Fernandella, though she often complained vigorously at the beginning, soon became a willing participant in the morning athletics—in fact it was her voice that always awoke the twins. Her cries of pleasure sometimes frightened the yellow-crested cockatoos from sleep and they would walk about on the coral-tiled roof, their feet making tiny music.
Hector and Fernandella almost always managed to keep a thin, sugar-sack sheet over themselves, Hector gripping it fiercely at the nape of his neck with his left hand, as he changed positions, which he did frequently.
Julio sat stiffly on the pocked bench in the locker room, not afraid to meet the eyes of the harassing ballplayers. This is a chance to earn their respect, he thought, even their envy.
“Courteguayan men are born with erections,” he said, imitating his father. “In the hospital where I was born, when I was but two days old I crawled from crib to crib deflowering virgins. The parents of the girl babies complained and I was tied by my ankle to my crib.”
“You tell ’em, Cinnamon,” said one of the ballplayers, his tone not entirely unfriendly.
“But that,” said Julio, “did not stop the girl babies from coming to me.”
The other players laughed.
Julio had noted by watching the players that bravado was not necessarily doing, but always claiming to be prepared to do, and always bragging on past exploits.
Night after night he watched the ballplayers, including his chief tormentors, J. Carroll and Bubba Lee, sally forth in pressed sports jackets and shined shoes, on their eternal quest for beaver. He also noted that about nine out of ten nights they straggled back to the hotel alone, or in groups of two or three, slightly disheveled, slightly drunk, and virtually never accompanied by women.
“The most beautiful nurse on the ward took me into the supply room where she pressed me against her breasts, while her cool fingers explored my manhood,” Julio went on, staring straight at the other players. Esteban, in the meantime, had dressed without exploring any part of his body, and busied himself at his locker, his ears burning as if they were outlined in red neon.
“I WILL TELL YOU HOW my parents met,” said Julio. “My father was a gaucho, herding cattle high in the barrens above San Cristobel. It was sunset, he had prepared his camp, built a fire, eaten his simple fare, and was sitting on a rock, hunched forward, drinking coffee from a tin cup and stirring the fire, when a young woman rode out of the shadows and dismounted.
“My father peered at her from under the wide brim of his leather hat, saw that she was beautiful, strong and healthy, dressed in cowboy gear, and obviously interested in him. He ignored her.
“The cowgirl looked at where my father had tethered his horse by dropping a heavy rock on the reins. She walked into the darkness, carrying a small hatchet she took from her saddlebag, she cut a small tree, sharpened the point, and, in clear view of my father, screwed the stake into the ground with her bare hands, until it was secure enough that she could tie her horse to it.
“My father showed no sign of having observed her feat of strength. He just sat, hat low over his eyes, stirring the fire.
“The cowgirl, determined to impress my father, looked around the gully, her eyes lighting on a good-sized clod of dirt near the fire. She pushed her hat back on her head so my father might see the strength and beauty of her face, picked up the clod of dirt, placed it between her breasts, then. standing straight as an Amazon warrior, placed a hand on the outside of each breast, and with a tremendous thrust broke the clod of dirt into a thousand pieces.
“The corner of my father’s left eye twitched almost imperceptibly, but he remained hunched over, sipping coffee, stirring the fire.
“The woman who was to be my mother was no quitter. She again stepped out of the firelight, only to return with an almost-round white stone the size of a cantaloupe. She positioned herself in my father’s line of sight, making certain he could see her fine shape, her muscular body, the leather chaps she wore over her wrangling pants. She took the rock, which was quartz-like and glittered with fool’s gold, placed it between her thighs, applied mighty pressure until the rock groaned and cracked into gravel.
“Then she stood staring boldly at my father. He raised his head slightly so he could see her with one eye; the firelight skimmed across that eye like lightning. He finished his coffee, set down the cup, but continued to stir the fire with his prick.”
The players laughed in spite of themselves. Julio could see he had crossed the line from foreigner to compatriot.
“What do you reckon a preek is, J. Carroll?” said Bubba Wales.
“You ought to know, Bubba, why I heard a girl explain it all to you the other night.”
J. Carroll, looked at Julio and smiled, letting Julio know that this story was aimed directly at him.
“We were up in Bubba’s room with our dates the other night,” J. Carroll said to Julio, “and Bubba and this girl, who looked a lot like Casey Stengel, were gropin’ around on his bed.
“ ‘What’s that I feel against my thigh?’ the girl said.
“ ‘Why don’t you take it out and have a look at it?’ says Bubba in his subtle way.
“Well, there was a lot of rustlin’ and zippering going on for a while.
“ ‘Why I declare, what is this thing?’ Miss Casey Stengel was saying.
“ ‘That’s a prick, honey,’ says Bubba, just as sure of himself as you please.
“ ‘Oh, no,’ says Miss Stengel, ‘it may be a lot of things but it ain’t a prick. A prick is a foot long and comes from Courteguay.’ ”
Even Bubba laughed. Julio and Esteban were seldom harassed again except with good nature.
THIRTY-ONE
THE WIZARD
Let me tell you a story. After the coming of Dr. Noir, the whole complexion of politics in Courteguay changed. Before Dr. Noir the Government and the Insurgents were on quasi-friendly terms even though they were officially at war. The story is actually one of how the women of Courteguay came to be excellent baseball players, something I don’t have to tell you, Julio, for as I recall your sainted mother, Fernandella, was a shortstop of cunning, agility, and also wielded a powerful bat.
I recall the time El Presidente ventured deep into the heart of the jungle for a secret meeting with the Commander of the Insurgents, a certain General Bravura.
When General Bravura was in power he estimated that there were three hundred people in Courteguay wealthy enough to buy a Mercedes-Benz. General Bravura then suggested to his cousin Eduardo that he apply for a Mercedes-Benz sub-dealership, a branch of the main dealership in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. General Bravura of course got a percentage on every sale, and the wealthy of Courteguay knew which side their foreign bank accounts were buttered on so to speak. Over three hundred Mercedes were sold each year; the trade-ins were sent back to the Dominican Republic, sometimes to the United States, for low-mileage Mercedes sold very well there.
When the Old Dictator, after an appropriate term in exile, overthrew the government of General Bravura, there were accompanying riots, as there were each time a regime was replaced. Foreign photographers captured the sacking of the Mercedes dealership in San Barnabas. But what was interesting about the sacking was that the restless young men who were looting and celebrating were—instead of driving the cars at full throttle down the Avenida Bougainvillea—pushing the Mercedes by hand because no one but the very rich knew how to drive.
What can we do to make the women of Courteguay worship baseball in the same way as our men? As I see it baseball can only be totally successful as both our national sport and national export if it is beloved by all the population. In Haiti, fort instance, only the men play soccer, and how beloved is soccer in Haiti? Let me answer my own question with another question. How many world-class soccer players has Haiti produced? Let me answer my own question. None that I know of. Now, how many world-class baseball players has Courteguay produced?
“About three dozen,” said Julio, interrupting the Wizard’s
story.
“Please don’t interrupt,” said the Wizard. El Presidente had ventured into the jungle with a large entourage, including representatives of the local and international press. The spring before, General Bravura had visited El Presidente at the Presidential Palace in San Barnabas, under somewhat similar circumstances.
“Let’s not get down to business so soon,” said General Bravura who, as always, was dressed in camouflage fatigues, his beard ragged as Spanish moss hanging from a tree branch. “I miss the city,” General Bravura went on. “Though we have many amenities.” He gestured toward the wall of electronic equipment in his quarters, the television, the air conditioning, all made possible by a huge electric generator, a gift from El Presidente on his last visit. “I miss the restaurants, the excitement of the marketplaces, the parades, and of course the palace. You are taking good care of the palace?”
“Ah, my old friend,” El Presidente said, “I’m sure it won’t be too long until we exchange places again. In fact I have brought along a small offering to aid you and your conscientious servants in your campaign to unseat myself and the other impertinent brutes, your recent words, I believe, describing my regime.”
El Presidente smiled broadly and waved his orderly, a Haitian dwarf who cradled a submachine gun in his baby-like arms, forward. The orderly dragged a black suitcase to General Bravura’s feet, laid down the gun, and opened the case, which was stuffed with new American bills in large denominations.
General Bravura’s eyes gleamed.
He smiled, but sadly. “I would be less than honest with you, old friend, if I did not mention that certain representatives of the CIA and FBI have recently sent me, as well as two thousand military advisors, an amount of currency that makes your own noble gesture seem cheap by comparison. As we have anticipated, the Americans have become as disillusioned with your regime as they were with mine, and as we also predicted, they now guarantee me unconditional support in seeking your overthrow.”
“I have to admit, comrade of my youth,” said El Presidente, “that I do have my ear to the earth as it were, and that I have been kept apprised of your secret negotiations with the United States. My gift was indeed a hollow gesture. A test. I wanted to be sure we are still friends, that greed had not come between us. Incidentally, I am keeping the palace in its usual resplendent manner. I am painting and redecorating the east wing—peach and the delicate blue of a baby’s eyes. Do you approve?”
The two friends laughed heartily, filled up their brandy glasses and got down to business.
“Ah, the women,” said General Bravura, “since you brought up the subject perhaps you have some suggestions?”
“I have been trying to remember what it is that women like so that we might be able to incorporate it into baseball,” said El Presidente.
“Well,” said General Bravura, “women like clothes. It is my experience that above everything, except their children, women love silks, satins, laces. Well, most of their children, depending on the individual woman and the quality of the silk. My own Lourdes, bless her loving heart, while we are serving our time in exile, wears her cartridge belt and fatigues, but how she longs for the wardrobe she left behind — I trust her gowns and furs are being stored in temperature-controlled vaults.” General Bravura stared at El Presidente until he received an affirmative nod.
“If what you say is true,” said El Presidente, “then it will be a simple matter to create baseball uniforms made from silks and satins in colors that will cause the flowers to blush. Bats and balls will be painted in alluring pastels. We will plant marigolds and zinnias in the coaching boxes. Women will be allowed to design their own baseball footwear to match their uniforms, which will be unique each and every one; it is important I believe that no two be alike. There must also be a prize for the unglamorous position of catcher, perhaps a mitt studded with jewels, which at the end of each season become the property of the catcher?”
“Unfortunately, the soccer players of Haiti, a pox on them and their offspring, tried those very same methods a few short years ago; silk uniforms of a variety of colors, pink soccer balls, a tea dance after each game. Nothing worked.”
“Nothing is impossible,” said El Presidente. “Think now. What are the fundamental needs of women?”
“Food, warmth, love,” replied General Bravura.
“Right,” said El Presidente. “We could withhold food until they took up baseball. But that policy would be cruel and would cause, to say the least, a certain amount of resentment. And they would play the game out of fear. We must make them play the game out of love. They must have good reason to strive for perfection.”
The two men pondered the situation.
“Warmth cannot be eliminated,” El Presidente continued. “The average temperature in Courteguay is 87°F. Neither politicians nor wizards can make Courteguay cold.”
They paused again, contemplating.
“Love!” the old war horses cried together. “If skill at baseball makes our women feel loved, if a moving fast ball or a .300+ batting average earns a woman’s love, we will have to advocate no further.”
“We have overlooked one thing.”
“What is that?”
“What is it that a woman values more than love?” said General Bravura.
“Certainly not sex.”
“Certainly not.”
“I give up.”
“Marriage,” said General Bravura.
“Of course,” said El Presidente, grasping the significance of the moment. “In order to be married a woman must have demonstrable skills as a baseball player.”
“We will not even have to take credit for making the changes in the law,” cried El Presidente, pacing rapidly back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. “We will blame it on the church. While I am still in power I will, in exchange for a box of Cuban cigars and a flagon of French brandy, have the Bishop of Courteguay notify all the priests that Rome has decreed,” and here he paused a long while, composing the encyclical.
“Before a wedding can take place in Courteguay,” he began, “there shall take place a baseball game, in which one team shall be composed entirely of women, among the women must be included the prospective bride, her sisters, married or single, also the bride’s mother and grandmother, if living. The mother of the groom may be included but only if she is in favor of the wedding.”
“You know this could backfire,” said General Bravura. “What if the unmarried women were to withhold their sexual favors until their baseball skills improve, something that could take years. This could produce a whole generation of frustrated men who might turn to Haiti for wives and in so doing corrupt our pure Courteguayan blood.”
“My friend,” said El Presidente, smiling, “how many virtuous women do you know?”
“I concede,” said General Bravura. “Now, please continue.”
“The other team may be composed of whatever make-up the groom deems advisable, or affordable, amateur or professional. The women must make a responsible showing against the groom’s team. We will leave that wording intentionally vague.…”
“Good, for a responsible showing might mean that the bride came to bat three times and fouled off at least one pitch in each at-bat. But not for long. If women are going to be forced to play baseball they must also be forced to be good at it.”
“Perhaps a panel of three judges in each village to determine when a prospective bride has performed adequately. The groom must not be allowed to vote,” said El Presidente.
“True. All grooms suffer from temporary insanity. We will have the priests deliver the encyclical next Sunday from behind their chain-link fences. Speaking of which, you know of course that I have been very lax with the priests, in fact I offered them the option of coming out from behind their fences. They refused. We even took down one or two fences and laid them flat on the ground, but the priests choose to be restrained by flat fences.”
“Their lives are so much easier behind the fences, it is obv
ious why they stay there,” said El Presidente.
“There is one other matter I find grave and distressing,” said General Bravura.
“And that is?”
“Your assistant, your Head of Secret Police, Colonel Lucius Noir.”
“Colonel Noir is overly ambitious, but he is a loner, and loners seldom overthrow governments. He is obsequious, malevolent, unscrupulous, seems to have eyes in the back of his head, qualities I do not find entirely displeasing. Dr. Noir, as he prefers to be called, can sniff out even a hint of disloyalty. He radiates evil, but as long as it is directed towards my enemies.…”
“Still, I worry for you, old comrade. As wise men say, Mine enemy grows older. As do we. Be vigilant, my friend. I have attended too many wakes for departed companions.”
THIRTY-TWO
JULIO PIMENTAL
The carnival was only a block square; the air was full of the smell of cedar shavings, frying onions, hot grease, and French fries. The noise of the compressor generator was deafening. The rides were rattling and dangerous; many of the green neon bars that outlined the circle that was the Ferris wheel were burned out.
There were canvas banners bellying out in the wind, each printed in garish colors, advertising the midway shows. One featured the hairy face of a bearded lady, while another showed a torso with seal-like flippers substituted for arms and legs. The head on the torso was that of a boy with slicked-back hair, balancing a ball on his nose. The banner read GERALDO THE HUMAN SEAL.
Though she was made up like an old woman the Gypsy fortune-teller was young. Her wrists were circled by tinkling silver bangles; she wore a green bandanna tied about her head pirate-style.
Strangely, it was Esteban the cautious, who was drawn to her. Julio was more intrigued by a girlie show farther down the crooked midway, and in a large, barrel-like construction where, inside, motorcycle daredevils, many of them female, rode in circles defying gravity, coming within inches of the top of the barrel and compound fractures.
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