Judson Carmichael - The Scared Stiff

Esilda came out with a silver tray. Because it was the cocktail hour, I suppose, she had poured my beer into a frosty glass stein with a handle. She turned the tray so I could take it, and I said, “Gracias.” She smiled, put the tray on the round white table near the chaises, and went back into the kitchen.

Maria, seeing the drinks arrive, got out of the pool, wrapped herself in a golden towel that made her look like a creature who would have been worshiped in this part of the world a few thousand years ago — and who’s to say they would have been wrong? — and came over to pick up the wineglass. I’d known the wine was hers. She raised the glass to me: “Salud.”

“Prosit,” I said, and she laughed, and we sipped from our glasses, and Carlos joined us.

Well, he’d shaved, and his flattened hair suggested he’d showered, but he was now wearing only red bikini swimming trunks, so I can’t say he’d made an overall improvement. In fact, at first I thought he wasn’t wearing anything at all, because his belly hid the trunks in front, and it was only when he turned away that you could see that crimson globe behind.

Arriving, he said nothing to me at all but went over to kiss Maria lightly on the lips — I hadn’t expected that — then picked up his drink and held it toward her and growled, “Salud.”

“Cheers,” she said, smiling fondly at him, and they clinked their glasses together.

He downed about half his drink, put the glass down, nodded at me, and went over to hurl himself into the pool with a huge splash. He did walrus and whale imitations for a while in there, while Maria lay back on the chaise beside me and seemed to go to sleep. I spent the time sipping my beer and wondering if Carlos would be able to get word to Arturo that I needed to spend some time with Lola before Tuesday. I’ll ask him when he comes out of the pool, I decided.

But when he came out, wrapping himself in another of the golden towels and now looking like the Sun King, picking up his drink on the way by and then sitting on the edge of the chaise on my other side, he had things he wanted to say to me, so he went first. “Tomorrow we gotta go to church,” he said. “It’s expected. Ten o’clock. You’ll meet people. You know how to do that.”

“Sure.”

“You want to go to the funeral?”

For just a second, I couldn’t think what funeral he was talking about. Then I remembered: mine, of course. I said, “How could I? I don’t dare go back to Sabanon.”

“I got a chauffeur suit,” he said. “You wear it, with the hat, you stay in the car. You don’t go in the church, but you see it all from outside. And the procession, and in the graveyard.”

A chauffeur in the funeral procession. I would get to go to my own funeral. “You’re on,” I said.

Sunday morning. Was I already used to this new doppelgänger existence? It seemed only natural to put on Ernesto’s best (not that good) clothes and meet Carlos and Maria in the living room to go to mass together. Both were dressed well, she in a pearl-gray high-neck long-sleeve blouse, long black skirt, and dangling earrings in crimson and gold, he in a black suit, as well-tailored as a suit could be on that body, with a pale blue shirt and a black string tie. He was actually presentable.

Maria and I exchanged good mornings, and then Carlos said, “You won’t talk when we go out, so we talk now.”

“Okay.”

“While you’re here, you can help me sometimes, a little bit.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’d like to be useful.”

“Good.” He nodded once, sealing the bargain, then said, “There’s gonna be a guy at mass this morning. I think he’s there. If he’s there, I’ll touch your elbow.”

I thought, What’s all this? “Okay,” I said.

“If he’s there,” Carlos said, “after mass, you and me, we take a walk with him.”

“Okay.”

“So you’re just along to be another guy, like there’s no problem.”

“ Is there a problem?”

“No, no, I just gotta talk with him,” Carlos said. “He screwed up a little, that’s all, messed up a deal I had over in Colombia, so we gotta talk about it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Whatever you say.”

“Good,” he said, and took Maria’s arm, and she smiled at me and we left the house.

The church was about four blocks away, and as we walked Carlos and Maria shared greetings with several other people. A few times Carlos introduced me, and I stood there smiling like a dummy. Twice, men extended their hands, which I shook, still smiling to beat the band.

The church itself, when we got to it, was small and neat and very white. Wide stone steps led up to the entrance, and as we started up them Carlos touched my elbow. I looked at him, and he nodded and waved his hand to a snotty-looking guy who stood with two other guys over to one side, watching the people arrive. The snotty-looking guy gave a kind of self-satisfied smirk as he waved a languid hand in Carlos’s direction. He was tall and very thin, with a black pencil mustache and slicked-back hair, like a silent-movie Romeo. He wore pointy white shoes and white pants with a sharp crease and an off-white shirt with brown piping. Draped over his shoulders was a gray linen jacket, as though he thought he was an Italian movie director.

Inside, the church was whitewashed stucco walls, crude bright renditions of the Stations of the Cross, rough tile floor, and heavy pews of rich-patina’d wood. The place was about half full, and Carlos led us to a pew near the back. We sat, and a minute later the snotty guy went by, saying amusing things to his two friends. They found a place near the front.

The mass was interesting, and then less so, and then it was over and we shuffled out to the bright sunlight, where Maria said, “I’ll see you at the house,” with a fond smile at Carlos. She walked on, nodding hello to the people as she went, and Carlos and I stood to the side of the entrance, and at last here came the snotty guy and his two friends.

He saw Carlos, and his smile faltered, then came back stronger than ever, with something challenging in it. Carlos gestured, and the guy came over, trailed by his friends, and the conversation began, as usual a little too fast for me to get it all. Carlos didn’t bother to introduce me but told the guy, Let’s take a walk, and the guy said, No, thanks, some other time. So Carlos put a little growl in the voice and said this time, and the guy made a face — how tiresome — and shrugged an acceptance inside his draped linen jacket.

We started to walk, and the two friends came with us, until Carlos stopped and said I’m talking to you, not these jerks. Another how tiresome look but the guy nodded, so then the three of us walked, and the other two stayed put.

We walked, and Carlos talked. The guy was in the middle, and Carlos talked low and hard, so I didn’t get it all, only that the guy was impatient at first, making it clear he didn’t see why he had to be bothered with this crap. But Carlos went on, the growl coming and going in his voice, and the guy began to accede a bit. He gave some explanations of his own, which Carlos didn’t buy.

From the church we walked first down the dirt street beside it, then right along another dirt street lined with small rickety houses. When we made the turn I looked back, and the other two were trailing, not quite a block back, looking uncertain.

More talk, more walk. The guy was no longer supercilious but now understood Carlos’s position completely. He was prepared to do what he could to make things right, but Carlos must realize his hands were tied; there was only so much he could do.

Another block, another turn, and the river was ahead of us, with shacks full of dogs and kids on the left, tin warehouses on the right. Then Carlos stopped. He said something brief and guttural. The guy became offended, gathered himself up to be haughty, and Carlos slapped him across the face.