The Gift of Women (7 page)

“So, how do we find the time to work Fidel's field?”

“We don't cut cane for one planting and plant onions in Fidel's field instead. The money we make will pay you for the use of your land and cover the cost of the add-on for my tiny wee house. The older kids can't bear listening to us at night, eating, arguing, and you know what in the same room.”

“Very well,” said Don Mateo, but he should have known better.

The rain baptized that field continually in the season when there was supposed to be no rain. Fidel had regular irrigation from the
apantle
that ran on his side of town, all the water he needed and all the sunshine through the dry season. But that accursed
apantle
ran past the
Barrio Rojo
, then under the Pan American, to Fidel's field. It slunk between the dingy whore-huts, where the harlots of Cuautla set up business after pious President Miguel de la Madrid tossed them out of their lovely, well-lit, lively, old street behind La Paz Convent School. You could dance in the big cantinas with your choice or sit and have a tête-à-tête at a table or tit-to-tit in a booth at one of the lounge bordello bars.

Testing the waters for his onions, Fausto tasted that godforsaken
apantle
, face down, lucky not to be knifed, only relieved of the money for their plantings in his loose cotton trousers, the money for the first load they were to put in.

As if to punish Fausto for his sins, the unseasonal rains surged down on the unlucky onions, sunk to their tufted tops in mud. After which, for trying to trick God, Jesus and Fidel the Baptist brother-in-law, Don Mateo dubs Fausto a rotten onion. Did Fausto not know that John, the first in the line of the Baptists, damned the adultery and harlotry of the Hebrews?

“It happens in the best of families,” the
pulquero
's wife tells Don Mateo in the car as she takes him out onto the highway, down the slope and across the bridge over the river that the
apantle
flows into, not a stone's throw from the Seguro Social Hospital.

Don Mateo sits in the front seat, holding his ear in his hand. Every so often he holds it back up to where it belongs. He would not let them wrap it in a cotton cloth. His face wrinkles up in agony from the wound, or he is listening very profoundly to whatever he hears when he returns his ear to its original place.

Fausto sits in the back with his head in his hands.

“What will I tell
Tía
Celestina?”

“Tell her you wanted to slap him on the shoulder, like – for a good joke, and you missed.”

“With a machete?”

“I've seen it done. Like those
Ingleses
make somebody a knight for a good deed, why not for a good joke.”

The
pulquero
's wife talks, believing Don Mateo can't hear the half of it because of his mutilation. Distress also makes her silly, she can't help it.

Fausto can't believe his ears.

The one doctor surgeon on late call can't believe that Don Mateo doesn't want his ear sewn back on.

“
Por Dios, hombre
, it will be as good as new. It's like just a shell, it contours sound into the ear. It's the gristly ear lug, not the actual hearing part of the ear.”

The surgeon should have kept his mouth shut.

“Like a shell.”

“Yes.”

“And shells can hear the sea?”

“People believe you put a shell to your ear and you can hear the waves of the sea come in and out, but it is only the blood going through your head, pumped through there in waves by your heartbeats. Don Mateo.”

“I don't think so.”

“Sterilize and put a dressing on it, Doctor. Do as Don Mateo says. Don Mateo is the owner of Don Mateo's bits and pieces, attached or detached,” says the nurse, nodding at Fausto, who sits disconsolately in a chair. The nurse is a second cousin, Fausto's wife is her
criada
and has been serving her richer side of the family since childhood.

Months pass. Don Mateo's ear dries into a relic of the ruction in the
pulquería
, but he brings it with him everywhere, and takes it out like others take a watch in the breast pocked from the end of a chain. He joins people with Doña Celestina in the Hotel Santa Cecelia where people of that watch-in-breast-pocket calibre would dine on a Sunday, if there were any left. All the men dress in
guayabera
and wear wrist watches. None raise them to their ear to check the tick of the chronometry.

Don Mateo and Doña Celestina are being treated by Fausto and his wife. They note the huge graphic of Don Quijote and Sancho Panza on the inside gable end of the dining room, the knight's raggedy body and clothing swirling up to the curved ceiling beside the bold black blob and blur of Panza.

An architect owns the hotel and another in Acapulco. His son-in-law manages both and flits between one and the other, avoiding the tax collectors, who have been known to come with a van to remove televisions, fridges, for those unpaid. Acting like a pawnbroker until the items are redeemed for cash.

But the architect's son-in-law knows languages and the ocean. He speaks French, English and rumoured to spout Japanese and Chinese. He brings an informed opinion unlike his nephew, Fausto, or his wife or anyone Don Mateo has spoken to on the matter.

When Don Mateo spots him coming in for a cursory inspection of the diners and the service, Don Mateo darts forward and pulls at the tail of his
guayabera
.

“I am told you know Cuautla and you know Acapulco and the ocean very well. May I ask you a question?”

“A customer can always ask me a question.”

“Does our
apantle
that crosses the aqueduct and enters the river go to the sea?”

“The customer is always right and in this case you are actually, yes, I'm sure of it, right.”

“Now will you please tell me what you hear?”

Don Mateo removes his ear from the pocket of his grey
guayabera
, which matches the crustaceous pallor of the ear. He puts it to his good ear, nods, then holds it out for the manager to do the same, which he does, holding it just out of contact with his own

“What do you hear?”

Seeing Don Mateo's eagerness and being familiar with Acapulco and what goes on there, having heard the French-Canadian, the Anglo-Canadian and out-and-out gringo, he can understand what is required of him with this question about the sea and what he hears there.

“I hear waves and voices.”

“What did I tell you?” Don Mateo shouts back at the lowered heads around his table. “Waves and voices!”

The manager puts his head to the side, like a bird, puckering his lips and his brow, appearing to hear a lot more in Don Mateo's ear.

“They are speaking a very funny French and a very funny English.”

Don Mateo takes possession of his ear again and plops it back into his pocket like a watch that has told the right time of day. He has what he wants, confirmation.

His ear proves it.

They tell me, report nothing, Gene. That how they say Jean. Report nothing or they think you the one involved, and you become the suspect. You try help this guy, broken up in some accident, and they sue you for fix him up. Like, even if you are an MD surgeon – you keep out, or else you spend your holiday in the police station, making the statement. Somebody sue the boots off your feet, and you go no place.

Something about a bad dose of Napoleonic Law Mexicans got. We have the good recipe for it in Québec, but here, the Napoleonic Law sort of got the shits. Like from the fruit, too much heat.

That what I think about the run-over guy. Don't look up close. And I think, why the car not make it over his head? An auto leave a big impression on a guy's head. Like cat you see on the highway – flat. Like pizza with the hair topping. But this head is still one piece and the res' – neck, ches', knee, an' his ankle – run over.

Damn taxi-driver stop for nothing, I think. They jus' run him over, one after the other. Too busy to make the stop in case they miss the next fare. This too much, I tell Rose-Marie. I pull him up, I put him against the door of that
Club
de Tenís
.

From Adam, I don't know this one guy. But me, I feel sad for him, and the love charm he have on his gold bracelet. I know it.

Since we been in Acapulco, we are buying pretty heavy. We work hard for the good deal in silver or gold off the beach vendor. Make the bid, wait one day or two, see it drop. Anyway, I watch the jewellery and I ask people what price and where they buying. I remember the good jewellery, and I know it on the guy. For sure, because you know, I see his partner put that there gold bracelet on the wrist of that run-over guy.

This late night – 11 p.m. The Shore Patrol from the Hornos base, they come, and they are stepping into the gateway and into the doorway. They go look-see, like the garbage men in Montréal. Then, the run-over guy, he say, “Vamoose,” like they do in the movie. Rose-Marie and I figure they must be two sailor, who sneak in the
Club de Tenís
for some back and forth with the ball – and the bracelet, it for some bet what the one guy win.

“Two handsome guy,” say Rose-Marie, “and that bracelet with the love charm heart look pretty good to this old bird.”

Morning and afternoon, lotsa women go in there, to the
Club de Tenís
. Handsome, well-preserve' women like Rose-Marie. When the limo leave them, they show a lot of the leg in white short. Lot of brown Mexican leg. It make you want to hit that furry ball, whip that feather birdie all day. This what one of the two sailor is twirl – white cork head of that feather birdie wit' his finger. And while one is kissing his bracelet with the love charm heart – this other sailor is suck the cork on his birdie.

I touch this here lucky charm that he kiss, but Rose-Marie is giving me the instruction, “Jean Rubinsky, the police,” and “Jean Rubinsky, the ambulance;” and I say, “I take no gold heart off this sailor.” I touch his lucky charm like I say sorry for you, sailor; I sure would like to know you better. An' I wan' tell him some thing – like I know you are one cute guy, an' my Rose-Marie not mind to have you in her bed. But, I sure as hell glad some taxi make the pizza out of you first.

Now, Rose-Marie, she want me to telephone. “Jean, you make the report to this Mr. Tiger. Jean, you can tell it to him in French, tell him in the English. Jean, in Mexican, like it say in the paper.' Now, Rose-Marie read it and I read it in the
Montreal Magazine,
about this Hot-Dog-Eater Chief of Police. Ex-Mountie, Manitoba, then Montréal, then Acapulco. He say Montréal get too crazy with the violence, and why just be the constable or sergeant in Montréal when he qualify for Chief and get more pay for give the criminals target practice in Acapulco.

And on top, he have family here in Acapulco, and he have this licence from the UNAM. Some guy tell me it the Mexico University, not United Nations, and I think – the Hot-Dog-Eater is educated man. He listen. He know I got no beef with this road accident. I take no bracelet. I take a look is all – jus' make sure the guy is the one I see kissing the other guy before Hornos Shore Patrol catch them. Big Mexican
abrazo –
each guy suck the other up, like two Pepsi on one hot-damn day.

“But this run-over guy still got his wallet,” I tell Rose-Marie. “This mean he is jus' run-over. Not no victim in no robbery.”

“Ah-oui,”
Rose-Marie, she yell at me –
“ne touches pas
ça!”

Okay, I got my fingerprint on the dead sailor wallet. I rub them off, but that when I remember what like I see from the corridor back of our room. I waiting for Rose-Marie to finish fix the hair. That corridor got windows that look inland and I got my big glasses that can see all the way to Japan.

It morning and the
Club de Tenís
get lotsa light from the east and I see the run-over sailor and this other sailor wrestle in their tennis short. On the tennis court – on the roof, they do like that lambada. One of them get the other from behind and he hold him. Hand in his pant, for squeeze him, like kids do when they play like they are mad at each other. Except Rose-Marie, she tell me, now that she have a good look, now that she have the hair combed out of her eye, “
Ils
sont fou d'amour
,” crazy in love.

Two ladies come out, start play, make pretty shot. They bend for pick up the ball and look at them two sailor, to watch see a smile at their nice move with that bat and the ball. Now, those guy are off each other back. And, the two sailor boy smile at the women like the women are the ice cream and their tongue keep one special lick for them.

Then, I remember I see the run-over guy, one night, at the
Club de Tenís
. He shove out the door. He rock up and down on the
Club de Tenís
sidewalk, which is all wreck with the truck and with the taxi. The sailor boy slip, and he turn, yell good and loud at this ol' man in this Mexican shirt. You know them silk shirt, like jacket with pockets. That old guy, he hold that other shipmate – his sailor friend, he hold him by the arm. He say, “
Puto
,
no tokay
.” Then, he yell, “
No
tokay o te mato
.”

‘
Tokay
,
te mato
,' that what he say. He as mad as Rose-Marie when I touch the wallet to find this run-over guy name.

I confess. I got this one habit. I sneak big sundowner before Rose-Marie finish the siesta. I go to the lobby, talk to the porter, then I go down the street see what new at the
Club de Tenís
. That when I see the old guy.

One of the Anglos at La Copa and me, we watch that mêlée between this angry old guy and those two sailor. Anglo tell me, “You find those fags, fucked to death at your feet, don't interfere! That there is a love triangle. Old gentleman there is keeping that young one he's got by the arm and he is pissed at his new playmate. Mexicans fix problems like that with guns. Don't interfere.”