Beneath a Panamanian Moon

by David Terrenoire

  Kris rolled over on her side and faced me and I saw the bruise on her ribs. It was large, and purple, and the exact size of a fist. I reached toward her. She thought I was reaching for her breast, and she smiled, but when I put my fingers against her ribs her face clouded over and she covered the bruise with her arm.

  “How’d that happen?”

  “What?”

  “There, right there.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It looks like someone hit you.”

  “It’s nothing,” Kris said. The light changed in her eyes and she said, “And what’s this?”

  “What?”

  “This,” she said, and gripped my penis. Then she kissed me, her leg over me, and then she was on top and I ran my hands over her back, feeling the sand and the smooth warm skin and her heat pressed against me.

  She broke away and ran up the beach to the car. “Stay there, I’ll be right back.”

  Like I was going anywhere.

  Then Kris was standing over me, as naked as a Polynesian. She carried a blanket and a bag and she spread the blanket on the sand. Then she took a towel out of the bag.

  “Stand up,” she said. I stood up. Kris brushed the sand from my back. Then she brushed my chest and arms. Then she brushed the sand from my legs, starting at the ankles, working her way up.

  She took me by the hand and led me like a lamb to that blanket. She pulled me down to her and I forgot about everything but this girl, her warm skin, the sun-bleached hair on her stomach, and how her muscles fluttered when I kissed her there. She helped me roll on a condom, giggling, and then she opened to me and I forgot everything but that warmth, her hands in my hair, and finally her voice as she scattered the birds with my name.

  As we lay on that blanket, her head on my chest, her hand rubbing my stomach, she began to talk, not about anything in particular, but about where she was in her life, and how much she didn’t understand, and how at twenty-four things seemed so hard and she had no idea what she wanted to do except fall in love, and even then she couldn’t imagine loving anyone who could possibly love her.

  “Groucho Marx said, ‘I wouldn’t belong to any club that would have me as a member.’”

  That made her laugh again, which was all I wanted.

  “Come on, I have to show you something,” she said.

  We dressed, gathered up our stuff, and Kris aimed the car up the road, along the coast, until it turned inland. We went through an abandoned site of low, stucco buildings, their red tile roofs crumbling and chain link rusting in the salt air.

  “What is this place?”

  “It used to be a leper colony. A boy I met last summer said he lost his virginity here.”

  “I hope that’s all he lost.”

  “Probably put him off sex for a while,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

  “Not any boy I know.”

  The ten minutes became thirty minutes and we were crossing the bridge that spanned the Canal. At the Avenue of Martyrs Kris turned left, under the shadow of Ancon Hill.

  “Kris, where are we going?”

  “There’s something you have to see.”

  We entered Balboa, what had been the administrative headquarters for the zone, the strip of Yanqui colonialism that straddled the Canal for nearly a century.

  “How much do you know about the Canal?” Kris asked me.

  “Not much. Yellow fever, Teddy Roosevelt, that sort of thing.”

  “You need to see the locks.”

  “Kris, I’ve seen them.”

  “When?”

  “In pictures. In school. I don’t know.”

  “You need to see them for real,” she said. “The locks and sex are two of the things in life that aren’t overrated.”

  We drove through a town circle straight out of an Andy Hardy movie, had Andy been raised in the tropics. The town radiated from this center with military precision. “This is Balboa,” Kris said. “The people who run the Canal still live here. When the first President Bush invaded, rumors are that the American soldiers brought a bunch of Panamanian politicos associated with Noriega, you know, labor leaders and people like that, up to the high school and shot them.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “That’s what the Panamanians say. Down there’s the Balboa Yacht Club. I bet it’ll be hopping tomorrow night, as much as a bunch of tightasses can hop without spilling their Cosmopolitans.

  “All this”—she waved her hand at the Hollywood ideal of a small town, now faded and tattered by tropical neglect—“used to be a paradise for American workers. Servants to do everything and zero social problems. Never. If you bitched about something in public, they’d deport you. If you didn’t have a job, they’d deport you. Leftist politics? They’d deport you. Crumbling marriage? Adios. Criminal tendencies? Later, pal. It was all so neat and controlled and everyone was oh so happy.

  “Then Jimmy Carter fucked up and gave it all away. Now most of the zone is abandoned.” Right on cue, we passed a ghost town of crumbling barracks, weed-choked parade fields, and an empty PX, the sign faded and barely hanging on by a rusted bolt.

  The first set of locks was just ahead and Kris stopped so we could watch a freighter ease inside the long box and a set of massive doors close behind it. “Pretty cool, huh? Those are the Miraflores locks,” Kris said. “We’re heading up to the next set, Pedro Miguel, to get a better view.”

  Blue lights flashed behind us and Kris looked in the rearview mirror. “You’re not holding, are you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “And I know you’re not carrying a gun. I think I would have seen that.”

  “I’m clean, ma’am.”

  A uniformed Asian cop, his hand on his pistol grip, approached the car. His partner, another Asian, approached the car from the other side. He was armed with a short AK on a folding stock.

  Kris felt me tense and said, “Relax.”

  The cop touched his cap. “Hi, Kris.”

  “Hi, Huang.”

  Huang leaned in and looked at me. “This the piano player?”

  “This is him.”

  “You heading up to Gold Hill?”

  “I thought I’d give him the full tour.”

  Huang nodded, touched his cap again, and said, “There’s a party tomorrow night at Fat’s house. You’re invited.” He said to me, “You can sit in with the band if you want.”

  “Maybe,” Kris said. “You guys take it easy, and happy new year.”

  Huang laughed. “Not for another couple weeks. Year of the monkey,” he said.

  Kris said, “Later,” put the car in gear, rolled away. She watched in the rearview until the security guards did a U-turn and said, “The Canal hired a Chinese security firm. Lowest bid, you know, the glories of capitalism. It’s got everybody’s tail in a knot. Nice guys, though, even if they are commies.”

  Kris turned off the main road and onto a narrow track cut through the scrub jungle. We stopped and Kris said, “Grab that blanket. We hoof it from here.”

  I followed her up a steep hill, through low jungle that nearly covered the trail. Near the top, the jungle gave way to grass and a stiff wind blew away the mosquitoes. On the crest we could see straight down to the Canal a hundred feet below. A quarter mile away the locks were busy with ships lined up on either side, coming or going.

  “This is Gold Hill,” Kris said, “and those are the Pedro Miguel locks over there. Those little locomotives are called mules, and they pull the ship through.”

  “Amazing,” I said. “That freighter looks too big.”

  “The locks can handle everything but oil tankers and aircraft carriers. I watched a sub go through once, that was pretty cool. And once, a Chinese ship full of rice ran aground on the other side of the Miraflores. Water got into the holds and they had to pump the rice out to keep it from expanding and busting the ship apart at the seams. That whole field was covered in rice, stinking in the sun, a real feast for the rats, which brought out the snakes, whic
h bit the workers trying to clear the field.”

  “Kris, why are we up here?”

  “Did you ever wonder about the hotel’s name? La Culebra Boca?”

  “It means the mouth of a snake, right?”

  “It’s my father’s idea of a joke,” Kris said, “and it’s not even correct Spanish. But Daddy says he can swallow Panama from there.”

  “Ah,” I said, and wondered just how much of Panama Kelly thought he could digest.

  “Now look down at those locks. That’s why everyone’s so worried,” Kris said. “Those locks hold back this entire lake. All it would take is one terrorist with one boatfull of explosives, because if the locks go, everything goes. And once you’ve pulled the plug, it takes a long time to fill up the tub.”

  “Why tell me this, Kris?”

  “Because I think my father has something planned for tomorrow night.” She shook her head no, as if she were trying not to believe her own words. “I think he may be planning to blow up one of the locks.”

  “And you think I can stop him?”

  “You’re the only hope I’ve got,” she said.

  I could see the light in her eyes, and we kissed for a long time. When we parted, she said, “I’m so glad you broke into my apartment.”

  “I am, too, Kris.”

  Kris pulled off my shirt and pushed me back on the blanket.

  “The bag is in the car,” I said.

  “I don’t care, John.”

  * * *

  Eubanks was at Ren’s desk going through paperwork.

  “Man,” he said, “where you been? Everybody wants to buy you a drink.”

  “Why?”

  “Nobody’s ever squared off against the old man before. You got some balls, Harper.”

  “Is Kelly around?” I looked toward his office door, afraid to see a light.

  “Nah, he’s off playing soldier. By the way, nice look there with the bandage. It really sets off the black around your eyes.”

  “Thanks. It’s the fashion back home.”

  “Oh, and a woman called for you, said her name was Marilyn. She left her number.” He handed me a slip of paper.

  “You mind if I use your phone?”

  “Doesn’t matter to me.” Eubanks went back to sorting papers by size and color.

  Marilyn answered on the first ring. “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I wanted to say I am sorry for the other night. I had no right to be angry with you.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I wanted to apologize to you. In person.”

  “You don’t have to, Marilyn, it’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay. I was very rude to you and I want to make it up. Can you come in to see me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No monkey business, I promise.”

  “I’ve had a long day, Marilyn. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “And I wanted to give you a message,” she said. “You know, from that man.”

  “Which man?”

  “You know, I sent him those pictures of myself, in the bathing suit. He gave me a message to give to you.”

  The room went cold. Smith had contacted Marilyn?

  “I’ll just buy you a drink,” Marilyn said. “It is considered bad luck in Panama to start off the new year without making apologies for the old. Wait for me at the gate and I’ll pick you up.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there.”

  Meat was back at the front gate. “Hey, what happened to your face, monkey shit?”

  “Meat, I am in no mood for this. I’ll tell you what, I’ll just stand here and you can get all your witticisms out and I promise I’ll be offended later, when I have the energy, okay?”

  Meat blinked a few times and said, “Yeah, well…”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Marilyn pulled up and around in that jangling Hillman. I climbed in.

  Meat leaned over and pointed a meaty finger at me. “One of these days Kelly is going to let me kick your ass, and then it’ll be crying time, monkey pussy.”

  “That’s my boy. See you later, Meat.”

  Meat grumbled and said, “Yeah, later, monkey turd.”

  So Kelly hadn’t unleashed the dogs on me yet. That was a relief. He probably wanted the pleasure of skinning me himself.

  I asked Marilyn about Smith. She didn’t say anything. I asked again. “Marilyn? You said you had a message for me.”

  Marilyn chewed the end of her thumb. “I know. I lied. I’m so sorry. I just had to see you and you didn’t want to come, so I made that up about that man.”

  I tried to be angry, but couldn’t get out more than a squeak. “Marilyn, you can’t go around doing this kind of stuff. If the wrong person heard you, you could get hurt, or worse.”

  “And what about you, Monkeyboy? You can’t just go around making girls feel good about you and then act like you don’t know them.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, shit.” Marilyn stopped the car. Stretched across the road was a boa constrictor, its body as big around as Marilyn’s thigh. She got out.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m hurrying him along, what does it look like?” She kicked at the snake with her pointed toe. It was a big snake, and apparently in no hurry.

  I got out of the car. “Man, that is a big snake,” I said.

  “If you’re afraid, you can get back in the car, big pussy.”

  “I’m okay,” I said, although I was sure the snake would snap back and swallow Marilyn whole, leaving nothing but her fake Jimmy Choos in the road. “Look, we can get around it now,” I said, pointing to the tail.

  Marilyn left the snake, turned to face me and kissed me. There, standing by the grill of a ’54 Hillman, with a snake big enough to eat Grandma at our feet, she planted one on me and put her hand on my crotch.

  “Marilyn, I don’t think—”

  “Get in the car,” she said.

  I did.

  Marilyn drove around the snake and headed toward the highway. “Harper? Where you come from, girls can be anything,” she said. “They can be nurses and teachers and mothers. It’s not like that here.”

  “I know.”

  She braked hard and the Hillman slid to a stop and stalled, shuddering, on the highway. A truck blew by us, rocking the car, its horn Dopplering down from a B- to an E-flat.

  “Marilyn, you’ll get us killed out here.”

  She faced me, gripping my arm, her fingernails in my flesh. “You think you know something but you don’t.” She looked into my eyes, searching for some sign of wisdom, and I could see her disappointment. She let go and wiped her face. “Now, tell me, who hit you?” She touched the tape across my nose. “Do you have another girlfriend somewhere, huh, gringo boy? Someone not as sweet as me?”

  “It was about politics,” I said.

  “Never argue politics in Panama.” She smiled.

  “I’m learning,” I said.

  “Does it hurt?” She touched my cheeks, first the left, then the right. Her fingers lightly touched my eyebrows and moved along my face.

  “Not anymore,” I lied.

  “Good,” she said. She restarted the car and headed toward Panama City. “’Cause I am going to show you something. You think because of New York maybe and Hollywood, you know how to party, but you better hold on, because you’ve never seen what it means to have a good time like the good time you have in Panama.”

  “I can’t, Marilyn, I have to get back to the hotel.”

  “Then I guess you walk,” she said, and drove off toward the city’s glow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Marilyn led me from bars to crowded bodegas, the whole city in rehearsal for the big blowout of the next night’s New Year’s Eve party. We passed a street vendor selling incense, T-shirts, and pictures of movie stars. I asked the man if he had a picture of Marilyn Monroe.

  “¡Sí! Marilyn Monroe! Big star!” He pulled a black-and-whi
te photo out of the stack. It was a full face shot, Marilyn’s lips painted and pouty, her eyes smoky and staring into the camera.

  “How much?” I asked the vendor. “¿Cúanto?”

  “Thirty dollars,” he said. “Big star.”

  I reached into my pocket and Marilyn said, “No! Give him ten.”

  “Ten?” the vendor yipped. “This is signed! See? Her name.” The signature was scrawled across the bottom. It looked as if the person who had signed it had had to stop every third letter to check the spelling.

  “Okay,” said Marilyn, grabbing my arm. “Let’s go. This man is a liar and a thief.”

  “Wait,” said the vendor. “Twenty.”

  “Twelve dollars,” Marilyn said.

  “Fifteen, and I throw in a baseball signed by Joe DiMaggio for your young man.” He held out the picture and a dirty scuffed baseball. Joltin’ Joe’s signature was amazingly similar to Marilyn’s.

  “Is very romantic,” the vendor said, a wistful look in his eye. “They once were big lovers like you and your young man.” He turned to me, an easier mark, and pleaded, “I make more friends than money in this business. You, señor, are my friend. You live here. Not like the sailors and tourists who come and go. And it is almost the new year, señor.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Fifteen dollars.”

  “You are a big crook,” Marilyn said to the salesman. “You are lucky my man is so rich he won’t notice how shamelessly you rob us.”

  The man took my money and gave us the picture and the baseball. “You must come back and see me, señor, on a day you are free of this harsh woman. I would give you something out of sympathy.”

  Marilyn told him to go choke on the plata.

  “Come on, Marilyn.” I wedged the baseball into my back pocket where it made a bulge like a big-league tumor on my ass. Marilyn slid the picture of the blond movie star into her blouse.

  “Thank you, my rich Yanqui lover,” she said, putting her arms around my neck.

  “That’s Yanqui Clipper to you, ma’am.”

  Marilyn led me through the crowds, holding my hand so I wouldn’t get swept away. Bands played in every corner bar. Men guzzled rum from bottles and women lifted their feathery skirts and danced in circles, showing off their legs. It was everything I had been warned about in Sunday school and I thought it was great. I danced with strangers and drank from bottles without wiping the neck.