Читать книгу The Jaguar Man - Lara Naughton - Страница 10

THREE

After the heat of the day, after the sky clears and the afternoon sun is no longer scorching, I close my book, the one about the boy stranded in a lifeboat with a tiger. I read most of the afternoon, longer than I intended. I felt compelled to continue reading, even though I kept telling myself to put the book down. I only brought one novel and wanted to savor it, little bits each day, but I read as if I were hungry for what it could feed me, until finally the boy in the lifeboat had a change of heart about the tiger. Then I breathed deeply and felt I could stop.

My body is stiff from sitting, I think a walk will feel good, so I tuck the book into the suitcase in my cabana, put a T-shirt and shorts over my bikini, and position my straw cowboy hat over my hair in a barrette, cooler that way in the heat. I toss some things in a backpack, I like to be prepared: camera, sunscreen, a twenty-dollar bill, twelve Belizean dollars, and a fifty-dollar traveler’s cheque, just in case. I set off down the beach. When the beach gets swept up in waves, I move to the road. A few cars pass but not many. This is a sleepy village, people don’t go places just to go, why expend unnecessary energy?

MYTH. The angry man gets high on the beach under a coconut palm. He draws circles inside circles inside circles with a stick.

I walk and walk. It’s farther than I remember. I’m going to the dive shop where the diver works even though he told me not to walk that far. I did it before, on my first trip to Belize, and he brought me back to town in a boat through the lagoon, naming vegetation and birds along the way. Red mangrove, black mangrove, buttonwood, heron, hummingbird, pelican, swallow, osprey.

As I walk I think about the marathon I recently ran, 26.2 miles, and how distance feels good to my body. But I’m in flip-flops, the wrong shoes for this road, and need more cushion against the small stones. The sandal thong rubs between my right toes and hurts. When I arrive at the dive shop, I plan to ask for a Band-Aid.

Along the road are brightly painted beach cabanas amid tropical overgrowth, and I think about the house I’m renovating. I call it a small bungalow because it sounds charming, but really it’s a dump in need of total repair. It’s toward the top of an uphill dead-end alley, which is misleadingly named a terrace.

The renovations have been harder than I imagined they’d be, and less fun. I watched my dad renovate an enormous house by himself. My brother renovated his home. My sister renovated hers; she even helped build a restaurant. The difference is they have skills and power tools and like this sort of thing. I don’t. I hired people to take care of the big jobs: new foundation, plumbing, electrical, and roof. But on my teacher’s salary I don’t have a budget to hire professionals for all the cosmetic needs inside the house, so these are my projects, and I have to do them on the cheap.

The biggest problem is the wood floors, which are uneven and in horrible shape. I started with the easiest room, the bedroom, which needed a few nails removed, sanding, and a new stain. Then I moved to the living room and kitchen floors, which were burdened by a layer of carpet and underneath that a layer of linoleum that was glued to the wood. I pulled up the worn-out carpet and dragged it to the driveway. The driveway is being supported by hard dirt packed around an overturned porcelain claw foot tub; the house inspector had never seen anything like it, but laughingly told me it was the least of my problems. On the floor, I used a little metal tool to scrape up the linoleum and moved around the room on my hands and knees testing for weak patches that would come up easily. Soon the floor resembled a map of gluey continents, shifting plate tectonics, and then not only were the floors structurally uneven, they were sharp and sticky to walk on, too. It was so much worse than when I started.

Employees at the late-night mega-hardware store in Hollywood sold me tools and various liquids and goo in large containers. I tried their suggestions, took photos of the disastrous results, and returned to the store where invariably different people would be working so I’d whip out the series of photos and explain the project from the beginning, asking, What do I do now?

When I finally admitted defeat with the floors in these rooms, I called in an expert who assessed the mess and shook his head. The wood floors were never worth saving to begin with, he said, they’re soft wood, not hard, and no way was I going to get up those tiles, better to start over. I forked over the money for him to lay plywood over the current floors in the living room and kitchen as a base for new hardwood floors. It’s a great idea, but hardwood is expensive and will have to wait. What do I do now? Paint, trick the eye with color! After days of indecision, I settled on dark orange for the floor. Yes, orange. I was inspired by a book of dream homes in Mexico, and I decided those colors are my palette. I painted the plywood dark orange and finished it with a sealer. The baseboards were gone, oh well, one more thing for the list. I painted a faux finish on the walls in yellow and orange. Then I went all out and laid huge purple tiles on the plywood in the kitchen. I quickly discovered I’m not a good measurer. I’m an approximator, which isn’t the best quality to have for home renovation. The tiles approximately meet with the edges of the room. It will be covered once the baseboards are up, but what do I do now? Hide some of the gaps with floor plants! If I don’t look too closely at the unevenness—and the fact that the floor is plywood and that there are no baseboards—and just take in the gorgeous plants against the wild color scheme, the house is starting to look festive, if not beautiful.

As I continue to walk along the road past a pink house with green trim, an orange and blue house, and one painted yellow and red, I make mental notes while the camera in my backpack bangs against my spine. I wonder if I could afford to buy a tiny house here and if I could make it home.

I’m thirsty. I have money, but there’s nowhere to buy water. The road to the dive shop stretches out longer and farther. I don’t know what time it is, but the air is cooling. I hurry. I consider maybe I should have listened when the diver told me not to walk. I want to spend every minute of the rest of this day with him but when I get to the dive shop I’m surprised it’s already closing. He left work an hour ago to be with me. He must have gone home on the water while I was on the road. My heart sinks, and I feel foolish. My cell phone doesn’t work in Belize so I call him from the dive shop office and tell him where I am. I laugh at the situation and apologize for not being at the cabana. I tell him I’ll catch a taxi and meet him in a few minutes. He says he’ll wait in the hammock on the cabana porch. He says he misses me.

MYTH. The angry man’s father had a reputation for drinking. The angry man watched his mother take the brunt of it.

The dive shop doesn’t have a taxi phone number so I go to the restaurant next door, and the bartender makes a call. I step to the road to wait for the taxi. I could stand outside the dive shop or the restaurant where there are other people mingling, but the buildings are set back from the road on a small cul-de-sac, and I don’t want to waste a moment returning to the diver. I want it to be easy to jump in the taxi and go. I remember the O. Henry story of the couple that had no money for Christmas presents. He sold his cherished pocket watch to buy her hair combs. She cut and sold her hair to buy him a chain for his watch. I think the diver and I are a little like that couple. He left early on the water to be with me while I was traveling the road to be with him. I think I’ll tell him the story when I see him. I think he’ll kiss me for that story.

You have to learn to breathe from a regulator, the diver says. When you’re underwater you inhale and exhale through your mouth. Your nose is inside a mask so if you exhale through your nose you might create air space, which will cause the mask to fog up or allow water to clear. Then your view will be less.

I’m impatient, where is the taxi? Each car that passes makes my heart jump in anticipation. Finally a reddish orange van comes down the road. The driver, a striking guy in his thirties, about my own age, stops.

Taxi! he says.

It doesn’t look like a taxi and there’s a younger man in the front seat, but taxis here come in all colors, makes and models, and friends or family members often go along for the ride. I don’t notice many of the details of this taxi. My mind is preoccupied with the diver. I respond yes! The passenger jumps out and walks quickly up the road, turning once to give me a piercing or maybe encouraging look; I don’t know how to interpret it. Later, on another day, I will wonder about that guy in the passenger seat. Did he suspect what was going to happen? Did he try to send a message with his eyes? Or was it nothing, just a look? I hop in the front seat of the taxi, which is customary. The driver pulls a U-turn and heads toward town.

MYTH. The angry man’s mother loved to waltz. When he was very small, she used to dance him through the narrow space between the wall and the couch. He was proud to waltz with his mother, especially since his father had no rhythm. Then the angry man’s mother waltzed alone, while her boy and his father watched.