Crowned Heads

by Thomas Tryon

  Again she told herself she had no business doing what she was doing, but she could not help herself. She watched as he soaped himself, and his head came back, a smile playing on his lips, his eyes closed in the water, as he performed an act which caused her knees to go weak, and when he was done he opened his eyes and saw her watching. He did not try to hide himself, but stood looking up at her, his smile slowly fading, the water gurgling down the drain, and she thought she read an invitation in his look. She moved to get down, her head struck the window, the stick fell out, the frame dropped. She tumbled backward from the basket, barely managing to keep from falling. She saw Steve Alvarez standing at the end of the walk under a bougainvillaea. He’d been watching her while she had watched Emiliano; there was no way she could be sure of this, still she knew it. She clutched her wrapper around her and went toward him, angrily demanding why her fire had not been lighted. He took the basket from her—but with such a sly look—and loudly bawled for the boy to see to hot water for Numero Uno.

  She went back to the cabaña and waited for the water to come up. While she waited she undid her wrapper and dropped it on the terrazzo, facing the door, on which there was a long mirror. She scrutinized herself carefully, turning one way, then the other, looking back over her shoulder, touching her body in various places. There was no doubt of it, she was putting on weight. Her belly bulge was more prominent and the pockets of fat had returned around her waist and hips. It was the desserts. When the MorryEll came and they got to Acapulco the first thing she must do is find a masseur. She must begin her diet all over again; but not now, dear God, not now. She touched, lifted, caressed, assayed her breasts. Still firm, up, not sagging. She had those, anyway. She held them as though in offering, and closed her eyes. It was the beautiful Emiliano to whom she gave them.

  That night she watched him dance, her eye following every line of his body, tightly encased in the black shiny costume, and smiled to herself, knowing at last what lay under that fabric. When the dancing was done she hurried away to her cabaña. She undressed completely, then put on her white negligee. She lifted the ruffles at her wrists, and felt them lightly touch the backs of her hands. She combed her hair and touched up her make-up and put perfume behind her earlobes. Then she went out onto the patio, breathing deep gulps of air, and her heart was beating fast. She went down the steps and slipped along the walk, like a romantic heroine on her way to an assignation.

  She had decided that what she must do is go to him, offer herself; he could not refuse her. How could he? Yet something inside her despised this plan, denounced it as foolishness beyond foolishness. A Mexican boy, young as her son, who had indicated no interest in her whatever, committed to another, who if she were in other circumstances she would not look twice at; except yes, she told herself, she would look, she would, he was so beautiful, she loved the lines of his body, she must touch and caress them, he had appeared to her as a god and she would go to him as a worshiper. She approached haltingly, one hand extended before her as a blind person moves or a sleepwalker, and truly she might have been asleep, so little of the reality of what she was actually doing occurred to her. Then she turned the corner under the bougainvillaea and she was there. Lantern light shone through the open door, and she could hear soft music playing. She used her still-extended hand to scratch on the screen, softly saying his name. Emiliano … Emiliano … There was movement from inside, and he appeared, loomed, out of the darkness, and was standing behind the screen. Please, she said, allow her to come in; he only stood there, looking out at her, half his face caught in the lantern light. And now as if in the same dream she came closer to the screen and talked to him through it, as a prisoner might—and she was his prisoner—and she said things to him. They came out in a long rush of breathy passion, the offer she was making to him, and he stood there making no reply. She grew impatient, standing outside, whispering these things, her breast rising and falling and the ruffles at her sleeve fluttering in the light as she moved her hand against the screen, pleading now, knowing the foolish thing she was doing but unable to stop herself. Another figure appeared behind him. A hand came out, pushing Emiliano from the space behind the screen, and Rosalia’s angry features took form in the light. Vaya, vieja. Go away, old woman. She swept backward and wheeled, her gown fluttering; go away, old woman. That was a wicked, wicked girl, that Rosalia. Yet it was not her laugh she heard, as she went, but his.

  She trembled, whether with passion or shame she could not be sure. She stayed in the dark under the bougainvillaea, listening to the sounds of her breathing, biting her lips till they hurt. As she had hoped he would hurt them. She had thought everyone was asleep, but in her haste to reach her rendezvous she had missed the clack of the typewriter; now she heard it, coming from the office. Steve was hunched over the desk, his boney fingers hitting the keys. His chair squeaked as he leaned back, looking up to see her standing outside in her white gown. He turned down the lantern wick and came outside. He put his arms around her and pulled her to him, so hard that her breath came out of her throat with a rush. No, she thought, not this one, the other, the beautiful one; still, she was kissing him. His rib cage protruded against her, and his mustache felt damp, and softer than she’d imagined. There was oil in his hair, a flowered fragrance she found unsuitable on a man. His body was softly moist and heated, and she tried to keep his hands from fumbling crudely over her as he kissed her. He was not, she thought, romantic. He leaned, still with an arm about her, and swung the office door shut, and brought her along the walkway toward his house.

  He put on a record, playing it softly, and they sat in the dark, smoking. He gave her a drink, then began removing his clothes. He looked over at her and said, Well, what are you waiting for? He came and undid the cord of her gown and urgently hurried it off her shoulders and down her arms. The white melted onto the dark floor and she worried about the ruffles.

  Afterward she took one of his cigarettes and lay against the hot pillow, smoking, thinking not of him, or of Cupie, but of Emiliano and Rosalia in the other house. He was not very nice, to have laughed. Steve lay curled away from her, his lips burbling, his nose humming as he snored. Then a flashlight shone in the hall. Sashie came to the door and stood looking at her in the bed. She thought she had never seen such a fiercely angry expression. She drew the sheet over her exposed breasts and put out her cigarette. Sashie said, You leave my father alone. She watched, small and defiant, while Lorna rose and picked up the fallen negligee. Steve Alvarez hadn’t moved. You don’t understand these things, Sashie, she whispered, you’re too young. No, I’m not, Sashie said. I heard about you. Everybody heard about you. She pressed back against the cinder-block wall, making room as Lorna passed. I’m sorry, she whispered, going out. No, you’re not, Sashie said.

  Next day Cupie returned on the noon boat and Sashie ran to meet her. Cupie’s merry face grew grave as the child walked along beside her—Lorna watched through her dark glasses from under her hat, scarf, and umbrella, and pretended to be engrossed in her manicure. Cupie glanced over, then went to the office.

  At lunch Cupie was not to be seen, and Steve Alvarez worked the bar, keeping busy with customers. Emiliano had pointedly remained at a distance, while Rosalia refused to serve Lorna’s table. That evening, when she came into the dining room before dinner, Cupie was lighting the candles, bending her great weight over the netted glass holders and reaching in with a match. When she looked up Lorna was relieved to see that her face was the same as always, fat and merry. Lorna sat down at her solitary table, thinking she’d had a narrow escape. It was incredible how a woman like that could be forgiving.

  But Sashie wasn’t. She did the most outrageous thing. The following morning she came onto the beach in an oversized pair of high heels, swinging an adult pocketbook and sashaying with a hand on a hip. She had a lot of make-up on, and gold hoops and bangles. She did a vamp’s wiggle-walk along the sand and everyone laughed, saying Tatum O’Neal. When she came up to Lorna’s umbrella she put on the m
ost embarrassing act, it was almost obscene, saying, Don’t cook your breakfast, pop it, with Perkies pop-ups, the one with the berries. Not knowing what else to do, Lorna fled.

  Next time she saw Cupie she went up to her and touched her and said, I’ve got to talk to you. No, you don’t, Cupie said wearily. But you don’t understand. Cupie said, I understand. She didn’t seem angry, only sad. She turned her head away, and Lorna’s heart turned over. Cupie was hurt, she’d been crying; but Cupie was one of those marvelous philosophical fat people who never got hurt. They were always merry and happy. Look, Lorna said, in a rush of dismayed laughter, I don’t want your husband. When Cupie turned to her, the merry look was no longer there and her voice was bitter. Yah, I know you don’t, she said.

  Downhill. She was in the tropics, but she was skiing and it was all downhill. She stayed in her cabaña, coming out only to swing in the hammock. She swore out loud, cursing the stifling weather and the slow passage of the MorryEll. It was never going to get there. Richard, she said aloud, Richard, swapping Romance for Security, swim fins and a white bathing suit for a pipe and tweeds. Would he come; would he? Would he understand, be sympathetic? She wanted to go home, she wanted Selma, Carrie, Jeffrey, Nan, coffeeklatsches, lunch at the Derby, familiar things. God, how she hated the tropics. When money was sent, she thought she might fly to Mexico City, then, not home at all, but to New York, then to … ? She had gone through her book of traveler’s checks; she had only a little cash left. The money hadn’t come from her lawyer. She knew why; she owed him too much. She read Andy Capp comics in paperback.

  She sat staring at her hair in the mirror, not believing what she saw. The dark color had been bad enough, she had realized it now; it wasn’t her at all. Richard would have been shocked to see her. But this, this was an awful mess. Cupie had not got what she had asked for, it was another preparation entirely, with directions in Spanish. She had interpreted them as best she could with her diccionario, but it had come out all wrong. The stripping required the entire morning, and the bleaching and coloring the better part of the afternoon. Now she looked like a waitress; or worse, a hooker. The color was blatant, brazen as a brass bell. It had an ugly, metallic sheen, none of the soft baby-blond tints that were her natural heritage. She had been careless getting the stripping down into the parted roots, and there were dark places. She wore a scarf at dinner, sitting alone with her book propped up on the water glass. She smoked between every course.

  After dinner she hurried from the dining room. She changed her clothes and walked up the beach in the dark. The haze that hid the sun also hid the moon. She went to the yacht club and talked to Jack, trying to get news about the MorryEll. She had three banana daiquiris, then asked if they had the recipe for coco locos.

  She didn’t make it back to the hotel that night. She sat at the yacht club bar, talking with people from the boats, her hair hidden under her scarf, seeking information about the regatta. The yachts were on the way again, they told her, the storm had broken, and she tried to find relief in that knowledge. White sails carrying a trim hull through the mouth of the bay. Then everybody was gone and she was alone with Jack. She talked at length, and seriously, about meditation and how much it could change your life, and he listened and snapped his fingers for the waiter to bring more drinks. Later he said no, he wouldn’t walk her home; it was too far. If she wanted to stay the night, okay. It seemed the easiest thing; his rooms over the club were very pleasant and the bed was a Hollywood type, very large. He was rough with her but she didn’t mind. Next day her head hurt again and she looked awful, but she could make the usual repairs, so that was all right.

  Because she hated going back to the hotel in the same clothes, she went over to Joan’s. She didn’t mention having stayed at Jack’s, but Joan was a big girl, she knew. Somehow she wasn’t as simpática as she had been. Lorna decided that Pat must have talked about the night spent in Mirabella with Bob Somers. She passed it off, asking if she couldn’t borrow something to put on, and Joan loaned her shorts and a shirt; they both had her own label.

  There was only one way to get to the cabaña without being seen, and Lorna worked her way around the back of the lagoon, under the trees. Fruit, there was fallen fruit all along the ground, rich, soft, opulent fruit, with something decadent about it in its unused, wasted condition. Ripe, yellow, split open, leaking with seeds. Then she saw the man called Ávila. He was standing back in the shade, his sombrero tilted away from his face, which was pushed into half a mango he held in his hand. Eating, he looked at her, and when he took the mango away she saw the glint of his gold teeth. His free hand moved slightly, and she stopped, stared at him as he undid the buttons of his jeans and exposed himself. Then she ran, not looking back but wondering how he dared, did he do that to other women, or was it only her, and what had he heard about her? El Loco.

  She got back to her cabaña, where the maid was pushing a wet mop over the terrazzo. She ordered her to leave, then threw herself on the bed, panting, wanting to throw up, telling herself the MorryEll would soon be coming. Jack had not given her much rest, so she slept, and when she awoke it was late afternoon. She longed for one of those beautiful Mexican sunsets, but the sun went down in a murky haze, leaving the clouds an ugly red color, like blood. She called for Benito and told him to bring her a coco loco; no, two.

  She drank them, one after the other, sometimes in the hammock, sometimes in the painted chair, but her eye directed along the point of rocks. Emiliano was out there, with his fins and goggles. No more a god, but a Mexican dancer, flamenco, olé. She watched him steadily while she sipped through the twin colored plastic straws, putting her hands together as if in supplication, looking up at the sky, praying to God with a mute and, she hoped, beseeching expression.

  Emiliano came out of the water, dripping, brown, a fish flapping on the end of his spear. She watched him go. He did not see her.

  Inside, on a hangar on a hook, was the white negligee. She sat staring at the white ruffles around the neck, the sleeves, the skirt; she watched them, thinking they needed pressing. She had an unlit cigarette in her lips, and a box of wax matches; the cover of the box said Las Cinco Palmas. When she had lighted her cigarette she watched the flame of the match, the small wavering flame, until her fingers grew hot. She blew it out and dropped the burnt match, then she went inside.

  Five minutes later a shout went up. Someone had seen the smoke; it was pouring out the windows of Number One. The bartender rang the ship’s bell, while Lorna Doone came falling through the door onto the patio, coughing. The waiters and kitchen crew were running, then they went back for buckets and from the point they dipped up water and passed the buckets hand over hand. They came with the garden hose and turned the nozzle on the flames. The fire was put out, but the cabaña was uninhabitable. They moved her to another, in the back. She said she had no idea how the fire had started. Most of her clothes had been ruined by either flame, smoke, or water, and she had salvaged only a few things, including several bikinis and her cosmetic case. Also her copy of A Guide to Inner Peace.

  When they had got her moved they found secreted away among her possessions all kinds of strange things—bars of hotel soap, rolls of toilet paper, dozens of matchbooks, knives and forks, several maids’ uniforms, an entire china service for two with the Las Cinco Palmas emblem—cups, saucers, dinner and salad plates. Also office supplies, Sashia’s plastic mirror and comb, and a pair of Emiliano’s white bathing trunks.

  Steve Alvarez issued orders that the bar was to be shut off to her and the waiters were not permitted to bring her any more drinks. She went down the beach in a scorched caftan to the yacht club, where she made a disturbance, and Jack had her forcibly removed from the premises. She went to the village, and when she returned she carried a paper sack: grapefruit juice and two quart bottles of ricea. She called to the boy to bring her a can opener.

  It rained, and she stayed inside. They could hear her all the way down the walkway to the dining room, crashing around and
talking and shouting and crying, sometimes breaking things. These outbursts would be followed by long periods of silence. When it grew dark she would sit on her patio under the dripping thatch, in her caftan, a towel stamped Las Cinco Palmas draped burnoose style over her head, keening into the night. They watched her from the bar, orange faces hung like jack o’ lanterns over the candles. Later, naked, she stood in the shadows, arms upraised like Astarte, Venus, the nipples of her breasts brilliant with red, her face a painted mask, howls coming from her mouth. Whatever happened to the good old days and “Elmer’s Tune”? she cried. Silencio! someone shouted, and she was silent