III

A Mostly Uneventful Evening

Bingo passes uneventfully, except for the third game requiring two diagonals plus both a vertical and a horizontal for four cervezas. Four guests playing poolside all call at once, “Bingo!” and demand the full payout. But four beers each times four winners makes sixteen.

¡Diezy seis cervezas!

What do they think, that I have an endless supply of beers to hand out like candy? Let them demand. The game paid four. Period. No more discussion.

¡Terminado! ¡Hola, cabron! ¡The nerve of some people!

As if that isn’t enough, the new blondie lying on the first chaise lounge facing the head of the pool plays with her bingo card between her legs, which are spread in such a way that no man seeing her can think of his mother. It is no accident that she spreads them, the legs, with her most provocative display for the most alluring eyes before her. They sparkle in Antonio’s head, hinting playful thoughts. She plays along, demonstrating her flexibility by bending studiously forward for a most titillating buffet, which is hot, not cold.

Smorgasbord is cold, even in Mexico at your finer hotels, and a man rising with the tide and times knows the differences in such things, down to nuance and flourish. She seems alone, available, wealthy, interested in the maestro, and between one and two decades younger than Mrs. Mayfair.

Not one to take defeat lying down, Mrs. Mayfair holds the attention of four men convening here to discuss annuities and to fish. Their foam cooler full of beer and ice represents the height of rudeness to those whose ancestors made the ultimate sacrifice so that their modern descendants could earn a decent wage by shagging beers for tips by the pool. Some people will never learn, no matter how much affluence and influence they wield. These four businessmen from El Norte look like brothers, with the same ruddy hue and beer bellies that sag like boda bags filled for a long journey. Antonio thinks another pair of hands must hold such bellies up so the first pair can wipe them free of the sweat and smegma assuredly growing in the dark crevasses beneath them. These modern moguls look eleven months pregnant as they strain against the gordo guts hanging over their droopy shorts. They wear gold chains and are very burned on their chests and shoulders. They laugh and drink until the beer trickles down their necks and onto their chests and tickles them into great, good cheer. They taunt each other over who will win tomorrow, who will lose, and why. Matching boisterous wagers, they yell that one city or another will defeat the rest.

Ain’t no way in hell ’ey won’t.

They savor prospects for Sunday and six hours on the beds in their rooms watching American football.

Interspersed in their joviality are gamy glances at Mrs. Mayfair and lewd suggestions, but none stare longer than mortal men can look at the sun for fear of melting their eyes. They look away with playful smirks for each other when she looks majestically off.

Antonio smiles, wondering what each would pay for what he is paid for. Ah, Mrs. Mayfair. She can work a poolside as deftly as he, and Antonio hopes she feels gratitude for what he has shown her. He hopes as well that one of these fat red men will strike a chord, because the maestro is frankly too tired to squeeze her in tonight. Well, maybe not too tired but certainly not predisposed. He would honestly rather introduce the new blondie to his twilight cocktail program, and he doesn’t want to keep Lyria waiting too long. And Mrs. Mayfair gets so emotional. Well, he shall see what he can do.

Things are mostly uneventful beyond the pool as well, except for three tourists in the chaise lounges down on the beach, who call shamelessly for joven to bring some cool, refreshing drinks, right now if you please. Baldo is playing with pieces of fish fillet, then changing the water in each tub after dinner because it’s fouled by the mess the baby turtles make, as babies will. He asks Antonio to please keep an eye on las chicas while he requisitions another tub, because anyone can see that a spare tub for changing will greatly facilitate the task at hand. Baldo nods fore and aft. He spreads his arms and chops his choppers, and the message is conveyed. And that would be that, except for the three helpless gringas down on the beach who need cool refreshment and pronto.

But what? You want what? You want the maestro to fetch you a drink? This is not in my contract and seems unnatural, Antonio thinks, scratching his huevos. Then he smiles; after all, it is nothing but show biz, where a headliner sometimes helps with the props. He moves casually into service, shagging ice cubes and garnish with his bare hands at no extra charge. Then he serves the three coconuts. He waits for the tip but there is none, perhaps in deference to what is obvious to all involved, which is simply that a maestro does not serve coconuts on the beach.

Never mind, happy hour is here.

Response to the floating squares is marginal and worse; it’s embarrassing when two little boys want to try it, which isn’t the same thing at all when you think about it, because they only weigh fifty pounds and can walk easily to the end.

So? What does that mean? Nada is what. What can Antonio do, outshine mere boys? Give them a beer? I don’t think so. Pool volleyball generates an equally weak response, but some weeks are like that, where the crowd is devoid of life. Let them sleep.

Antonio cranks the Latin love ballads to deepen their slumbers, and in another little while he whispers into the microphone, “Wake up. Beach volleyball. No more siesta. Er! Er-Er! Er-Errrrrr!” Let them sleep. Meanwhile, Antonio is well served by shagging coconut drinks if he is covering for his errant brother. Baldo will handle both jobs better tomorrow once the babies are nestled in and a routine is set. As for Baldo serving drinks, he has not yet been instructed otherwise. Tomorrow he will resume. Just wait and see.

Antonio is amazed at the traffic in coconuts, which is more than usual. He calls on Baldo to prep another six. Antonio doesn’t mind covering now, because the tips are adding up, and though Baldo looks like a child at play in the sand, tomorrow will be like yesterday with yet another revenue source. The coconuts will continue adding pesos to the tally, and along with them the little turtles may yield the greatest tips of all, which are those paid in tribute, which is certainly nobler than convenience and should not be overlooked as a viable revenue center.

Baldo has moved the plastic tubs off the wall by the beach steps because the setting sun comes under the parasol and hits the babies directly. He restores them to the shade by setting the tubs inside the wall. At sunset they will go back on the wall, and tomorrow morning they will go outside the wall. A rhythm in nature emerges, and Baldo moves more gracefully with each passing hour as if ordained and risen, guardian of the turtles.

As the sun sets, the new blondie orders a double strawberry margarita, tips thirty pesos for personal delivery from Antonio and hands him the lotion for her shoulders. She removes one strap, carelessly revealing a breast that is much smaller than either of Mrs. Mayfair’s but is nonetheless plump and pert and inviting to the touch. Mrs. Mayfair is of course watching, but she can’t very well follow suit without a Sawzall to cut through the fiberglass.

“You know,” Blondie says. “You’re very good-looking.”

“Yes, thank you.” Antonio says. “I wear contact lenses. I don’t take them out for swimming. Do you find that amazing? I can show you my trick in one hour. Here. You don’t need this. The sun is down now. Excuse me.” He hurries off to nowhere because he’s too tired for such complexity, even with such a blushing young blondie. But don’t worry; he’ll know what to tell her before the hour is up. And if he doesn’t know, so what? She’ll be here a week.

To his unfathomable gratitude Mrs. Mayfair is accepting the lead of a fat red man. She casts a furtive eye back for revenge or regret; Antonio can’t tell which. He only hopes the fat, red man will dress well and will neither sweat nor smell like a pig, that he will treat her gently or roughly as her taste predicates. Who knows? Maybe he, the fat red one, will even give her a hundred pesos for her trouble.

Ha. That’s a good one, and he, Antonio, laughs at his own joke, turning to yet greater relief. Just there under the poinciana, leaning languorously against the trunk, Lyria waits and watches. She has seen his indifference and strength in the face of shameful temptation. This bodes very well as proof of his long-standing love, for Mrs. Mayfair obviously represents no threat but in fact serves the family objective with wonderful practicality, providing money and relieving pressure. The young blondie, however, could mean trouble on the home front.

Antonio warms to the surge of victory in circumstances that could have gone either way as he warms to the sight of Lyria. Pointedly curved, smooth, and sharp in every detail as a brand new Chevrolet, she waits only for the one who will turn the key and drive her home. Like an elixir, she fills him with energy and light, because he is the one.

“Would you like to meet at eight?” she asks.

“Yes, I said I would meet you at eight.” Antonio doesn’t slow down but sends his affection in passing, employing a technique tried and true with the poolside women, because all women are the same in certain areas. She reminds him as he passes that they had yet to set a time, and for all she knows, algo sucedió; that is, something came up, or maybe it will come up between now and this evening.

Slowing only to train his grievous hurt on her, he assures her that nothing came up nor will it. “Ocho. Perfecto.”

She watches, granting him the smile he needs, knowing he’s showing off. She wishes him free of his constraint and considers an act of daring. If she doesn’t take the initiative, who will? She eases out and down the road to prepare for a night out.

In thirty more minutes, it’s over. Day is done for the Garza brothers, who have assured poolside happiness since coffee time this morning. Happy hour turns to dusk and then twilight as the infantry digs in for one more. A few troops turn to dinner, a few to more deliberate intake, and a few take one for the road on their way to somewhere else.

Antonio ducks behind some shrubs to pull a handful of tips from one pocket and put them in the other. He doesn’t need a count to know he topped a hundred twenty. At least! Maybe more. He only needs to balance the weight. Now he looks like his balls are swollen, but who cares? It’s getting dark. Time to go. And maybe they are!

He fetches Baldo, but Baldo looks up like a man entrenched, a man for whom departure is as likely as that of a lioness leaving her cubs. Palms up, he shakes his head vigorously and very nearly whispers, “¡Las chicas!”

Antonio has neither scolded Baldo nor disciplined him for a long time, not since Baldo was two heads shorter. Antonio tells him that he must come, that these babies are already hatched so nobody needs to sit on them anymore, that twenty-four-hour security is a figure of speech, and nobody expects anybody to guard round the clock. He must come home and clean himself and eat, and besides, he is scheduled to take Lyria and him to dinner. And dancing!

Baldo shows his palms again and with his machete points at the crimson sky over the breaking waves, where las tijerillas make their way with suspect stealth. These scissortail frigate birds love the nestlings of others, and once their feeding begins, it’s only a matter of minutes before las gabiotas arrive, seagulls screeching and diving on the hapless plastic tubs.

Antonio explains that no man can sit ninety days without coming home to bathe, sleep, eat, and take care of the rest. Baldo shakes his head and stamps his foot. He mimes that Antonio will bring him things to eat and Lyria as well. As for sleeping, he will bring his hammock and pillow and a light cover to this place. He’ll have all he needs, and so will las tortugas chicas, because it is time for Mexico to change its ways.

This last is a loose translation, Antonio knows. But he gets the gist and feels the tenor of his little brother’s insistence. Size is power, he thinks, and though he doesn’t doubt Baldo’s need for discipline, he, Antonio, will not be the disciplinarian.

With neither threat nor ultimatum, Antonio urges Baldo to come along ten minutes, only ten, just up the beach, from where they can watch the turtles and hurry back if necessary. Baldo ignores him then shakes his head. “Baldo!” Antonio yells as if at a bad dog. He further explains that they will keep watch from up the beach. They must, in order to see and know if in fact Baldo should stay, or if he can come home for just a while.

Baldo declines.

Antonio insists.

Baldo won’t move.

Antonio turns away and turns back. “All right. Nine minutes. You must grant me this, Baldo. As you are my ward for all I’ve given you. Come with me.”

Baldo rises, looks into each tub and out at the tijerillas who now dive beyond the surf and pluck little fish easily as from a bucket. He looks at Antonio and holds up nine fingers. They walk in silence. Antonio carries his T-shirt on his shoulder now because it stinks. He may stop in the gift shop on the way out for his new toucan shirt, but maybe he’ll give Mrs. Mayfair another day or two. A hundred pesos are nothing to sneeze at. Baldo carries his machete loosely, as is his custom, in case he needs to run back in a hurry for the slaughter. He looks back at the plastic tubs every few steps. He scans the birds working the surf.

Silence is normal for Baldo but rare for Antonio, who tells himself it’s not so bad that his brother is obsessed with one thing if not another. What we have here is opportunity. What will happen if the hotel guests catch on to the man who guards the babies night and day? Appreciation will happen, which can lead to tips of significant magnitude with proper management.

Antonio knows of the tips given on cruise ships at the end of the week in lump sums and ponders such a program for turtle appreciation. It is important to keep an eye open for dynamic application, especially with a brother like Baldo. A brother like Baldo could hamper those of the unseeing eyes. But Antonio has turned his unusual brother into an asset, not a liability.

Has not Baldo capitalized on his disadvantage so far? Does he not carry his weight? Will he not evolve with proper guidance toward a tangible contribution, for which society will express its gratitude in tips?

Antonio can easily ask these questions and know their answers by simply opening his eyes and seeing, which is exactly what he’s doing.