The swimming pool, blank and gleaming, with wavelets tapping the sides. Mingolla sat bolt upright, looked around, certain someone was sneaking up on him. But nobody was in sight. Voices from one of the rooms. A radio playing violin music. Gilbey and Jack still sleeping. He leaned back, stretching his legs, arranging his three visions of the future in chronological order. First the diner, the chat with the waitress; then the confrontation with Izaguirre, and then Love City. The aftermath of a hollow victory. He couldn’t understand how the picture drawn by the visions was compatible with the peace. Maybe they weren’t accurate. But he couldn’t bring himself to accept that. They felt real.
Gilbey shook himself, came to his knees, and, grateful for the interruption, Mingolla said, “How ya doing?”
“I was dreamin’,” said Gilbey. “Dreamin’ ’bout the Farm.”
“What ’bout it?”
“Nothin’, just dreamin’.” Gilbey sat cross-legged, stared at the rippling pool. “Y’know, it wasn’t so bad there…the Farm, I mean.”
“It was a different bad than here.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Gilbey mumbled something else.
“What’d you say?”
“Didn’t say nothin’. I was gonna, but…”
“You forgot, huh?”
“Naw, I didn’t forget.” Gilbey’s stare tracked around the courtyard, then settled on Jack. He bowed his head, rubbed the back of his neck. “I got it all right here to say…it’s all right here. But it just don’t fit into words.”
The emptiness of the palace’s main hall was scarcely compromised by the long tables that had been set up along the walls, bearing punchbowls and trays of sandwiches and pastries. Harsh white lights shone from the ceiling, giving the plastic the look of sweating blue flesh. Several hundred people were milling around, and the storytelling robot trundled back and forth, its Victorian drag striking an odd note among the celebrants, who were for the most part drably clothed. Speeches were given, proclaiming all present to be members of a single family dedicated to the principles invoked by the Peace of Panama…this a phrase much used during the evening. Piped-in music began to play, and Mingolla was persuaded to dance by a dwarfish Madradona woman, who smiled up at him with pointy-looking teeth, and whose torpedo-shaped breasts—confined by a tight red blouse—bumped against his belt buckle.
“I’ve been dying to meet you,” she said.
“Looks like you made it just in time,” he said.
She acted confused, then her smile returned. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about our genetics program. Are you familiar with it?”
“Nope.” He maneuvered Dwarf Woman between couples. Clutzy dancers, all. Considering the significance of the party, it was—he thought—pretty fucking déclassé. Kind of a cross between a prom and a country club mixer.
“Well…” Dwarf Woman frowned at a Sotomayor man who had backed into her. “We’ve been hoping you’ll donate.”
“Donate?”
“You know…genetic material.” Dwarf Woman put a girlish emphasis on the last words and tittered. “I apologize for being blunt, but I’m so excited by the prospect of blending the lines.”
“Blending the lines, huh?” The image of himself fathering generations of Mingolla-Madradonas and Mingolla-Sotomayors touched off a wave of giddy good humor in Mingolla. “Tell you what,” he said, laughing. “Why don’t you and me slip out back, and I’ll jerk off on ya. Maybe you can bottle it ’fore it dries.”
He’d expected an offended reaction, but Dwarf Woman dug her stubby fingers into his waist and kept smiling. It was an eerie screw-loose smile, and for a second he thought she might accept his proposition.
“I’ve been warned about your iconoclastic tendencies.” She said this in a dire tone as if warning him that she knew his secret. “This is no joking matter.”
“I can see that,” he said. “I mean just from looking ’round the room, I can tell you people are in need of new blood. Especially you Madradonas. I never seen such twinky little fuckers. You could use a few height genes, right?” He gave her a lascivious thrust of the hips. “Yeah, sure. I can put a little length in your whatsitz.”
Dwarf Woman struggled to free herself, but Mingolla held her in a death grip, whirling her around. “Crudity is hardly responsive,” she said.
“That’s me…hardly responsive.” He bounced Dwarf Woman into a Madradona man who was dancing with a Sotomayor woman. “Oops,” he said, and grinned.
“Let me go!” said Dwarf Woman.
“Never,” said Mingolla. “It’s just you and me from now on, shorty.” He slung her into yet another couple and apologized, saying, “Sorry, she stepped on my foot.”
“I’m not going to forget this,” she said venomously.
“Me neither. God, what a night we’re gonna have! Somehow we’ll overcome the difference in height. Ever done it with ropes and pulleys?” He hugged her even tighter. “Aw, babe! I can hardly wait till your teeny belly starts poppin’ out.”
Dwarf Woman writhed, wriggled, straining to get loose.
“Jesus, that feels good!” he said. “Do it again…a little lower.”
“Let me…!”
He muffled her words by pulling her head into his chest. “On the first date?” he said, lifting his voice so all could hear. “Well, if you’re game, I’ll give ’er a try.”
Suddenly weary of this, he turned her loose and performed a mock bow. “Thanks for the struggle,” he said.
She stood fuming, sputtering.
“You motherfuckers oughta be in cages,” he said by way of farewell.
He walked over to the nearest table, swilled down a cupful of punch. Farther along the table, Tully, Corazon, and Debora were talking with several Madradonas. The Madradonas, it appeared, were busy consolidating their role as Masters of Efficiency. Marina Estil, all dolled up in a white silk dress and jade beads, disengaged from another group and came toward him. She was flushed, excited, and in her eyes, her smile, was an intensity that seemed a product of more than natural well-being. He wondered if she had taken something.
“How are you?” she asked. “I’ve been so busy, I haven’t been able to get back to you about our little problem.”
“Everything’s fine,” he said.
“I knew it would be.” She called a hello to a passing Sotomayor, then turned back to Mingolla. “Are you having a good time?”
“Marvelous,” he said. “I’m in a transport of delight.” He noticed Ruy sidling up to Debora.
Marina followed his gaze. “Don’t worry, David. He told me he was planning to apologize tonight. That’s all that’s happening. So”—she sipped punch, looking at him over the rim of the glass—“have you been meeting people?”
“Oh, yeah! Lots.” He told her about the Madradona woman.
She giggled. “They’re so officious, aren’t they? Sweet in their own way, of course.”
“Of course.”
“You’re in a strange mood,” she said.
“I might say the same about you.”
“Oh, I’m just exhilarated. You see, everything’s coming together tonight.”
Her words were oddly weighted, but he chalked that up to chemicals: he was now certain that she was stoned. “Everything?” he said.
She stroked his arm, a seductive move. “Yes, and you’re responsible for a great deal of it.”
“Is that right?”
“I’ll tell you about it sometime,” she said. “But not now.” She pointed at the storytelling robot; it had rolled up to the table beside them a few feet away. “It’s time for the entertainment.”
“Gather ’round, gather ’round!” called the robot, and the crowd formed a semicircle about the table, chattering and laughing. From their ranks came one of the Sotomayor men leading a pale thin girl dressed in a white jumpsuit. She had a withdrawn, blank look, and Mingolla felt that this blankness was a sign of retardation. She stood half-hidden behind the robot’s skirts, nervous, twisting her
fingers together.
“Music, maestra!” cried the robot, clapping its pink plastic hands.
The girl jumped, ducked her eyes.
“Please, chiquita!” The robot gave her a tickle, and she squirmed away. “Just a little music to make us all happy.”
The girl smiled wanly, and a moment later bell-like tones began to resound inside Mingolla’s head, tones of such purity that he was stunned by their beauty and failed to notice at first the simplicity and awkwardness of the tune they played. A nursery school tune. Played badly, the timing all wrong. Mingolla realized the girl was in essence a music box whose lid had been opened, a toy with faulty springs. The tune continued for far too long, and the crowd’s applause was polite but unenthusiastic. The girl was led off, and a young man with a similar blankness of expression was presented to the crowd. His eyes were deep-set, dark; he had a pinched, bony face, and his scalp showed through his crewcut. After being prodded by the robot, he stared at a point in midair, and a color materialized before Mingolla’s mind’s eye, a shade of blue so deep and rich that it seemed an emotion, embodying a sense of absolute tranquility. Other emotions were projected, each of them powerful in the extreme, and the crowd applauded each one wildly.
Marina stepped forward and addressed the crowd. “I believe we should show our appreciation to Carlito for this great work, for bringing forth flowers from these stones.”
The crowd applauded, and the applause evolved into a chant of “Carlito, Carlito, Carlito!” that ended only when the dance music was struck up again. Mingolla stared into one of the punchbowls, thinking that he’d seen six-legged movement among the floating bits of rind and fruit pulp.
“Hello, David,” said a high-pitched female voice at his shoulder.
He spun about and looked up into the robot’s eyes. Behind occluded crystals, the cameras swiveled.
“Don’t you recognize me?” The robot clasped its hands over its ample belly.
For a moment Mingolla was at sea; but then, remembering the chopper and its divine pretense, he penetrated the disguise. “Izaguirre,” he said.
“Good to see you again,” said the robot. The pudgy pink face seemed to be regarding him with paternal favor.
“Are you here in person?” asked Mingolla, hoping this was the case, not knowing what he would do, but hoping all the same.
“Oh, no. I’m in Costa Rica. But I’ve been keeping my eye on you.” He essayed a daffy wink. “I’m most impressed with the work you’ve been doing.”
“Are you now?”
“Indeed! It’s remarkable. The results you’ve achieved put my poor efforts to shame.”
“You’re just saying that.” Mingolla offered the robot punch and spilled a cupful over its stiff yellow dress. “Gee…lucky you didn’t short-circuit. By the way, what is your work? Entertaining at birthday parties?”
“Still angry, I see. That’s good, David, that’s good. Anger can be a useful tool.” The robot dabbed at the spill. “To answer your question: No. No birthday parties. My work is much like yours, though I’ve been limited to producing singular effects as opposed to the overall rehabilitation you’ve been attempting.”
“I haven’t been attempting shit. Just passing the time.”
“Don’t belittle your efforts. No one would put in the hours you have without a strong commitment.”
“Beats hanging out with your nieces and nephews.”
“I won’t insist you agree,” said the robot. “However, I do have a proposal for you. I’d like you to come work with me after all the loose ends are tied up down here.”
“Naw,” said Mingolla. “I’m going home, gonna sit on the beach.”
“You can do both.”
“You work in the States?”
The crystal eyes tracked back and forth across the dance floor. “I see no harm in admitting it at this juncture. Yes, I have a home there. I think you’d find it an amiable atmosphere.”
“Where is it?”
The robot gave out with a fey titter. “I believe I’ll keep you in the dark about that for the time being.”
Not as much in the dark as you think, asshole, Mingolla said to himself. Some place with dry desert heat and a lot of horny people. “Why?” he asked. “Scared of me or something?”
“Not really, David. You’re quite formidable, I admit. But we’ve been around for a long time, and we know how to deal with strength.” The robot trundled back a foot, then forward the same distance, as if gearing up for a leap. “Now about my proposal…”
“I’ll think about it.”
“A talent like yours won’t lie dormant, David. What else is there for you to do?”
“Could be I’ll go back into the killing business. The world can always use another assassin.”
The robot’s great oval head twitched. “I’m sorry you have so much resentment.”
“It’s not resentment,” said Mingolla. “It’s disgust.”
“I’m aware that—”
“You aren’t aware of shit!” said Mingolla. “The things you bastards…” He caught himself, not wanting to lose it completely. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe all I can do is try to fix what you people have broken.”
“Don’t you understand?” said the robot. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
“Really?”
“Do you think I’m without feeling?” the robot asked. “Don’t you know how appalling I find what we’ve done, what we’ve had to do?”
The robot embarked upon what Mingolla was coming to view as the classic Sotomayor rap, You Can’t Make an Omelet without Breaking Eggs, and We Will Spend Our Lives Redressing All Wrongs. Izaguirre’s version was superb, heartfelt, and eloquent, and Mingolla had no doubt that he believed every word. He promised Izaguirre that he would give serious consideration to his proposal and that he would try to put his resentments behind him; but after the robot had trundled off to visit relatives, he found that his tolerance of the proceedings had been reduced to zero. The scales had fallen from his eyes. Everywhere he looked he detected the residues of old hatreds. Whispers behind hands, scowls, poisonous stares. And there were fresh hatreds as well. Those he detected in the standoffishness with which the Madradonas and Sotomayors treated their new allies, the drug-induced psychics. The shoddiness of the party, the schmaltzy music, the whirling unlovely couples, the mutant sideshow, the high tech grotesquerie of Izaguirre’s robot: the sinister aspects of all this seemed to have undergone an intensification. He might, he thought, have been standing in Berlin decades ago, watching the burghers ratify their allegiance to the lean, cold National Socialists, disguising their intrinsic meanness and paucity of spirit with shabby pomp and sprinklings of glamour. This gathering had no less potential for nastiness, for vicious perversion, and he perceived in it the shape of the world to come, one not so different from the old. The feud would resurface, with the added bloodiness of a new feud between the families and their drugged creations, and the result would be a world of back-fence wars and heavy tensions and near-apocalypses. Or perhaps a total apocalypse. The families’ propensity for oversight might well allow for this significant difference. But whatever ultimacy they might contrive of the future, of one thing Mingolla was sure: he would not survive to see it. Wherever he turned, people looked away from him, not wanting to be caught staring. That consensus interest alone was enough to damn him. Sooner or later somebody would decide that he was too powerful to trust, or would make a judgment based on a more personal issue.
He spotted Debora standing with Tully and Corazon on the far side of the hall, and he crossed to them, bumping into ungainly Madradonas and graceful Sotomayors. “I’m gonna take a walk,” he said to Debora as he came up. “You be all right?”
“You look pale,” she said. “Are you sick?”
“Something I ate.”
“You be missin’ all de fun, mon,” said Tully drunkenly; he gave Corazon such a fierce squeeze that Mingolla half-expected to see her rosy eye pop out.
“I’ll g
o with you,” said Debora; but she didn’t seem eager to leave.
“Naw, I just wanna walk a little. I’ll take Gilbey and Jack, and I’ll catch ya back here or at the pension.”
He turned to go, but she stepped in front of him. “Is anything wrong?”
It was a temptation to tell her all he’d been thinking, but he knew she wouldn’t buy it. “Nothing serious,” he said. “I’ll see ya later.”
As he headed for the door, various of the families acknowledged him with smiles and nods. So sincere, so unassuming. He smiled back, hating them all.
Clear night, the stars pointy and bright, so regularly spaced that the strip of blue darkness overhead looked like a banner laid across the rooftops. Mingolla felt at ease walking out among the dead. The dead could be trusted, at least. Their dim urges were not informed by greed or lust; their memories did not inspire perversity, but were merely unresolvable longings for a world they could not quite recall. He liked the silence of the street, too. Silence was a blue-dark flow through the claustrophobic canyons of the barrio, carrying his reflection smoothly along in the windows of the stores, past the logjams of shadowy figures in the gutters, and he thought it might not be so bad to enlist in those shadow armies, to breathe the poison that made them slow, to follow the orders that permitted them to indulge in the last real reason for living. He increased his pace, swinging his arms, marching, and Gilbey and Jack had to break into a stumbling run to keep up. At last he stopped in front of the store that once had sold religious items and looked at himself in the ranked mirrors. An infinity of starlit Mingollas, all of them dark, with glittering eyes. Studying the reflections calmed him. He turned his head, and the reflections followed suit. He put his hands on his hips, moved toward the window, and an army of Mingollas, bold and undaunted, approached for consultation.
Pity, he thought, that they weren’t magic mirrors. He’d summon his friends and family to appear, give them the benefit of his wisdom. Not that he had a lot to give. Just one word: Panama. He’d say it differently to each of them. Softly to old girlfriends, to Long Island Woman, letting them know how lucky they were as Americans to be insulated against so much painful reality. And to his old buddies, he’d offer it as an admonition, shock them into draft-dodgery. And to his father, yeah, to his father he’d pronounce it as a cross between a whisper and a hiss. The word would cloud the mirror, translating into a gas the color of the night sky and the shadows, one that would envelop his father’s head and convey to him the dark flash of being, send him reeling, choking on quintessential Panamanian truth, and a moment later actuarial reality would knock on the door, and Mom would have lovers in Florida till she was eighty. Wow! What a gal!
Life During Wartime Page 43