At his next Spanish tutoring session, he found out that Blanca loved Almond Roca candy. She also liked modern flamenco music—what she called “that folky jazz sound.” She especially liked the Gipsy Kings, Armik, Paco de Lucía, and Ottmar Liebert. Curious, Doyle bought several CDs at the local record store and was instantly hooked. As he listened to this music, he often daydreamed about Blanca, picturing her dancing in a traditional flamenco dress.
Ian met Blanca for the first time at the Plaza San Martin Hotel in Tegucigalpa. Consuela and Blanca often went to the hotel to swim. They had started going while they were in college. Though the pool was ostensibly reserved for hotel guests, the hotel manager quietly let it be known that pretty college girls of good moral character were welcome to come swim at the pool as often as they liked, just to provide some eye candy for the visiting businessmen. To the girls, it was a perfect arrangement. The hotel provided a safe place to park and a safe place to swim. The only downside was that they often got to practice how to politely brush off the occasional lovelorn or just plain lusty business travelers. Only the Japanese ones took pictures.
During his third evening lesson with Consuelo, she and her husband, Pablo, invited Ian to come with them for a swim following the next Saturday lesson. Not wishing to be obvious, Ian didn’t ask if Blanca might be meeting them there, but he thought the chances were good.
At the Tegucigalpa Multiplaza, Ian picked out a new swimsuit—opting for the long “surfer suit” look—a dark beach towel, a lightweight Windbreaker, and a pair of the best-quality leather huarache sandals that they sold.
A half hour after their swim session began, Ian emerged from the pool after a set of laps. He was thrilled to see Blanca Araneta had arrived and was sitting on a lounge chair, chatting with Consuelo.
Toweling himself dry, he walked toward them, doing his best to look nonchalant. Consuelo introduced him to Blanca in Spanish. Señora Dalgon was, after all, a strict believer in true immersion Spanish.
Ignoring Consuelo’s cue, Blanca switched to English.
“A pleasure to be meeting you, Ian.”
Hearing the cute way she pronounced his name—more like “Eon” than “Ian”—was delightful to Doyle.
Avoiding the open chair next to Blanca, he sat down on the lounge that was beyond Consuelo’s and Pablo’s: he thought it best to talk to Blanca at first from a longer distance, rather than seem overly anxious or intrusive of her space.
Speaking to Blanca, over the top of Consuelo’s back, Ian said, “Señorita Araneta, I have heard your voice before, from the control tower. I usually fly ‘Viper 1-2-4,’ and you’ve probably heard my call sign, ‘Subgunner.’”
“Oh, yes, I know your call sign.”
Doyle replied, “Yes, that’s me. I always wanted to put a face to your name. I must say, you have a pretty voice, and a very pretty face to go with it.”
Blanca just smiled and laughed politely.
Again trying to seem nonchalant, Ian added, “Well, enjoy your swim,” and he reclined on an unoccupied lounge chair and put on his sunglasses. Lying there, he wondered if he had botched the introduction. His mind was racing. He felt very self-conscious, and oh, so pale-skinned among so many people with olive complexions. He dared not speak. Silently, he recited to himself Proverbs 17:28: “Even a fool is counted wise, when he holds his peace. When he shuts his lips he is considered perceptive.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Blanca stand up and whip off the ankle-length swimming skirt-wrap that she had been wearing. She tossed it on top of her flight bag. He noticed that she carried that bag everywhere. Beneath, she was wearing what by modern standards was a very conservative one-piece swimsuit with an integral skirt, but it couldn’t hide her traffic-stopping figure. Ian Doyle gulped and whispered to himself, “Ay, ay, ay.”
Blanca spent almost fifteen minutes in the pool, swimming lap after lap. After she got out and returned to her chair, Ian rose, smiled, and took his own turn in the pool, swimming in a medley of strokes for about ten minutes. He thought that at this stage it was best to seem slightly standoffish and more interested in swimming than in chatting her up.
After he climbed up the pool’s ladder, he could see that Consuelo and Blanca had turned on their chairs and were applying sunscreen to each other’s noses. Ian again toweled but just slightly, returned to his chaise, and put on his sunglasses.
Consuelo asked, “¿Bloqueador solar, Ian?”
He answered, “Sí, muchas gracias por su amabilidad, señora,” and raised his hands as if ready to catch the bottle.
But instead of tossing the bottle, Consuelo pivoted to hand him the bottle directly. Leaning forward, she whispered, “She has been very curious about you.”
As Ian slathered the waterproof sunblock on, he explained, “With my skin, I don’t tan, I just burn. I’m feeling a little too white to fit in here. I’m just another ugly ghost-pale gringo.”
As Ian handed the bottle back to her, Consuelo said matter-of-factly, “You know, here in our country, many people would be jealous of your fair skin. The more fair, the more aristocratic.”
Doyle realized that he had lot to learn about Honduras.
Blanca eyed Doyle for a minute and, speaking over Consuelo’s back, asked, “Has Consuelo been talking about me to you?”
“A little.”
“So, what did she say?”
“Something about your father, tu papá, that he was un experto de jugar al tenis.”
“Not actually a champion. He was a bronze medaler—I mean medalist—in doubles of tennis.”
She cocked her head and asked with a hopeful lilt to her voice, “Do you like tennis?”
“I’ve played the game, but you know, I never really liked it. No me gusta el tenis. It is just a whole lot of sweating just to hit a ball back and forth, back and forth. And it’s kind of an aggravating game. I found it a little too competitive: even if you practice a lot and hit the ball just right, there is always someone who can hit it just a little bit better, or who is just a little bit faster, and they can ace you out. So, no offense, but it’s not for me. If I want to practice my hand-to-eye coordination, I’d rather be in a flight simulator or, better yet, up in the air, formation flying or doing aerobatics.”
Blanca smiled. “Aerobatics?”
“Oh, yeah. The F16 is built for it—well, with a big turning radius, that is. Lots of power, great handling. The controls are a dream. Incredibly responsive.”
“Ay, that sounds wonderful.”
Consuelo jumped in: “Ian, you should show Blanca those videos you shot from the backseat that you showed me and Pablo.”
“Sí, señora, me encantaría . . . uh . . .” At a loss for the right words in Spanish, he finished: “. . . to do so.” After a moment he added, “That video may make you dizzy to watch, and there is not much narration, just me and the pilot grunting, you know, tightening our abdominal muscles, doing our best to pull the g’s.”
“No, it won’t make me dizzy!” Blanca said. She then just smiled, nodded dismissively, and lay back down, putting on sunglasses, and pulling her sun hat over her head. But Doyle noticed that she was looking in his direction.
With her large dark sunglasses, he couldn’t be sure if she was sleeping, or staring at him. He was having trouble reading her. Was she genuinely interested, or just being polite and properly social? He decided that it was best to just give her more of the “silence and sunbathing” treatment. He reached down and pulled out his Sony Discman portable CD player and put the headphones on. He closed his eyes and got lost in the music for a few minutes. Then he noticed something had shaded his face. He opened his eyes to see Blanca standing over him.
“Oh, hola, Señorita Araneta,” he said casually.
Gesturing to his CD player, she asked, “What are you playing on that thing?”
“Oh
, this? Here, take a listen.” Blanca perched on the edge of Consuelo’s lounge chair and Ian handed her the Discman. He leaned forward to put the headphones on her head. It was the first time that he had ever touched Blanca. It gave him a tingle.
Blanca put on a huge grin the instant she heard the music.
“You like Ottmar Liebert? No way! This is his first album, Nouveau Flamenco. You really like it?”
“Yeah, I sure do. I’m a recent convert to that music. I’ve really gotten hooked on flamenco guitar since I came down here.”
She nodded. “Well, Ian, what is currently your favorite band?”
“I’d have to say the Gipsy Kings. It’s almost hypnotic. From the first time I heard them sing ‘Bamboleo,’ I just couldn’t get it out of my head.”
Blanca shook her head in disbelief, then smiled and said softly, “Wow, I really like them too.”
The next time that Ian met Blanca was at a weeknight dinner party, just three days later, hosted by Consuelo and Pablo. The evening before, in halting Spanish, Doyle asked Consuelo, “How should I dress for this?”
For the first time at one of his immersion class sessions, Consuelo lapsed into English: “Well, it is a dinner, you should wear a coat and a tie.”
“I’m just TDY down here and I don’t have a suit with me. The only thing I have with a tie is my service dress uniform.”
“That will be fine. Wear that.”
Ian arrived early carrying a clear plastic grocery bag with a bottle of Chilean white wine and a can of Almond Roca. In the crook of his other arm were two large bouquets of white orchids.
Inviting him in, Pablo Dalgon said, “You can relax, Ian. We’re speaking all English tonight. This is not a class night. Purely social.”
Ian was taken aback to see that Blanca was already there. Doyle handed the flowers to Consuelo, and said, “I brought a bunch for each of you.” Pablo exclaimed, jokingly, “Oh, how nice of you. Flowers for both of us.”
Consuelo gave Pablo a sharp look and elbowed him in the ribs, chiding, “He means flowers for both of the ladies.”
Pablo laughed and said, “I know. Just kidding.”
As Blanca and Consuelo each took their bouquets, Blanca glanced down to see what was in the bag. She recognized the pink can. Her jaw dropped a bit and she gave Doyle a quizzical look.
In rapid damage-control mode, Doyle explained, “I heard from Consuelo that you liked Almond Roca, so I bought a can. You know, to serve with dessert.”
As Consuelo began serving dinner, Blanca’s eyes locked onto the can of candy sitting on the sideboard. Then she stared at Ian.
Blanca started laughing. She pointed a scolding finger at Doyle and said, “Ian, I think you are trying to manipulate me.”
“Yes, I am, señorita. I freely admit that. But I’m doing so in a kind of nice, gentlemanly way.”
Through the rest of the dinner, the talk was mainly about aviation and differences between American and Honduran customs. It was a very pleasant evening. Pablo was quiet, as was his nature. Ian and Blanca made plenty of eye contact. Consuelo, clearly looking like a victorious matchmaker, steered the conversation. She often returned to topics in which she gave Ian and Blanca opportunities to ask each other questions and talk about their accomplishments.
After dinner, Consuelo served flan with a piece of Almond Roca topping each piece of the gelatinous dessert. She was quite the diplomatic hostess.
Pablo and Consuelo stepped out to clear the dishes. In phrasing that he had practiced several times with Consuelo’s coaching, Ian asked Blanca in Spanish: “Señorita Araneta, I wish to ask your permission to court you in the coming days, with completely honorable intentions, if you would be so kind as to have me in your presence.”
Her answer was immediate, “You may call me Blanca, and yes, you may court me, with your promise to be a gentleman.”
Their next meeting was a lunch the following day at the air base canteen. But just as their conversation was starting, it was cut short: one of Blanca’s coworkers rushed to their table and exclaimed that the tower boss had fallen ill with a flu and Blanca was needed back at the control tower. Then he turned and stepped away just as quickly as he had arrived.
Blanca stood, and said, “I’m now in a hurry here, so this as you say is the Reader’s Digest version: I like you a lot, Ian. I think you are fascinating. So now it is the time I should take you up to the estancia, so mi papá can give you the, uh, ‘third degree.’ You are seeming just way, way too good to be true . . . and my father, he is an expert at digging out the flaws of character in suitors. We’ll see if he can scare you off.” She raised her index finger and added, “He has scared off all the others, you know. I’ll schedule a dinner for next Saturday.”
Before he could answer, Blanca smiled, gave a little wave, and dashed away.
Ian sat dumbfounded at what he had just heard. Then he said a long, silent prayer and ate his lunch.
To meet Blanca’s father, Ian decided to wear a suit, instead of his service dress uniform. But borrowing a suit that would fit him well took some scrambling, as did finding cuff links and dress shoes. This turned into an evening-long scavenger hunt for many of the junior officers and GS-9s who lived on his floor of Rick’s Place. Knocking on doors up and down the hall, Bryson Pitcher led Doyle and a parade of suit beggars. This turned into a movable party, with plenty of alcohol served. Doyle heard repeatedly, “This deserves a toast!” The lovely Blanca Araneta was a legendarily unreachable enigma for anyone who worked in flight operations, so the reactions were a mix of envy and awe. The envy came mostly from the officers who were there on PCS assignments. They were miffed that a newly arrived TDY O-2 could break the ice with Blanca, and so quickly.
Blanca drove over from her apartment and picked Ian up at just after three p.m., for the hour-long drive to her family’s ninety-hectare estancia, which was about three miles outside of Talanga. Blanca wore a simple black dress with a very modest neckline and hemmed below the knee. She wore very little makeup. Her hair was combed out and worn loosely. This was the first time that Ian had seen it in anything but a simple ponytail. The only adornment she wore was a single large teardrop-shaped pearl on a gold chain. Ian thought she looked gorgeous. She definitely had the Grace Kelly vibe going. Understated, but stunning.
The drive north from Tegucigalpa was fairly quiet and revealed the nervousness they both felt. There were just a few comments on the scenery and a bit of travelogue from Blanca on the local history and age of certain buildings. Ian felt a new level of anxiety as she turned the car into the estancia’s long driveway. Even from a distance, Doyle could see that the house was huge and that it had stables off to one side.
Just before they stepped out of the Mercedes, Ian straightened his borrowed silk tie. Blanca whispered, “Bring your video camera. My papa will want to see pictures.” After the maid ushered them in, they met Blanca’s father on the screened patio.
As was customary, Blanca began the introductions: “Papá, éste es mi amigo, Ian.”
Ian carried on haltingly, “Mucho gusto, Señor Araneta, su hija habla de usted con mucha admiración, es un honor y un placer de conocer a usted.” (“I’m pleased to meet you sir, your daughter speaks with great admiration about you, it is an honor and a pleasure to meet you.”) Ian did this fairly well, since he had practiced it with Consuelo, but he was obviously nervous.
After shaking hands, Arturo Araneta asked, “So, Lieutenant Doyle, my daughter tells me you are a pilot of F-16 fighting planes.”
“That’s right, sir.” Pointing to the rucksack on his shoulder, he said, “I brought my camcorder with some movies of myself and some of my squadron mates flying F-16s, if you are interested.”
“Of, course, of course. Let’s go to the library.”
Arturo Araneta asked as they walked, “You have this movie in your video camera?
”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s watch it on my big screen. It is the latest from Japan.”
The dimly lit library was quite a contrast to the brightness of the patio. It took a while for Doyle’s eyes to adjust to the lighting.
As they were getting the camera’s cable hooked up to the television input jack, Arturo Araneta asked Ian, “So, where did you go to college?”
Without looking up, Ian said, “The University of Chicago.”
Arturo pointed to the jacks on the front of the television and said, “You may attach the cables here. And what did you study?”
“Engineering.”
Arturo looked at him and said, “There are many types of engineers.”
“I did a double major, in aeronautical engineering and industrial engineering. I also got minor degrees in English literature and military history.”
The elder gentleman looked impressed. “Engineering, engineering. Excellent! I am surprised that so many other young people waste their time in other trifling fields.” He again looked at Ian intently and asked, “That much work must have been difficult. How were your grades?”
Ian smiled. “It was a lot of work, but I enjoyed the material. I graduated cum laude.”
Arturo stood up, smiled slightly while nodding his head, and said, “Very good. Very, very good.” With a wave of his hand, the maid brought iced tea and they sipped it as they watched Ian’s videotape.
Doyle introduced it by just saying, “These clips you’ll see were all shot by me from the backseat of a D-model F-16—that’s the version with two seats.”
The first clip showed some tight-formation flying. The second showed takeoffs, landings, and touch-and-goes.
Just before the third segment, Ian voiced the caveat, “Now, this part coming up, it wasn’t me at the controls, and I had no warning that my friend was going to do this. I was just along for the ride and to preserve the events for posterity.” The video then showed the plane doing slow rolls high over San Francisco, passing through patchy clouds, and then diving to line up west of the city. It then flew under the Golden Gate Bridge and then under the San Francisco Bay Bridge with the pilot twice exclaiming “Yeee-haaaaaaw!”
Survivors - A Novel of the Coming Collapse Page 21
