Читать книгу Where I Live Now - Lucia Berlin - Страница 9

Sometimes years later you look back and say that was the beginning of…or we were so happy then…before…after…Or you think I’ll be happy when…once I get…if we…Hernán knew he was happy now. The Oceano hotel was full, his three waiters were working at top speed.

He wasn’t the kind of man who worried about the future or dwelt on the past. He shooed the chicle-selling kids out of his bar with no thought of his own orphaned childhood on the streets. Raking the beach, shining shoes.

When he was twelve they had started construction on the Oceano. Hernán ran errands for the owner. He idolized Señor Morales, who wore a white suit and a panama hat. Jowls that matched the bags under his eyes. After Hernán’s mother died Señor Morales was the only person to call him by his name. Hernán. Not hey kid, ándale hijo, véte callejero. Buenos días, Hernán. As the building progressed Sr. Morales had given him a steady job cleaning up after the workers. When the hotel was finished he hired him to work in the kitchen. A room on the roof to live in.

Other men would have hired experienced employees from other hotels. The chefs and desk clerk at the new Oceano were from Acapulco but all of the other workers were illiterate street urchins like Hernán. They were all proud to have a room, their own real room on the roof. Showers and toilets for the men and women workers. Thirty years later every one of the men still worked at the hotel. The laundresses and maids had all come from mountain towns like Chacala or El Tuito. The women stayed until they married or until they got too homesick. New ones were always fresh young girls from the hills.

Socorro was from Chacala. The first day Hernán had seen her she was standing in her doorway in a white dress, her braids plaited with pink satin ribbon. She hadn’t put down her rope-tied bundle of belongings. She was turning the light on and off. He was amazed by her sweetness. They smiled at each other. They were both fifteen and they both fell in love that very moment.

The next day Sr. Morales saw Hernán watching Socorro in the kitchen.

“She’s a little beauty, no?”

“Yes,” Hernán said. “I’m going to marry her.”

He worked double shifts for two years until they could marry and move into a little house near the hotel. By the time their first daughter Claudia was born he was an apprentice bartender. After Amalia was born he was a regular bartender and Socorro stopped working. Their second daughter, Amalia, was having her quinceañera party in two weeks. Sr. Morales was godfather to both girls and was giving the party in the hotel. A bachelor, he seemed to love Socorro and the girls almost as much as Hernán, never tired of describing them to people.

“They are so fine, so beautiful. Delicate and pure and proud and…”

“Smart, strong, hard-working,” Hernán would add.

“Diós mío…those women have hair…tan, pero tan brilloso.”

John Apple was at the bar as usual, looking out at the malecón above the beach. Trucks and buses rumbled by on the cobblestones outside. John nursed his beer, muttering.

“Smell those nasty fumes? What a racket. It’s all over now, Hernán. No more paradise. The end of our fishy little sleeping village.”

Hernán’s English was very good but he missed things like John’s remark. All he knew was that had been hearing it over and over for years. He ignored the sigh as John pretended again to drain his empty glass. Somebody else could buy him his next drink.

“Not the end,” Hernán said. “A new Puerto Vallarta.”

Dozens of luxury resorts were going up, the new highway was finished, the big airport just opened. Instead of one flight a week there were five or six international flights a day. Hernán had no regrets about how peaceful the town used to be, when this was the only good bar and he was the only one working in it. He liked having so many waiters to help. He was not even tired now when he got home, could have dinner with Socorro, read the paper, talk awhile.

More and more people were coming in. Hernán sent Memo to the kitchen to get bus boys to help out, to bring some extra chairs. Most of the guests at the hotel were reporters or cast and crew of The Night of the Iguana. Most of them were in the bar mingling with the “in” people from town, local Mexicans and Americans. Tourists and honey-mooners looked for Ava and Burton and Liz.

In those days one Mexican movie a week was shown on the plaza. There was no television so the town wasn’t impressed by the cast of The Night of the Iguana. Everybody knew who Elizabeth Taylor was, though. Her husband Richard Burton was in the movie.

Hernán liked them and he liked the director, John Huston. The old man was always respectful to Socorro and to his daughters. He spoke Spanish to them and lifted his hat when he saw them in town. Socorro had her brother bring in raicilla from the mountains near Chacala, moonshine mescal for Sr. Huston. Hernán kept it in a huge mayonnaise jar under the bar, tried to dole it out slowly, and to cut it as often as possible without Sr. Huston noticing.

Mexican lawyers and bankers were trying out their English on the blonde ingénue, Sue Lyons. Ruby and Alma, two American divorcées, were flirting with cameramen. Both women were very wealthy, owned houses on cliffs above the water. They kept on thinking they’d find romance at the Oceano bar. Usually they met married men on fishing trips or, now, newsmen or cameramen. No man that would ever want to stay around.

Alma was sweet and beautiful until late in the evening when her eyes and mouth turned into bruises and her voice became a sob, like she just wished you’d hit her and leave. Ruby was close to fifty, lifted and dyed and patched together. She was funny and fun but after she drank a lot she got mean and then limp and then Hernán had someone take her home. John Apple went over to sit with them. Alma ordered him a double margarita.

Luis and Victor stood at the entrance long enough to be noticed by everyone. They slid into the bar and sat down where they would be visible. Dark and handsome, they both wore tight white pants, open white shirts. Barefoot, with a bright bracelet on one ankle. White smiles, wet black hair. “Ratoncitos tiernos.” Tender little rats whores call the sexy young ones.

Hernán was already working in the Oceano kitchen when he had first known them as children. Begging from tourists, rolling drunks. They had originally come from Culiacán, called each other Compa, for compadre.

For years Luis and Victor had slept under petates in boats at night, hustled all day. Hernán understood them and didn’t judge them, not even for stealing. The way they treated women didn’t shock him. He judged the women though. One day he had seen Victor approach Amalia on the malecón. She was wearing the plaid skirt and white blouse from school, holding her books tightly against her new breasts. Hernán ran out from the bar and raced across the street. “Go home!” he said to Amalia. To Victor he said, “If you speak to either of my daughters again I will kill you.”

Hernán poured martinis into chilled glasses, put them on Memo’s tray. He left the bar and went over to the young men.

“Quibo. Why does it make me so nervous, seeing you two in my bar?”

“Cálmate, viejo. We’ve come to witness two historic events.”

“Two? One must be Tony and the other Beto. What’s with Beto?”

“He’s coming to celebrate with the movie people. He got a part in The Night of the Iguana. Real money. Lana.”

“No me digas! Good for him. So now he’s not just a beach boy. What’s the part?”

“Playing a beach boy!”

“Watch him mess it up. I already know the other event. Tony’s doing it to Ava Gardner.”

“That’s no event. Fíjate. There’s the event!”

A magnificent new Chris Craft sprayed into the harbor, rocking the sunset-lit magenta water. Tony stood and waved, let go of the anchor of La Ava. A small boy in a rowboat went out to get him.

“Híjola. She actually bought it for him?”

“Title’s in his name. She was waiting for him last night, naked in a hammock, had it taped to her tit. Guess what he did first.”

“Went to see the boat.”

The three of them laughed as the beautiful, unsteady Ava came down the stairs, smiling at everyone. She sat alone in a booth, waiting for Tony. Hernán was pleased that although everyone was looking at her and admiring her, nobody bothered her. My customers have manners, he thought.

Hernán went back to the bar, worked quickly to catch up. Pobrecita. She is shy. Lonely. He hummed a tune from a Pedro Infante movie. “Rich people cry too.”

Hernán watched like everyone else when the lovers kissed hello. Flash bulbs flickered like sparklers throughout the room. The Americans all knew her, the whole town loved Tony. He was about nineteen now. He had streaks of blond in his long hair, amber eyes and an angelic smile. He had always worked on the boats unloading, loading, cadging rides, saving money for his own boat, someday, to take tourists water-skiing.

The stories differed. Some people said it happened in a dice game, others said he paid Diego cash to let him take the boats of movie stars to the set in Mismaloya every day. After about three days of his golden eyes gazing into her green ones she started taking boat rides with him on her breaks, until, Tony said, fortune had smiled upon him. Memo said that Tony was the lowest, a gigolo.

“Look at him,” Hernán said. “He’s in love. He won’t hurt her.”

Across the room Luis called out to an older American woman passing by the bar.

“Madam, please join us. I am Luis and this is Victor. Help us celebrate my birthday,” he said.

“Why, I’d love to.” She smiled, surprised. She ordered drinks, paid the waiter with a fistful of bills. She was laughing, pleased by their attention, took out all her purchases to show them.

Luis had grown out of beach-boying. He had a tiny dress shop that was the current rage. He sold colonial paintings and pre-columbian art. No one knew where he got them or who made them. He taught yoga to American women, the same ones who bought all his dresses in every color. It was hard to tell if Luis loved women or hated them. He made them feel good. He got money from all of them one way or another.

Memo asked Hernán if the women paid him to have sex with them. Quién sabe? He suspected that Luis took them out, brought them home and robbed them when they passed out. The women would be too embarrassed to tell. Hernán felt no compassion for the women. They asked for it. Traveling alone, drinking, giving themselves to the first callejeros they met.

Beto came in with Audrey, a hippy girl of about fifteen. Silken blonde hair, the face of a goddess. Newsmen were popping flashes and the blonde actress grew sullen. Audrey moved like honey. She had the blind eyes of a statue.

Victor came up to the bar to talk to someone. Hernán asked him what Audrey was on.

“Seconal, Tuinal, something like that”

“You don’t sell to her, do you?”

“No. Anybody can get sleepers at the pharmacy. They keep her nice and quiet.”

Beto was sitting with the crew. They were toasting him, trying to speak Spanish. He smiled and drank. Beto always wore the stupid expression of someone on a bus that just got woken up.

Sr. Huston motioned to Hernán for a raicilla. Hernán took the drink over himself, curious to know why the director was talking to Audrey so angrily. Sr. Huston thanked Hernán, sent regards to his family. Then he told Hernán that Audrey was the daughter of a dear friend, a great stage actress. Audrey had run away from home last year.

“Imagine how her mother feels. Audrey was younger than both your daughters when she disappeared.”

Audrey pleaded with Sr. Huston not to tell where she was.

“Beto loves me. Finally somebody loves just me. And now Beto has a job. We can get an apartment.”

“What drug are you on?”

“I’m sleepy, you silly. We’re having a baby!”

She rose, kissed the old man. “Please,” she said and went to sit a little behind Beto, singing softly to herself. Sr. Huston stood, stiffly, knocking over his chair. He stood over Beto, began to speak, then shook his head and strode out of the bar. He crossed the street to the malecón, where he sat smoking, looking at the water.

Hernán noticed that the newsmen and women and the movie crew all knew Victor; many stopped to talk with him. Victor went to the men’s room often, before or after an American went in. He was the main marijuana connection in town, and had a few discreet heroin customers. This was different. No one went out afterwards for a stroll down the beach.

Hernán had heard that it had come to Acapulco. Well, now Puerto Vallarta has its own cocaine, he thought.

Sam Newman pulled up in a taxi, waved to Hernán as he went through the courtyard to register and have his bags sent up. He went over to Tony and Ava Gardner, hugged Tony and kissed Ava’s hand. He stopped at tables along his way to the bar, shaking hands, kissing the women he knew, checking out the new ones, who all visibly cheered up. He was a handsome, easy-going American, married to a wealthy older woman who kept him on a loose rein. They lived down the coast in Yelapa. Sam came to town every few weeks for supplies and a rest. Living in paradise wore him out, he said. Grinning, he sat on a bar stool, handed Hernán a bag of Juan Cruz’s coffee.

“Thanks, Sam. Socorro was missing her coffee.” Hernán mixed him a double Bacardi and Tehuacán. “You come over on the Paladín?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Packed with tourists. And John Langley. Guess what he said.”

“We’re all in the same boat.”

“He always says that. He’s got a new one. We passed the movie set and this lady grabbed his arm. ‘Sir, is that Mismaloya?’ Langley removed her hand from his arm and said in that English snob way of his: ‘Mr. Maloya to you, madam.’ So, besides, Tony’s boat, what’s happening?”

Hernán told him about Beto’s movie career and about Audrey being a runaway and pregnant and on drugs. He invited Sam to Amalia’s quinceañera party. Of course Sam would be there, he said. Hernán was pleased.

“Sr. Huston is coming too. He is a great man, a man of dignity.”

“It’s cool that you know that. I mean without knowing that he really is a great man. A famous man.”

Alma came up, kissed Sam on the lips. John Apple moved back to the bar and Sam bought him a double margarita.

Luis and the American woman were leaving in a cab. Victor was sitting with some reporters. Hernán didn’t know what to do about Victor. He would never have him arrested, but he didn’t want him dealing in the Oceano. He would ask Socorro tonight. She always knew exactly what to do.

“Sam, take me over to meet Ava Gardner, please,” Alma said. “I want to invite her to stay at my house.” She and Sam went and joined the enamored couple. On the way over Sam stopped to talk to Victor. They nodded to one another, looking down while they spoke.

Sr. Huston came back inside and sat in “his” large booth. Richard and Liz arrived. Wherever they went it was as if a grenade had been thrown through the window. Flashes exploded, people moaned and screamed, cried out, “Aah! Aah!” Chairs scraped and fell over, glass shattered. Running footsteps, running.

The couple smiled all around and waved, like for a curtain call, then sat with Sr. Huston in the booth. Liz blew a kiss to Hernán. He was already fixing a tray with a double margarita for her, agua de Tehuacán for Burton, who wasn’t drinking. A raicilla cut with plain tequila for the director. Some guacamole and salsa, the way she liked it with plenty of garlic. She was cussing away. Hernán liked her; she was warm and bawdy. She and Burton had big booming laughs, were simply in it, each other, the place, life.

Little by little the bar emptied as people went to dress for dinner. They left walking or in one of the dozens of cabs outside the hotel. Victor went on foot with five or six men, heading north, to the “bad” part of town. Sam and Alma took off in her Jeep with Tony and Ava.

Ruby, Beto and Audrey were all fast asleep. John Apple offered to take them home in Ruby’s car. Hernán knew John was thinking of her liquor cabinet and refrigerator. At least he was still in shape to drive. Memo and Raúl helped them out to the car.

Left in the bar were two old men, drinking Madero brandy in big snifters. They set up a chess board and began to play. A young honeymoon couple came in from a walk on the malecón, asked for wine coolers.

Hernán wiped down his bar, straightened and replaced bottles. Memo was already asleep, sitting up, as if at attention, on a chair by the kitchen. Hernán looked out at the sea and the palm trees, listening to Liz and Burton and John Huston. They were arguing, laughing, quoting lines from the movie, or other movies, maybe. When he took them fresh drinks Liz asked him if they were making too much noise.

“No, no,” Hernán said, “It is wonderful to hear people talk about their work when they love what they do. You are very fortunate.”

He sat down behind the bar with his feet up on a stool. Raúl brought him café con leche and pan dulces. He dunked the pastries in the coffee while he read the paper. There would be some nice quiet hours now. Maybe later some people would have nightcaps before they went to bed. Then he’d walk home, not far, where Socorro would be waiting for him. They would have dinner together and talk about their days and their nights, their daughters. He’d tell her all the gossip. They would argue. She always defended the women. She felt sorry for Alma and Ruby with no one to protect them. He would tell her about Victor and the drugs. Even Sam had seemed to be talking about drugs with him. Socorro would rub Hernán’s back when they got into bed. They would laugh about something.

“God, I am fortunate.” He said it out loud. He was embarrassed, looked around. Nobody had heard him. He smiled and said, “I am very fortunate!”

“Hernán, are you lonesome? Over there talking to yourself?” Elizabeth Taylor called to him.

“I miss my wife. It’s four more hours until I see her!”

They asked him to recommend a restaurant. He told them to go to the Italian place behind the church. Tourists never go, they think it’s crazy to eat Italian food in Mexico. It is quiet and good.

They left and then the honeymooners and chess players went upstairs. Raúl slept opposite Memo outside the kitchen door. They looked like decorations, giant tourist puppets, in their black boleros and red sashes and moustaches.

Hernán was just about to fall asleep himself when a taxi door slammed. Luis got out with the American woman. She was falling-down drunk. Pancho went to help him get her upstairs and to her room. Luis didn’t come back down.

Several minutes later there was the slam of another taxi door, a woman yelling “You dickhead!” and then Ava Gardner came in wearing only one high-heeled shoe so her walk made a hiccup sound through the courtyard and up the stairs. The same taxi door slammed again and Hernán was surprised to see Sam, with no shoes and no shirt. He had an enormous black eye, a cut and swollen lip.

“Which is her room?” “Top of stairs, second, ocean side.” Sam went upstairs, changed his mind and came back down, his hand out for the drink Hernán held out for him. He spoke as if he had novocaine in his mouth, his lip was so swollen.

“Hernán. You can’t tell a soul. My reputation will be in shreds. You see a disgraced man before you. Totally humiliated. I insulted her! Oh, God.”

Another taxi, another slam. Tony came running in, tears streaming down his cheeks. He flew up the stairs and banged on her door. “Mi vida! Mi sueño!” Other doors opened all around. “Hush up, you fool! Shaddup! Shaddup!”

Tony came downstairs. He embraced Sam, apologized and shook his hand. He cried in little gasps, like a child.

“Sam, go talk to her. You can explain. I don’t speak English. Tell her how it was too dark. Explain to her, please!”

“I don’t know, Tony. She’s really mad at me. Come on. You just go on in there and kiss her, let her see those alligator tears.”

Hernán interrupted. “I don’t know what went on. But I’ll bet the lady won’t even remember tomorrow what terrible thing happened tonight. Don’t remind her!”

“Good thinking. Our man, Hernán.” Sam went upstairs with Tony, opened Ava’s door with a credit card, and gently pushed Tony into the room. He waited a little while but Tony didn’t come out.

Sam stood in the cobblestone courtyard, holding up his card, talking to an invisible camera:

“Hi, there! I’m Sam Newman…world traveler, bon vivant, man-about-town. I wouldn’t go anywhere without my American Express card.”

“Sam, qué haces?”

“Nothing. Look, Hernán…You have to swear.”

“On my mother’s grave. Come on, tell me all about it.”

“Well…Oh, God. So we get to Alma’s and she tells the cook to make us dinner. We’re out on her terrace, drinking more. Music playing. Tony doesn’t have a head for alcohol, usually he never drinks. And I had barely started. But those two women were wasted. It was dark and we were all sort of lying around on those waterbed couches she has when Alma takes Tony by the hand and, well, she drags him into her bedroom. Ava is just looking at the stars, I’m panicking and then she notices they are gone, sits up like a shot, hauls me off with her to find them. Well, they’re on Alma’s bed, naked, balling away. I thought Ava might hit them with a blunt instrument but no she just smiles and leads me back to the terrace. Oh, Lord how have I failed? I am a disgrace. Sick. Right there in front of God and everybody Ava Gardner herself steps out of her dress and lies back on the sofa. Oh Lord, help me. My friend, that woman is magnificent. She is the color of butterscotch pudding, all over. Her breasts are heaven here on earth. Her legs, man she is the fuckin’ Duchess of Alba! No. She is the Barefoot Contessa! So I tear off my clothes and lie down with her. And there she is. Ava, warm, in the flesh, looking into my eyes with those green ones I KNOW. My dick disappeared. It went to Tijuana, my balls took off for Ohio. And this Countess, this Goddess, she did everything possible. It was hopeless. I was dying of shame. I apologized and oh fuck like an IDIOT I said, ‘Gee, I’m sorry. It’s that I’ve been madly in love with you ever since I was a little kid!’ She’s the one who hit me in the lip. Then Tony shows up and really starts beating the shit out of me. Just then the damn cook comes in, turns on the light and says, ‘Dinner is served.’ I gave the cook some money and asked her to go find me a taxi, put my pants on and ran outside. The cook came back with a cab. I got in, then Ava got in after me. Tony was running down the street behind us, but she wouldn’t let the guy stop. Ava Gardner. I could shoot myself.”

Tony ran lightly down the steps and up to the bar.

“She forgives me, she loves me. She is sleeping now.”

“Shall we go back for dinner?” Sam grinned. Tony was offended. Then after a while he said he was, in fact, dying of hunger. Memo had been awake, taking everything in. He said he was hungry too, they should go in the kitchen and fix breakfast.

Victor arrived alone, sat at a far table in the now dim light. Raúl took him hot chocolate and pan dulces. Victor never drank or took drugs. Hernán believed he must be very rich by now. Raúl told Victor that Luis was still upstairs. “I’ll wait,” he said.

Memo came out of the kitchen just as a few people came in for after-dinner drinks. Tony went over to wait for Luis with Victor. Tony had chocolate too and Hernán sent him over some aspirins. Tony didn’t mention the evening to Victor, just talked about his new boat.

Sam came to the bar and ordered a Kahlua with brandy. He held his head between his hands. Hernán handed him the drink and said, “You need aspirin, too.”

Luis came downstairs, carrying one of the woman’s shopping bags. The three friends spoke in whispers, laughing like teenaged boys. They left, loped effortlessly past the open windows of the bar, their laughter trailing back with the sound of the waves, easy and innocent.

“What was that clicking sound. Maracas?”

“Teeth. Luis took the woman’s false teeth.”

Hernán picked up Sam’s empty glass, carefully wiped the circle where it had been.

“It’s time for me to go home. Want some ice for that lip?”