XIV

A Season of Growth

Baldo is more sensitive to the changing ways of loved ones than either his brother or the one who is like a big sister can imagine.

Well, she was close as a sister, sometimes close as a mother.

Do they think him numb to their cold indifference? Too much cold can lead from numbness to death, but that can’t be what they really want.

Can it?

Are they not the foundation of his days? Yet the one who makes him feel like a man and begs him not to stop until she finishes gasping like a fish out of water treats him like a stranger or worse. She is more beautiful now than ever with her new appearance and her body that is no longer too skinny, but the distance grows between them where once it was only he, Baldo, growing between them.

Who cares if he ever grows again? Who cares if he has no place to put his love? Love is the one thing he’s learned. She taught him. He was a boy, but now he is a man.

He loves it so much. He gets it no more. And no one seems to care.

The other one who doubles as father and doubles again as paragon in the world of business and doubles yet again as hero in the world of life, yes, his own brother, joins her in what feels like a conspiracy of detachment. Of course it cannot be a conspiracy. That would require discussion and planning, and they no longer speak to each other or to him. What did he do that was so wrong? Did he not help those he loves by assisting each with their needs?

These and other mysteries burden the boy who now fears the manhood upon him. If maturity puts him deeper in the wilderness, who needs to grow up?

This question first posed by Peter Pan echoes from the dog-eared book with the fanciful pictures, the book Lyria read to him years ago. Peter Pan can fly, because he never feels this heavy. It seems a lifetime ago that he, Baldo, cuddled in her arms as she read and pointed to the pictures and explained the nature of fancy and then turned the page, sprinkling pixie dust on his otherwise barren childhood. Where now is the magic dust, under the rug with the happy thoughts?

It seems nearly as long ago that she spoke civilly to him. Now she only beckons with frustration and need. Who can know when or why? Who can anticipate? And what about something to eat?

Antonio is a joker. This we know. The lesson brought home time and again is that the world wants to laugh. Yet Baldo wakes to Antonio staring. Baldo gets up, and Antonio stares. Baldo drools toothpaste over the sink. Antonio stares. Baldo humps the sink for a laugh, but Antonio only stares. He won’t laugh.

So what? What? What can he do?

Well, the answer is simple for he who guards the most important guests in the history of the Hotel Oaxtapec. He knows that a few babies will die. This is nature’s way. He feels relief for those with the white fungus over their eyes whose struggles finally cease. With guttural lament he plucks them from the tubs and carries them to the surf in his open palms so their lingering spirits might slip into the immensity that will be denied their physical selves. He won’t throw them in any more for fear of establishing an appetite beyond the break. He rather carries them back up the beach and sets them in a smaller plastic container with no water. He covers them with sand and later takes them home, where they lie in repose while he cleans himself. Sometimes he sleeps.

By and by he carries them to the waterfront in town, where he commits them to eternity. Appetites in a boat harbor have no rhythm, but attune themselves to the tidal flush that removes the shit and putrescence, more or less, which is also nature’s way, modified.

In the morning he returns to the task that defines all that is left to him. It’s a substantial love remaining if you count a hundred two babies who look up in need and dependence as he once looked up with love and trust.

Thirty days remain.

Already they are grown too big for most beaks or bills, and they’re too heavy for most birds to carry. In thirty days they will stand the best chance. He watches them, feeding some by hand if they need help from their mother, he who speaks like a turtle.

He doesn’t mind when they grow presumptuous as adolescents and strain to swim away in the thin air. Independence is necessary, and motivation in this early phase bodes well. He sets a particularly feisty turtle in the sand one morning, and it races headlong for the sea; it knows the direction in which life begins. It knows, just as Baldo believed it would, because such things are known as they’ve always been known. He intercepts the escape attempt and consoles, Not yet, my compadre. Soon, but not yet.

Fed and changed, the young turtles are safe by themselves for a while. They’re too big for the phantoms of infancy, so Baldo walks up the beach to see what might align from a distance.

He observes the morning fishermen who remain oblivious to the lanky boy behind them and the suffering nearby. Baldo can’t tell if the stranded puffers have been hooked and then flung high and dry to die slowly, or if the surf put them there. They look dead, until he picks them up. Some wiggle vigorously and need only a helping hand back to the water. Others wiggle weakly and need a supporting hand under the surface, until the water flowing past their gills revives them sufficiently so they can swim through the surf to escape the roiling that would tumble them to death.

Some don’t move. These he lays into the water and watches them spin and roll to eternity. One has a hook and length of monofilament streaming from its mouth, but alas, no one fishes just here.

He presses one gently, looking for life, and he looks up at the sound of girls his age giggling as they pass. He presses gently again, but to no avail. Holding the dead fish, he looks up and down hotel row as if lost, checking his bearings, seeing where he is and what comes next. Perhaps it isn’t here, even with Antonio paving the way.

Perhaps the priesthood or something equally soft and compassionate would best suit his love of the other animals and his deficiency in dealing with his own species. But maybe not, the priests seem so rigidly bent on suffering in the here and now. Baldo wants none of that for himself or his friends. Besides, he knows now what communion he loves most, which isn’t the same at all as what the priests appear to long for.

Baldo stares back at Hotel Oaxtapec where Lyria prepares to clean rooms on the twelfth floor and Antonio prepares for poolside games, unless Antonio is drinking liquor with his new friends and chewing on the glory just ahead.

Like a beacon of simple wonder, he stands and stares.

Antonio sits up, stretching his neck for a better view to the south, where his lanky brother sways like a lone weed in the breeze. But there is no breeze this early in the morning, nor is there a reason for Baldo to be that far down the beach.

Antonio’s new friends, Sally and Thorny, watch their young protégé and crane as well to see what the eagle-eyed maestro has spotted. They ease back, seeing it’s only the little brother, and they laugh warmly over Antonio’s fatherly concern.

Ha, ha, Antonio agrees, squinting to see if Baldo’s left arm is twenty-four inches too long and too sharp for anyone’s good. But it’s not. The wayward boy has only drifted off his moorings to play with the dead fish. He’ll drift back in due time. With no machete in hand, he’ll not likely encumber the otherwise peaceful morning with violence and death. Antonio eases down in his chair, nodding warmly now to match the lingering warmth on the table and in the excellent coffee and Kahlua.

Ah, and here come the huevos rancheros basted to a turn with a few nice links on the side and some toast, which makes more sense than tortillas if you think about it. Mm, so good. This feels much better than chasing a crazed youth down the beach and sweating out of breath and otherwise suffering the loss of composure for an orderly evening or morning to cover for his brother’s psychopathic crime spree. This is better than jail too, with its lumpy mattress and certain torture. Mm. The taste is different. But of course it would be.

The men eat and agree with low moans that this is very good. Soon the Mrs. will join them, just coffee and juice for her, please. Then talk will proceed to new business and further development, real progress at last, with bricks and mortar and elevators and alabaster tiles and a gift shop with T-shirts like the toucan T Antonio now wears.

In fact the new T-shirts for the new gift shop will be better because they will be new. Just as the hotel will be new. Well, maybe not new new, but newly remodeled, which is just as good and much, much quicker, even if the existing building is so old and small. Never mind, it will be new and, more importantly, newly open for business in less than eight months.

“It’s like our baby,” Thornton says, causing a brief but startled reaction from Antonio, who still needs a moment to sort phraseology en inglés, where the words come so fast and so shameless, they tease an ardent listener with glistening promise.

The new hotel will be called La Mexica, the Resort. The first part of the name is, of course, after the huge lake to the east that was filled in five hundred years ago so the conquerors could build Mexico City. La Mexica will capture an Indian essence that is no longer anathema to the spirit of the country but is rather pivotal to its mystique.

By showing the tourists as much difference from themselves and their world as possible, you will see peripheral sales go through the roof. T-shirts are only the beginning once you let them feel something, which is anything other than what they come from.

“We’re talking carved wooden toucans, toucan candleholders, glass toucans, toucan candles, for Christ’s sake. You want panthers, tree frogs, rutabagas or whatever they’re called, those little weasel guys that live in the sticks over there; we’ll have them. Look, we’re not saying we don’t understand the need or the niche for a few strip malls, and it doesn’t even matter if we don’t, because, let’s face it, they’re sitting across the street, and they’re not going away.” This overview is from Thornton, who is called Thorny by Sally.

But Antonio can’t quite get comfortable past Thornton and Simón.

Thorny holds a bite of rancheros within striking distance and adds, “At least they’re not going away for forty years till the paper gets paid off. Did they write forty-year paper over there?”

“Mm,” Sally grunts, stanching a drool. “Thirty.”

“Okay, thirty years,” Thorny smiles. “They’re not going away for thirty years.” He grins. “We’ll be dead or good as. The point is: we’re coming on with the real item. Authenticity. That’s our niche.” He savors the steaming bite as his eyes roll back so far they seem to push the wrinkles up on his forehead. “Mm,” he agrees. “I don’t know what it is. You just can’t get rancheros like this at home.” The three eat, Thornton continuing with, “The Resort, on the other hand, will let them know they’re in their own backyard, the one they aspire to anyway, with the pool and amenities and much, much more.”

Antonio wants to participate in this seminal dialogue and to perhaps bring his particular influence to bear on the direction of La Mexica in its thematic phase. But he does not want to step in caga. So he treads lightly, hovering, as it were, in the weightlessness of pure theory. “Tell me something, so I will know,” he begins, gaining the attention of his mentors who eagerly anticipate this first opinion of their young protégé. “If I walk into the lobby here at Hotel Oaxtapec, I have a certain feeling. Tell me; when I enter the lobby of La Mexica, the Resort, what will that feeling be? Will it be different? How will it be different?”

Thornton Mayfair and Simón Salvador share a quick eyeful of most definite approval and possible relief that the protégé can indeed grasp merchandising at the conceptual level, beginning in the stratosphere of theory, which is a feeling, an instinct, and intuition, and he has it. The question is good, the caga avoided. “It will be different,” Thornton says. “The resort will feel the same as this hotel in some ways, but different in others.”

“It will be new,” Sally says with a nod that Antonio instantly matches, as if comprehending the difference between the Oaxtapec, and something new.

“More plants,” Thornton says. “Many, many more plants. Sure, you have plants here. But tell me something; do you know the indoor plant budget here?”

“No, I do not,” Antonio concedes, squelching the urge to explain that he’s a maestro, not a gardener. Surely the mentors know the difference. Yet he blushes, which can hardly be avoided in light of the opportunity missed by not knowing the plant budget here at Oaxtapec.

“Suffice to say,” Thornton says, picking up steam on his cooling eggs, “ours will be much, much higher. We plan on roughly five times the foliage. Five times!”

His fork is upside down now, grasped firmly to work better with his knife. “We’re talking huge palms, those gigantic ones that grow up to what? The tenth or fourteenth floor? And we’ll have the full array of ornamentals down lower. Everything in the lobby! The feeling you will have on entering La Mexica … Let’s just say your entrance will stop. I mean you will stop in your tracks for the breathtaking moment you’ll need to take it all in. You won’t only be entering a modern resort hotel; you’ll be stepping back in time too, into the teeming, tropical jungle that rightly belongs on this very beach and in fact is still here!”

He thrusts again and chews, then points his fork at Antonio. “Authenticity,” he nods, first to Antonio and then to Sally. “That was a good question, Antonio. A very good question. I think you understand what we want to do here.”

Still treading cautiously, as if in first light through the tall grass where stray dogs passed in the night, Antonio ventures further. From modern concepts for modern times he meanders cautiously to the abstract periphery, which may be his realm of expertise, where he senses enhanced margins of dizzying magnitude, not to mention greatness. On a slow nod he comes into focus. “Okay. I walk through the lobby, stopping my tracks and taking my breath. I marvel at the jungle that belongs here. That is here. I walk through the restaurant, which I want to know about, and you will tell me, and I want to eat there too, and I walk out to the terrace. I approach the pool. What will I feel at the pool? Will we have a cabana with a high bar on one side with perhaps a spectacular arching roof system of giant bamboo? Will we have a water bar in the pool where a casual swimmer can drink a piña colada after pool aerobics?”

Both men nod quickly again at this excellent follow-up question.

Sally shrugs. “You will feel no different from one phase of La Mexica to another, meaning from the restaurant to the terrace to any one of three or four bars around the pool. The overwhelming difference between our resort and the rest will remain consistent from the lobby to the cabana. Authenticity. It will merely change flavors along the way.”

“Hmm,” Antonio ponders authentically changing flavors. The other two wait nearly playfully to see if an excellent follow-up can be followed by still more excellence. “More trees,” Antonio says at last, taking the safe but logical path.

“Bingo!” Thornton says. “Where are my three beers?” And the threesome enjoy a hearty laugh at the witty humor of Thorny Mayfair, who is, after all, the money maestro of the modern resort for modern times.

Antonio shrugs and nearly says that he loves trees, which would be a witless thing to say, so he’s glad the enthusiasm of the moment hangs him lisping on the cusp and carries forward sufficiently to preempt this blunder, leaving him dabbing little flecks with his napkin.

“I mean bingo as only one man can lead it,” Thornton says.

The others laugh again and nod at this continuing display of wit, until Thornton pushes his plate aside with apparent finality if not disgust. Wiping his chin with direct dispatch, he leans close for a serious note in confidence. “Do you have any idea what you mean to this place? I mean here, this Oaxtapec place? We’re surrounded by concrete and water. Period. The end. It’s Sleepy Hollow with horrible insects and sunburn, without you. You might think yourself casual and playful, my friend, with your little Er er-er er-errr. But you and only you can wake them up. You draw them out. What we have in mind is to steal you.”

Antonio’s eyebrows rise reflexively at the recognition missing for so long, now arriving in confidence, like a secret, as it were. He further perks at the mention of a theft, a bold move that will lead to massive development with himself as the valued commodity in question.

Sally smiles at the outrage of it all.

Thornton tosses his napkin onto the table. “If you’re not a free agent, then I’m a paisano. You think they’ve been good to you here? I won’t burst your bubble, but I’ll ask you one little question: where’s the money? I think I have a fair idea of your income. You don’t need to tell me, but I think it’s somewhere around, say, a hundred to three hundred pesos a day, say ten to thirty-five dollars. Am I right?”

Well, of course Mister Thornton Mayfair isn’t lobbing a Hail Mary this early in the game, nor should Antonio’s income here at Hotel Oaxtapec bear on the future as it has on the past. Give Mister M credit in gentility for his obstreperous good taste in ignoring Antonio’s moonlighting and income generated by the evenings, when he can make a few pesos more. This display of savoir-faire sets a proper tone in which concepts converge and objectives can be met. It further reflects Thornton Mayfair’s sense of fair play, or at least reflects his rectitude for business without clouding the issue with distraction.

Why quibble over a few pesos when we’re talking magnitude? The man understands free agency, which may be a high, inside curve to Antonio Garza who has yet to see the sense of most free agents, declining millions in hopes of more, then moving from free agent to holdout, losing prime time and all hope for the playoffs.

Why would an up-and-comer turn down thirteen million to pump the jam in free agency for two million more? You can’t even get a line on Jesu’s odds for next season’s cut what with waivers and injuries and salary caps. But so many today hold out—out in the cold, as it were, for a chance to scrounge a little bit more lunch and bus fare. No, this idle bandy of tricky terms is best avoided for the untimely trap it may well be. What is a maestro in free agency to do, hold out for more with an ultimatum?

No, he is not, because more is one thing, and happiness delivered as a way of life daily and often nightly is quite another. This is what separates those of us with authenticity in our hearts from our compatriots in el norte, who think siesta is only a nap. We don’t grind straight through for more, more, more. We go home to where we live and come back refreshed, offering our products and services into evening where we continue to live with spoken discourse among ourselves rather than giving in to the TV. If a life is rich with give and take, who needs to be a millionaire?

The offer lingers, but Antonio instinctively spins from the number of pesos per day. “I have my family to consider as well,” he says. Even mundane reference to the brother renews the ache, but this is no time for conservative play; these moves will shape the game.

Sally stares at Thorny, who waits with grim resolve. “Yes,” he says. “We know. We want to consider your … what should I call her, your fiancée?”

“She is my friend.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Your friend. We want to consider her for the program as soon as we have an opening. Your brother is …” Sally and Thorny tick their heads in toothy display designed to convey stalemate; difficulty and desire cannot resolve, so the grin struggles against the grimace and loses. “… shall we say, ticklish?” Sally looks down and then up to deliver the news. “Listen, Antonio. You’re a noble man, a man we can trust and depend on. We want to discuss your brother, but we want you to consider a few things as we must see them.”

For the first time in these rich, rewarding minutes, a pall ensues. Here is an obstacle, front and center, seemingly insurmountable. This is far worse than stepping in caga, which can be wiped off. What can Antonio do?

Should he bear a grudge against those who have shared his life forever for transgressions against him a few weeks ago?

Does anything short of death warrant the dismissal of kith and kin? No, because a man who can shimmy and fake to compromise his family’s interests could not be Antonio Garza. How could he be, with Gustavo and Tiny Jesu looking on?

No problema aqui, because assessment defaults to instinct, and a path is suddenly revealed.

For one thing, Baldo will always be a brother, as in flesh and blood, the same as their poor, dead father. For another, if this is free agency, emotion defers to money. What difference does it make if Baldo is on the staff of La Mexica, the Resort or not, if enough money is on the table for me? I can hire him myself. Let them pay me, and I’ll pay Baldo. Every maestro needs a grip.

What? What was that I heard just there, rustling like a leaf? Signing bonus? Did you say, signing bonus?

“What kind of things must we consider?”

Thornton Mayfair softens his grimace just like Quincy, with neither mirth nor humor. “This dialogue won’t help anybody. So we won’t have it now. We’ll have it later, when we’re better prepared, once we’ve all had time to thoroughly consider the practicalities.” Thornton hangs his head. “I don’t mean to leave you out on a limb, Antonio. I realize that without you here, your brother will likely lose his job.”

“Likely?” Antonio lopes for the score, challenging the defense with pride if not arrogance to show its stuff. Let’s see what you got now, my fair-weather friend.

Thornton nods. “I know. Let’s table the subject for a while and see what we can work out. I assure you we’ll have resources that may very well enable your brother to get what he needs.”

Antonio doesn’t ask what his brother needs beyond a job, but he suspects psychiatric help is what Thornton M has in mind. Such therapy will further the interests of none but the psychiatrist. Oh, yes, the shrink will agree that a simple, innocent boy needs therapy much more than two grown men behaving like drain snakes in the same hotel room. Well, Baldo isn’t so simple or innocent, but then of course he is, on the one hand or the other.

“Señor Thorny, I am grateful to both of you. I promise to consider the practicalities, since nothing can be of greater importance. I only ask that in your consideration you remember the brightest spot for these guests at the pool. It is there, in those little plastic tubs with those little baby tortugas.”

Thornton Mayfair puts his forearms on the table now and leans his closest. “Those turtles are very popular,” he concedes. “But the turtle program is only ninety days, leaving two hundred seventy days of uncertain disposition for your uncertain brother. I don’t know how else to say it, except that …”

“He is loco, your brother. Más loco que una cabra. Surely you know this.” Sally speaks.

Antonio shakes his head at this unwarranted accusation comparing Baldo’s temperament to that of a goat. Well, maybe it’s warranted from time to time, but this is hardly the time.

“Señor. We are all loco, are we not? Many people would look at each of us and shake their heads and say, ‘loco, that one. Just look what he does.’”

Antonio waits the perfect moment so the blood can fill the faces of his breakfast companions. “‘Just look what he does, talking of such a decrepit sorry place as Los Burros Beach Hotel as a modern resort.’ You know that this would be true if they knew what plans are on this table. Many would call us loco, no?”

The blood recedes with tedious slowness.

Antonio facilitates composure with a deft change of pace. “It is not only the turtles these guests want to see. Do you think the jungle that is rightfully here is sterile as a hotel lobby? A jungle is alive. It is the birds as well they want to see, and the flowers that grow only here, but only with a caring hand to nurture them. Do you think any person can give you the jaguar orchid or the six sacred bromeliads?”

Antonio stares with lofty reverence at the horizon, allowing him to scan his mentors peripherally. Can they see the garden path with its fantastic, exotic, breathtaking specimens, or do they stumble in the dark?

Jaguar orchids? Sacred bromeliads? Hey, why not? The question here is not one of authenticity, because who makes up names for things anyway? Humans do. Does a ravishingly beautiful flower know what it’s called in a book? Or does it care? No, it does not. The question goes to merchandising. What? I am showing this to them?

Will the guests buy these things? Will the guests love these things? Antonio nods sanguinely even as his mentors squint at the idea of sacred jaguars. Because the guests will love and buy.

“Señor Thorny, the question here is not one of authenticity, because who makes up names for things anyway? Humans do.” Well, maybe this thought played better internally than it does to the stone-faced mentors. So Antonio fast-forwards, touching strategically on merchandising, buying, and loving.

The mentors don’t exactly nod, but they no longer squint either, which means they’re at least paused momentarily in the realm of pro and con.

Antonio returns to terra firma, with its needs and practicalities. “I will consider things as you suggest, for the foundation of everything should be consideration. But let us not forget our flamboyance. How can you put a number on color and movement? You can’t. What could be more authentic than a mute boy who speaks the seventeen languages of the animals? I see Baldo as curator and caretaker, as a dynamic component of La Mexica, the Resort. I hope you might see the practical benefit of such a thing as well.”

Score the next silence as his advantage, Antonio feels, because they’re thinking. Confirmation comes from Thornton Mayfair who, in a half-slump and simple head turn, asks, “Can your brother provide us with these specimens? I don’t mean the flowers. We can get the flowers. I mean the animals. The birds and maybe a few, what do they call them? Those half-raccoon, half-cat things you used to see on the road all the time.”

Antonio senses danger, considering the response of his half-crazed brother to a request for the collection of exotic animals. What do you think makes him crazy? And why talk halfsies? No, such a proposition should be made from a distance with no machetes allowed. Laughing short at the ludicrous result of such a request, Antonio attempts a maneuver he has observed but has yet to try, the obfuscatory back-pedal. Well, he has yet to try it in such a big game.

“My friends, my brother Baldo loves nothing more than the animals. He raised Toucan from a tiny pup. He rescues the little fish.” Antonio pauses for the blood to surge and recede and then moves quickly on. “Now he raises the little turtles, which everyone knows would perish in terrible numbers without his care and protection.”

The mentors wait for specific response on collectibles.

“You know Toucan? He lives across the street at Jimi Changa’s, the discotheque.” Antonio nearly grins and grinds his hips, scrunching his shoulders and stirring his fists over his congealing rancheros. Who can resist such a rhythm?

He is done making his case.

A Thorny stare at the dissipating rhythm with a slight tick tells Antonio that the question remains on the table unanswered. The pointed eyes slide to Sally, who speaks on cue.

“Tono, can your brother find us these birds and furry animals? Can he bring us young ones from the jungle?”

“Well, you know the jungle is not what it used to be. I mean, with the roads now and the animals moving … And then, of course, my friends, we have the question of intent. My brother is, shall we say, sensitive. You understand. He will only help those animals in need. I don’t think he will …”

“Antonio.”

Antonio nods deeply, sensing arrival at a consensus on a fair airing of the issues. Discountable only moments ago as a loco boy, Baldo is now conceptual and complex with a lingering note of dynamic potential in the face of liability. In a word, he is still loco, but perhaps he is justifiable as a collector of animals.

This is the fine line on which astronomical deals sometimes balance, though in this application the balance remains to be found. Balance as a concept is understood here, like that between scorn and flamboyance, which is the balance these two understand best. A load should tip precariously to neither side.

So it is in the balance between authenticity and liability. You want Baldo collecting animals from the wild to live in a hotel lobby? Well then, perhaps we can view the exotic specimens in terms of, say, a wildlife rescue program. Or a, what do they call it? A genetic assurance program to guarantee forever the guests’ rights to see what was here long after we achieve our greatest level of development. We can capture a few for making babies for their own good and for ours and everyone’s. Moreover, the question of money has been effectively deferred to contemplation of exponential magnitude, as it were, factoring family and friends in the best possible light, which is that of real value.

“My friends,” Antonio intones in the somber voice reserved for complete control of the situation. “We can only ask. My brother is sensitive to the perceptions of nature held by those around him. He is unique among men. He is nothing if not honest. He will tell us.”

The mentors look at each other as numbers and concepts briefly muddle, until Mrs. M herself preempts contemplation of value and flamboyance. High heels click on the marble floor like a metronome timed to the eternal elegance that will not fade for many years to come. Her beach robe in translucent saffron highlights the womanly embers within. Billowing no less than flames fanned, it opens on the glowing thighs that don’t chafe and hardly jiggle.

But who’s looking at the thighs anyway with such boom ba ba boom up top? Red silk crisscrosses the mountaintops like bandoleers. It runs around the back and up as well to hang from the neck. Thornton Mayfair smiles tolerantly.

Simón Salvador seeks the attention of a waiter, because it’s time for sweets and more caffeine.

“Buenos días,” she says.

“Good morning, dear. You look ravishing, as usual.”

“Mm,” she purrs. “I feel more ravished than usual.” She doesn’t touch Antonio or look at him, but the touch and look are hardly necessary to reference the marathon intimacy of last night’s homecoming. Going to midnight might not seem so late, unless you begin immediately after cocktails, as a man engulfed by loneliness and disappointment is wont to do. But why these people seem so driven to wallow in their own indelicacy is beyond the reason of any man. Now it’s Antonio’s turn to feel the blood rise and shade his tawny good looks to undeniable magenta.

Thornton Mayfair stares with amusement. How can this be? Well, of course they have a modern arrangement, but still, some things are very hard to understand.

“Taking the morning off?” She asks Antonio, who jumps from contemplation of ficky fick and an enriched future back to the moment with its practical need. He looks at his watch, the new one with the combination silver- and gold-linked band and the gold-rimmed face.

¡Ay! Nine o’clock already.

Stretching again, he sees that the pool is lined with guests. Some are sleeping. Some sip coffee. Some stare into space. All verge perilously on boredom or worse, a review of their lives at home, down to the commute, the years remaining on their mortgages and lives, their paltry joys, and the hours of the days.

“¡Chihuahua!” he lowly moans. “My guests are thinking.”

“See what I mean?” Thornton Mayfair says with conviction.

“No,” Mrs. M perks. “Tell me what you mean.”