XII

Rapid Development in its Varying Phases

Antonio Garza has long felt his prime approaching. He anticipates seasoning with bulk and definition to age thirty-five or even forty, because even an old man has more power if he’s developed. Due diligence on a hundred fifty times three each morning will lead to dominance on all levels. One hundred forty-six. One hundred forty-seven.

Besides the practical return, a grunt and a sweat can also remove a man from thoughts of greater difficulty. How can you worry about romance and what simply cannot be true but is, if you’re straining to complete your reps?

One. Two. Three. Four.

Yet a pain seeps into his heart even in triumph over physical limits. Blood vessels bulge on bulging muscles while breathing is controlled. Focus seems secure but warps with the burden of life and its wily ways.

Is he not kind and compassionate, willing to give back love for love? He thinks he is, and that his heartfelt anticipation of Mrs. Mayfair’s arrival is not a sign of weakness but rather a symptom of what Mrs. M herself would call maturity. The women of the world raise a common voice against the men who want nothing but to feel the chichis and pump the bushes. Then they’re gone, the men, with a frivolous adios amiga that gives nothing to the women who give their all.

Antonio Garza is not like that, or least that part of him fades as he moves ineluctably toward his prime.

Mrs. Mayfair is the bearer of many wonderful openings that welcome his surge, and she loves him for it. But she is more now a true friend and confidant, not to mention savior. Is he then wrong to count down the days from one hour to the next until her arrival, until she relieves the pressure with a vengeance and tells him life will be good again, just you wait and see? No, he is not wrong.

But the arrival of Mister Mayfair along with Mrs. Mayfair jolts Antonio in this tender phase no less than a blind speedbump on the autopista at night in the rain with the wind blowing. What is he doing here? What will he think of his wife’s lavish expenditure on a man with abdominal muscles like these?

That she merely enjoys his company?

Well, of course she merely does, but surely her own husband knows of his wife’s weakness for horizontal recreation. Unless he is old or infirm or no longer inclined to the wild dance. Antonio can’t know until they meet. But meeting the husband won’t assuage the terrible pressure of these lonely weeks of not knowing and not ventilating, unless of course the Mister is willing to have a few dozen drinks in the lobby bar while Mrs. M and Antonio merely enjoy each other’s company.

Ha and again ha.

Ninety-one. Ninety-two. Ninety-three.

Baldo is waking up with his guttural complaint, processing his own difficulty, which is no more than a reach for consciousness. What a simpleton he really is.

Antonio winces at these harsh thoughts toward his younger brother, but some things are unavoidable. To think, their father insisted that Baldo possessed a mystical knowing just because the younger could say nothing to prove his stupidity. Truth be told, Baldo gives poignancy to the adage, es burro que no rebuzna porque olvidó la tonada.

He is a burro who will not bray because he forgot the song.

He behaves as if nothing is changed, nothing is wrong. It may be natural for a woman to take something to eat each night to a man she loves like a brother. But this is not such a love. For days Lyria has not shared a word with Antonio, which wouldn’t be cause for alarm, since she can hardly share more than paltry dialogue with Baldo. But she swells in the womb, and this is no gorda blossoming.

No, she retches and cries, and Rosa wails.

Baldo merely drags himself up, drags his legs over, and stands like a man in a dream. He yawns and stretches and slumps again, asleep as a man can be.

Look at him, also swelling in the gut like a man twice his age with nothing to cause it but an excellent repast each evening that begins with tamales and ends with a nice serving of sopapillas as only Antonio’s beloved can muster.

A hundred forty-eight. A hundred forty-nine.

Perhaps the standard should be raised to a hundred seventy-five. Well, maybe tomorrow. You give in to whimsical modulation any old time; next thing you know, the rapid rise to anywhere is derailed. No, a man of diligence and reason will encounter those times when the left foot must go forward and then the right. Change nothing for now. Don’t worry about the pain. You cannot know now what you will know in due time.

Rising and wiping the sweat from his face and chest, Antonio counts the due time. If he calculates correctly, due time will be in August, when the sweat rolls most. He throws the towel aside and prepares for another day that may well be the day of days.

Who can know?

Hardly spitting distance away comes the awful sound of reverse squishing, then the retch and lament. Baldo turns to hear better, then he turns away, on his way to brush his teeth.

Antonio lights the stove and puts the water on and watches and watches and watches and realizes he is no closer to the sterling coffee service with real cream available this minute to both Mrs. and Mister Mayfair than he was two years ago or twenty. He is no closer than the man in the moon. No closer than he will ever be. Today is merely a day like the rest, and maybe this insight is part and parcel to the developmental process, however rapidly or slowly it transpires.

I am a clown who leads a bingo game by the swimming pool, and sometimes I make money on the side as a gigolo. And there, just there, drooling like an infant is my half-wit brother, who is also a murderer who makes ficky fick with my beloved every night after dinner.

She cooks.

In a few months they will be three, and then what? Do they move in here and send me over for a happily ever after with Rosa?

“Then what?” he calls softly. “Then what will you do?”

Baldo looks up and over at Antonio, who waits for an answer. Baldo smiles, leaving the toothbrush in his mouth and grabbing the sink by its sides. He humps the sink in eerie playfulness as a high-pitched squeal rises from him. Antonio nods; how nice it must be to live blissfully as a half-wit, now or then or ever; it’s all the same.

He wants in the perverse way of men to know how it happened thus far. Did she come to him? Did she initiate? Or was it his idea? Did she resist? Did he force himself upon her? Did she resist? Of course she doesn’t resist anymore. How could she? His beloved?

Growing larger than the nagging questions of a man betrayed in love is the question of a man betrayed by life. How can a man work so hard and care so thoroughly for his brother and his betrothed, and then receive such harsh treatment? Maybe he is more sensitive to the short shrift in view of Mister Mayfair’s arrival, which may leave a stunted clown of a man alone outside, leashed to the steps like a dog because he no longer fits indoors.

What is he supposed to do, go down to the pool for the cock-a-doodle-doo and a rousing round of bingo for a beer, and then join his wealthy friends from el norte, the Mayfairs, for brunch?

Well, in fact that is what he’s supposed to do, but truth be told, he would rather crawl back in the sack under the covers and sleep. Is this a symptom of maturation? Maybe it is, and maybe today it would be best darle un beso a la botella, to give the bottle a kiss. Such a quench seems suitable to the thirst now burning. Today feels like bits and pieces before we even begin.

Waiting for neither his brother nor his formerly beloved, he selects a new T-shirt saved for a special occasion. Not the ciento-peso number showing Toucan in splendid surroundings but the one Mrs. M bought last time. This T is plain white and properly reflects the stark reality he feels inside, the one no cartoon can adequately convey. He slips into it and checks his posture briefly before striding out the door on his way up to the bus stop.

People on the bus smile as if they know, but they don’t ask about his brother or Lyria. Nor does he invite their questions. He stares out the window, and thinks the bumpy, smelly ride a perfect backdrop to his thoughts.

He walks through the lobby without a single hello or nod or wave, and out at the table by the pool he turns the microphone on, knocks it twice, and somberly says, “Testing. Uno. Dos. Tres. Okay. Bingo. You want to play, come get your card and your beans. You want to sleep, Okay by me. You be dead a long time, maybe then you will wish you could play bingo, but, never mind, okay by me. Bingo. Take it. Leave it. Okay? Five minutes. Cinco minutos. ¿Sí? ¿No? Okay.”

A woman poolside in a lumpy one-piece stares incredulously, then laughs pitifully. This is not the kind of delight Antonio wants to generate, so he returns her stare with a smile and asks, “You want to play? Three beers, one line, up, down, diagonal. Three beers. I think they will make you happy. ¿Sí?”

The woman declines, more in disdain than direct response.

So he mumbles, “Gringa puta,” just close enough to the mike to raise eyebrows among the staff around the pool. Fortunately, the woman doesn’t look back but walks up to freshen her coffee. Who cares about her, every day with her poo poo eyes for bingo and volleyball, joining in the pool aerobics but never once getting excited or saying thank you for a very nice time?

Who cares? Lumpy one-piece. Who?

And who cares if only one woman wants to play bingo? She seems nice, skinny and pale, most likely a schoolteacher from Chicago, who looks in need of three beers. But “You can’t have a three-beer game with only one player. You can’t even have a game with only one player. So, here. Here is a chit for one beer. You win just as if you played. Now go back to sleep. You win.”

She is nice, lolling her head, smiling shyly, glancing quickly at the maestro’s abdominal section and perhaps as well at his pinga before returning to her chaise lounge and the rest of her nap.

She’s having fun, which everyone can clearly see, but the maestro underscores the moment with the microphone. “Okay. Back to sleep. In forty-five minutes we play volleyball! Okay. Too early for you to play bingo, all of you except for one. She wins. Have your coffee and have some more. Er errr! Go back to sleep, then wake up. Forty-five minutes. No more!”

Antonio Garza has never experienced such a morning, in which all the parts are properly placed but none will fit the puzzle. He can’t find the old momentum. Is it his fault if the system fails with so much failure around him? Does he not waken every day to the combined and compound failure of his brother and his beloved? What next?

I’ll tell you what next; I will move into my own casa. I will not begrudge them money in times of dire need, because I would not do such a thing. But basic need? They’re on their own. When the daughter is twelve and the worries begin over the proper morality or lack thereof that got her mother into this fix, Lyria will change.

So fast it will seem like overnight, she will gain the weight a gorda needs to gain so she can become caring and loving. At least she won’t tilt my bed. But truth be told, she won’t tilt Baldo’s either. He’ll be long gone by then. Won’t he? I think he will. He’s worse than half-witted. He’s impulsive to the extreme. First murder and then ficky fick with his own brother’s beloved. He knows not right from wrong. So what should I do, justify this behavior too in terms of natural innocence? Maybe he is the archangel of justice for me too. And maybe for Lyria. Time will tell. But I justify nothing. Baldo will seek a life of instant solution to his private problems. The instant of truth is all he can grasp.

This is the knowing that grows and gnaws in Antonio’s head and in his gut on such a worrisome day. Though it’s only forty-five minutes to volleyball, he looks up again at the clock and it’s only twenty. Has he been standing here twenty-five minutes thinking darkly of what has come to pass? Was his brow wrinkled? This is not the pose of confidence.

He will have Mrs. Mayfair and in the meantime, plenty of Mexican women come here too, single women from families who have taught them the proper morality.

He awakens yet again from the loss of ten more minutes, this time by the waving hand attached to the delicately jeweled wrist of the evenly tanned arm leading up to the pouting lips and down to the fulsome breasts and supple thighs of Mrs. Mayfair. She is sitting very near yet distinctly apart from Señor Simón Salvador and another man of equal spit and polish.

In spite of a physique that was years in the making and widens the eyes of hungry women, Antonio pulls in here, pushes out there. This is not in compensation for anything lacking, except of course it is. And lo, what is this, the result of tainted sausage from the buffet line that now causes this squeeze in his gut?

Stage fright? The maestro?

¡Nunca! It is merely a chill in the air that accounts for the queasy tremble in the kneecap region as well. Or maybe this weakness is from so much preoccupation and so little of the old verve. It may be the latter, because such symptoms were long ago purged from the man of proven resilience in ascension.

Tainted sausage? Cool breezes? Never mind.

A man must suck it up and move, mindful that each step approaches independence from the distraction undermining his strength. Even so, the earth quakes beneath his humble left, right, left as he approaches that to which he aspires. Well, it’s not the earth that’s quaking but the atmosphere surrounding it, not that an atmosphere can actually quake. It’s made of air, but still. He’s no drunk and this is no hangover, yet beneath him is the timorous gait of a man with marginal confidence.

She is all heart, and he wants to nestle under her wing, to take succor until the shakes go away so he can rise again and drive her down their private byway of madly careening love. Of course such is not the next step up. The obstacle before him calls for clarity, for strength but softness.

It requires dominance but sophistication. He must display wealth in the classic mode, which has nothing to do with money.

He calls on the power of few words and rises to the occasion, aided for starters by a more level playing field. That is, Simón Salvador now wears baggy jams and huaraches below. Above is an elegantly tailored shirt in the campo cut worn open to reveal a hairless chest on which reposes a silver fist on a silver chain. The single earring is a simple stud and wasn’t there before but now matches the earring worn by Mister Mayfair, who is dressed in casual tailoring of equal elegance. The two men touch shoulders and sit slightly apart from Mrs. Mayfair. With body language as efficient as any verbalization Baldo ever made, they tell a story of a thousand words with a simple picture.

Antonio fixes the warmth onto his face and reminds himself of what is said, cada perico a su estaca, cada changa a su mecate, which allows each parakeet to pick his perch, each monkey to choose his vine.

The threesome gazes at the approach of Mrs. M’s young ward as if waiting fulfillment of an exquisite anticipation, which is his splendid presence at last.

Antonio turns his stage warmth up a notch to match what he sees, sensing plenty of room at the top for those who qualify. Though Señor Simón Salvador has already met Señor Antonio Garza on several occasions, this is an occasion for equal footing with everyone here.

This could be a day that may endure among the days. Isn’t this the way it goes? You feel so bound for destiny, for your chance to face your best crowd yet. And once finally in place to give your all, you feel reduced to hardly more than your half. Never mind! Stand tall, take control but only subtly, emote and be happy, or at least display happiness.

“Antonio!” Simón Salvador exclaims, standing to meet this up-and-comer.

“Hola, Simón.” Antonio feels the surge sputter as the old verve turns over. First names are a presumption on both sides, a good one.

“Hola, Antonio. I’m Thornton Mayfair.” Mister Mayfair offers as much warmth; well, not as much as Mrs. Mayfair, but still. He offers his hand for a hardy pump but still sits, presenting a dilemma early in the lift-off phase. First-name presumption here could be bad. He offered it but does not stand, maybe because he’s older or comfortable or had too much breakfast or feels his superiority might be called into question.

Antonio adapts instantly with a move borrowed from his close friend, Simón Salvador. He brings his heels quickly together, which is perfect because they don’t click, because he is barefoot, which some people might view as appropriate to his station in life but he knows is appropriate to the responsibility of assuring the comfort, ease of mind, and sheer happiness for hundreds of guests. So he nods, bringing his eyes into focus on the ground, which is the focus they bulge onto as Mister says, “Mrs. Mayfair has told me everything …”

¡Qué!

“… about you.”

Ah.

But he calls her Mrs. Mayfair, indicating the preservation of distinction between classes, or maybe that’s just ages. He is what? Sixty? Not so fat, decent color, hardly bald. So what?

Antonio smiles with magnitude now, careful not to slip into the grin but reaching deep for substantive camaraderie. He pumps Mister Mayfair’s hand with feeling and allows the playful truth to romp in his head: I’ll tell you what; you cannot do for her what I do. That’s what.

But wait—Antonio glances over at the Mrs. to see her reaction at this meeting of her men.

Nothing changes. What a woman. She is like a warm spring in her tireless, endless flow. Surely she has told her husband about Antonio, but not about you-know-what. He’s her husband, so it isn’t at all the same as telling such things to Lyria, even if you call Lyria his betrothed. Because Lyria has been like a sister all along, a sister he would not touch in that way ever. Well, maybe not ever, but by then she will be more than a sister. In the meantime, she is surely grateful to know that another is easing the pressure, which isn’t the same thing at all as telling a husband.

No, that cannot be. Can it?

The contemplation of that question is set aside, because another glance in the next fractional moment reveals warmth of an equal nature exuding from Simón Salvador.

“Sit down, Antonio. Do you have time?” The invitation to sit is from the lawyer.

“A few minutes. Yes.”

“You know, we’re very pleased with progress on the case. I have to be perfectly honest with you. Falta lo mero bueno” Simón Salvador allows a dramatic pause so the news can adequately twist Antonio’s face. He explains for the Mayfairs, “We are not out of the woods yet. But …” He turns back to Antonio. “We feel that your prospects for complete exoneration are excellent.” The salvation trinity beams its approval, for which Antonio wants to mirror effusive gratitude and tries heartily to do so. “You know, this man they call Quincy; he has nothing. Really. Nothing.” Another beaming consensus is strung up the flagpole for a salute.

Mrs. M takes initiative and orders a round of drinks.

What can be better? What can feel better? Liberation and independence appear to be ongoing. The sun is shining. Antonio has risen from despair to this, his destined echelon, the rare atmosphere in which happiness is an abundant resource requiring management.

Mister Mayfair leans in and says with authority, “We want to move on to new business.”

And so they do, beaming, nodding, sipping, and trading trinkets of dialogue relative to nothing but an extension of life as we know it, which could be viewed as the same old same old on a dark day of somber reassessment. But a different feeling is available to those who will grasp it. That is, the summit of development is no different today than it ever was, except of course for one difference.

The difference is that today Antonio is here.

Lyria observes these things from under the shade tree she once leaned upon languorously to elicit the admiration of her former suitor. Oh, Antonio will nearly burst from pride and will feel like the man of destiny he wants to be, once he repeats in hearing range the job he has been offered. So what? What does he want from me? Regret? Misery? Shame and poverty? Will that make him happy or crown his glory?

Lyria sees clearly as if it were written on the page before her that Mister Mayfair likes to have his ears grabbed as well, especially by Señor Rico Suave the lawyer, who perhaps is willing to lower his fees in trade. How convenient a ruthless beheading on the beach at night is turning out to be. Maybe these two gentle men will make further arrangements for further convenience along with separate rooms for Mister and Mrs. If they throw in a nice job for Antonio it’s a regular happily-ever-after, which is the least the men of power can do in appreciation of their young ward getting the old lady out of the way.

Lyria has only now come from cleaning Mister Mayfair’s room on the twelfth floor. She found both beds mussed with Señor Simón Salvador’s personal brief case on the dresser and one foil packet on the floor.

Only one in the twelve hours since their arrival? These men of power could take a lesson from the old lady and the maestro. Then again, maybe they were tired from travel.

Then again, Lyria doubts that the number of foil packets can measure the dirty habits of anyone in the whole ear-grabbing family.

Prospects for hygienic safety are greatly enhanced on her own. And on her own is where she will stay. How can it be otherwise?