The Awakening

by Allen Johnson

  “What’ll you have?” Tubbs asked.

  “A cup of black coffee and a croissant.”

  “Good.” Tubbs signaled for the waiter and ordered Anthony’s breakfast in English.

  “I see you haven’t improved on your Spanish,” Anthony said.

  “Hell, no. I’m too old for that shit. I figure if they can’t speaky-z-English, I shouldn’t be doing business with them. Screw ‘em, the goddamn spics.”

  “You know, of course that the term ‘spic’ is a pejorative reference to Latin Americans; it doesn’t apply to the people of Spain. The word that you’re searching for is, from the Mexican vocabulary, ‘gachupin,’ or, from the French, ‘metèque.’”

  “Really? Well, la-di-da,” Tubbs said, folding his arms over his stomach like it was a lunch counter. “They’re still all spics to me. And if you think I care about what’s politically correct, you can call 1-800-FAT-CHANCE.”

  Anthony sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.

  “I never did like him,” Anthony said to the specter.

  “Why is that?” asked the phantom.

  “He’s a pig. But he has a gift for making money. He’s a cutthroat negotiator, lacking in both subtlety and compassion.”

  “In other words, just the kind of man you respect in business.”

  Anthony sucked in air. “That’s right.”

  The coffee was served and Anthony took a long sip, appreciating the strong black espresso. It was early September, and the morning air was already pleasantly warm.

  He looked past Tubbs at a tall, young woman walking briskly across the square. She wore high heels with straps that crisscrossed around the ankles. Her leather skirt was short, only marginally covering her buttocks, and her black angora sweater was pulled down over both shoulders.

  “Oh, my,” Anthony said.

  Tubbs looked over his shoulder and caught sight of the beauty. “Whoa, mama, and la-di-da. Gimme some of that for Christmas.”

  For one timeless instant, the young woman caught the admiration of the two men and in her eyes flashed the entire history of Latin conquests: “If you’re man enough and leave me satisfied afterwards, then just maybe I won’t rip your heart out.” Then she tossed her long hair over her shoulder with a flick of her head and strutted away, her heels clicking like castanets.

  “If there was a God in heaven, he’d give me fifteen minutes alone with that skirt,” Tubbs said.

  “You wouldn’t know what to do with fifteen minutes.”

  “OK, five minutes, plus ten to tie me up.”

  Tubbs laughed heartily, causing his huge belly to heave, which jostled the small plastic table that was pressed against his stomach. Luckily, Anthony had his coffee cup in hand. But Tubbs’ demitasse, which was posed half full on the tabletop, flipped over and landed in his lap.

  “Goddamn it!” the fat man howled, brushing the cup off his lap with a single swat, which rocketed the vessel into the chair at the next table, a chair that was occupied by an impeccably dressed Spanish businessman.

  “Señor!” the Spaniard protested.

  Tubbs ignored the man.

  “Señor!”

  This time, Tubbs briefly squinted at the man and said, “Well, La-di-da. If you don’t like it, spic, you can kiss my Yankee doodly-dum.”

  Tubbs turned back to Anthony. He hoisted his bulbous buttocks, wrangled out a soiled handkerchief from his back pocket, and made a half-hearted effort to pat himself dry. Meanwhile, the Spaniard turned his back on the Americans, muttering something profane about the rudeness of foreigners.

  After a moment, Anthony said, “Let’s talk business.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, kemosabe.”

  “I’ve seen the photos of the property. It looks impressive.”

  “You’re damn right. Get this. It’s a twenty-five-acre piece of coastline south of Águilas that belongs to—I love this—a frickin’ fisherman.”

  “What’s the going price per acre?”

  “In today’s market, $128,000 an acre, and that’s on the low side.”

  Anthony quickly did the math in his head. “That’s over three million for the twenty-five acres.”

  “Three million two, to be exact.”

  “That’s a bundle of money.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know. It’s a bitch. Blame it on Franco. When he died, the whole goddamn market went to pot.”

  “Meaning, you can’t buy the land for a few pesetas and a bottle of wine anymore.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “About what?”

  “About buying the land for a few pesetas.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Anthony leaned across the table. “What do you know about this fisherman?”

  “I know he’s broke, but I also know he ain’t stupid. He’s hired himself a spic lawyer.”

  “Fine. We’ve got lawyers too,” Anthony said. “Here’s what I want you to do. Write up a contract for two million dollars and give him $75,000 in earnest money—it’s probably more money than he’s seen in his entire life. Add a clause that twenty percent of the remaining payment will be paid each year upon completion of the construction project.”

  “That’s still a lot of money,” Tubbs protested.

  “I’m not through,” Anthony said, annoyed by the interruption. “Then, we start building our resort. And we build, and we build. And we never finish building—at least not for twenty years.”

  “I’m way ahead of you. And if we never finish, we never start payments.”

  Anthony turned over both palms of his hands, as if to say, “And it’s that simple.”

  “Well, drop my pants and slap me silly.”

  Anthony finished the last of his coffee. “Listen, you’ve got your work cut out for you. Get that contract written up. I’m going to drive up to Granada for three days. When I get back, we’ll go over the contract.”

  “It might take a little longer than three days.”

  Anthony turned slowly and held a searing gaze. “Three days, Tubbs. If my lawyers can do it, your lawyers can do it.”

  “You’re right. I’ll get on it.”

  Anthony stood up and threw a 1,000-peseta bill on the table. He did not offer his hand. Tubbs took a moment to lift his girth from the chair. A dark spot lay like a lily pad over a tube of material stretched to the breaking point below Tubbs’ beltline. He started to extend his hand and then, sensing Anthony’s reserve, withdrew his mitt and, feeling awkward, hitched up his belt with both hands. The buckle of that belt was on the last notch, and the tag was too short to tuck under the leather loop and so stuck out like a dog tongue, pointing the direction to Tubbs’ next meal.

  Anthony began to walk away, but then suddenly circled back. “How many rooms do we have in this complex?” he asked.

  “Three hundred and twenty.”

  He stepped toward Tubbs. “If the fisherman gives you any opposition, offer him a room free of charge for the rest of his life. How old is the guy anyway?”

  “Seventy-nine.”

  “Perfect.”

  Tubbs shook his head in admiration of Anthony’s brutal business sense. “In-fucking-credible,” he said with a grand guffaw, plopping back down into his chair, the plastic legs bowing under the strain.

  “You are very good,” the specter said mockingly from the black.

  “It is what I do.”

  “Oh, you are too modest. It is not all that you do. Your stay in Spain did not end there.”

  “No, I visited the Alhambra in Granada.”

  “But not alone.”

  “You know about her?”

  “I told you, cow dung; I know everything.”

  The specter cupped his hands and held them under Anthony’s eyes. Then, he opened his hands . . .

  . . . and a sparrow flew out and up and into the Andalusian sunshine, looping over the head of a hitchhiker with a small daypack at her feet and a cardboard sign marking h
er destination in capital letters: GRANADA.

  The road traveler was a tall, slender woman with short auburn hair, combed back wet like she had just stepped out of the shower. She was wearing skintight jeans and a sheer black camisole top that had been chopped just above her navel to reveal a perfectly flat stomach.

  Anthony rolled slowly past the girl and then stopped twenty yards beyond the point where she was standing. She turned and bent over at the waist to pick up her daypack; her jeans had a frayed two-inch-wide tear, strategically placed under the full curve of her right cheek. She did not run to the car; she strolled, not like a fashion model, but sashaying like a streetwise city chick who knew the guys were watching, as was Anthony in his rearview mirror.

  “¿A donde va usted?” Anthony asked.

  “Like the sign says, to Granada.” Although her response was in Spanish, her accent belied her American roots.

  “Hop in,” Anthony said in English.

  The girl swung her backpack off her shoulder and stuffed it behind the car seat.

  “You’re American,” Anthony said.

  “Born and raised,” the girl said, smiling coyly, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. “I take it you’re American too.”

  “Sure enough. Born and raised in Seattle, but work mostly in Paris these days . . .”

  “Seattle, huh? Never been. Me, I’m from Savannah.” The girl buckled in, and they were on the road. “What’s your name?”

  “Anthony.”

  “Like Anthony Perkins.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But not the slasher, I hope.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You know, Anthony Perkins, as in Psycho.”

  “Ah, of course. No, I’m a pretty mild fellow.”

  “You liked the girl, no?” the specter asked.

  “I liked her free spirit. She seemed ready for anything.”

  “What was her name?”

  “I don’t know. I never asked. I just called her Savannah.”

  “Tell me, what are you looking for in Europe?” Anthony asked.

  “A lover, of course,” she said with a laugh.

  Anthony shot a glance at the girl. She did not look like she was kidding. “Really?”

  The girl looked out the window over her right shoulder at the lunar Andalusian landscape. “It’s a long story.”

  “We’ve got the time.”

  The girl was silent for a moment. “How ‘bout a piss break first?”

  “Sure. We’re coming up on Baza. We should be able to find a café in the main square.”

  It was market day in Baza, the traffic heavier than usual in the ancient town. Anthony wound his way to the center of town and found a parking space near the cathedral with its mix of Roman and Moorish influences. The two strolled to a nearby outdoor café. The girl asked Anthony to order sherry—“It’s famous,” she said—and scooted off to find the bathroom.

  Anthony sat down at a table and placed an order for two Andalusian sherries. He sat back and watched the townspeople meander to and from the market.

  “What are you thinking right now?” the phantom asked.

  Anthony muttered something too muted to make out.

  “What was that?”

  “I wondered if I was going to get lucky.”

  “Exactly.”

  The girl was back and sitting at the table across from Anthony.

  “Savannah, I’d like to pick up where we left off. You mentioned that you were looking for a lover. Were you kidding?”

  The girl stared into her glass of sherry and sighed. “No, I wasn’t kidding,” she said deliberately and somewhat sadly.

  Anthony was silent.

  “How old do you think I am?” she asked.

  Anthony always hated that question, but he responded as he always did, guessing low. “You look like a kid to me. I’d say twenty-one.”

  “That’s what everyone says. I must have good genes.”

  Anthony explored Savannah’s face. Other than a few faint freckles, her complexion was creamy and the corners of her eyes perfectly smooth.

  “So how old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  Anthony repeated the numbers out loud. “You surprise me.”

  “I know. I’m lucky that way. But the fact is the clock is ticking, and I don’t have the one thing I want more than anything else in the world.”

  “That being?”

  “That being . . . a baby.”

  “Really? Tell me more about that.”

  The specter scoffed. “You are so deceitful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You appear genuinely interested in the girl. But you were not interested at all, were you?”

  “Of course, I was.”

  “No, you only listened to gain her confidences, to take advantage of her.”

  “Have it your way.”

  “It is not my way. It is your way.”

  “I’ve wanted a family of my own for as long as I can remember,” Savannah said. “I want to see a tiny human being grow into a young man or woman.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No. I was close once, but it didn’t work out.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I was too bitchy or too particular or too . . . something.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I’m looking for another way. I’ve thought about adoption, but I really want the kid to be mine from the moment of conception. I want to carry him. I want to give birth.” Savannah screwed her finger into her temple. “I know; I’m loony tunes.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “It’s what everyone says. They all laugh at me.”

  “I’m not laughing. I think you have a perfect right to follow your dreams.” Anthony took a sip of his sherry. “What about artificial insemination?”

  “I’ve thought about that too. But it’s just too antiseptic. I want a child that is conceived in love with a partner who is a good man.”

  “And that’s what you are looking for now: One good man.”

  Savannah smiled. “Yep, just one good man. Of course, it wouldn’t hurt if he was buff.”

  “Well, he has to be out there somewhere.”

  “That’s what I keep thinking.”

  The two were silent for a moment.

  “What about a close friend—someone you really admire?” Anthony offered.

  “Yeah, I’ve thought of that. In fact, I once made a list. It was a short list: Only three names. The first candidate was my ex-boyfriend. Every time I saw him, I begged him to give me a baby.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said I was crazy. Why in God’s name would I want to raise a kid alone?”

  “So he refused.”

  “Big time.”

  “Who else was on your list?”

  “A friend of the family. He’s single and bright and not bad looking.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But then I saw him badmouth a really sweet girl like she was some kind of idiot. He was so disgusting; I immediately scratched him from my list.”

  “And the third candidate?”

  Savannah smiled.

  “Judging from your expression, he must be something special.”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s a sweetheart. But he’s barely twenty and hot to trot.”

  “So?”

  “So, I want more than that. He just wants to get into my pants, and, frankly, I think I would enjoy the hell out of it, but it’s not enough. Sure, I’d get off on someone who wants my body, but is that all there is?”

  “I think I’m getting the picture. You want a soul mate, a kindred spirit. Anyone can make a baby; what you want is a spiritual child.”

  That stopped Savannah cold. She studied Anthony’s face like a blind person touches the mouth and nose and eyes of a loved one, tenderly exploring every curve and crevice.

  “End of story. You knew you had her.”
r />   “Yes. It was easy.”

  “You are so transparent, cow dung. Your heart is beating. You can already see the girl naked, your arms wrapped around her slender body.”

  “Yes, yes,” Anthony said, irritated at how easily the specter read his mind.

  “That’s exactly what I want,” she said softly, “a spiritual child.”

  Anthony silently took in a breath and let it escape slowly. “Would I do?” he asked in a whisper.

  Savannah was again stunned. Her eyes widened, and she did not move a muscle for a long moment. And then she smiled and lowered her eyes.

  Anthony reached his hand across the table and caressed the girl’s cheek. And with that touch, Savannah closed her eyes and leaned her face into his hand, covering his hand with her own. Then, still holding his hand and looking directly into his eyes, she said, “Are you the one?”

  Anthony paused dramatically. “I would like to be.”

  “But I don’t know anything about you.”

  “What would you like to know?” he said, fingering a staggering diamond ring on his right hand.

  Noticing the ring, the girl reached over and took his right hand to get a closer look. “That’s an amazing rock. Is it real?”

  Anthony smiled. “It’s a five-carat canary diamond I bought in South Africa about three years ago.” With a heavy tug he twisted the snug-fitting ring off his finger and handed it to Savannah.

  “You must be loaded,” the girl said with a long whistle.

  “I’m not the richest man in the world, but I am very comfortable.”

  The girl returned the ring. Then she hesitated for a moment, as if frightened to ask the next question: “Are you married?”

  “I am a widow,” he lied.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  Anthony waved his hand, as if to say it was not important. “It was a long time ago. We were married only two years. We were just about ready to start a family when she contracted ovarian cancer.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “It’s called the silent killer, because it is so hard to detect.” He huffed a self-mocking half laugh. “At least we didn’t detect it.”

  “What a bitch.”

  Anthony affected a hitch in his voice and looked down at his hands. “Isn’t it ironic . . . that I could not give to my wife . . . what I can give to you?”

  “You are pathetic,” the specter said.