Now he was speaking to me in the same way.
“You’ll have to do as he says,” Earle said. “Horses are sacred here, like cows in India.”
Earle was happy. He had been equally happy while we were studying the petroglyphs, and later too, after seeing the rattlesnake, as we drove to the silver mine. Sometimes, he wouldn’t just smile, he would laugh out loud.
“So you talk to horses, do you?” he said as he got into the car. “I thought that only happened in films.”
“I was saying goodbye. I don’t think I’ll ever come back here,” I said.
When Earle started the engine, the two horses drew back a little, but stayed where they were.
“We know the moment to say goodbye is getting close,” he said, “and that’s why we’re going to Virginia City. Dennis and I want to buy you a present. A souvenir of Nevada. A dried rattlesnake skin.”
This time it was Dennis who laughed.
We set off very cautiously, so as not to startle the wild horses. It would take us an hour to get to Virginia City. There were no roads in that part of the desert.
“To be honest,” I said, “I find even the dried variety alarming.”
What they really had in mind was a pair of leather boots. Dennis confessed as much as we were passing the area where we had seen the petroglyphs.
“We’ll buy you some special ones if you want, like the boots Ringo Bonavena wore,” Earle said.
Earle seemed so happy that I immediately thought of Natalie. Os vellos non deben de namorarse – old men shouldn’t fall in love – but maybe Castelao had been wrong.
“Do you know the story about what happened to Bonavena in Nevada?” Earle asked.
“I know he was killed here. You told us that the other day.”
“He bought a pair of boots from the very shop we’re going to now. The boots had a sort of compartment in which you could hide a small pistol.”
I found this astonishing.
“I don’t know that story,” Dennis said.
“What ignoramuses!” Earle cried, who really was very happy indeed. Le rire était dans le cœur, laughter was in his heart.
RINGO BONAVENA AND THE ANGELS
A FANTASY (BOB EARLE’S VERSION)
Ringo Bonavena bought himself a pair of cowboy boots in Virginia City and wore them day and night. During the day at Mustang Ranch, he went up and down the brothel’s carpeted stairs in them and only took them off when necessary; at night, in the streets of Reno, going from casino to casino, he would show them off to the other poker players. Afterwards, he would return to Mustang Ranch, to sleep in the caravan he had parked there. He would place his boots on a shelf, lie down in bed and dream of angels, for it is a well-known fact that boxers have very innocent dreams.
Bonavena wasn’t in Reno by chance, with, as his sole aim, going up and down the stairs at Mustang Ranch, but because the owner of the brothel, Joe Conforte, had bought his contract and was his new owner. He didn’t pay him very well, sixty thousand dollars a fight, but then, at thirty-three, Bonavena wasn’t exactly at his peak. Well, perhaps he was when it came to going up and down stairs, but not as regards boxing. In February 1976, in a fight that took place in Reno itself, he twice knocked down his rival, Billy Joiner, but failed to knock him out.
That night, while he was sleeping, one of the angels, his guardian angel, said to him:
“Go back to Argentina, to your mother. You have fought enough.”
Traditionally, angels have always been right, as was the one who spoke to him then. Bonavena had fought sixty-eight fights since the day he turned professional in Luna Park, Buenos Aires, and he had won fifty-eight – forty-four with a knockout. Added to this list of achievements was the splendid memory of his fights with Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier. In other words, he had money and fame. Why not go back to his mother? Boxers usually love their mothers, and he was no exception.
“Not yet,” Bonavena whispered to his guardian angel, not quite waking up. “I love Annie, and it would break my heart to have to leave her.”
His guardian angel accepted this reason unquestioningly. May God’s will be done. However, a devil, the security guard at Mustang Ranch, was not of the same opinion. His name was Ross Brymer. He went to Joe Conforte’s office and said:
“That Argentinian wants to screw Annie for free.”
Traduttore, traditori. Bonavena’s delicate words did not deserve such a crude translation.
As a businessman, Joe Conforte valued peace above all else, because peace, along with his talent for innovation, was what made Mustang Ranch the best brothel in the world. Ross Brymer, though, was a tenacious man, and he spoke to his boss sternly, as if he were his son:
“It makes me sad to see what’s happening, Joe. You were one of the country’s pioneers, and there isn’t a brothel in the world worthy of the name that doesn’t model itself on Mustang Ranch. Listen to me, Joe. This Argentinian bull is insatiable. Not content with having Annie, now he wants Mamy. Your wife, Joe! If you don’t do something, the same people who call you ‘the father of legal prostitution in the United States’ will start calling you ‘Cuckold Joe’ or, even worse, ‘Chicken Joe’.”
The word “chicken” was a loaded one. Many in the United States would remember Bonavena sneeringly calling Muhammad Ali “chicken”.
“Throw him out, Joe,” Ross Brymer said. “Get him off Mustang Ranch land. I hate seeing his caravan parked in our drive.”
It’s hard to know what went through Joe Conforte’s mind when he heard those words, because his genuine feelings were usually about as easy to find as a needle in a haystack, hidden beneath a thousand insubstantial trivialities; but he was probably thinking about Mamy and Annie. There was a nearly forty-year age difference between the two women. Could Bonavena cope with such a wide chronological range?
The telephone rang and interrupted his thoughts. It was Mamy calling him from Harrah’s.
“Joe, I’m going to Los Angeles with Ringo. I want to show him the sights.”
Joe Conforte made a joke before hanging up.
“Fine, sweetheart, but don’t show him anything else.”
Joe Conforte found himself in a dilemma. If he gave in to Ross Brymer and expelled Bonavena from Mustang Ranch, Mamy would be most displeased, and Mamy was irreplaceable, the most efficient brothel manager in the whole country. On the other hand, he didn’t want to displease Ross Brymer either. He was the “main man” of Mustang Ranch, good with his fists, good with a gun, brave, loyal and even capable of picking up a guitar and entertaining the clients. In a way, he was irreplaceable too.
“Ross, I know things have got a bit out of hand since Ringo arrived,” he said at last. “Up until recently you’ve been the main man here, and now you’ve had to take a step back. In a way, that’s inevitable, Ross. After all, Ringo has faced Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier in the ring, and he deserves some respect for that alone. On the other hand, I agree. Ringo would be much more comfortable in a room at Harrah’s than living in that caravan. And he’d be even better off in Argentina. It’s always good to be with your mama.”
Ross Brymer touched his hat. He had heard all he needed to hear. He was about to open the door of the office to leave, when Joe Conforte spoke again:
“Another thing, Ross. Annie tells me Ringo has a small pistol, but she doesn’t know where he keeps it. She’s searched his clothes, but it’s not there.”
Ross Brymer pulled a face.
“It isn’t his small pistol I’m worried about, it’s his big one.”
He wasn’t always so coarse and, according to some of the brothel’s regular clients, he was as good as Doc Watson when it came to singing country-and-Western songs; however, the new situation at Mustang Ranch was driving him to distraction.
Angels, especially guardian angels, listen to everything and understand everything, and Ringo’s guardian angel tried to tell him about that conversation between Conforte and Brymer, but couldn’t. Ringo was swanning around Los Angeles
with Mamy and, despite its name, that city was not a good place for angels. In a word: the angel failed to talk to him.
On their return from Los Angeles, Ringo left Mamy in Joe Conforte’s arms and went to the other end of the chronological range. Annie, however, had changed. She was nervous and asked a lot of questions: “When did you fall in love for the first time?” ‘“How old were you when you first made love?” “Is Buenos Aires a pretty town?” “Do you ever phone your mother?” “Have you ever been to France?” “Where do you usually keep your little pistol?” The first five questions were the haystack, the sixth, the needle.
“It’s inside my right boot,” Ringo said.
“You’re kidding,” Annie responded, laughing.
Ringo showed her the boot, which had an inside pocket in which the pistol fitted snugly.
On one of those nights, the caravan caught fire and burned to the ground.
“No matter, I’ll buy another one,” Ringo said.
His guardian angel was still concerned. The message from that fire was clear: “Get out of here! Leave Mustang Ranch! This is your final warning!”
The guardian angels also have their own backup system. They are guardians who have guardians, counsellors who themselves receive counselling, and they form an endless series, A1, A2, A3, A4, A5, A6, A7 … Ringo’s guardian angel – say, A212 – consulted colleagues about the best way to handle this serious situation. The angel’s closest friend in that infinite series, A162.400, immediately said:
“There’s nothing you can do. Ringo’s a boxer, he knows no fear. He called Muhammad Ali ‘chicken’, remember. For him, being chicken is the worst thing in the world. So be in no doubt, he’ll go back to Mustang Ranch and continue playing around with Annie and with Mamy, and even more brazenly than before.”
That night, A212 went to Ringo’s room at Harrah’s, where he had been sleeping since his caravan burned down.
“Ringo, buy a proper pistol and carry it in your belt or in a holster under your arm. That miniature pistol in your boot is no use at all.” Ringo listened.
“Tomorrow, I’ll buy one in the gun shop next to the hotel,” he promised the angel before going back to sleep.
In the morning, A212 again consulted A162.400, who was sceptical:
“Ringo was asleep when you spoke to him and it may have seemed a good idea at the time to go about armed like Billy the Kid, but he won’t remember when he wakes up.”
A162.400 was right. Ringo rose late and spent the day playing poker. Then, that night, he went to Mustang Ranch in one of the casino’s limousines. When he got there, he tipped the driver a hundred dollars and set off to look for Mamy and Annie.
Brymer shot him from the main door of the brothel. He told the judge he hadn’t intended to kill anyone, and that the grille protecting the door had deflected the bullet into Ringo’s heart. He couldn’t claim self-defence, because why would he need to defend himself against a person whose only weapon was a small pistol hidden in his boot? The judge sentenced him to a few months in prison, denying him the reprieve requested by the Mustang Ranch’s lawyer.
Ringo’s body was returned to Argentina to lie in state at the Luna Park sports arena in Buenos Aires, where more than a hundred thousand people filed past to pay their last respects. His guardian angel was impressed by the crowds and commented to his colleague A162.400: “It reminds me of that other man they crucified two thousand years ago. That was a special death too.”
“They’re hardly comparable,” A162.400 said.
“Maybe not, but it was still a shame.”
MAY 7
THE COST OF LOOKING FOR STEVE FOSSETT
The Reno Gazette-Journal carried an article about Steve Fossett prompted by comments made by Jim Gibbons, the governor of Nevada, to the Las Vegas Review-Journal. It seems that the governor intended sending a bill for $687,000 to the millionaire adventurer’s widow for costs incurred by the Nevada National Guard and the Civil Air Patrol in their search for her husband.
These comments caused great controversy. “We do not charge the rich or the poor,” said Frank Siracusa, director of Nevada’s Division of Emergency Management. “You get lost, and we look for you. It is a service your taxpayer dollars pay for.”
The article explained that the hotel magnate Hilton, the owner of the ranch from which Fossett had set off on his final journey, had made a voluntary contribution of $200,000 to cover some of the search costs. On the Internet, most people agreed with Frank Siracusa. One of the few in agreement with Jim Gibbons, however, was very aggressive: “Why should we pay to look for some adrenaline junkie?”
According to the article, the problem was money. The state of Nevada had budget problems because of the cuts.
TELEPHONE CALL
I called my older brother on his mobile phone because it was my mother’s day to go to the hospital, but he didn’t answer, she did. I heard her voice and the sound of a truck honking. They were in the car.
“Who is it?”
Her voice sounded unusually soft and mellifluous, as if she were speaking to a child.
“It’s me,” I said.
“Where are you calling from?” she said, after a silence.
“I’m in my office at the university. Are you in the car?”
“Yes, I am. You’ve no idea the number of trucks on this road.”
“Can I speak to my brother? Just for a moment.”
“Transportes Patinter!”
“Can I speak—”
“Transportes Azpiroz! Transportes Mitxelena! Autocares …!”
She paused, and my brother took the telephone.
“She’s getting all worked up about these trucks. Call back later.”
“Bengoetxea! Autocares Bengoetxea!” my mother shouted. “We’ve just overtaken them! We’re going really fast!”
“O.K., I’ll call back later.”
“Yes, whenever you like. Bye.”
MAY 12
SEVEN TELEPHONE CALLS
My two brothers called me, so did a doctor, as well as Adrián and another three friends from our schooldays. All gave me the same message: “L. died today.”
DREAM FOLLOWING THE DEATH OF L.
I dreamed I was in a huge rubbish dump, surrounded by mounds and even mountains of detritus and rubble. There were thousands of bags filled with trash. One area was blue and, from a distance, resembled a lake. However, when I went closer, I saw that it, too, was filled with bags of trash, except that these were newer and made of shiny plastic and arranged more neatly. A man was going around opening and examining them, although without actually rummaging around in the contents. I didn’t speak to him because, in the dream, he was always about fifty yards away from me. I took the opportunity, however, to examine the contents of the bags as well.
“They’re full of metaphors!” I thought with some surprise. This was an absurd idea, but I could see the bags and their contents, and it all seemed very real to me.
The metaphors were not as substantial as potato peelings or milk cartons, nor did they have any definite form, and yet, despite their ineffable nature, I could easily associate them with natural things and creatures. In several of the bags I opened, I found what looked like ants; in another, horses; and in still others, trees. There were some, too, that resembled books, houses or even walls.
I knew that a small bag could not possibly contain things that were ten or a hundred or a thousand times larger, but I didn’t care. All I cared about were the metaphors.
I studied those that were like ants and those that were like horses and those that were like trees, books, houses or walls, and I soon realised that, regardless of size or shape, they were all speaking about life after death. Then I heard a voice saying:
“Now when Jesus came, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days.”
I turned and saw that it was the old man who I had been unable to approach before. He had taken a book out of one of the rubbish bags and was holding it open before his eyes.
“Allow me to continue with the story of Lazarus,” he said and then read out loud: “Jesus said, ‘Take away the stone.’ Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, ‘Lord, by this time there will be an odour, for he has been dead four days.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?’ So they took away the stone. And Jesus lifted up his eyes and said, ‘Father, I thank you that you have heard me.’ When he had said these things, he cried out with a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, come out.’ The man who had died came out, his hands and feet bound with linen strips, and his face wrapped with a cloth. Jesus said to them, ‘Unbind him, and let him go.’”
The old man walked over to the blue bags, and I myself – I, the author of the dream, the creator of the images that kept recurring as if on a kind of closed circuit – could see that they were not bags exactly, but containers resembling yoghurt pots.
“Greek yoghurt,” the old man said. “Quite a different class of metaphor.”
He removed the lid of one of the containers and took out, not the creamy white substance I was expecting, but a wall.
Then, in another instant transformation, the wall became a book.
“I’m going to read the passage that describes the funeral of Patroclus,” the old man said.
I noticed that he looked very much like a teacher I had at school, who had been the first person to talk to me about classical literature and to urge me to read the Iliad.
The old man looked down at the book and began to read: “At length Achilles sinks in the soft arms of sleep, when lo, the shade, before his closing eyes, of sad Patroclus rose, or seem’d to rise; in the same robe he living wore, he came; in stature, voice, and pleasing look, the same. The form familiar hover’d o’er his head, ‘And sleeps Achilles? (thus the phantom said:) Sleeps my Achilles, his Patroclus dead? Ah, suffer that my bones may rest with thine! Together have we lived; together bred, one house received us, and one table fed; that golden urn, thy goddess-mother gave, may mix our ashes in one common grave.’”
Nevada Days Page 32
