Филип Керр - A Five Year Plan

‘What am I, Jimmy? Starbucks or something?’

‘That and a boat. Al said to say that he’s found you a boat.’

‘Great. He say what kind of boat?’

‘The love boat. How the hell should I know? I’m a lawyer not Herman Melville.’

‘Yeah, well, call me back, Ishmael. About that passport, OK?’

San José, the capital of Costa Rica, was a thousand miles south of Miami and a two and a half hour flight aboard an American Airlines jet that was full of tourists in search of difficult surf and easy sex.

Dave returned to his first-class seat from the toilet and said, ‘This flight. It’s like Big Wednesday back there.’

‘Big what?’

‘Surfing movie. John Milius. All about the perfect wave.’

Al grunted and settled back with his third vodka martini. He said, ‘You know what that means to me? The perfect wave? It’s Madonna saying goodbye as she takes the kids on a six-week vacation with her mother.’

‘Madonna’s your wife, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Do you mind me asking you a personal question?’

‘Not if you don’t mind a slap in the mouth if I think you’re out of line.’

‘Why do you stay married to her? I mean, you make jokes about her all the time.’

Al said, ‘It’s a husband thing. You wouldn’t understand. We get along pretty good, she and I. She asks no questions, which means I tell her no lies. Like going down to Costa Rica. What I do when I’m down there? Maybe find a couple of nice little ticas and get myself laid? She won’t ever ask. Won’t even sniff my fingers when I get home. There’s an understanding there. A modus vivendi, know what I’m sayin’? Sides, even if I wanted to get rid of her, I wouldn’t. I’m a Catholic. Marriage is for keeps. Like herpes.’ Al laughed obscenely and finished his drink.

Dave said, ‘Nice to know that true romance is not dead.’

‘ True Romance. Now that’s what I call a fucking movie.’ Al waved his empty glass at the stewardess and laughed some more. ‘That’s what a lot of the beach bums back there are really after. True romance. Surprising as it might seem. Local classifieds in CR are full of ads from soft-headed Americans looking for a cute little tica to settle down with.’

‘Then you’ve been before?’

‘CR? Yeah. Lots of times.’

‘And what are you looking for, Al?’

‘Me, I’ll settle for getting my cock sucked.’

Dave looked out of the window.

‘Sa matter?’ Al demanded. ‘Somethin’ wrong with that?’

‘No, nothing at all.’

‘Y’know prostitution’s legal in CR. Country’s a regular pussy K-Mart.’

Dave took the New Yorker he had bought at the airport out of the seat pocket and started to turn the pages.

Al frowned and said, ‘Y’know, most guys out of Homestead be quite interested in gettin’ theirselves laid. You turn fag or somethin’ while your ass was in there?’

Dave said, ‘No. I did not turn fag while I was in there. But people who’ve got something against fags are generally trying to cover up their own fears that they might be gay themselves. Well how about it, Al?’

Al shrugged and said, ‘You’re right. I am gay.’ Another obscene laugh. ‘I’m a lesbian trapped inside a man’s body. Means I’m interested in seeing two girls partying with each other before they party with me. I think that about covers my sexuality.’

Dave laughed and said, ‘Me, I’m more like one of those soft-headed guys you were talking about. In the local classifieds. The ones looking for true romance? I guess that covers it for me.’

‘Your fuckin’ loss.’

Al opened the copy of Penthouse he had bought at the airport and began to pick his nose. Absently he inspected his forefinger and frowned as he caught sight of the blood on it. The next second there was more blood dripping in large bullet-hole-sized gouts onto the magazine and his cream polo shirt and pants.

‘Fuckin’ nosebleed,’ groaned Al.

He made a futile attempt to stanch the flow using first his own paper napkin coaster and then Dave’s, stuffing one up each nostril, but it was not until the stewardess, arriving with another drink and a napkin, had tipped Al’s seat back in the reclining position that the bleeding finally stopped.

Dave looked at the man stretched out beside him and sighed wistfully.

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘My first time out of the States and I’ve got to travel with Jake La Motta.’

It was in the taxi, on the way into town from Juan Santamaria Airport, that Dave began to experience his first misgivings about the trip.

‘Shit,’ he complained. ‘Something bit me on the leg.’

‘Probably just a mosquito,’ said Al.

‘A mosquito?’

The idea of taking any medication for the trip hadn’t occurred to him until now, and Al certainly hadn’t suggested anything. But Dave turned to the Fodor’s Guide to Costa Rica he had bought at Miami Airport, just to make sure. The health precautions there did nothing to reassure him.

‘You dumb bastard,’ he said, snapping the book shut.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Malaria,’ he complained angrily to Al. ‘This fucking place is full of it. Not to mention a whole load of other diseases.’

‘So?’ Al slapped a mosquito flat against his own bloodstained cheek.

‘So I haven’t had any shots, Al. And I don’t want to get anemia, kidney failure, coma, and death.’

‘Listen, who needs shots? Most of those drugs don’t work anyway. I read about it in the paper. They just have what they call a placebo effect. That means that for all the good they do you might as well swallow green M&Ms. They just make you feel better in your mind about bein’ around diseased spies and bugs and tropical shit. Whereas, on the other hand, the drugs that do work, do it at the expense of your system. Just look at what happened to those army motherfuckers after Desert Storm. They took all kinds of drugs and now a lot of them have got some serious fucking medical problems. So try and be cool. ‘Sides, we ain’t gonna be down here long enough to make any of that south of the border medication worthwhile.’

‘Fuck that. As soon as I get to the hotel I’m going to find a drugstore. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe you’re so blase about this shit. I mean just one bite from an anopheles’ll do it man.’

‘There ain’t no fleas in the hotel we’re checking into. You can take it from me. Place is class.’

‘Not fleas. Anopheles. It’s a mosquito, Al. According to the book the whole country’s lousy with them.’

‘You read too many books.’ Al delved into his flight bag. ‘Relax, will ya? Naturally I brought something to keep the bugs off, just to be on the safe side.’ He handed Dave a sweet-smelling tube of cream. ‘There you go. Slap some of that on your chicken-shit ass.’

Dave read the label with incredulity.

‘Avon Skin-so-Soft Moisturiser? This is it?’

‘That’ll do the job. I bring some every time I come down here, and I’ve never been bitten yet.’

‘Al, I want to repel insects, not give them a nice smooth landing on my so fucking soft skin.’

‘And you better believe that stuff’ll do it. Bugs can’t stand the stuff.’

‘What is it they don’t like? The advertising? The brand image?’

‘Don’t ask me why, but it works, right? Marines comin’ down to these parts for jungle warfare training have been using the stuff for years. Better than DEET or any of those other insect repellents, they reckon. And I didn’t read that in any fuckin’ book.’

L’Ambiance was American-owned and comfortable. Formerly a colonial mansion, it was located in the Barrio Otaya district of San José. Dave’s room, furnished with antiques, was much bigger and better than he had anticipated. His only criticism was that when he opened the french windows onto his balcony, he could hear and smell the animals in the Simon Bolivar Zoo a block to the north. To that extent it was like a home away from Homestead.