Angela woke up as the horse carts began to clatter below their window; Guildern’s pillow was still warm when she pulled it close to wake up against. “Good morning little darlin’” wiping off his sturdy frame, Angela got her first look at the stab wound from Friday night, and asked Guildern to wiggle his fingers. “It’s okay,” clinching his fist as much for effect as curiosity. “The First Aid kit is downstairs; let’s wrap it up here,” stepping out the doorway down the stairs naked. After 6 years, he could still surprise her. “Shall I put coffee on?” came his voice from the bottom of the stairs,”or would you like some more sleep?”
“Good idea,” she called from the door before pulling up her running shorts and sports bra. Angela was a timeless 40 and wore her skin well - having worked in bars and restaurants for most of her adult life, she had never been enticed by the habits of bistros preferring instead the endorphin fix of a good workout. Prancing down the stairs she pirouetted into Guidern’s outstretched coffee-cupped arms. “Aren’t you sweet,” relieving him of one and pecking him on the cheek, before seating herself to lace up her moccasins. Pasqual had shown her the wisdom of running barefoot, of the many things she’d learned from her first love. With the sound of a key in the door lock Guildern sprinted up the stairs.
“Morning M’lady,” Mordecaise chirped merrily, “entertaining naked men again in the empty bistro, I see. Arghh yuh be a bawdy one - doubt my blinded-by-love mate knows the better · poor dumb ox;” he chirped planting a peck in her forehead. He laid an unfolded note on the table in front of her. She could tell from the writing it was Paqual’s.
Boss, Aside from the mayhem on Friday, things are pretty well in hand -
The Renoir has shipped. Based on our conversation last night; I accept
your offer to investigate Reynaldo’s death and have booked a flight
to DaNang for tomorrow evening late. Pasqual
Angela wasn’t prepared for this news, and gingerly stepped toward the door, waving over her shoulder just as Guildern reached the table. The two men watched the door close, then looked at each other in the manner that only old men can.
Staff began to arrive for the busy Sunday and the two men retreated to the back table. Guildern normally inquired very little into Mordecaise’ varied business interests, so he was surprised when Mordecaise asked, “Is Angela going to be okay with this?” Guildern was unsure what he was asking, so he waited while Mordecaise stared into his goblet of Tinto Rojo. “I’ve never seen anything like this before: 3 dead brothers within a year of each other; a large estate with no one claiming, or at least no one talking about it; feels like something’s hinky.” Guildern watched his friend folding and refolding Pasqual’s note.
The front door burst open and the painted lady dragged her young friend inside the darkened room by his earlobe. “Puta guay, m’gonna feed you your cajones cuando tengo un puto cuchillo,” fairly spitting this into his trembling face. Knowing only that music loosened their pursestrings and the cuban rasta band remained MIA, Guildern rose slowly like one might facing a rabid dog, rabid, but very gifted dog.
“Sra, disculpe. Puedo Ayudar?” pulling a chair out while moving heavy objects to the nearest table Guildern guided the fraught woman and her nearly inert charge into seats at the nearest table. “Háblame,” he cajoled kindly into the direction of a materialized glass of water, lifting it to her fearsome, but calming face, Guildern was all ears: except a dropped conversation 3 tables away, Angela’s curious goodbye; who would be entertaining tonight; why was Pasqual on his way to Vietnam? . ..
The painted lady relaxed visibly and pointed to the red-faced recently released man-child: “fucking puta hit on some extrana in running clothes after pleading for a ‘raise.’ What would you do¿? besides cutting of his pinche verga? Clearly she didn’t expect a reply, instead peering with daggers into the face of her chastened poodle. Guildern had heard nothing from the Cubans and enticed the painted lady’s surprise act; “I’ll pay you for two days - 3 sets if you stay through to 5 am.” She was placid in her reply; simply standing.
“Yes, c’est bon.” Picking up a leather strap at the nape of her, alert, cautious companion and leading him from the table toward their quarters of last night’s surprise opening. Guildern, stood and bowed, pinching his fingers together in the universal “filthy lucre” gesture, then the more recognizable, however ambiguous peace sign with splayed finger; meaning in this case, times 2. The painted lady nodded, with her perceptibly truculent, however compliant poodle in tow.
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Leslei was in her seat on the runway when the text message arrived while taxiing. “will apprise M of ur dest; deprtng now for VN: kpn tch” While no longer the crap shoot flying had become during the 1st pandemic, the thrill of travel, however inexpensive was gone and only the interminable hours of waiting and lack of sleep remained to the former “charm of distance”.
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Pasqual was finishing his packing, stuffing his travel tote with preprinted boarding passes and his passport when the bell called from the downstairs’ gate. “Who is it?” though he was looking directly into Angela’s eyes staring at the camera in the entryway on his phone.
She looked right into the camera, “funny,” she mouthed, making no sound - “just open the fucking door, fool.” He still enjoyed her front, though she’d never hear it from him, he pressed the buzzer, and she pushed through the gate. Her expression as he opened the door, even after all these years was as indecipherable to Pasqual as the mind of a baby. She didn’t wait for an invitation pushing past him into a room she’d never been in. “Viet fucking Nam¿ Are you stupid?
They stood in the middle of the room unable to look at the other - unable to look away. “What’s wrong with Vietnam?” he posed, knowing her reply would have no effect on his itinerary - curious the same; he had great respect for Angela’s nimble intelligence. “1/3 of China perished in 2027; have you looked on a map recently¿” She was not listening, rather expressing her feelings physically; arms folded, a foot facing forward reducing her profile to him into a single long line peering from the pinnacle of her glance into the obelisk of Pasqual’s still soul.
“What do you want¿” as he turned back to tracking the movable parts of his world into his new home. She knew, nothing she would say could change his “pigheaded” mind, so she spoke from the heart.
“I want you to be safe,” then turned to the door that hadn’t quite shut; she pulled it to her like a lover, and blew Pasqual a kiss gazing at him as though through time.
Pasqual had completely closed down like a burglar when the light switch gets thrown. He began to breathe again when the door lock clicked shut. It took him 10 minutes to find his passport and the to do list:
1) cat food
2) fish to manager - pay rent 3 months
3) pay electricity - 3 months
4) vaccination record
5) scooter lock l
6) birth certificate
He knew if he did not sleep the journey would be more dangerous, so he shed his clothes drank the last of his turmeric and marijuana tea laid himself onto his pallet and breathed into a deep, deep sleep.
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When Angela returned for the early evening shift, Guildern was at the back table uncharacteristically still with his face to the wall - Mordecaise leaning into his open ear. It was a full Sunday night, and Angela did not have a minute until the end of ‘Rojita & Rojo’s’ 2nd set; they were crowd tamers; Angela was upstairs packing her things for the ride back to Punta del Este when Guildern touched her startled shoulder. “Hell of a weekend, eh? Are you going to be okay?” Angela felt his gentle caress, appreciating him all the more. Since Friday, he’d been stabbed; lost his headliners; supported his friend with generous attention and was able to open himself to her abrupt ways.
“I am, and grateful; more grateful than I know how to say.” She turned and nestled into his arms like into a warm bath at the end of long run. “I’m not ready to leave, and not ready to stay.” Can you come and spend the night in Punta del Este - give your arm a rest; the sea is a healing body.” The invitation was not quite open, urgent in a way; she looked at her phone and waited, not looking at Guildern, just waiting. He rose and touched her shoulder with a finger raised . .. Mordecaise looked up and listened to his friend, nodding at intervals. Minutes later as the 3rd set began, Guildern came down the stairs with satchel stopping next to Angela and glancing around the room; she rose, and they left.
Angela listened intently during the train ride to Guildern’s recounting of a story that explained Pasqual’s journey but did little to soothe her anxiety: they could not get through the door quickly enough to satisfy their need for naked communication - words had no meaning in the terrain they wandered through for hours. When Guildern finally woke, Angela had left a note on the table with an empty cup pointing to either the coffee pot or the beach beyond. She was finishing her barefoot run just as he peeled his shorts off and waded into the gentle waves for a saline soak before the long ride back to the “Croc”.
Guildern’s neatly arranged world was fraying warp by woof once again and he knew there was fuckall that could be done, but remain alert and open: hopefully positioned to aid and assist friends as they marched toward destinies, which by circumstance defied explanation but remained pregnant with meaning - meaning minus understanding · a lot like the first 30 years of the 21st Century.
jts 26/01/2021
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