Looking like a drowned rat the Wizard knocked on Julio’s door. He clutched a very wet sack of pheasant burritos sent by Fernandella.
“I need some sleep,” he said. “I’ve been drifting in this hellacious storm for several days.” Esteban peered at him from behind Julio.
“You may share my bed,” said Esteban. “Later, Julio will go down to the lobby and take his choice of the slim, beautiful young women who scatter themselves about like flower petals. My girlfriend, who interestingly enough tells me her name is Carlotta, will not be joining me tonight.”
The Wizard, taking only enough time to toss his wet caftan into the bathroom and cover himself in a white terrycloth robe supplied by the hotel, collapsed into Esteban’s bed.
Esteban read for a while in the sitting room between the two bedrooms, finally retiring when he tired of hearing the amorous moans coming from Julio’s room.
He was soon sound asleep.
Deep in the night the woman, Carlotta, appeared in the hallway as if somewhere a magician had gestured hypnotically and sent her there. Though Esteban had given her a key, she opened the door without using it, and crept into the foyer, hearing the lustful sounds emanating from Julio’s room. She smiled and entered Esteban’s room. She sensed something wrong, but waited until her eyes adjusted somewhat so she could see the slumbering lump that was Esteban, and beside him a petite form in a hotel housecoat with a pillow strategically over her head. Carlotta drew a thin stiletto from her purse and pierced Esteban’s heart with one flick of her wrist. As she moved a step closer in order to lean across Esteban’s body and dispatch the woman, the stiletto in her hand turned to a delicate orchid, and the wild-eyed Wizard sat up and stared at her.
“What have you done?” he croaked. “I smell blood.”
UPON THE ANNOUNCEMENT of Esteban’s death there followed national mourning in Courteguay. Only President Kennedy’s assassination had triggered greater consternation.
Within hours of the announcement, the Wizard, like the angel of death himself, hissed airward in a black balloon with a black gondola. He was dressed in a black-satin-cowled cape with a single silver star over the heart.
“I knew it,” wailed Fernandella, throwing a plate at her husband, Hector Alvarez Pimental, “your evil ways have come home to roost. I predict that the stream will dry up, the fish will rot in the sun, the stench will cause the cockatoos to fly away. Everything will return to the way it was before the twins became famous.”
Hector Alvarez Pimental calculated that with one son dead his allowance would be cut in half, might disappear altogether, for it was Esteban who suggested the allowance, cajoled Julio into going along. Now, if Julio refused to hurl the ball to another catcher.…
He wondered if he would be able to sell seating at Esteban’s funeral. As he ate a breakfast of pheasant burritos and a large glass of passion fruit juice, Hector Alvarez Pimental pictured tens of thousands of plaster of Paris catchers each in the image of Esteban Pimental, each scrunched in a crouch, each with red cheeks, blue eyes, chest protectors and shin guards. After breakfast he phoned a wholesaler in San Barnabas and ordered a hundred thousand to be ready the day of the funeral, or before if possible.
The funeral, of course, would be held at the former Jesus, Joseph, and Mary Celestial Baseball Palace in San Barnabas, renamed Dr. Lucius Noir Soccer Pitch when Dr. Noir came into power, renamed Juarez Blanco Baseball Megatropolis the last time Dr. Noir was deposed, renamed Esteban Pimental Memorial Stadium, less than eight hours after Esteban’s death was announced.
Photographs, Hector Alvarez Pimental thought, were another matter entirely. He found a signed 5×7 of Esteban in full baseball regalia, and ordered half a million copies. He would wholesale them for twenty centavos each, let the vendors sell them for whatever the traffic would bear.
THIRTY-SIX
THE GRINGO JOURNALIST
Pete Hasslewaite, the Mets twenty game winner, was beaten the first two times he faced Julio, 1-0 and 2-1. The third time they faced each other, every time Julio came to bat Hasslewaite threw at him. The first pitch merely brushed him back, the second made him step out of the batter’s box, the third missed the bill of his cap by half an inch and sent him sprawling in the dirt. Hasslewaite then struck Julio out on three pitches.
“Live in fear, greaser,” the catcher rasped, “you ever seen a baseball hit a melon?” He laughed, tobacco juice spraying through the bars of his mask.
Though tempted, Julio did not retaliate. Instead the next time he came to bat, he stepped back and hit a brush-back fastball cleanly up the middle for a single, batting in a run to give his team the lead.
The third time he came to the plate, the catcher spat contemptuously an inch from Julio’s shoes.
“You ever played in pain, greaser?” the catcher, who would one day be elected to the Hall of Fame, growled. “The Chief,” for Hasslewaite, a swarthy, raw-boned Oklahoman, claimed to be one-quarter Cherokee, “is gonna give you a horsehide lobotomy, greaser.” The catcher grinned evilly and spat again.
The first pitch was aimed for Julio’s crotch; by springing backward with a panther-like quickness he avoided it. His manager stormed from the dugout and jawed with the umpire for several minutes, all the time pointing accusingly at Hasslewaite, while the Mets fans booed and brayed, and Hasslewaite stood insolently on the mound exuding innocence.
Hasslewaite pitched two strikes, then zipped a fastball toward Julio’s head. Julio moved back only an inch or two; the ball passed under his chin.
“The Chief has great control, greaser. He’s gonna stick the next one in your ear,” and he laughed again, tobacco juice gurgling in his throat. “They’ll be refried beans all over home plate.…”
Instead of going for the head, Hasslewaite used a curve ball that sliced in and hit Julio on the pitching arm, just above the wrist. By the time the manager and trainer reached him the wrist was swollen and greenish.
“Tough luck, fella,” said the catcher, mask in hand, grinning from yellowed eyes.
“Very unwise,” was all Julio said to the catcher, as he was escorted from the game. In spite of the burrito poultices his mother sent from Courteguay and the ministerings of the Wizard, Julio was out of action for six weeks. But Hasslewaite never pitched again. His rotator cuff mysteriously ground to a halt. He was unable to raise his pitching arm above shoulder height.
Ten years later, at a small, seedy carnival in Baltimore, Julio saw Hasslewaite for the last time. Among a crooked ring-toss game, weighted milk bottles, and a sinister puppet show, was a grimy freak show featuring a gorilla-baby, a bearded lady, and a ruptured strong man. Also on the program was Hasslewaite; Julio recognized him from his portrait on the garish canvas banner in front of the freak tent. A beady-eyed man in a pinstriped baseball uniform, with yellow daffodils growing from his right wrist where his pitching hand should have been.
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE WIZARD
Magic is only something you haven’t seen before, the Wizard told Julio. Some things that happen to us every day, people on the other side of the earth might call magic. While we might be equally impressed by what they consider ordinary. For instance, I have heard that there are places where the wizards can make it so cold men turn to marble before your eyes.
Julio recalled the Wizard’s words the first time he saw the butterflies darken the sun.
High in the sand hills above San Barnabas, where the cane fields petered out to rock as the elevation increased, where stubborn evergreens stood hunched over like seraped old men, was the place where the monarch butterflies spent the winter in hibernation. It would be many years before the outside world would discover the wondrous event, though it was known and ignored by the Courteguayan hill people since the beginning of time.
The monarchs, large black-and-orange butterflies, with wing-spreads of up to four inches, migrated each fall from as far away as Canada. Some years a hundred million of them made the dramatic journey across the USA, lines of them intersecti
ng, the main stream becoming larger and larger, vibrating like Halloween streamers. Pulled by some invisible magnet, they crossed the continent, eventually forming a Mississippi of butterflies that flowed like an endless pipeline over the ocean to Courteguay and to the evergreens high in the sand hills.
Once they arrived, the black-bordered monarchs folded their wings, attached themselves to a needle of evergreen, and rested until spring when they awakened and again formed a fluttering, thousand-mile conduit back to North America, an undulating, whirling sky-ride of color.
From the base of the hills, the butterfly-saturated trees looked dead, as orange as if they had been singed. Travelers from San Barnabas stared up at the pale orange trees and remarked that they must suffer from dry rot or blight. Then the trees passed from their minds. The hill people knew the truth of the butterflies but considered the phenomenon unremarkable.
The residents of San Barnabas were used to the whirling tunnel of butterflies passing over the city each October and April, but only the Wizard had ever had the curiosity to follow the golden horde to its resting place.
The first year the Wizard was rich enough to own a hot air balloon, he hovered high above the endless orange tube of life, which from above appeared to be full of jittering orange smoke. The Wizard knew that butterflies were so named because early peoples thought that witches took on the colorful, mysterious form in order to steal milk and butter.
The Wizard, ever avaricious, fantasized that these butterflies took their color from gold, and that wherever they came to rest he would find a mine stuffed with indescribable wealth. The butterflies, he decided, restored themselves by bathing in gold dust. What he did not expect to find was the most tranquil spot on earth, a fairyland of sleeping orange evergreens.
The few peasants in the area respected the butterflies, did not even cut firewood in “the season of the sleeping sunshine,” which was how they described each butterfly winter.
Local farmers stock their wood in the early fall, the Wizard reported back, for they’ve found even the sound of an ax will cause some butterflies to fall to the ground. And those that fall from the evergreen needles die. If a tree is actually cut, the ground around it is papered with the silken wings of monarchs.
When Julio Pimental returned to Courteguay, after another season of baseball in America, he was heavy-hearted and arm-weary. He sat for days next to Fernandella’s cool stream, the only movement about him his eyes, which twitched involuntarily when the brilliant blue fish tossed themselves in the air like coins.
Fernandella tempted him with pheasant pie, pickled pheasant, pheasant burritos, as well as something indescribable, a dish she had seen illustrated in an American magazine Julio had sent to her. She carried the recipe down to the fenced compound, where the eldest priest translated for her, his face pressed against the chain-link fence that confined him. The translated ingredients included lampblack, and a small electrical appliance. The dish, which was supposed to be Chicken Alejandro, though Fernandella used pheasant instead of chicken, turned out less than satisfactory.
“I am not going back,” Julio sighed. “Baseball players in America may be well paid, but they are not idols; they are traded like goats from one farmer to another.”
But by now even Fernandella was used to luxury. And Hector Alvarez Pimental, with the Wizard acting as a commissioned broker, had just ordered a chartreuse BMW with white leather upholstery.
“With home cooking and a few days rest you will soon be good as new,” said Fernandella.
“Have you considered playing winter baseball in Mexico?” his father asked, feeling the biceps of Julio’s pitching arm.
Julio mooned by the crystal stream for another week, while his twin, Esteban, studied Latin texts at the San Barnabas Library, conferring frequently with the moth-eaten priests in their chain-link enclosure.
Early one morning Julio heard children screeching in the hills high above the house; he looked up to see several silhouetted against the sky like stick drawings. Each child’s arm was extended upwards. They ran along the crest of the hill, pointing, as if flying invisible kites.
Curiosity overshadowed his torpor, and he languidly climbed the hill.
“The butterflies are coming,” the children chanted.
Julio scanned the sky; it was pale as ice. The short grass on the hill was scorched yellow; the day would be white hot in an hour or so. The sky was blank as water.
“How do you know?” Julio asked the children, who stared back at him with the contempt the very young have for adults who do not share their intuition. Though Julio was scarcely a year older than the oldest, his clothes and manner tagged him as an adult, and they automatically mistrusted him.
“Everyone knows,” a sullen-eyed girl in a sugar-sack dress finally replied.
“I can’t see a thing,” Julio replied.
“It is sad to be blind,” said the girl. “My grandfather is blind.”
“I mean in the sky,” said Julio.
“The sky. The land. Blind is blind.”
“I can see,” said Julio, raising his eyes to meet the girl’s dark stare. She was perhaps a year younger than he, with a colt-legged vitality. Julio could see her tiny breasts pushing like shadows against the white sackcloth.
“Really?” said the girl, Quita, a mocking smile on her lips.
“I see a terrible beauty in front of me,” said Julio. As he said it he felt his chest tighten; he was unable to take a full breath; it was as if his ribs were taped. His statement had not emerged in the bantering tone he intended. The girl, her lips slightly parted, continued to stare at him with sad, dark eyes.
Julio, who had learned to joke in blighted English, outside baseball stadiums, with fans, groupies, Baseball Sadies, could think of nothing to say to this girl in his native language. He felt as he did when the bases were loaded, the winning run dancing yo-yo-like off third base. Reacting accordingly, he breathed deeply, clearing his mind of everything. He pretended he was on the mound, the translucent batter glowing dimly to one side of the plate, his only thought to hurl the ball to his brother, Esteban. Hurl it without interruption.
Moments passed. The other children raced on across the spine of the hill, arms still spearing skyward, while Julio stood as if in a trance. The girl sat down in front of him, pulled up her knees, locking her long fingers in front of her ankles. Julio blinked, stared up at the sky that was still blank.
“You look as if you’re in prayer. Are you one of the religious ones?” asked the girl.
Julio gazed down at her as man must first have gazed at fire.
“No,” he said. “But I am rich enough to buy you your heart’s desire.”
“No one is rich enough to buy anyone’s heart’s desire,” said Quita, “especially mine. I want to fly in the body of a white heron, sleek and smooth as soap, piercing the sky; I want to see my moon shadow dark on the water below me. Are you rich enough to buy me that?”
“No,” sighed Julio, his own lips parting as he watched Quita’s face. He would have traded his career for one kiss; he was terrified he would frighten her away.
“The religious ones talk of going to meet their leader in the sky. He walks on water and converses with oxen, at least so they say.”
“I am not one of them,” said Julio. “The priests are kept in corrals like cattle; the militia has orders to shoot the missionaries you speak of.”
“I’m glad on all counts,” said Quita. “The religious ones are not interested in now. They claim to wait for their pleasure in another world. I seek pleasure now, and in the next world, if one exists. Are you really rich?”
Julio breathed deeply, exhaled, letting the air and tension float from him. He noticed that Quita’s eyes were set wide apart. She would make a great pitcher, Julio thought. She could watch base runners while facing the plate.
“Yes. I am rich. I have just returned from playing baseball in America. I am a pitcher.”
“If you are rich why are you unhappy?”
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br /> “Because I am lonely. My life in America is like being locked in an empty room for months at a time. And, as a baseball player, I am expected to perform miracles.”
“With loaves and fishes like the leader of the religious ones?” asked Quita. And though Julio met her straight, innocent gaze, he could not tell if she was making fun of him or sympathizing.
“With my right arm and a baseball.”
“I know about baseball,” said Quita. “My father was Milan Garza. He has been honored by El Presidente as a Courteguayan Baseball Immortal. He died when I was very young. El Presidente would not allow my mother to bury him: his body was taken away and is preserved in a glass case in the Hall of Baseball Immortals in the Capitol building. I have never been there, though I am told my father stands as he did in the outfield, in his Cardinal of St. Louis red-and-white uniform, his glove on his hand, a holy aura about his head. I am told, too, that his eyes glow in the dark.”
“I have never been to the Hall of Baseball Immortals either,” said Julio, “though I am rich enough to go any time I wish. Rich enough to take you with me. But Milan Garza is a national hero. In America I am often asked by reporters if I knew him. He played for years in America. As his daughter you should be rich beyond your dreams.”
Quita stood up and moved closer to Julio. As she did so he caught the first odors of her: sun-sweet earth, but behind that something darker, muskier, like the scent of the deep-colored nasturtiums that bloomed on the shady side of Fernandella’s new home.
“You have been away for years. Have you not heard of Dr. Noir? My father decided to run for the Presidency of Courteguay. It was the one thing he wanted that he could not have.”
“But what of the honors your father received? El Presidente named Milan Garza a Knight Commander of the Blue Camellia. I read about it.”
Butterfly Winter Page 13
