Who knows what Ezra is listening to? He is stroking the long white forearm of Carmen. If it were not such a cliché to compare pale skin with sculptural stone, I would say her forearms are like alabaster.
"How lovely that your mother belongs to a book club. Do you have many here in Nicaragua?"
"Many what?"
"Book clubs."
"It depends what you mean by book clubs."
Thunder claps, and thunder barrels out of the sky with its mouth wide open. There is a thud, repeated irregularly, muted.
Olga jumps forward and says, "Did you hear that?"
Lalo takes her hand, so gently. "It's the beneficio."
"No. It's the hurricane. El huracán." She says it twice, first in English then in Spanish.
"No, that was the beneficio. We are having problems with the secadoras."
Lalo is referring to the giant dryers for the coffee beans. They look like gargantuan inner drums of clothes dryers. Their heat is supplied from a furnace stoked day and night with leña, the branches from pruned coffee trees. This morning the secadoras sound like my clothes dryer sounds when I throw in wet sneakers: slam slam, thump thump, clickety clack, slam again, and again.
"What is the problem with the secadoras?" Carmen asks.
"They're out of alignment. And Misael is in León with his mother."
"Misael is the chief engineer," Carmen tells me.
"His mother has Parkinson's," Olga says.
"No, it's Alzheimer's. But that's not why he's in León. It's for the anniversary mass for his father's death. He told me last week. Do we remember to do such things, like anniversary masses?"
"Our parents aren't dead yet," Olga says.
Carmen taps her feet with rhythmic impatience. They are long, narrow, and naturally elegant. Her feet are not so much shod in her black Ferragamos as draped in them. Did Waldo ever suck on her toes? I wonder. I would rather not be wondering that, not just now, here, at breakfast. What I would really like are long, skinny feet of my own.
Lalo says, "First the secadoras, and then the hurricane. After the hurricane—what? The aftermath. We will advise Hubert how your research into Tía Tata's sanctity is coming along."
"It's not coming along at all," I say. "You know that. Wouldn't it be better if Hubert came down here?"
"I have asked him many times. I promised that volcanoes would erupt just to celebrate his arrival. But he refuses to fly."
"On principle?"
"He is terrified."
Ezra turns to Carmen and whispers, gleefully, "I knew it! You should have seen him when Flirt got skunked."
"Ah," says Carmen. "Since your Nine-Eleven, all sorts of people will no longer fly. But it is foolish. The odds are better for flying than ... than so many things."
I say, "He should pray to Saint Joseph of Cupertino, the patron saint of flying. He was a big levitator and floater."
"In the matter of flying, I do not think Hubert wants any help."
Thump, crash, thud. The noises set in again.
"That's not the secadoras," Olga says. "And I should know."
"Why should you know?" Carmen asks.
"My hearing is much better than any of yours. I have extraordinary hearing, and I can promise you, it is a curse."
"Then it must be Alice, the hurricane."
"Later," Lalo says, "I will show you the portrait. But first the secadoras."
"I long to see it."
"She longs to see it," Olga repeats. Olga is a mystery to me.
"Can I go with you? To see the secadoras?"
"Of course," Lalo says. This surprises me. I expected to be turned down, and justifiably, because it seems impossible that Lalo does not recognize that I am here on false pretenses. I will never help with the canonization of Tía Tata. At the most, I will clutter her narrative with vignettes of apocryphal virgin martyrs. Worse than my uselessness, though, is that I am succumbing to the luxuriant weight of the inevitable storm. I am no different from Lalo in the snow, and if I am, I am so wrapped up in the dripping foliage that I can no longer tell the difference. Worse still than the uselessness and the succumbing is that I am leaning toward Lalo. I am leaning toward his physical presence and his unswerving conviction that this is what he should do.
He does not turn me down. He says, "You should wear different shoes."
The beneficio is down the hill a short ways, in the center of the village, more or less across from the church. We could walk but we do not. Lalo goes off to talk to his second-in-command engineer and leaves me to wander around the cavernous, shaking room. In the middle of this room the beans are mechanically shaken over a grid that selects for size, and then they're shunted to long tables, where ladies pick out any last irregularities that have evaded the previous separations. Piled up along all the dark walls are sacked quintals of coffee beans. In front of each row is a hand-printed cardboard sign indicating the quality: chorro, chorro europeo, and so on. The smell of old wood is admixed with the more pungent damp, ripe-vegetable odor that rises from the lower level of the beneficio, where the red beans are dumped into wells and then propelled along the watery canals by screw press to remove the skin, then the pulp, then the parchment. Up here in the shaking room, the rafters are home to Olympic-size cobwebs—whole other ecosystems existing comfortably beyond the reach of an indifferent broom. The randomly spaced fluorescent tubes flicker. In this way, the room reminds me of the Hagiographers Club; I don't know how the ladies can see well enough to distinguish one perfect coffee bean from its lesser cousin. They look at me but say nothing. I greet them guardedly. Even they can surely see that I am here under false pretenses. More so, since all the coffee beans look the same to me: like the dried brains of frogs or mice. Something very small with an even smaller brain.
"Coffee is in our blood." Lalo startles me by popping out from behind the secadora, in the company of a short man. He introduces me to Napoleon Something, who is missing the index and third finger of his right hand.
"Mine too," I say. "I can't stay awake without it."
He smiles. "Napo is an excellent engineer and béneficero, but he has never liked the secadoras."
They rotate noisily. "What's not to like?"
"Their existence. He would rather we dried all the coffee on the patio. But the weather is too inconsistent these days. Nowadays." He pulls me to the edge of the beneficio, to the last place where we can stand under the roof, and indicates the vast cement patio where in years past the wet coffee beans were dumped and raked out to dry in the sun.
"It must have been so beautiful," I say.
"Let's go visit the church," Lalo says.
Inside it is dark, but not the same dark as it was over at the beneficio. The pre-storm sunlight filters in through the stained glass and flatters us both. The oddest collection of plastic flowers and real orchids crowds the altar. The crucifix above, while appropriately anguished and bloody, is also coyly modest—Christ is wearing a short sarong fashioned out of a denim-like material. Lalo slides into a pew on our left and kneels down. There is no good reason for this to be so surprising. But it is. I am adrift. It's been ages since I last knelt in church. Actually, I can remember exactly when: it was in Barcelona with Abuela. Abuela was a world-class kneeler—she put us Californians to shame. Should I kneel too? Or would it be too obvious that I am doing it only to impress Lalo, and because I am feeling dangerously devoid of any Catholic credentials just now? But isn't it ridiculous—and solipsistic—to imagine he would think one way or another about my kneeling? To imagine that he would think about it at all?
"Would you like to go up?" he says, right beside me now. He points to the choir loft.
"Sure," I say. "You know what is wonderful? You. You believe in what you're doing. Have I said this before? I wish I had some of that. Some of your not-irony."
"Don't you understand?" Lalo says.
"Huh? No. Obviously not."
"I have to struggle all the time to believe in this. I know a saint would be good
for Nicaragua. That I am sure of. I can't solve our poverty. I can't still the earth. I can't stop the avalanche of corruption. I can't control the rainfall upon the coffee. But I can further the cause of a Saint Tristána, who would be a huge boon to this country. After the Marines, the Somozas, El Pulpo, and the Ortegas, the country deserves some grace. So I keep at it, even though with each passing day it seems more far-fetched, and I am sure it has not escaped you that in my family the others who believe in Tía Tata are in various stages of crazy. Carmen is the only one of us who makes sense, and she's the one I have to contradict every day."
"You never said that before."
A young girl looks in from the open door at the back of the church, looks at both of us, crosses herself, and then heads back out to the church garden and the plaza.
"Do you know her?" I ask.
"I know everyone here. Her name is Flor Garzas. Her father was one of the best pruners we ever had."
"You should have told me," I say.
"About Flor? We only just saw her."
"No! About you."
"Let's climb up."
I follow him up the stairs into the choir loft, but we don't stay there. We climb the rickety, dusty ladder to the belfry. On the way up we pass the spire's single, singular window. I hang on tight and peer at the beneficio spread out below us and the finca spreading in every direction, an inexorable stretch of coffee trees climbing the sides of the volcano, plummeting into river valleys, and then climbing again.
Up in the belfry Lalo removes the square panel of wooden slats that—so it seems—is not fixed in place. And again we see the finca below us, farther below. I touch the rope dangling from the bell above us, and pull. It is heavier than I imagined—but not nearly as heavy as I should have thought had I recalled the contortions of Quasimodo.
Lalo pushes my hand away. "What are you thinking?"
I shrug. "I wasn't. But I've always wanted to ring carillon."
"Now is not the time." He points to the clock mechanism, a vision of notched wheels in countless sizes, all of them tiny, all communicating. As far as I can tell, that is a miracle.
On the lintel beam above our heads are names, carved and painted: Adolfo Ruiz, Kika Mas, Challo Pellas. Just names.
If I look straight down to the ground, I get very dizzy, so instead I look out toward the far horizon. Lalo says, "Have you ever committed a crime?"
An odd question for this vertiginous place. I have to think. "Sure. I smoked pot. I've sped. I've probably sped quite a lot. I used to shoplift red licorice. I need to think."
Lalo's face has taken on a masklike quality that frightens me. Either he is hiding himself from me or he is hiding something else from me. Default mode: I feel guilty.
He says, "I mean as in a mortal-sin crime. Something truly wicked."
"I need to think. If you mean murder, no, I haven't murdered anyone. Not yet. Have I coveted my neighbor's wife, husband, horse? I have. I've done wicked things but I'm not going to tell you about them. You probably wouldn't appreciate how wicked they were." I would love to ring the church bell just now. I keep my hands in my pockets and back away from the open square, the beckoning precipice. "Why are you asking?"
"Because I suspect you have never done anything truly wicked. That you just don't know how."
"You don't know me very well. Anyway, it probably depends on your definition of wicked. So, have you? Committed a crime?"
"I think I have. And I think I am about to."
"Now you've got me listening. Care to tell?"
"Lies, deceit, and falsehood," Lalo says. Then he touches my forehead and brushes back my flopping forelock. Just that: his cool fingertips making contact with my moist brow, and I'm ready to break as many commandments as I can remember. I could sink into the dusty planks right now. Tell me a crime, Lalo! Give me a chance! I will listen and then we'll fall to the floor and consummate forgiveness. I whisper, "I'm listening."
Three flights down a door creaks on its hinges. Lalo pulls on his earlobe, the left one.
"I don't believe you," I say. "I bet I would beat you hands down in the wickedness sweepstakes."
"Waldo is my friend," Lalo says. "Waldo and his family were very good to me."
From below a voice calls, "Don Lalo! Are you up there?"
"I have to go," he says. "That's Napo. I'll go first and you come later. Can you do that?"
"We haven't done anything wrong," I say.
"I would have," he says. "That's just the same." Then he climbs down the ladder.
29
Tropical Storm Alice Is Not Named After You
It is the conclusion of the Bollandists that her story is an empty fable, imitated from the last days of St Mary of Egypt: "A pious tale fabricated by a man of leisure for the gratification of simple religious people."
—Alban Butler, "St Theoctista," Butler's Lives of the Saints
I AM SO PLEASED to meet you," Don Abelardo says. I am standing in the middle of the living room, the big room with its worn wooden statues of saints and stuffed iguanas. There used to be stuffed monkeys arranged in lifelike poses along the rafters: howlers, spiders, and cara blancas. I imagine them casting shadows upon the ceiling, never being entirely still and now aquiver with the storm approaching. "You must be a friend of Carmen's. Olga would never allow her friends to come here."
"I'm Alice Fairweather," I say. "I've been here for days. I'm Abelardo's friend but originally he went to college with my husband, Waldo. Do you remember Waldo? All the ladies do."
"Then you must know Esteban."
"I have no idea who Esteban is. I'm sorry."
"I am delighted to meet you. I am Abelardo Llobet."
The cigarette in the corner of his mouth bounces slowly up and down as he speaks. He may not know me but he never drops the ash. I say, "We met yesterday, and also the day before and the day before. When I arrived here. With my son Ezra."
"I remember nothing of yesterday. But I do remember that Carmen and Lalo used to hide in Santa Irena's belfry and we never told them we knew where they hid. We let them believe in their secret. That was a hundred years ago. Please accept my apologies." He sits down in a vast leather armchair and turns on the reading lamp poised nearby. He shuts his eyes against the light and the tears.
"I miss you guys." I have finally reached Waldo. I am finally hearing his voice. I've been leaving messages, at home and on his cell. And no response. So this, this telecommunication linkup via satellites hovering somewhere either above or below the ozone layer, I haven't the foggiest which, this feels like an accomplishment. And that it should happen now, now that torrential rains are tattooing the roof and Niagaraing down the chains in the courtyard, only heightens the sense of accomplishment.
"Ditto, Al," Waldo says.
"So tell me, how have you been? What are you doing? Anything new at work? How is Henry? Does he know everything there is to know about prehistoric creatures? How are Dandy and Flirt?"
"You've only been gone four days."
"It feels much longer," I say. I know as well as he does that in four days, continents can be crossed, lives can be created and lost, revelations can occur, and love can swoop down like a comet.
"How does Ez like life in the tropics?"
"He loves it," I say.
"How much does he love it?"
"You can ask him. If I can find him. Tell me about Henry, please."
Barking. The miracle of dogs barking on one continent being heard on another continent, or rather on the isthmus linking continents, eliciting the reactions they would in the closest proximity. Are they hunting? Are they hungry? How is Dandy's blood?
"Henry has identified a new creature."
"What is it?"
"That's the beauty of it. We don't know. Henry believes he's found the fossilized footprints of a Paleolithic North American canine. But I think he should tell you himself. He's written to the NIS about naming it."
"Naming it? Does he get to do that?"
"If he
really discovered something, you bet he does!"
"I miss you guys."
"You said that."
"I'll say it again."
"So what's with Lalo's aunt? Does she have a halo yet? Are they feeding you well?"
"No. Yes. I have serious doubts about this sainthood business. Even more serious doubts about me being here. It's not exactly a job."
"No one said it was a job."
"I think I need to get a job pronto," I say.
"You're in Nicaragua now. So enjoy the tropics."
"We're about to have a hurricane. This instant. It seems weird not to be able to go outside now."
"Wait till the calm after the storm," Waldo says.
"I thought the calm came before the storm."
Waldo says, "I don't think they're mutually exclusive."
"So. What does Henry want to name his creature?"
"Alicestodon. He wants to name it for you."
This makes me weep with an urgency compelled by distance and uncertainty. Though Waldo could very well be pulling my leg.
"He should tell you all about it, but he's disappeared. Missing in action."
"Really?" What is missing is Waldo's presence.
"Really it's no big deal. Seriously. How is Lalo?"
"Lalo is great. His family is great. The sisters are all beautiful, especially Carmen. But you know that. I hardly ever see Ezra, he's with her all the time."
"Give them all my best. You can tell them that Dick is growing coffee in Maine."
"How are the newlyweds?"
"As they should be. Blissful. I have no idea."
"You haven't spoken to them?"
"Al, it's been four days. Nothing has changed."
"I miss you terribly, Waldo. Didn't you know about the hurricane?"
"Unless Posey tracks me down, I won't hear a weather report until you return."
"Just this once, for me, check it out, por favor. If you want to know if we're still safe and dry."
"Okay. Just this once. Just for you."
"What are you working on?"
"This and that, the usual."
"I forgot to tell you that Ezra has an invention for you. Something about anti-claustrophobia."
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