Your question? I have not forgotten your question. The Pimental brothers, Julio and Esteban. I have known them all their lives, indeed I have known their parents before them, the crafty Hector, the shrill Fernandella. Ah, how I came to be in this place is a long, sad story, of which I am sure you are not interested, though I’m sure you as an American recognize me as not being a Courteguayan. By the way, have I told you how much pleasure it is to converse with someone in English, you cannot imagine how little English is spoken here. Dr. Lucius Noir, the noble dictator of Courteguay, speaks English, I know this for a fact, for he studied at a chiropractic college in your state of IdaHO. Ah, yes, IoWA, to be sure. Dr. Noir once graced my humble roadside stand with his presence, though that is another sad story, and the reason I limp, though I am certain you are not interested.
How old are the Pimental brothers? Well yes, age is relative, is it not? Some of us are very old when we are very young, some of us remain very young when we are very old in years.
I am not exactly evading the question. I have known the Pimental brothers all their lives. They have lived in a hut down that road to the left, which is visible to the naked eye. I remember them coming to my humble stand with a centavo or two to spend. Different as night and day they are; Julio lean and wild-eyed, confident, like candy to the young women. Esteban, born with a scowl on his wide, dark forehead, stocky and lumbering, always eager to learn, the pleasure of the flesh secondary, or, how would you say, less than secondary? It is so long since I have spoken English. You will notice that I speak English with an Oxford accent, for in my native country I was tutored by a fine young man who read history at Oxford and could recite the details of every battle of the Peloponnesian Wars, a subject that I have to admit did not interest me a great deal, for I have always been an entrepreneur, though I tolerated his long digressions in order to learn English. Ah, I see you look askance at my meager supplies, at the warped lumber of the shelves, at the preponderance of flies on the fruit and meat. This is certainly not what I imagined when I agreed to come to this part of the world. I was offered a fine wife and acceptance into a prosperous business. In the Dominican Republic there are a number of families from India, all engaged in trade and commerce. One of these families had many daughters and few acceptable suitors so they advertised in India. I come from a family that had, with the early death of my father, a lawyer, fallen on hard times. I answered the ad and was presented with a photograph of a beautiful young woman, and a one-way ticket from Bombay to Santo Domingo.
Ah, yes, I can see your attention is wandering, you are curious about the Pimental boys. I do not know baseball, cricket is my game, but I recognize an excess of talent when I see it. Julio Pimental pitches the ball as if it were small as a grain of rice, it is not only speedy, but dips and glides away from the bat of his opponent. One can sometimes hear vertebrae cracking as batters miss the pitches thrown by Julio Pimental.
The brother? Esteban? He catches the balls thrown by Julio. He is an average catcher who always appears preoccupied, as if he would sooner be someplace else. He has a secret. He communes with one of the moth-eaten priests in the compound. I believe the priest has taught him to read. I feel sad for him, their religion has so many restrictions. In my country there are gods in every leaf or blade of grass and they are mostly benevolent except for Shiva and Kali, oh, they are most terrible, women of course.
I needed some benevolence when I arrived in Santo Domingo. Among the many people waiting to meet me at the airport was the beautiful young woman of the photograph, Bhartee by name. But when I walked toward her someone seized my arm. A trifling formality they assured me and I should not fall weeping in dismay onto the airport floor as I had already done. They did not have a photograph of the sister I was to marry, so they sent one of her youngest sister, Chandra. Bhartee was at home waiting with great expectation to meet me.
Oh, what an evil surprise awaited me. The family was very wealthy, very successful in trade and commerce. However, Bhartee, I do her no disgrace to say she looked like a warthog. In many instances I do disgrace to the warthog. I mistook her for a tent, but soon discovered it was all her. Her poor face looked as if she had participated in many boxing matches, all in a losing cause. Her voice was like a fork scraping on a plate. Her eyes were not connected to anything and rolled aimlessly in her head. They offered me wealth, and I, greedy swine that I was, accepted. To my everlasting shame I married the woman Bhartee, was paid a fantastic dowry, and welcomed into the family.
Ah yes, your curiosity is not for my sad story it is for Julio and Esteban. An anecdote, that is what you journalists are seeking is it not? I will tell you one. As young boys they used to frequent my humble business; they would arrive a centavo clutched in a small hand seeking to buy a candy.
Sometimes, even when they had no money they would stare rapturously at the candies I kept in small boxes on the counter. Esteban was always somber, even at such a young age he had taken to walking with his hands clasped behind his back like the decrepit priests with whom he had become friends. Julio, on the other hand, was brash, outgoing, eyes full of the devil. The young girls in the neighborhood, if they were lucky enough to have a centavo or two, would buy candy and then share it with Julio without being asked, sometimes they would give all their candy to Julio in exchange for one of his smiles, a smile that would open a night-blooming flower.
One day Julio stole from me. I have developed eyes in the back of my head, yes. Almost everyone, except Esteban, is a potential thief if the occasion arises. Then I had occasion to relieve myself out among the dwarf palms and oleanders. As I returned I noted Julio slipping two centavo candies into his pocket. I said nothing. While I could not afford thieves, I could not afford to lose a long-term customer. A payback would be arranged.
A week later Julio came to my counter clutching two centavos and two candies. I looked sternly at him, seized both the money and the merchandise, and pulling my machete from beneath the counter, my defense against thieves and robbers, I brought it down harshly, cutting deeply into the countertop only inches from Julio’s thieving fingers. “You know why I am doing this?” I said. “I see everything, especially the work of thieves. I see even when I am out among the palms and oleander, or dozing in my chair behind the counter. I see everything.”
Julio stared at me with incredulous eyes. Then he scuttled away like a whipped cur, not to return for many weeks, then with his hand thrust forward to show his centavo, and allowing me to pick and deposit the candy into his hand.
Had I only known. Had I only had some expertise in baseball. I would have fed him and his brother candies as if they were royalty. To think of the money he earns, the luxuries he can afford. Do you think my story is worth a small donation? I have an Indian passport, I need to first get out of Courteguay, make my way to Santo Domingo, where with any luck I will take the short flight to Miami where I will pretend to visit briefly but will disappear into the great American melting pot to seek my fortune.
But do not hasten away, you being a writer, a journalist, I’m certain my story would be of interest to you. A magazine article, a book perhaps? I would ask from you only as my share from the immense profits you would make from this entertaining story, a plane ticket to Miami, a few dollars on which to begin my new life.
It is a sad lesson to learn that wealth is not everything. Though, I suppose it was better to come early in my life than late. But I was a poor man in a rich family. In spite of being included in their wealth, I was an outsider, I was laughed at in private, whispered about behind my back. Here was someone, reluctantly accepted as an in-law, but ridiculed because I gave up my integrity for wealth. The woman Bhartee had no redeeming features, as you know sometimes someone without physically attractive features makes up for that loss by being brilliant in some other way, an artistic talent, business acumen, or displays an inner beauty that more than makes up for their physical unattractiveness. The woman Bhartee, while the size of three women, had the intellect of a child, the
temperament of a hyena, the charity of a piranha, and the sexual appetite of three hundred mink in heat.
I lived with despair as my soulmate.
Then, one day in the hallway I passed the sister, Chandra, the beautiful one with whose photograph I was originally duped. A look passed between us, one of those about which there is no mistaking. Deep in the night, my feet in flannel slippers, I slid down the hall and, as I knew I would, found Chandra’s door unlatched. Ah, the passion of my life, of several lives both before and after. Passion rules all, and though we knew our illicit love was self-defeating, and could only bring tragedy, agreed to carry on for as long as our luck held, which was only a few weeks. Chandra was engaged to a very wealthy and much older man who had agreed to a magnificent dowry, plus a million-dollar investment to enlarge the family business. They were due to marry in a few months.
Oh, the hullabaloo when we were discovered. I will not go into the painful details. Chandra was shipped back to India, there to repent and regain her virginity, in order she might be married on schedule. Many meetings were held while the family tried to decide what to do with me. Ironically, the woman Bhartee voted to forgive and take me back. The betrayed family, however, had other ideas. I was taken from Santo Domingo to the nearest border with Courteguay, where I was unceremoniously pushed across that very same border into exile, accompanied by only the clothes on my back and a few hundred guilermos, not nearly enough to buy a ticket out of Courteguay, and threats of certain death should I ever return to the Dominican Republic.
I used my few guilermos to set up this pitiful confectionery and fruit stand where I have lived in abject poverty ever since, my one hope being that I might somehow earn enough profit to obtain a ticket to Miami.
Now, has my story perhaps touched you enough, my information about the Pimental twins been colorful enough that you might make a small contribution to my future? You could not imagine the joy that an American twenty-dollar bill would bring to my lusterless life.
I see. Journalists do not pay for information. How sad. Could I interest you in a lottery ticket or two?
Did I know Quita Garza? Of course. Beautiful in a nymph-like way, fawn-like, skittish. Very difficult to describe. She had sepia-colored skin and pale blue eyes that looked as if they had fought and triumphed over a century of genes demanding brown eyes. She radiated sexuality. Unconscious sexuality for she had eyes only for Julio. She had no idea the mayhem she caused in the blood of other men who looked at her. She was the Garzas’ only child. It is rumored she is the child of an American fan of Milan Garza. A groupie, yes, that might be the word. The Garzas accepted her as their own. Hence the blue eyes. This is important information, yes. Though you try to hide I can see the dollar signs in your eyes. That information will be worth many articles and many magazine stories. A small donation toward my future, toward America, toward ALIMART, the business I intend to open. Let me hint of what else I know, oh, I can tell you tales of Dr. Noir and Quita Garza that would curl your hair.
TWENTY-FIVE
FERNANDELLA PIMENTAL
“Marry in haste, repent in leisure,” the Wizard has said to me a number of times when I complain about the way Hector treats me. It is not a Courteguayan expression. The Wizard has been around so long that everyone assumes he is Courteguayan, but I have my doubts. He is a charlatan, that is for certain. He used to cheat my poor, gullible Hector out of what few centavos he earned, by having him bet on baseball games in both America and Courteguay. I think the Wizard makes up the final scores. I suspect he falsifies the voice that comes out of the radio box down at the palm wine shop. Now that our babies are rich and successful the Wizard cheats Hector out of his allowance. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Another non-Courteguayan expression.
“DON’T YOU WANT to do something else,” I asked, after watching the four-year-old battery fire the ball back and forth all morning.
“There is nothing else, Mama,” Julio said, smiling slowly, staring at me with his heavy-lidded eyes. He looked as though he were a miniature of his father, the same cool, innocent-insolent stare, the sensual mouth.
“POOR ALI,” says the Gringo Journalist, interrupting his interview with me, “I feel sorry for him. He’s a bit of a whiner, but a charming whiner. I gave him ten American dollars toward his plane fare out of here.”
I laughed. “I’m sure the coconut wine vendor did a brisk business until the money was exhausted. What kind of a sob story can I tell you that you will give me many American dollars.”
“He’s not trying to get back to India?”
“His family have lived in San Barnabas for several generations. They are merchants. Ali is a sorry swine. He has a weakness for coconut wine and theft.”
“He was not brought here as a groom for a wealthy family’s ugly daughter?”
I laughed again. “No woman would have him. He has never been off the island. His only skill is the ability to lie.”
“I’m not usually so easily conned,” said the Gringo Journalist.
“You’ve been indulging the lies of the Wizard. What he has is catching.”
“Who can I trust?”
“Certainly not me,” I said. “I am Courteguayan.”
TWENTY-SIX
THE WIZARD
“They will believe anything, these gringo journalists,” the Wizard said to Julio. “Who started this rumor, anyway?”
“What rumor?” said Julio.
“That part of my duties as a wizard is to perform psychic surgery.”
“You started that rumor,” said Julio.
“I start so many,” replied the Wizard. “I thought I might have. Well, what do I do?”
“I’m only a baseball player,” said Julio. “But the operating room has been reserved at San Barnabas General Hospital, complete with a gallery for all the foreign journalists to observe your skill as a psychic surgeon.”
“Ah, yes, I remember making those arrangements. Very good for tourism though. Dying people everywhere, if you will forgive the play on words, are dying to believe in psychic surgery. Why should charlatans in South East Asia reap all the rewards? I am as much a charlatan as they are.”
“Indeed you are,” said Julio.
The Wizard wore his trademark midnight-blue caftan covered in mysterious silver symbols into the operating room. The patient, a middle-aged Caucasian, had been prepared. The Wizard turned toward the gallery where two dozen foreign journalists sat on the benches eating a lunch provided by the hospital cafeteria.
“After your lunch I will personally provide whatever medical treatment may be necessary.” There were a few dry laughs from the gallery. One journalist choked on his turkey hash.
“I use no scalpels,” said the Wizard. “My magical hands are my scalpels.” The Wizard moved to the far side of the patient. He waved his hands above the unconscious patient as though he were playing an invisible piano.
Suddenly, the Wizard appeared to thrust his hands into the abdomen of the patient. The gesture elicited a few cries of surprise from the gallery, and even one from an attending nurse. The Wizard dug around as if he were searching for an egg in a pillow. “Ah, I have found the trouble, at least part of the trouble.” He pulled a bloody hand out of the patient, gore dripped from a large slimy object in his hand.
Whispers of tumor passed through the gallery.
The journalist with the weakest stomach ran for the door.
The Wizard held the object higher.
“It’s a baseball,” said Julio, his wonder shining like an aura.
“Indeed.”
The psychic surgery complete, the Wizard bows to the applauding gallery. He turns and walks not to the door but to a completely blank wall where with his bloody fingers he draws the outline of a door. He draws a doorknob. He seizes the doorknob, pulls the door open, and exits, closing the door behind him. What remains is the totally blank wall of a moment before. But the Wizard has vanished.
“That good old boy gets my vote for tour op
erator of the year,” says a member of the gallery.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE GRINGO JOURNALIST
The twins told Fernandella they wanted to buy her a villa on Lake Verde, in the richest section of San Barnabas. Unfortunately in their rookie years they made so little that they couldn’t afford the materials for such a house, most of which had to be imported from America. They could have afforded something less grand, but decided to wait for the right moment.
Hector Alvarez Pimental wanted to take up the offer immediately. He was already mentally constructing exotic villas along the turquoise lake; he was counting the rooms, estimating how many he could rent, and to how many people and for how many guilermos. One of his fantasies was to acquire a telephone, which he could see sitting, black as a rat, on an end table in his living room. But whom would he call? His cronies were all too poor to even use pay telephones, of which there were rumored to be three in San Barnabas, though none in San Cristobel.
The Wizard on the other hand, who had absorbed, or somehow been blessed with the best of political sensibilities, decided to wait and see what would be most profitable for him.
“I will never leave this place,” huffed Fernandella, over a full-term belly, her cheeks blotched, her loose maternity smock sweat-stained. “The bounties of the hillside: fresh, cool water; tasty fish and succulent fowl, meet all my needs. What if we move to an expensive villa, and my boys disappear into the bowels of America, never to return? What if you die?” she said to her husband. “With my bounties, what do I need you for? To satisfy my lusts,” she went on, answering her own question. “As I grow older my lusts grow less frequent while my appetite for fish, fowl, and clear water become more voracious.”
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