by David Pierce
We circled the memorial, then circled the consulado, then drove back down the other side of the paseo, then had the driver take us back to the hotel, having seen all we wanted to see, unfortunately.
It is now perhaps time to reveal an inkling of the V. Daniel master plan.
And the inkling is . . . the setting up of an office (as soon as possible, as days are long, amigo, in stir, and nights are even longer) with some sort of quasi-legal or official front for us to work out of, an absolute necessity no matter which of the many variations of the master plan I decided to go with. For reasons that I won't inkle at the moment, I would have preferred the office to be in an edifice next to the consulado or across from it—or at least nearby, or over or under—but that now seemed to be impossible because, as just recounted, on one side was a private home, on the other a traffic jam, behind it a small park, across from it a school, and nowhere near did I spy an Office for Rent sign or indeed note any unoccupied buildings. That seemed to leave our old amigo the Cultural Ass., which was obviously not the consulate but did seem to have some sort of official connection with the U.S., if in name only. So after paying off the cab and telling Doris to take a walk for a while or a swim or to visit the hotel hairdresser and have something done to her split ends, Benjamin and I retraced our steps the few blocks to the Cultural Ass. building.
After a few words together regarding procedure and a few more about which lies we would be using and which we wouldn't, and then a handing over from me to him of assorted business cards (courtesy M. Martel, Stationer) up the stairs we went and in we went. The portero ("doorman-guardian"), seated at a minuscule desk in the lobby, informed us that the rental agent for the building had an office on the premises; it was down the hall and to the left. I noticed on the board listing the building's occupants that the U.S. Cultural Ass. was on the third piso.
The agent turned out to be a diminutive hombre sporting a spotless white guayabera and what looked suspiciously like a classic shiner, which he was unsuccessfully attempting to hide behind a huge pair of shades.
We presented ourselves—Sr. Blackman and Sr. Keith. We presented our calling cards; mine read "V. Blackman," followed by a nonexistent address but a real Sacramento phone number, and Benny's read "B. Keith," followed by likewise. The Sacramento phone numbers belonged to an acquaintance of Benjamin's who for a small monthly sum said whatever Benny had instructed him to say to whoever called, so beware of seeking references for anyone over the phone is my advice. The call to Sac I'd placed before (you may recall) was precisely to said friend of Benny's, to cover our backs if need be.
Benny mentioned we would drop off a handful of business cards to him as soon as we had a local phone number, possibly in a day or two. Then the agent presented himself, don Rafael Moreno, at our services. He presented a business card of his own, which declared he was an agent for the leasing of all types of commercial properties; I hoped his card contained a higher percentage of veracity than ours did. Don Rafael wondered in what way he could assist us.
Did he perchance speak English?
Alas, no, he was desolate.
Had he perchance any vacant office space in his imposing building?
By a stroke of good fortune he did have two fine sites surprisingly still unlet.
Did either of them happen to be furnished?
Alas, he was desolate.
Did there happen to be a furnished office in the building whose tenants were away and might consider subletting to us for a short time?
Alas, he was desolate again.
(For purposes of keeping the narrative flow flowing, so to speak, I have dispensed with the laborious task of telling it like it really happened, e.g., Benny to Don Rafael: "Do you perchance speak English?" Benny to me: "I'm asking if he speaks English." Don Rafael to Benny: "Alas, no, I am desolate." Benny to me: "No, he's desolate." Benny to Don Rafael: "Do you perchance have any furnished office space in your imposing building?" Benny to me: "I'm seeing if he's got any vacancies." Don Rafael to Benny: "Alas, I am desolate." Benny to me: "He's still desolate." In other words, all translations have been omitted and will continue to be so. The flowery style is but my feeble attempt to convey the inherent politeness of the Spanish language.)
Was one of those vacancies by any stroke of fortune on the fourth floor, as we desired to have as fine a view as possible of his beautiful city?
One was, as it happened, but perhaps those premises might be too small for a prestigious company like ours. He did have a recently vacated, newly decorated ground-floor front that he could highly recommend.
Benny demurred, saying that unfortunately we were but a modest concern setting up a Mérida branch as a trial, really, and we would have to see whether further expansion could be justified by our volume of business, which of course would depend on many complex factors—the strength of the dollar vs. the peso, the continuing availability of local products at a competitive price, and so on. That Benny—he was so smooth when he got going that even I found myself believing him half the time, and I don't believe the speaking clock half the time.
Might he, Don Rafael, inquire which of the local products we were particularly interested in, as he had many connections in the Yucatán business world and indeed his mother's brother owned a small but flourishing jewelry concern that specialized in inlaid coral and tortoise shell?
"Principally the famous handwoven hammocks of Mérida," said the hammock king of San Diego.
"Ah, what a happy coincidence!" exclaimed Don Rafael. "It was only yesterday that I was speaking with my neighbor's sister about that very subject. . . ."
And so on. You get the picture. And after a trip to the top floor, we got the office. It was ideal for our requirements, having a small room for a receptionist and a second, larger office connected to it. There was an extra door in the larger office that I thought at first might lead to a tiny kitchenette or bathroom, but on examination it led to a set of fire stairs, at the top of which was a small broom cupboard.
Both rooms had been recently repainted, recarpeted, and redraped. I gave Benny the nod, and he got down to details with Don Rafael, like how much down? (a lot); would he require written references? (usually, to be sure, but in our case, as we were obviously upstanding citizens etc.); could the space be rented monthly to begin with? (yes, with a three-month minimum); could we move in immediately? (sí, on receipt of the down payment); were there working phone outlets? (sí, two); where was the john? (down the hall); and what time did the portero go off duty? (nine o'clock).
Downstairs back in Don Rafael's office, Benny inquired if Sr. Moreno was averse to taking cash for the first three months' rental, plus deposit for wear and tear, as our new business checks had not yet unfortunately been printed up at the Banco de Mejico; Sr. Moreno seemed anything but averse. So I counted out a huge wad of pesos—the equivalent of seven hundred dollars American—and tucked the receipt away carefully. Then we followed Don Rafael out to the lobby to be introduced to one Frederico Romano, the portero, who would see to the remaining details. Then Don Rafael reluctantly took himself off, pleading urgent business elsewhere. I never did find out who gave him the shiner.
After some opening pleasantries, Sr. Romano dug out of a desk drawer a set of keys for all the office doors and for the downstairs front and back doors. As for deliveries of office furniture and supplies, he informed us there was no service elevator as such. When suitably forewarned, he, Frederico, would remain behind after his usual departure time, and when the last of the tenants had left, he would hang protective matting in the passenger elevator and take the furniture up in it. And on that amicable note we shook hands all round and took our leave.
"That was quick," I said to Benny once we were out on the street again, with me following him as he headed briskly westward on 55th. "I thought it took years to get anything done in this country. And so another prejudice bites the dust."
He spread his hands apart in a gesture signifying that it was nothing. "Now what?"
"I'd like to get a look at the prison," I said, "but it makes more sense, I guess, now that we got an office, to make it look like an office. In warfare, Benny, always secure your base—remember that. Marriage counselors never said a truer word."
"Sí, Supremo," Benny said. "By chance we happen to be going in the precise direction that in five minutes will take us to the furniture rental place I found."
"Some chance," I said. "Too bad we couldn't have scored a place already furnished, it would have saved me a fortune."
We stopped off on the way at a fresh fruit juice stand for some needed refreshment, and to make out our shopping lists. The blushing señorita who took our orders squeezed right there before my appreciative eyes seven jumbo oranges, pouring the results into a container about the size of what soda jerks used to make milkshakes in, for which ambrosia she presented me with a handwritten bill for thirty-two cents. What kind of tip does a man of the world leave on a bill of thirty-two cents? Do people tip at fruit juice stands? Even us experienced globe-trotters occasionally come face to face with a new dilemma. As it happened, I let Benny solve the problem, as I had my trusty memo pad out and was busy with the lists, which Benny then took from me and wrote out again in the local lingo.
The furniture rental was down at 63rd and 62nd, near the market. We had to stop by the money changer again on the way, as I was already almost out of pesos, so suddenly I was rich again. At our destination, we handed over the first list to an underling who ran his eyes down it and then said, "No hay problema." What the list said was:
Desk, large—1.
Desk, small—2.
Occasional chairs—4.
Filing cabinets, locking—4.
Typewriters, electric—2.
Wastepaper baskets (if poss.)—2.
Shredder (if poss.)—1.
Teletype—1.
Intercom system linking offices—1.
We trailed the underling out back to the main storeroom and together selected the items we wanted, which the underling duly tagged. Then he and Benny haggled over prices awhile, and I handed over yet another fortune I was pretty sure I'd never get back. What price friendship, eh? as Kirk Douglas was reputed to have said once. Then we settled on a price and a time that night for the delivery, and that took care of that chore.
Next on the agenda were office supplies. It was one thing to have an office and another to have some furniture for it, but the odd shred of paper scattered around and a pencil or two wouldn't be amiss either. So after a query from us, the underling continued in his helpful ways by directing us to a nearby stationer, where, surprisingly, he not only knew no one but had no relations working. Perhaps he was new in town.
At the stationer's, we passed over our second list to an assistant, who began rounding up the stuff: Pencil sharpener—1. Paper, assorted. Pencils and pens, assorted. Globe. Desktop diaries—3. White-out. Glue. Large corkboard. Thumbtacks. Rotary file. Cardboard folders. Assorted hardware and junk to dress the set, as Strolling Players put it. As before, we settled on a price and a time that night for the delivery. Then Benjamin and I went our separate ways, me to the sign store and then to the printer, the locations of which Benny had already marked on my map, while he took himself back to our new office premises to forewarn Frederico so he would be on hand when the deliveries arrived, after which Benny planned on dropping in at the nearest branch of the Mexican telephone company to rent or lease or buy or do whatever you had to do down there to snag a couple of phones. Not that I didn't already have a pretty good idea.
And what did I do at the sign store? I ordered three signs, if that's what those wooden things are that sit on desks and tell you what people's names and sometimes their company positions are. Then I ordered a discreet sign for the door. At a small, backstreet printer I placed an order for various business cards and equally various headed notepapers, a large order, unfortunately, as I thought it might look a mite suspicious if, as a new businessman just setting up in town, which I was purporting to be, I ordered only four of each item. ("Various business cards" . . . "various headed notepapers" . . . the suspense mounts. . .)
We all joined forces later back at the hotel, where Sara condescended to join us for a late lunch in the dining room on the ground floor around to the right of the check-in area. While I tried to find something that looked edible on the menu, Benny filled her in on what we had been up to so far that day.
"Flowers," she said, looking over the lists we'd made, absolutely determined to find something we'd left out. "On my desk, as I presume I'm going to be the secretary, not that anyone's told me yet."
So I told her. I also gave her and Benny an inkle of why we needed an office and what said office should roughly look like when fully furnished and decorated. I also let slip the intriguing hint that the office had to have the capability of being transformed rapidly into a different office.
"Ah so," said she.
"Ah so indeed," said he.
"A coffee cup," said she. "And a few, you know, personal touches. Don't you guys know anything about secretaries?"
"Are you kidding?" I said. "I've only got one crazy in love with me. But OK, if you want it that way. Benny, take a list. In secretary's desk, upper left drawer: cookie package with one cookie left. Nail polish remover. Nail polish. Fake nails and glue to cover up broken nails. Nail file. Copy of Screen Gems. Copy of Hollywood Enquirer. Copy of Valley Studs, or whatever the name of Jackie Collins' latest foray into literature is."
"Ha-ha," said Doris. "I don't think."
"Top right drawer," I continued. "Set of ruined nylons. Box of Kleenex. Box of Whitman's Sampler chocolates, with only the Turkish Delight ones left. Nineteen eighty-two diary. Walkman with Barry Manilow tapes. Well-thumbed copy of The Beverly Hills Grapefruit Diet. Six empty lipstick containers. Empty birth control pill thing. Hair spray for difficult hair. Cocktail stirrer from Top o' the Mark. Furry animal. Another furry animal. Broken key chain."
"Check," said Benny, pretending to write it all down.
"I thought we were here to eat, not to listen to you trying to be funny," said Doris.
"Funny?" I said in a surprised tone. "I wasn't trying to be funny, Doris. I was just trying to give your desk that personal touch you mentioned."
"Sure, sure," said Doris. "How about giving your desk the personal touch, Prof? Take a list, Benny. Hair guck. More hair guck. Spare glasses. Unopened box of rubbers, small size."
"No need to get that personal," I said. "Anyway, all men know it's the technique that counts, not the size."
"No woman does," said the twerp unkindly and obviously inaccurately. "Well-thumbed copy of Fiona Richmond's latest foray into literature. Diary from nineteen forty-four. Well-thumbed copy of The Drinking Man's Diet. Empty bottle of Four Roses. Toy airplane. Jungle Woman comic."
I winced, then looked around for the garçon.
"Roast chicken," I said. "What can they do to that?"
. . .
Caruso once said, "When in Rome, do as the Romans do—honk your horn a lot." So being in Mexico, I took a siesta after lunch while Doris went shopping and Benny caught some rays by the poolette. We met up again just at six, and I took Doris off to the sign store and the printer to pick up my wares while Benny the Boy went back to the telephone company to try bribing someone else.
What the others did with themselves after their outings I do not know, but what I did was lie on my bed in my undies reading a Dick Francis and waiting for the next attack of the Aztec two-step. All of which brought the time up to nine o'clock, which is when we presented ourselves again at the desk of a certain portero, me carrying a suitcase, Doris a shopping bag, and Benny the Wonder Boy two—count 'em, two—telephones, for which he had paid not one centavo over the official price.
Shortly thereafter Freddy hung some dirty mats up in the elevator. Shortly thereafter that, a ramshackle vehicle with wooden sides, containing our new used furniture, pulled up outside. A brief discussion then ensued between Benny and the truck driver
and his accomplice, who, I assumed, were angling for a hefty tip, having discovered that all the furniture couldn't just be dumped on the sidewalk but actually had to be carried up a whole flight of stairs and lugged all the way through the lobby to the elevator, then unloaded from the elevator and transported down an endless corridor to our office—but was I wrong again. No soiled pesos changed hands, and yet another prejudice took the count, leaving me a mere hundred or so. Changing is hard enough but changing for the better is murder. When the kid from the stationer arrived in his battered panel truck, he too refused everything but a handshake.
Freddy took his leave about ten, after loaning us his toolbox for the night, and we began the task of getting the offices into shape. Using one of Freddy's screwdrivers, and not without a curse or two, I tried to attach the appropriate sign on the outside of the front door. U.S.C.A., it stated simply.
"What's that supposed to mean?" said Doris, who was trying unsuccessfully to peer over my shoulder.
"It's not supposed to mean anything," I said patiently. "It does mean something. Either the United States Cultural Association, which we are not, or United Supply, Commodities, & Appliances, which we are. Perhaps you would care to peruse one of our business cards." I handed her over one that was still damp. "You can keep it, I've got another four hundred and ninety-nine. Now go write an ode or something, will you? Or fill up your drawers, or go pester Benny—what's he doing, anyway?"
"He's trying to hang that corkboard," she said. "He might be done in a couple of days. God, you guys make the Three Stooges look good with their hands."
After I'd finally fought the second screw all the way in, I unlocked my suitcase and took out of it a small American flag on a stand, which I set on my desk next to the wooden sign that read "V. Blackman, Director" and right in front of my new, fake marble pen holder. Then I got out a large rolledup map of the world, which Doris kindly tacked up on the corkboard and then studded haphazardly with pushpins of various colors. Then I unpacked a framed photo of a touching family scene: a proud father holding in his arms a mewling babe while his adoring wife and small blond daughter beamed up at him, as did likewise a collie puppy. Thanks to Wade, of Wade's Pictorial Service, and his handy airbrush, scissors, and glue pot, the father looked remarkably like one V. (for Victor) Daniel.