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San José, Costa Rica
Tuesday, August 19
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“MY DAUGHTER IS beautiful, no?” said the old man.
“Your daughter is beautiful, sí,” said the old man’s guest.
Luis Oliverios saw his daughter through a father’s loving eyes, a father who spawned his youngest child well past his prime, this his final offering to immortality. “A rare beauty is my Casta, my Catelina.”
In the opinion of Calhoun Walsh also known as Greg Wynton also known as Diavolo Bianco, an assassin-for-hire whose services went to the highest bidder, she was not a rare beauty but pretty enough. Shiny hair swept across almond-shaped eyelids before dripping past cocoa shoulders and settling just above the ripe peaches of her breasts, covered by a bare-backed dress held up by two thin straps. She was sugar candy begging to be licked.
The old man had invited him to his hacienda after dropping by a café in the village and sharing a drink ... or possibly two or three ... since it was difficult to keep track of such details amidst the raucous din, the heat, and the bugs. He took a liking to the strapping young Americano who appeared to be a man of means, demonstrated by reports of him doling out colones in exchange for fawning service and village secrets.
His voice roughened by advancing years, generous quantities of tequila, and fat cigars, Oliverios asked, “You left a wife back in the States?” He lived virtually alone on his coffee plantation. His third and final wife, it was said, succumbed of loneliness and dengue fever, but really of a broken heart from the inattentions of her husband, who preferred being with the town’s whores.
Greg chose not to answer the old man’s question, instead admiring Casta’s skimpy sundress that made the most of her slim body and wide hips. As she delivered platters of steaks swimming in blood and vegetables basking in steam, she stole shy glances at her father’s dinner guest.
Set high in the foothills of Heredia, the multileveled house was a feat of engineering, yielding panoramic vistas from every window. The formal dining room opened to a screened veranda. Beyond the veranda, a wooden-planked bridge spanned a water-lily pond stocked with goldfish. From there, a rambling lawn dropped off into an emerald jungle teeming with parrots, monkeys, iguanas, crocodiles, and one could only hope, the elusive quetzals of legend. An orchestral nocturne of birds and insects accompanied the tropical setting.
“Perhaps she is beautiful, perhaps she is ugly. Who’s to say?” The old man rocked his hand back and forth, the showy diamond on his index finger trapping sparkles of fading sunlight. “I see her through the eyes of a doting father.”
Luis Oliverios must have gotten wind of the strapping American from whispers. The invitation to dine at the Oliverios hacienda had come within minutes of their initial handshake. “I have a daughter to marry off. She’s ugly but lonely. You’ll come to dinner.” Having already received a rundown of the wealthiest man in town, a patrón who rode roughshod over his coffee fields but spoiled his comely ... and not ugly ... daughter, Greg instantly accepted the invitation.
“That is good, that is good,” the old man said, his thoughts wandering. “I am pleased to find Señor Walsh speaks not only fluent Spanish, but has already picked up much of our local dialect.”
“I’m a fast learner.”
“I can see that you are. Many Americanos pass through our tiny village but none as young or as good-looking as your esteemed self.” He had held up his glass. “Let us drink to dreams that come true. I will send a car at seven. You will come. And no arguments.”
After seeing the lovely Catelina in person and sniffing the natural perfume wafting from the pores of her flawless skin—darker than the skin of her father—Calhoun determined her mother must have been a mestizo or indigenous índio. He further concluded she was young enough and supple enough to gather into his strong arms, entangle the tresses of her shiny hair through his fingers, consume her luscious lips, and never again want any woman other than this adorable señorita. Such were the desires of a man with appetite, not only for food and drink, but for obedient young girls who had not yet learned the meaning of passion or the needs of a man who ate of human flesh the way her old father devoured his steak.
Old Man Oliverios again broached the subject, thoughtfully chewing while fatty juices dribbled from the corners of his mouth. “A man such as you—a handsome man, a man of means—must have a beautiful wife you are anxious to get back to.” His bushy eyebrows wiggled while his eyes twinkled.
“Neither beautiful nor ugly, since I have no wife.”
The old man thought this over. “Casta is but sixteen, and as you can see, the apple of her old father’s eyes. I have three other daughters, all married and all fat. Before I leave this world, I must see to it that Casta is also married and fat.”
“Oh, Papa, you will live forever.”
He wagged his finger and his head together, accepting his mortality as the young cannot. The old man’s hands were reddened, the thin layer of his skin livered, and his bulging veins blue. He wasn’t a fastidious man. He did not shave daily, as evidenced by their earlier encounter. And when he did, like tonight, he did not shave closely. The whites of his eyes were jaundiced. The hump in his upper back folded his posture over, forcing him to look slightly downward. His lips were flabby and mottled. The girl would soon be alone, that much was certain. Alone and vulnerable.
“And, if I may be so bold,” Oliverios said, leaning forward and winking, “she is also my favorite daughter.”
Casta came over and leaning down, placed a slender arm around the old man and left a kiss upon his brow, then returned to her chair, as swift and light as a feather.
The old man blew out a heavy sigh. “As for living forever, my darling child, I am sick and old and tired. And though I fear death, it is written in the stars that I will meet my Maker. Maybe later. Or maybe sooner. But when it happens, I will welcome the Grim Reaper’s embrace, for I have no other choice, sí? Gods may be everlasting but men are mortal, and old men the most mortal of all.”
European blood flowed through the family. The girl’s creamy brown complexion was a step or two fairer than most native Costa Ricans. But the dark unfathomable eyes were the eyes of her grandmothers. Most of the time, those delicious eyes stared demurely into her lap, though every now and they lifted with unexpected directness, a glint belying the girl’s seeming innocence. Meanwhile her rich brown hair poured over her breasts, breasts that became evermore pronounced whenever she straightened her back, which she straightened often.
The old man locked his eyes onto his guest and held them tight. “Or perhaps you have a convenient woman ... or several convenient women ... in other ports of call. Forgive me, I do not intend to offend, merely pry, as only an old man can do with impunity. I am open-minded. I do not judge what a man does in his life. Five women or ten, it makes no difference to me, so long as he is devoted to just one.”
Teardrop diamonds dangled from Casta’s petite lobes. They sparkled whenever she poured wine. Or when she brought out platters and dishes from the kitchen. Or when she lit a fresh cigar for her father. Or when she sneaked shy glances at her father’s guest, eyes sparkling.
“No women to speak of,” Greg said, gazing upon her. “And no wives.”
After taking a cue from the old man, Casta excused herself and darted into the back rooms. Father and daughter were of like minds. A plot was afoot. And their guest was far from being an unwitting fool. The three of them had already entered into a contract, the terms to be established on each side until promises were made and dates were set.
After several minutes of quiet contemplation ticked by, Oliverios growled affectionately. “A man needs a wife to take care of his needs.”
“I have my pick of women to take care of my needs. But my future ...?”
The old man took his meaning. “And to take care of him in his dotage. When you are old and sick like me, you will thank me for my sage advice.”
Catelina Oliverios reemerged, quiet as a wraith, gentle as a flowing stream, and delicate as a butterfly. She wore a dress skimpier than the last one, a swirly, diaphanous, slinky thing that flowed with her nimble movements. “Please excuse my father, Mr. Calhoun. He makes me blush.”
At a signal from her father, she went off again.
The youngest daughter of Luis Oliverios was both a girl of gentler times and a girl of this time, more forward than those bashful eyes of hers and wilder than her father suspected, yet dutiful and respectful. Once they were joined in holy wedlock, Greg would have to do something about that wildness.
He sat forward and addressed the old man. “Perhaps you can help me out. I am looking for an Americano. A friend.”
“He has a name, your friend?”
“He goes by many. Or none.”
Oliverios raised his silver-threaded eyebrows. “You talk in riddles. Fortunately I am familiar with the concept. He is not a friend, this man. He is a man you would prefer to avoid. I will watch out for him, as a favor from me to you.”
“Your generosity is most appreciated.”
Casta returned with a cart. Beaming at her father, she prepared coffee in the Costa Rican way, using a cloth strainer set inside a wooden stand hung over an awaiting cup. After placing two teaspoons of native grown coffee into the strainer, she poured boiling water over the grounds. Steaming coffee filtered into the cup below. For each additional cup, she added another teaspoon and poured water as before. Whenever her precise movements tugged at the bodice of her dress, she smiled knowingly. Leaning enticingly across the table, she served the first cup to her guest, then a cup to her father, and lastly a cup for herself. Once again she sat, silent and attentive. Suddenly remembering something, rabbit-quick she left the chair and returned with sugar and cream, a luxury meant for her father’s guest but not for her father or herself.
Old Man Oliverios had not forgotten his guest’s request. “Can you describe this man you are looking for?”
“He resembles me in many ways. Tall. Strong. Good looking. But with a difference. He could easily be mistaken for a Tico, a native of your fine country. Except, of course, for his American clothes and accent.”
The old man looked down at the cup nestled between his hands. “He is your enemy?”
“He is a dangerous man, but only to men who are dangerous to him. Otherwise, he is a singer of songs. And an admirer of women.”
No doubt Señor Oliverios beat his Casta regularly, for beneath the lowered eyelashes lurked a cunning seductress, which Greg meant to test. One day very soon. Perhaps, if the girl allowed, before their wedding day.
“I will ask around, if only to protect my daughter from unwanted advances.” The old man once again measured the man sitting opposite him, taking an inventory of his features, his mannerisms, and the unblinking gazes he lavished on his daughter. “If my Casta is anything, she is an obedient child, is that not so, my Catelina?”
“It is so, Papa.” The girl bowed her head once again, furiously blushing, though her ready smile contained a hint of naughtiness.
“We Ticos, as you may have already discovered Señor Walsh, stick to our own. We do not have the drive the retired Norteamericanos do. Pura vida is the motto we live by. Tico time is the clock we observe.” Oliverios sat back and blew puffs of smoke into the beamed ceiling. “The Oliverios family goes back generations, some say to Columbian times, when we were the conquerors and they, the conquered. After centuries of intermixing, we are all the same now, blood mixed with blood. It is a proud thing to say that one is Indian and another is Spanish, and so we do not, except in cases of honor. On such occasions, we do not care whom we insult. Or kill. Men have been made to disappear over something as trivial as a look, a leer, or a grin. In this land, it is easy to make a man vanish forever.
He signaled his daughter with a look. She briskly came over and helped her father from his chair. “Shall we go out to the veranda, Mr. Calhoun? We spray for mosquitoes, so you don’t have to worry about malaria or dengue fever. Casta will bring the Salicsa. You have tried? It is like Kahlúa, only sweeter. For Casta it is an addiction.”
Palm fronds swayed gracefully overhead. Caged birds set up a racket. Moroccan lanterns flickered. Wind chimes tinkled. Adding excess to extravagance, a floodlit waterfall spilled into a placid lagoon, where waters rippled in and out of rocky alcoves, and lotus blossoms floated on the still waters.
“You are looking to make an investment hereabouts, no?” asked Old Man Oliverios.
Settled into a rattan chair, Calhoun brought a fresh cigar to his mouth. Casta was ready with the lighter. He puffed his satisfaction, of both the cigar and the girl. “I have some money to burn. Provided the investment has potential.”
“Perhaps I can assist. Direct you to the better properties. Guarantee you don’t get taken for too many colones, eh?”
“I was thinking of a coffee farm. Smaller than yours. Where I can learn the ropes.”
Occupying a chair at her father’s elbow, Catelina delicately sipped from her own glass, occasionally sneaking glances of their guest.
“Ah, a prime investment. I may know of just the place. An old man struggles to run it. His sons emigrated to America, and his daughters are of no use. The farm is a little farther out, past Alajuela. You have been? The town has a large enclave of Norteamericanos. You can be their unofficial patrón. They will take you seriously if you build a house with an agreeable view. The farm I am speaking of, in addition to coffee fields, has several orchards. Citrus, avocado, papaya, mango, marañon, and passion fruit. The land is fertile. Since coffee grows slowly and requires very little work, you can hire a manager to oversee everything. I know of just the man. He needs a steady income and a comfortable place to raise his family. You would be free to pursue ...” He waved his hand. “... whatever you wish. A Tico wife, she can have a good life, an easy life, living on such a farm. And her father would be a contented man, no?”
Color rose high on the girl’s cheeks.
“I know of a good architect. He built this place,” he said, swinging his eyes from left to right. “I can make arrangements with the loggers, the importers, everything first class.”
“I would have to inspect the farm first.”
“Naturally. Tomorrow we go. I will pave the way. The old man is anxious but stubborn. He balks at living with his daughters but has no other choice. They have agreed to trade him off like a football, a few weeks here, a few weeks there. They love their father, but not enough to have him live with any one of them year-round. Not like my Catelina, who will miss her papa when she leaves this place. Is that not so, Casta?”
“It is so, Papa.”
“I will have to think on it,” Greg said. “I have not been in your country for very long. I may not be ready to settle down just yet.”
The half-moons surrounding the codger’s eyes creased. Oliverios idly scratched his crotch before holding out his glass for his daughter to dutifully refill. “A man is meant for settling down, for marrying, for having many children, children who will take care of him in his old age. Pray on the matter if you have a God. Think on it if you do not. A man needs time to fashion his future. In the meantime, ask around. Make inquiries about Luis Oliverios. You will hear only good.”
The glance that passed between the men was direct and unflinching.
“Ah,” the old man said. “It seems you already have.”
“You will find,” Greg said levelly, “if we are to continue our friendship, that I am a careful man.”
The old man brayed long and hard. “Then you know who Luis Oliverios is and what he can do for you. It is better to have such a man as your friend ... no? ... than as your enemy. And better yet to have him as your papa.”
To this the girl blushed.
