Enrique Albanil had been tending the Hotel’s grounds for twenty years. He was a swarthy man, his naturally dark complexion baked an even darker brown from the long hours he had spent out of doors. All of Enrique’s workers were Latino, as he was. His English was minimal, which was why Enrique had kept repeating, and amplifying, upon this strange woman’s request. What she was asking didn’t seem to make sense in either Spanish or English, though.
The lady, he could see, was in considerable distress. The more he tried to understand what she wanted, the more red her face had become. They were repeating the same words to each other, each trying different variations of the same linguistic formula. Their lingua franca seemed to center over one word: condom. Just getting that far had taken some interesting pantomiming.
“Am Caulfield,” Sharon said, uttering the name with considerable vexation, “wanted me to find out if any of your grounds crew found—it—while cleaning the beach.”
Why wasn’t she saying it now? Could he have misinterpreted? “A condone?”
“A condom,” said Sharon, struggling in her attempt to be a dispassionate diplomat. “Yes.”
Enrique spoke in Spanish to her, his words slow and deliberate. Why had she taken French? Let’s see, thought Sharon, concentrating on what he was saying. Playa meant beach. She knew that. Everything in San Diego was Playa this and Playa that. And dia was day. Even the gringos went around saying Buenos dias.” And she knew the other word. By this time she knew it only too well. “Yes,” she said, answering in English to his Spanish. “A condom on the beach this morning. It was probably dropped from room seven eleven.”
Ennrique pondered the situation. There was a lot going on here that he still didn’t understand. He’d been asked to have his crew look for many things before, such as watches and wallets and keys. But nothing like this. There was much to think about.
Sharon alternated between embarrassment and anger. A condom, dammit, she thought. It wasn’t like Galileo had been doing a test on falling objects. Or condoms.
¿Cómo se dice…? thought Enrique. How do you say … ? He searched his mind for the English. “Was it broken?” he finally asked.
“Broken?”
He could see she didn’t understand. That wasn’t the right word. “The condone—new or used?”
He was looking at her as if she should know. As if she had been a participant! “I don’t know,” said Sharon, stifling an urge just to walk away. She held her hands up and out, the universal signs of incomprehension. Then she reconsidered her body language and nodded. “We think so.”
Enrique was more confused than ever. But he pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt and paged Angel Jimenez. Angel had done the beach cleaning that morning. In staccato Spanish, they discussed the situation.
Sharon was able to make out one word during their conversation. It was repeated a number of times. Condones.