Beautiful Fools

by R. Clifton Spargo

  “You were still mine,” she said.

  He grew quiet.

  “It was the last time I truly believed, that is, when I was well enough to think or believe anything—”

  “But you believe in so many—”

  “It was the last time I believed—your promises were so earnest, desperate, mostly you were saying what I needed to hear—but still it was the last time I felt sure we would get there.”

  “Maybe we’re here now,” he said, slanting forward to kiss her as she fell back on the bed to receive the sturdy weight of a man’s body on top of her, his hands stroking her face, her shoulders, her breasts and neck, fingers gliding along the satiny surface of her dress, his movements gentle but purposeful. Shivering to his touch, she anticipated where his hands would go next, as delighted when she was wrong as when she was right, waiting, waiting, enjoying the wait and the way it filled up everything. She wanted his hands on her skin. At last he was unzipping her dress, saying, “Hold on to my neck,” so he could lift her torso off the bed and peel the elegant charmeuse gown from her shoulders, as far down as her waist. She rolled sideways on the bed, throwing her legs out until she was standing beside him on the floor, his cue, which he took immediately, to pull the dress down over her hips.

  There were times, especially in recent years, when their lovemaking was halting, bungled, clumsy, always one or the other of them on the verge of feeling wronged. On more than one occasion she had accused him of being unskillful. Alcohol got in the way, also her prickly nature, also her expectation that he should know without any prompting what pleased her. It was a mode of magical thinking, the belief that men were supposed to be naturally skillful, able to intuit a lover’s every desire. She had a hard time forgiving him when they fell out of sync, fearing that it was some kind of comment on their basic incompatibility. But not tonight, tonight his moves coincided with hers, what he wanted to do next aligned with what she also desired. She was naked, only her hat still on, pinned to her hair for a bit longer anyway, and he stripped himself while continuing to caress her. Soon all he wore were his socks, which she slipped off with her feet. She felt his penis, firm, unambivalent. “Oh, you feel so nice,” she said, sighing, arching her back on a pillow, rolling her hips upward to press into him, curling her fingers up and over the helmeted tip of him, applying pressure on it and rocking into it until in one swift, straight motion she pulled him inside.

  When they were done she rolled from the bed, walking into the bathroom to wash her face. And after that, without understanding what she was doing or why, she began to pace the room while Scott, worn out on the bed, now and then coughing in his groggy sleep, made vague inquiries into the dark as to whether she was all right, whether she was coming back to bed soon.

  “I’m just so happy,” she said, still pacing. “It will be fine, I’ll calm down, I’ll come back in a minute.”

  In the morning she woke him with breakfast and a gift, throwing herself beside him on the bed, announcing that she had been up for hours and found a market in town—in fact she’d run into the Frenchwoman from last night, Maryvonne, and they had talked and shopped together. Before Scott could open his gift, he had to eat something. Either the fresh guava or one of the baguettes she had purchased. Either a red banana or one of those whose surface was mottled like a snake’s skin. Last but not least, there was a Hershey’s chocolate bar. Knowing how he craved chocolate, she held it out as a reward, so that he would take at least one bite of each item of real food, which was exactly what he did, one bite of each kind of banana, one bite of a baguette, maybe two or three bites of the guava, before devouring the chocolate bar.

  Now it was time for her presentation.

  Zelda was in the habit of interpreting the presents she gave to people. It enhanced the pleasure of gift-giving, the opportunity to explain the thought she put into the choice of an item, why it was exactly what Scott, Scottie, or her mother needed. She told him how she had borrowed pesos from his wallet for the food, but the gift was purchased—she watched him unwrap it and, oh, she was so sure he was going to like it—with money put aside from her discretionary fund at the Highland, saved specially for this trip so she could purchase a few items for loved ones.

  What Scott held in his hand was a small silver medallion, a religious icon.

  “It’s Saint Lazarus, dearest Dodo, do you remember him?”

  “Of course I remember Lazarus.” Scott said. “What is he, the patron saint of coming back from the dead? Did you think he might bump start my career?”

  “Be serious, please,” she said. “He takes care of the sick, and you need to remember that your lungs and heart and overall health are more precious to some of us who walk this earth than they are to yourself. Since you won’t look after you, I found someone who will. Soon we’ll find a chain, and as you wear it you’ll think, I must take better care of myself. Meantime we can attach it to this piece of hand-braided twine so you can get used to it.”

  “Zelda, you can be so sweet,” he said leaning forward so that she could drape it over his neck. “Is there anyone as sweet as you?”

  She laid her head on the pillow next to him, staring into his eyes, their noses inches apart.

  “Will you remember this, Scott? If I die tomorrow, say you’ll remember and write about it, because I don’t want them saying I was a narcissistic person. I know sometimes I’ve been hard on you, but tell me you remember all the kindnesses too.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I always do, but Zelda, no one’s—”

  “You promise?” She jerked her head up off the pillow, propping herself up by her elbows to stare down into his eyes. “Do you promise, Scott?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Nothing, really, I just need you to remember. I had a dream last night, it’s silly.”

  In her sleep she had suffered a vision of how she might be seen—how literary men and biographers would talk about her. She knew what Ernest said about her already, even to common friends such as Gerald and Sara. She knew what John Dos Passos and John Peale Bishop thought. And there were others, of course. She wasn’t blind, she wasn’t deaf. Now that she had spent all these years in sanitariums and hospitals, unable to procure her freedom, the naysayers would have all the proof they needed. What was everybody else to think? She would always be “poor Zelda” to the masses; maybe Scott himself took comfort in the arms of lovers while referring to her as his “poor Zelda,” but she didn’t want their pity. She wanted to be remembered for the things she had done for him, for the joy he obtained simply from being in love with her. She was special, she wasn’t like other people, he was lucky to have known her.

  “I’ve never said otherwise.”

  “Then we’re agreed,” she said. Because she had made plans for them while he slept, and, yes, it involved their friends from last night, but that was all she would say for now. Did he approve? They were to leave in an hour. When he raised no objections, she began to talk again of the gift.

  “Do you see the two dogs at his feet? It’s from a story in the Bible, about the beggar Lazarus eating with the dogs. He’s always depicted that way, since the Middle Ages, the old woman at the market told me. But here in Cuba he is special for the Africans also because he resembles an old Yoruban god, Babalú-Ayé, I think he’s called, who tends to the wounded, who heals the chronically ill, who oversees health in the family. I want you to wear this medallion, and your lungs will get better and no harm will come to you.”

  Scott extended his palm to clasp her by the neck so that he might pull her lips to his, but she jerked away.

  “Say you’ll remember,” she said.

  9

  THE WOMAN TOEING THE EDGE OF THE PROMONTORY WAS HIS WIFE, her posture balletic, back held erect in a line with her heels. From this distance she seemed supple, lithe, as irrepressible as in the days when she had trained for dance with steadfast indifference to body and mind. In the gusting of a coastal wind, he put a hand to his hat, then allowed his eyes o
nce more to climb and behold Zelda’s crimson-suited body framed by empty sky, hair blowing, face turned into the wind, waiting until it should subside so that she might plunge into the ocean. She was brave, maybe even foolhardy, and he swelled with admiration for her.

  “Are you sure this is safe?” the Frenchwoman asked, standing beside him as his wife rotated away from the water, spotted him below on the beach, and raised her arm in a stilted motion not unlike a salute. She was thrilled at having found this high place, eager as always to show off for him, but for a split second—instantly he beat back the thought—it was as if she were waving goodbye. Several feet behind her stood the Spaniard, his naked skin almost pale in the sunlight. He too was prepared to dive into the ocean, but only after Zelda had taken her turn and brought the arc of the morning’s chase to its rightful end.

  It had started in the hotel room after she gave him the St. Lazarus medallion and announced that she needed to borrow more of their vacation money because surprises were so very expensive. Not to worry, in the days to come she would prove herself frugal, only let her have today. When he gave in, she let out a squeal of excitement.

  “Oh, you’ll see, it will be such fun. You’ll keep an open mind and remember we’re on holiday and in the end you always like the things I find for us to do.”

  Did he, was she so certain?

  “Oh, yes, you do, you will, you always do, I’m sure of it.”

  Her enthusiasm was like a primitive grace ravaging everything in its path. So he handed over the pesos in his possession, and she said, please, sir, more, and he gave her another wad of bills. In the courtyard half an hour later he crossed in front of the fountain misting in his face and through the archway of funneled wind to emerge squinting into the speckled light. No sign of his wife at the reception desk. No sign of the Frenchwoman or her refugee cousin.

  “Señor Fitzgerald,” the man behind the desk called, holding up a slip of paper, “ésto llegó hace poco para usted.”

  It was a cable, and Scott rested his forearms on the reception desk to read it, first surveying the lobby with its spare yet handsome furniture, several benches and chairs and a long bureau, all carved from a wood so dark it was almost black. It didn’t surprise him that Matéo Cardoña had managed to track him to this resort on the peninsula, even though he couldn’t recall ever mentioning their next destination. In the hallway of the Ambos Mundos, Matéo had spoken of Saturday night’s event as “under control” and yet “far from settled,” Scott wondering how it could be both things at once. “The wounded man has died, Scott,” Matéo said. Under circumstances such as these, the police were inclined to use any means necessary to acquire a verdict. Someone might remember, even if it wasn’t the entire truth, that Zelda had provoked the fight by rushing through the crowd and crashing into the man who’d cursed her. “Let me take care of this for you,” Matéo had insisted.

  As Scott now skimmed the contents of the cable, he took in key phrases—“several matters unresolved,” “not informed of your plans,” “next steps to be considered”—and he understood that Matéo was unhappy with him for leaving Havana without notice. The cable concluded with news that a messenger would be dispatched to Varadero, maybe tomorrow morning, maybe this evening, Scott should remain on the lookout.

  “Too bad we’ll be gone all day,” Scott said to himself. Still, he jotted down Matéo’s telephone number and address in his Moleskine, just in case, then tore the cable in half, sliding it across the dark granite surface toward the clerk.

  “Entiendo, señor,” the clerk said. “A la basura.” He made a motion with his arm as though tossing an item into a basket, and Scott nodded his assent.

  No sign of Zelda in front of the building, so Scott exited at the rear through French doors that opened onto a dirt and cinder pathway winding through coconut palms toward the beach, his breathing raspy, his stomach queasy, though he wasn’t as bad off as he might have been. Too much food in his system for this hour of the day, but he couldn’t have refused Zelda’s impromptu banquet. In the pockets of his light tweed jacket was enough Benzedrine and chocolate to keep three men awake for several days, and he promised himself to use the medicine sparingly. Fingers plunged into an outside pocket, he broke off a chunk of a Baker’s German’s sweet chocolate bar, lifting the rectangle to his nose to detect its malty fragrance before folding it in one sharp snap into his mouth, letting the chocolate sit on his tongue.

  Halfway to the beach he spotted her, perched on a knoll that rose like a burial mound amid a small cluster of columnar palms, at her side Maryvonne, Aurelio, and several horses.

  “Can you guess what the surprise is now?” she asked.

  “Let me see,” he said, holding a thumb and two fingers to his forehead in imitation of a clairvoyant, “you and I are going to watch Maryvonne and Aurelio race horses along the beach?”

  “So you’ve already noticed the horses?”

  “Hard to miss them.”

  “How did you know they were ours? You didn’t think for a second they might belong to someone else?”

  “Well, Aurelio is holding the reins.”

  “This is the plan of your wife and mine also,” Aurelio said, as if he wished to go on record ahead of time as a neutral party.

  “There are only three horses,” Scott remarked.

  “It is all that is ’vailable,” Maryvonne said, the last word pronounced as if she were mimicking the term valuable.

  But Zelda had thought of everything, deciding they would rotate seating throughout the day so that each woman might take turns riding with each man.

  “Some horses do not like to carry two people at once,” Aurelio protested.

  “That is why we have the large saddle,” Zelda said, annoyed by the Spaniard’s prosaic imagination. “Scott and I will share a horse for the first rotation.”

  One of the horses was a bay gelding thoroughbred, the other two of no particular breed, including the medium-sized palomino with an ivory mane that he and Zelda were to mount.

  “He’s the docile but hardy one,” Zelda said. “The owner often rides him with his young daughter seated on the saddle before him.”

  “That is not the same thing,” Aurelio insisted.

  “It will be fine,” Maryvonne interjected. “Zelda and I are small, like children.”

  Scott walked toward the animal, wishing his wife might have consulted him about the horseback riding, and that he in turn might have put her off a day or two, until he was sturdier. Still running short on sleep, hands jittery from weeks of hard drinking, he inserted his left foot in the stirrup, reached his hand to the pommel, then swung himself up onto the saddle. His chest tightened, and he could feel the pinch in his lungs as though someone were thumbing an internal bruise. He didn’t like heights of any kind, not airplanes, not diving boards, not even horses. In defiance of his fears he sometimes performed reckless acts, such as that ill-advised Olympic-style swan dive off a fifteen-foot diving board in Asheville a few years ago, inspired by (what else) a woman, resulting (no surprise here either) in a shattered clavicle and months of drunken convalescence. He let his thoughts race ahead to a full day of riding in the sun, in search of beaches and high places over the water, dreading the hours during which he would have to put up a brave front. Fortunately—if not for this provision, he might have despaired in advance—he had stowed a flask of Martell’s in the breast pocket of his sport coat.

  “Well done, Scott,” Aurelio said, praising his new friend’s mount as he held the second horse, a black mare, still for Maryvonne, then scaled the bay gelding in one swift motion without provoking so much as a flinch.

  “Hold her still, Scott,” Zelda said as the palomino took a step back. Scott clenched the reins to calm the horse, now lowering his free arm so that Zelda might grab hold and hoist herself into the air in a dancer’s leap. In an instant she sat in the saddle, preposterously facing him, her orange and white muslin dress bunched over the pommel, her crotch snug against his.

 
“Zelda, we can’t ride like this.”

  She peered hard into his eyes as if assessing his élan vital, sniffing out symptoms of alcoholic or tubercular deterioration, then playfully she licked the corner of his lip.

  “Sweet chocolate,” she remarked. Had he brought any to share?

  “Of course.”

  “Nevertheless we’re stopping at a market for picnic items.” She and Maryvonne had already purchased two bottles of wine from the hotel and stored them in Aurelio’s saddlebag.

  “You’ve accounted for everything except how I’m supposed to direct this horse with my wife riding in my lap.”

  “You’re not,” she said, then told him he would have to dismount so she could turn around in the saddle.

  “But Zelda, that makes no sense,” he muttered. “Why did I get in the saddle first?”

  “I was wondering that myself,” she said.

  He could tell that she was in a buoyant and willful mood, and it was useless to argue with her, so he draped the reins over her forearm, slipping his feet out of the stirrups to dismount the horse. The horse skittered forward, expressing its displeasure, but Scott retrieved the reins from Zelda to still the horse. He watched his wife place her hands between her thighs, then lift the flaps of her dress so that she might swing her left leg out from the horse, rotating her body by moving hand over hand in the center of the saddle, her weight balanced on those well-developed dancer’s triceps as she made the 180-degree turn. “Are you pleased?” she whispered midmotion. About the horses, she meant, he wasn’t angry that she’d gone ahead and arranged everything without him. Soon she had ensconced herself face-forward in the saddle, inviting him to remount the horse, posting in the saddle as he settled in behind her and then lowering herself, her derriere pressing against his mildly stirred genitalia, her neck craning to ask her question again.