glassy and his breath sharp from the alcohol.
Well. Vargas said then. I am going to go and find a lady for the night. And if not then I am going to find someone to beat and take their money so I can buy myself a whore later.
I was happy to be alone again. I walked through the house admiring the paintings of Rodríguezs father. The detailed woodwork. In construction I was always doing much of the heavy labor. None of the careful work. But this always fascinated me. The details. How the joints of molding fit together neat around the doors. The cuts made and sanded in the railing and banister. The doorknobs were of brass. The doors stained dark red.
Soon I came to the back of the house. Outside lights had been strung and more chairs were set near a small stone fountain. The musicians in their sombreros with silver threads and silver buttons along their trousers. The horn sounding nicely with the strum of the guitar. The faces of the party becoming more and more flush from the alcohol as the night went on. One young man hunched over alone in the far shadow of the backyard vomiting. A friend went up to him and put his hand on his back and whispered something to him and then turned to those by the fountain and pointed down at the back of the young man heaving. They all pointed and laughed. There was much laughter and talking and at some point in the night there was a fight in the backyard between two young men over an idea but really over a woman.
The businessmen left before it was too late. The headlights of their cars showing through the uneven stained glass windows at the front of the house. I sat on the couch and listened to one young woman talking jealously to another about the gifts one of the businessmen had bought for one of the mistresses who had left. Most of those who remained at the party lingered outside smoking around the fountain or sitting in the chairs. Ramón came into the living room then. Tall and broad shouldered and handsome in his suit. He held a glass of red wine. The young women stopped talking when he entered. They noticed that he was alone. When he sat in a chair across from me he leaned toward me so that his forearms were on his knees. The light of a tall shaded lamp softened his face. His skin almost golden. The one girl with her back to me on the couch sat back so that the two of them faced Ramón.
Are you enjoying yourself in here with these two? He asked smiling at me only with his white teeth but also for the girls.
It is a wonderful party. I answered.
It is. He agreed. You should try enjoying it some.
I smiled with my lips closed.
There is a woman here asking about you. He said.
Who? I asked.
I do not remember. Ramón said. Then he turned to one of the young women sitting on the couch. What is your name?
Diana. She smiled. Holding out her hand but Ramón did not take it. Instead he turned to me and said.
Diana.
On the second floor of the house there was some yelling then. A mans voice laughing. Then heavy steps coming down the stairs. Rodríguez. He was drunk and with his pants unbuttoned. His face red and combed hair messy. He came down the stairs to Ramón and took the glass of wine from the dog fighters hand. He finished the wine in the glass in one long drink and then he smiled. His teeth stained red.
What was it you said the other night? He asked. Ramóns eyes judging him carefully. What is a woman like?
I do not remember. He answered plainly. He looked at the knots in the hardwood floor.
Women. You said. Are like a fine glass of wine.
Maybe that was it then. Ramón said without lifting his eyes. He was very embarrassed by the young businessman.
But I disagree. Rodríguez said. He stood unsteadily before Ramón. I prefer the women.
Later I walked with Ramón from the young businessmans house back toward the plaza mayor.
How old are you? He asked me then.
Nineteen. And you?
>
Twenty-two.
How old is Rodríguez?
Twenty.
Young for a businessman. I said.
His father died.
Vargas told me.
Vargas. Ramón laughed to himself. Shaking his head slightly.
We walked with our hands in our pockets at a slow pace. I enjoyed Ramóns company in the way I enjoyed the company of the old poet. But with Ramón I did not feel the need to be so careful with my words.
He is going to get himself into some trouble one of these days. Ramón said after a moment.
Vargas?
No. Rodríguez. He wants to fight dogs but the businessmen will not let him. This is why he is always taking us out and buying us drinks. He figures if he cannot be a dog fighter then at least he should be friends with them. I should probably not tease him so much.
Maybe. I said when it was my turn to speak.
We entered a neighborhood where the run down houses had been built almost on top of each other. The streets no longer stone but hard dirt. It was quiet and the light we had was that of the many stars now that the moon was new. The air pleasant and cool.
You do not talk much do you. Ramón said.
Why will they not let Rodríguez fight? I asked so that we would not have to talk about me.
He would be killed. Ramón answered. He does not have the mind for it. The heart maybe. But not the mind.
What mind? I asked him.
The one we have I guess.
The iron shutters of many of the windows were closed. We passed a skinny dog baring its teeth at us as he snuck up in the shadow of a wall toward some hens escaped from their pens. Ramón made as if to kick the dog but the dog lowered its ears and cowered against the wall. We went on. I was surprised that Ramón had left without a woman and I told him so.
I had to. He said. The girl I came with does not interest me anymore. Besides. He checked an expensive watch he kept tucked inside his coat. I have plans to meet that girl from the couch in an hour or so.
Diana? I asked.
Was that her name? He smiled.
From the beginning my intentions toward Ramón were dishonest. I decided he was to be my way to her. That I would use him somehow to be introduced to Cantana and by him to her.
I returned to the dentists late that night. Always I came and went from my room at the dentists only when it was dark or very early in the morning when I was certain no one noticed me. The compound was peaceful. As hidden in the world as I believed Canción was then. Because of how my life had been before I very often worried that I could be responsible for upsetting the calm of the compound. Ruin it somehow by my presence alone. That it was as if what troubled me most could follow me there and was not buried within. But was something I was.
One evening just after dark while I waited to leave for my evening swim I heard the voices of Jorge and the young men below. The courtyard was empty and the lights off but for the light of a dim lamp in the back room. Then carrying the end of a string of red light globes already lit Jorge stepped from the shadows bathed in red light. Two young men assisted the dentist by holding lengths of the looped and sagging cord while a third brought the ladder to stand on to hang the lights along the walls around the courtyard. Their faces glowing in that lit progression. Their eyes small and dark. Hooded by shadows. Music from the Victrola a melody beneath their barely intelligible voices.
Once the lights were hung Jorge led his mother into the center of the courtyard. The three young men stood off to the side close to one another but quiet. Jorge took his mother along the walls and where the strung lights drooped some he placed his thumb carefully in the palm of her hand and raised her arm so that her fingers could sense the warmth of the globe. The young men turned quietly toward the back room while Jorge led his mother whispering from light to light.
Later that night I sat in my chair with my forearm resting on the windowsill admiring the red hue of the empty courtyard. Palm frond shadows cast over the tiles. I had been sitting there for some time reciting the poems in English of the poets that I knew when the knocking came softly through the compound. The dentist crossed the sandy courtyard from the back room in his slippers. His steps quick but measured. Moments later he returned with the shadowy figure I had witnessed him with several times before. But with the strung red lights now I was able to distinguish more of this figure than before. He was a young man. The same height as the dentist but wiry. He wore all black clothes and his footsteps made no sound. Then something occurred that surprised me very much. Jorge tenderly wrapped his arm around the waist of this young man and rested his head on his shoulder. When they were in the full of the red light at the center of the courtyard the young man leaned forward as they walked and kissed Jorge on the lips.
I knew very little of the dentist then. We had spoken only a handful of times and never about more than the weather or of what I was cooking in the kitchen. Once he had asked me in passing to help him trim a stray bougainvillea vine that was out of his reach. For all of the attention the dentist craved when the window was open to the street for all to see him work I knew that he was a very private man. Sitting at the windowsill I watched him and the shadowy figure disappear into the back room where they could be alone.
This behavior disgusted me. The calm of the compound had been broken.
In Canción sand collects against the bottoms of unused doors blown each evening by the heavy winds. The buildings are colorful but dusty low along the walls and only when the rains come is the mierda of burros and dogs in the gutters and depressions dissolved some. In tiny squares throughout the city goats stand tied with rope to limbs of date trees while chickens peck at the ground for seeds that are not there. In the outskirts of the city children play in oil drums. Laughing and squealing. Walking each day I felt very much a part of the city. I believe now that lonely young men in love do much walking.
A young man with thoughts needs no other company. The poet once said to me.
At this time my mind was very open to the poet. I practiced copying out his poems in my room or at his stall. In the corners of my mind swimming in the bay I pronounced the sweet words over and over. In the streets where people noticed and would have pointed laughing if not for my size. I was fascinated as a boy with how my father had shaped these same words with his own mouth but differently. His clean fingers around my jaw. Once he held my tongue and I bit him.
Never hit a man in the head when you have your hand in his mouth. He said playfully. His riddling words between us a fathers game.
At night the black water is still warm from the sun of the day but cool where I kicked down beneath the surface. I tried not to think of my father much though. More and more often I followed my thoughts like waking dreams to those of my mother lying dead. The heart of the deep bloodstain next to her black. Exhausted.
During the days I swam with the ragged groups of boys in their canoes made of cordón logs. Racing them over the ribboned water. The waves slapped against the hulls regular as laughter. Treading water among them to work on the strength of my legs I kept the time by telling my own stories.
In Northern California there are trees packed into fields until the limbs grow into one another they are planted so close. And the grass around these trees is lush as this bay but a deep green beneath the charcoal colored limbs. When spring comes the orchards are filled with blossoms. But winter lingers some and a cold wind knocks the early petals from the trees. They fall like snowflakes.
Snowflakes? One boy asked another.
Snow.
What are the girls like there? One boy asked.
Nothing but trouble. I smiled. Now race me back to the beach. See if you can keep up this time.
I had listened to the stories of my grandfather carelessly. Greed and anger were his truths.
They have been for all time. He had whispered.
But they did not have to be mine.
Long iron harpoons lay at the bottom of the boys canoes. They carried th
em like walking sticks into the city with twine or thin rope tied to the ends. The barbed ends sharpened and made with a cord to open inside the fish once it had pierced the skin and the fish went to escape. The boys jumped from the steep rocks at the mouth of the bay. Turning and twisting in the air to show off yelling before the ferry and fishing boats.
One afternoon I sat on the docks with them watching as two boys stole the skiff of a drunk fisherman while he slept. The skiff weighed down some by an engine that leaked gasoline into the bay. They ran the skiff in tight circles churning water behind them. Steering back into it. They chased their friends in the canoes chasing them to get on the skiff. An endless game. On the dock some of us sat laughing while the drunk went from fisherman to fisherman and even the women repairing the nets pleading with them for help. When the skiff finally ran out of gas at the middle of the bay the boys left it floating. They disappeared among the others. All their smiles the same.
Canción is a poem. The old poet liked to say when things like this happened. We like to think we are hidden and unique to the world.
I sat with the poet in the market but some days I also went to chase the children and buy them brown sugar cakes. Panocha. The women argued in hard voices over vegetables with other women. Women sent to the market by other women. Some of the stalls displayed colorful bonito and other skinny mackerel lying over beds of dirty ice. Men sank scarred hands in tanks of salt water after fast pink crabs that changed color when you took them struggling for air from the water. Sea turtle shells gutted and scraped clean with shiny dull blades hung to dry. The faces and legs of the men who sold carbon for fires were sooty and black. The fingers of the basket weavers old but nimble and quick weaving coarse reeds. The children hid behind all this or one another holding their laughter as I stalked them through the aisles growling like some horrible monster with one eye closed and my hands searching the air for tiny arms and smiling lips glistening with sugar. When I caught the children I lifted them above my head or swung them above the ground close to my chest. They loved being caught. The market was a maze I came to know very well.
The Dog Fighter Page 12