“You’re right, I have been asking too many questions at once,” says the Gringo Journalist. “Tell me about the birth of the twins.”
“El Presidente!” rasps the Wizard, “now there was a name that used to mean something in the old days.”
“Did you hear my questions?…”
“The good times are all gone. The civil wars, the guerrillas, the government soldiers. The insurgents! I always liked being referred to as the Insurgent Leader. The tabloid newspapers manned by the only true journalists in the world, used to write about Courteguay’s civil war. The tabloids have a feel for Courteguay; they understand the shifting time and space, and no matter how outrageous their claims, those claims never approach reality. For instance, they claimed that both sides in our ongoing civil war practiced cannibalism, and that both sides had pygmy warriors who fired poisoned darts from blowguns.”
“Did you?”
“Which? What?”
“Were you cannibals? Were there pygmies?”
“Of course not.” The Wizard pauses. “Did you know that roast soldier tastes a little like chicken? Or maybe frog. No, rabbit, I think rabbit.”
“You just said …”
“Being Government wasn’t bad either. The poison from the pygmies’ blow guns paralyzed their victims, turned them to granite. If you were to hack your way through the jungle today you would find statues. Some anthropologist uncovered one a few years ago. They claimed the statue was from some ancient civilization, and they shipped him off to Great Britain. The anthropologist’s name was Mordechi Cruz and he grew up in San Cristobel, and he was no older than you are now.
“Revolution gets in the blood. General Bravura and I would trade places every few months.”
“Excuse me,” cries the Gringo Journalist. “None of this makes any sense. If what you say is true you are the Old Dictator, but from what I have researched you did not become El Presidente until after the passing of Dr. Noir. Which is it?”
“There is nothing like an unstable government to keep people on their toes,” the Wizard goes on as if he didn’t hear the question. “General Bravura was not without access to what some would call magic. I remember once, I was leading perhaps a thousand men and we were creeping up on General Bravura’s camp at dawn. As we stood on a hill looking down on the small encampment, readying for the attack, at least twenty thousand soldiers rose from the banana grass like tulie-fog. We stared at them for a moment. General Bravura’s army was supposed to be smaller than my own. There had to be some illusion involved. But what if there wasn’t? If they were real and we attacked we faced certain defeat. In prudence we retreated quietly and waited for the sunrise.
“And a government, any government, must take good care of its own. In politics one rewards one’s friends and punishes one’s enemies. For instance, I know that a retired President of the United States receives a tidy pension, the Secret Service, CIA, FBI, and the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders guard him constantly. In his retirement, he becomes president of a college where he has his choice of concubines from each year’s freshman class.”
“Where did you ever hear such things?”
“The infallible tabloids of course. The fearless press who publish what the people want to hear.”
“They also tend to exaggerate.”
“There is no such thing as exaggeration.”
“I might disagree with that.”
“Today’s El Presidente! I spit! Today’s El Presidente has an image consultant. When he visits the United States he is brown. There are senators and congressmen with darker tans. When he speaks to the guava plantation workers here in Courteguay he is black as onyx, his skin glistens. His consultants spray his face with black dye. They have to burn his black-collared shirts after every appearance.
“The magic of leadership is gone. The public need to see coins pulled from ears, snakes curled from every orifice, they want to see beautiful girls disappear from before their very eyes. And can I help it if the beautiful girls always reappear in my bed?” The Wizard shrugs and smiles.
The Gringo Journalist throws up his hands.
“I’m not sure this is very valuable for the book I’m writing. I want to write a true history of Courteguay.”
“Nothing is true. The concept is unknown in Courteguay.” The Wizard frowns, takes a bite of vanilla ice cream and hibiscus flowers. He chews thoughtfully.
FIVE
THE WIZARD
It was during the sixth month of his mother’s pregnancy, that, inside her belly, Julio Pimental began to throw the sidearm curve, says the Wizard.
He glances surreptitiously at the Gringo Journalist to be certain he has his full attention.
“Yi! Yi!” screamed Fernandella Pimental, as Julio went into the stretch, hiding the ball carefully in his glove so the batter could not glimpse the way he gripped it.
“Yii!” shrilled Fernandella, as Julio’s arm snaked like a whip in the direction of third base, while the ball, traveling the path of a question mark, jug-hooked its way to the plate, and smacked into the catcher’s mitt held by Julio’s twin brother, Esteban. The Wizard tips back on his cushioned rattan chair. The boy with the starched white hat brings them refills for their iced tea.
Many years later, on her deathbed, Fernandella Pimental, wizened and grey with age, attended by servants, small as a child in the queen-sized bed in the marble-pillared mansion her sons built for her, recalled the time of her pregnancy. She was residing on the outskirts of San Cristobel, which, though scarcely more than a village, was the second largest city in Courteguay. She and her husband lived in a cardboard hut with a precariously balanced slab of corrugated tin for a roof. The hovel was located on an arid hillside, surrounded by a few prickly vines, always in full view of the frying sun. Her husband, Hector, a sly young man with slicked-down hair, drooping eyelids, and a face thin as a ferret’s, spent his life at the baseball grounds, winning or losing a few centavos on the outcome of each day’s games.
Hector was proud of Fernandella’s belly, which by only the fourth month was big as a washtub, forcing her to walk splay-legged as she trekked out each morning in search of fresh water and fresh fruit.
Fernandella had been the beauty of San Cristobel, Queen of the annual festival at St. Ann, Mother of Mary Church, (though there was never such a church), fine-boned and light of foot, not at all like the peasant girls Hector Pimental was used to, who were heavy-thighed with faces like frying pans. Fernandella had courage as well as beauty; she could have done much better for herself. But the final evening of the festival she had walked the boisterous streets by herself, a yellow scarf twined in her long, straight hair. A summer storm hung on the horizon like a rumor; heat lightning peppered the distant sky.
As she walked she saw Hector leaning against the front of a booth that sold tortillas, and, as her clear, ironic eyes touched his, she trembled, as much from the night and the excitement of the festival as from the actual vision of the dark young man with hooded eyes who wore a black silk shirt open to the waist. She was enthralled as much by what he stood for as the man himself. For Hector Pimental had an aura of danger about him, a sexuality that widened Fernandella’s nostrils as she breathed the tainted air.
They exchanged a few words. Hector feigned indifference, something Fernandella could not understand, or tolerate, for as the most beautiful young woman in San Cristobel, Queen of the Festival of St. Ann, she had all evening been rebuffing the advances of men more handsome, richer, more worthy of her. Her mother had whispered to her that Santiago the furniture maker, a widower, not yet thirty, with a fine home in the green hills above the village, painted the color of raspberries with a coral-slate roof of eye-dazzling white, had expressed an interest in her.
“I’ve seen you at the baseball grounds,” Fernandella said, a delicate hand on her hip, one foot placed well in front of the other. When Hector did not reply she went on, “My father is a great fan of the San Cristobel Heartbreakers. We often come by in the evening to watch th
em play.”
“I am a fan only of teams that win when I have money on them,” said Hector, staring somewhere over Fernandella’s head, not looking down the front of her dress as other young, and not so young men, had been doing all evening.
Thunder rumbled at a great distance; the colored neon of the Ferris wheel cast yellow, green, and blue shadows across the faces of Hector and Fernandella, and Fernandella knew in her heart that she would marry Hector, whose last name she had yet to hear.
“Take me on the Ferris wheel,” she said suddenly; she had not until that second been aware of what she was about to say.
Hector counted the centavos in his shirt pocket. He grinned at her.
“Girls are often afraid of great heights,” he said.
“I am afraid of nothing,” said Fernandella.
They boarded the Ferris wheel amid the odors of grease, exhaust fumes, cedar shavings and the pounding of the motor that powered the rickety vehicle. The wheel worried its way up then lurched over the top, eliciting a scream from Fernandella who clutched Hector’s arm in a gesture partly fear and partly an unendurable urge to touch this mysterious young man. The Ferris wheel turned its requisite number of times, but when the attendant pulled the lever that would bring it to a stop, nothing happened. The wheel continued to turn, its green neon rolling across the sky like giant hoops. The speed of the wheel increased until it drew all the breath from the frightened passengers and the screaming died like bird calls on a breeze. The attendants worked frantically to stop the wheel. The motor was shut down, but a lessening of sound was all the shutdown precipitated. Eventually, the green neon, like parallel railroad tracks, disappeared into the distance of night like two illuminated green snakes.
Hector and Fernandella found themselves on a road outside of San Cristobel, the soft dust under their feet still warm from the day, the moon reflecting in a limpid pool, a stand of scarlet bougainvillea clutching at them as they kissed.
“When Hector Pimental takes his woman for a carnival ride, he takes her for a ride,” the young man said, pretending not to be puzzled by what had happened.
Fernandella’s knees were melting.
“You are magical,” she said, “we will enjoy a magical life together.”
Hector kissed her willing mouth, but all the while he was wondering about the outcome of his bets on that evening’s baseball games.
SIX
THE WIZARD
Fernandella’s family, who were stolid, hardworking, churchgoing people before the priests were relieved of their power, were horrified at her choice. Did I mention that the Old Dictator decreed that all priests were to leave Courteguay? Those who stayed were forced to live behind chain-link fences and quietly mold and disintegrate. Years later, Dr. Noir took credit for dispatching the priests from Courteguay and imprisoning those who stayed. Dr. Noir, of course, was a liar, a thief, a cheat, a murderer, and a scoundrel. And those were his good points.
When they weren’t making love in some secret and forbidden place, Hector retained his indifference.
“I have no intention of changing my ways,” he told her. “I will never work in the cane fields, or the guava plantations. I gamble. If you marry me my luck becomes yours.”
Fernandella agreed. Within weeks they were married.
BUT BEFORE THEY COULD BE MARRIED there had to be a baseball game. The women of Courteguay played almost as much baseball as the men and some of them were exceptionally talented. Before a wedding could take place a team made up of the bride, her sisters and bridesmaids, and whoever else was necessary to a complete team, played against a team picked by the groom. The groom’s team could be made up of anything from rank amateurs to semi-professionals. For the wedding to go forward the bride had to make an adequate showing as a baseball player. The word adequate could be interpreted in many ways. If the groom was reluctant, a bride who went only 1 for 4 and made an error in the field might be rejected by the triumvirate who made the decision, the groom and best man being two, the third often one of the moth-eaten priests who lived behind chain-link fencing. The priest never saw the game but would be told about it by the groom, and was the third leg of the triumvirate to give an appearance of fairness.
If the soon-to-be groom was madly in love, all the bride, if she was not an athlete, or many months pregnant, had to do was show up, stand helplessly in right field, and swing weakly at the ball when she batted. But even if the bride was an excellent commercial league player, the groom might want an extra week to sow a few wild oats so would insist that she had not played well enough to be his bride, thus postponing the wedding for a week.
Fernandella was coached by a woman named Roberta Fernandez Diaz Ortega, who now lived in the United States with her lover, a woman who once won the Dinah Shore Golf Tournament, and happened to be visiting her family. Several years earlier in a Wedding Game like this Roberta had been seen by a scout for the Baltimore Orioles. In cut-off jeans, a loose shirt, and with her boy’s haircut, Roberta was mistaken for a boy, and the scout offered her a chance in A Ball in the USA. Roberta signed her name as Roberto and hopped in the back of the scout’s Jeep after the game was over. As Roberto she moved quickly up the ladder and played two seasons for the Orioles, batting over .300 and coming second in All Star voting her second season. Her teammates did not suspect her. She was often seen in the company of women.
“Geez, Robbyo,” said teammate Bubba, one evening before a game, “I seen you dancing last night. I thought that tennis player girl you was with was queer as a three-dollar bill.”
Roberta stared him in the eye. “I am Courteguayan,” she replied, “I am able to overcome any odds.”
“Damn fine,” said Bubba. “Maybe you could introduce me to one of them queer chicks, I’ve always felt that after one evening with Ol Bubba, they’d get over that foolishness.”
“Maybe someday I will,” said Roberta.
It wasn’t until the last day of the season after Roberta had won the batting title in the American League and her teammates threw her into the shower that they discovered her secret.
Management quickly covered up by announcing first, magnificent player bonuses, then in December that a torn rotator cuff had ended Roberto’s career. They paid out her contract, which made her a very wealthy woman.
SEVEN
THE WIZARD
Her mother was certain that an evil wizard had put a spell on Fernandella.
And, as if to confirm his mother-in-law’s worst fears, on the day Fernandella first told Hector she was pregnant he took her to see a wizard who lived in a tent near the baseball grounds.
“If he is such a wizard why isn’t he rich, or President of the Republic, or both?” Fernandella cried.
“A true wizard never uses his gifts for his own benefit.”
“Who told you that? The Wizard?”
Hector busied himself brushing dust off the cuffs of his pants.
The Wizard, who called himself Jorge Blanco, existed by predicting the outcome of baseball matches.…
“You said Jorge Blanco was one of your names,” said the Gringo Journalist.
“If I said that then it must be true,” replied the Wizard, anxious to get on with his story.
In the mornings, a steady stream of gamblers made their way to the Wizard’s tent, paying five centavos for each prophecy. The Wizard seldom gambled himself, and hedged his prognostications. Unless a game seemed a sure thing, he advised half the gamblers to bet one side, half to bet the other, swearing each side to secrecy.
The Wizard claimed that he had once been to America, had spent two whole days in Miami, where he had seen a hot air balloon. The moment he had seen it rise in the air, hissing like a million snakes, he knew the feel of magic, and realized his role in life was to be a wizard. It was the first time he had ever experienced wonder. His second exposure to wonder occurred the same afternoon when he stumbled on a Major League baseball team engaged in spring training, and by asking a few questions discovered that professional ba
seball players were well paid, well fed, and overly respected, considering that what they did for a living was play a child’s game.
“THERE ARE INCONSISTENCIES HERE …” the Gringo Journalist began.
The Wizard glared at the Gringo Journalist.
“So, sue me,” he said. “This is Courteguay. Sometimes two and two equal five.”
“TWINS,” THE WIZARD PROCLAIMED PROUDLY, pressing the newly taut skin on Fernandella’s belly. “Twin sons!”
The inside of the Wizard’s tent was stifling, and smelled of fruit rinds and stale clothing.
Hector beamed; Fernandella scowled at the Wizard.
“How much is this going to cost?” she demanded.
Fernandella was not used to being so poor. Her own family had little, but their adobe home was whitewashed, had mats on the floor, and food had never been a concern. Since her marriage, Fernandella stole fruit from the tiny orchards of family friends. The hovel in which she and Hector lived had been abandoned by a family of ten, and their goats, when it became too filthy even for them, a group of people only one step removed from the animals with whom they shared everything.
Fernandella whirled about the hut like a Fury, making it livable. In a matter of weeks she was shrilling at her husband in a manner she had vowed she would never do, imploring, threatening, cursing, invoking saints that he might take a real job in the cane fields and provide for her properly. Still, in the night, when she slipped her hand inside the cool black shirt, when the sweetness of Hector’s hair pomade was close at hand, she shivered with ecstasy and forgave him his indolence and lack of ambition, praying that the baseball teams he had bet on might win.
“The Wizard,” scoffed Fernandella, “what does he call himself? Jorge Blanco? He is a scoundrel fallen on hard times who still wants to be the bride at every wedding, the corpse at every funeral. I’ve heard rumors that he was once known by the name Boatly, a Gypsy from Europe, an immigrant, a foreigner. I have heard that in another life he walked up out of the ocean like a fish learning to be a man. Some say he was deposited on earth full grown, that he arrived from outer space, emerged from a glowing, ball-shaped object that whined like an ominous wind and vanished the moment he stepped clear. He does nothing to dispel such rumors.”
Butterfly Winter Page 3
