All Due Respect Issue #2 (14 page)

“You’re no American either, boy,” he said, his disappointment apparent.

Vera was running away, heading toward the coastal road. Frank knew he should chase her, give her his immediate support, but he wondered what excuse to make for his sluggish reaction to the man’s assault. Unable to think of anything, he became dejected. He asked the man whether he had any rum in his house.

“Sorry I hit you,” he said, as the man got up. “You didn’t give me much choice.”

“Are you American or not?”

“Of course I am. I’m an American and I like jazz. Especially yours.”

“Then why’d you push me to the ground?”

“She’s my girlfriend,” Frank said. “Or she was till a minute ago.”

“She’s white, you black. You defend her?”

Frank went “pphh,” scoffing at the question, but the man rattled with laughter. “Poor fella,” he said. “He lost his white meat and that makes him sad.”

“It’s not like that at all.”

“Yes, it is. You shamed to admit it…Come on. Happy hour.”

While Frank waited on the porch, the man walked into his kitchen. He dragged out a pair of wooden stools, and on the next trip, his arms full, he brought glasses, a half-empty bottle of rum, and two chilled bottles of Coca Cola. They mixed their drinks and sat gazing at the lime-green weeds below them.

“I do like her,” Frank said. “We get along well overall.”

“She’s white. She only wants you for one thing.”

“I doubt that.”

“Don’t,” said the man. “I been to England and I had a lot of white women. They all wanted me for just one thing.”

Frank drained his glass and served himself a second rum and Coke. As he sipped, he contemplated the Belizean. The blood on the side of his face had congealed; he hadn’t bothered to wash it off. And even without this rust-red smear he was an ugly man, with his spare build and the pockmarks in his cheeks. Nothing about him suggested a lady-killer, a black Casanova, and Frank concluded that his boast had been wishful thinking.

“Hear what I telling you. The English girl—”

“She’s not English,” Frank said.

“Still. Get a different bitch. A black bitch will respect you.”

Frank gulped down his drink and put his glass on the floor. The English, white people, women: the man resented all of them, and the vehemence of this resentment disturbed Frank.

“I wouldn’t want to be like you,” he told the Belizean. But when he considered this statement, he blushed. He felt the heat in his face. Hadn’t he felt a spasm of excitement watching the man rough up Vera?

“Thanks for the rum,” he said, and he hopped off the stool, propelling himself toward the steps.

“Wait,” the man said. “You haven’t seen us kill the English soldier yet.”

“You’re not killing anyone. You just wish you could.”

“But where you going?”

“To apologize.”

“Don’t do that. You’re forgetting everything I said.”

“I’m trying,” Frank said. “I’m trying.”

Vera had run back to town, attracting a volley of calls as she passed the bars. “I’m waiting, girl…You need me…Some body.” It was the usual stuff, and she only hoped that none of the men would come out and approach her. None did, and at last she stepped inside the hotel.

A planet, she thought. Give me a planet where I can send the subhumans. There won’t be many men on the earth after that.

She tramped up the stairs and down the corridor. She dug in her pocket for the key to the room. Good thing she always held it, not Frank; in Veracruz, he’d lost their hotel key at the beach. She switched on the light and took off the blouse the drunken man had sullied with his perspiration. It smelled of his sweat, and she hurled it into a corner, nauseated. Then, stripped completely, she went over to the sink. Using soap and a towel, she scrubbed every part of herself the man had touched. She imagined that she was wiping away an invisible scum, a bacterial film his fingers had secreted. When she finished, she consulted the mirror, admiring the beauty of her cleansed skin, still marble-smooth, still with its lustrous tan. Her hysteria dissolved. But she became annoyed thinking about the incident, and banged her hands against the glass. She could hardly believe that Frank hadn’t joined her when she bolted from the scene. He must’ve stayed with the Belizean, following him out of curiosity. That was perverse. If trouble resulted, Frank would have no one but himself to blame for it.

Vera stretched out on the bed. Her ribcage ached and she breathed hard. But she jogged a mile or two each morning and needed little time to recover her wind. She waited, motionless, and when she’d revived, came to a decision.

“The hell with Frank,” she said.

A few minutes later, bearing her knapsack, dressed in a mud-stained shirt and dungarees, Vera left the room. She descended the stairs. From the entrance, she slipped into a hallway, and though it had no lights, she continued to advance until she was standing on the set of steps that terminated in the basement, a wide room lit by the moonbeams shining through a vacant window. Here, underneath the hotel, lived the man who’d offered to take her and Frank across the gulf. He had shown them his place yesterday, telling them to seek him out whenever they were ready to depart.

“My name is Man,” he’d said. “Man-Man.”

Vera discerned his rotund form lying in a hammock suspended from the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You were asleep.”

“Come in and sit down,” he said.

He untangled himself from the hammock and plodded across the concrete floor. His naked paunch, all creased flesh, jiggled with his every stride.

“Come and sit,” he repeated, indicating a cot covered in crumpled linens. “Where’s your friend?”

“It’s only me,” said Vera. “I want to go to Guatemala.”

“Now?”

“If your boat’s ready.”

Man-Man peered at her with squinting eyes, and the brown dome of his head shook as if he were having a laugh.

“We’ll go in the morning,” he said. “Nine o’clock?”

“Why wait? Nothing wrong with this weather.”

“It’s the gulf, mon, the gulf. Very dangerous at night.”

Vera ran over to the far wall and leaned out the window. “Careful,” Man-Man said. She was poised above a rocky slope that plunged into the sea. The gulf, a liquid field of shimmering black, looked tranquil, and from the horizon to the highest constellations the sky was luminous.

“I’m not worried,” she said, wheeling around. “We won’t sink.”

But Man-Man said she’d forgotten about the customs office. Before leaving Belize, she would have to go there to pay her exit fee and get her passport stamped.

“And what about your friend?” he said. “You and him been fighting?”

“I’m traveling alone,” Vera said. “That’s it.”

“Do what you want. I’ll take you in the morning.”

Vera marched back across the basement, halting at the foot of the dark steps. “Now where do I go?” she said.

“You have a room upstairs.”

“The hell with that.”

But to a get a different room would be impossible since the manager had gone home, and she didn’t want to search for another hotel at this hour.

“Sleep here,” Man-Man said, as if he too had weighed her options. “I don’t mind. No charge.”

He pointed again at the cot, with its dirty sheets, and said he would sleep in the hammock.

“That’s nice of you,” said Vera, “but I can’t throw you out of your bed.”

“It’s no problem.”

“Really. Let me have the hammock.”

“Whatever you like.”

She saw his tongue emerge, a brown wedge. She watched the tongue as it caressed his lips, making them shine. Then it vanished, sucked back into his smiling mouth, and Vera shifted her gaze to his legs, bent slightly and straddling his shadow.

“Oh, God,” she said. “Forget it.”

And she visualized the two of them sitting in a motorboat. For most of the ride across the gulf, nobody would be in sight, nobody in hearing distance.

Would she be safe?

She fled up the stairs and into the unlit passage. The knapsack rubbed against her spine; in the cellar Man-Man shouted. Sensing his pursuit, she raced on, and underneath the bulb in the vestibule, she met Frank. He was entering the hotel, and Vera, erupting with joy, clasped his hand.

Then she realized that she’d panicked. She and Frank were by themselves. Man-Man had not run after her, and it dawned on her that she might have misjudged him. Was that possible?

Frank meanwhile was talking. Vera listened, caught up by the urgency in his voice, but she could make no sense of his words. He spoke too fast and everything sounded disconnected. Over and over he said, “I’m sorry,” and she heard him say, “I was shocked. I admit it. It took me a second to respond.”

Suddenly she understood. He was apologizing for not having promptly defended her against the drunken man.

“You took more than a second,” Vera said. “Much more.”

“At least you weren’t hurt.”

“Thanks. And where were you all this time?”

“At a bar.”

“With your friend?”

“Of course not,” Frank said. “I left him right away, but—”

“I know. You were so embarrassed you needed a drink.”

“Well…”

Frank craned his neck, looking behind her. It seemed he had just noticed her knapsack, and in his wrinkled brow she could read his question: what was she doing in the entrance hall anyway?

“The door to the room is unlocked for you, key’s on the table.”

“Are you serious?” Frank said. “A little thing happens and you’d rather travel alone? You have that…” He pointed at her stomach. “…inside you.”

“
That
, as you so call it, is a fetus, and what I choose to do with it is my business.”

“But you said—”

“You heard what you wanted to hear.”

“But it’s my child, too. You can’t just go off if you’re going to keep it.”

“Only if I promise to get rid of it. That’d be okay.”

No, said Frank, that wouldn’t be okay, but Vera snorted and then brushed past him, catching a glimpse of his quivering face. In the street, however, she hesitated, unsure where to go next. Between herself and the hotels up the block sat several men—five or six lounging on the sidewalk—and they each held a bottle of beer. The man closest to her raised his bottle, and his companions at once copied the gesture, the toast made, as one of them said, in honor of her anatomy. Vera sighed. She almost wished she could change her sex whenever she traveled, because as a man she would have a significant advantage. She’d be able to roam and explore without being under constant threat.

She returned to the vestibule.

Frank had been watching from the doorway. “So,” he said, “looks like you’re stuck with me.”

“For what? Your great protection?”

“You told me yourself. A woman traveling alone in these countries…Especially a pretty, blonde-haired one. You’re exotic down here.”

“Screw you,” Vera said. “I was doing all right before we met. If I can manage in Mexico, I can manage anywhere else.”

She tilted her chin and stomped toward the basement. At the end of the hallway, she bumped into Man-Man. He had been listening to the quarrel, but Vera didn’t care about that. She excused herself for having dashed off and accepted what she assumed was a standing invitation.

“No problem, no problem,” Man-Man said, chuckling, and he led her across the floor to the hammock. She laid down her knapsack. The brightness of the moonlight in the cellar had softened.

“I’m exhausted,” Vera said.

Frank barged in, determined to see why she’d come to the Belizean’s dwelling.

“Such concern,” she said. “But don’t worry. This guy right here might be able to do the procedure. Then you’d be off the hook.”

Man-Man had moved to the window and Vera heard him choke and cough, perhaps in an attempt to stifle laughter.

“It amazes me,” she said, turning to him. “Frank thinks it’s been a good idea to have British soldiers here. We met a man before who
loves
the British.”

“I don’t want to get into it,” Frank said.

“I’m sure you don’t,” she said. “It’s a strange attitude for a black to have.”

Frank thrust himself forward and his eyes went hard. One of his fingers prodded her chest.

“What do you know about Belize?” he said. “Tell me about its history. You have the easy answers of a white liberal and skin-deep knowledge of the subject.”

“And you, because you’re black, you’re an expert?”

“No, but I’ve read a few things.”

“Starting with what? The Uncle Tom guidebook to good behavior?”

His fist smashed her stomach. The blow sent her reeling backwards, and a shove knocked her down. He dived on top of her, snarling abuse, slapping with both hands, and Vera, overwhelmed by the onslaught, shrunk into a protective position, both arms lifted to shield her head. Man-Man collared Frank and she was aware of Frank throwing elbows at him in return. The Belizean swore. Frank started hitting her again. A rapid shuffling of feet (Man-Man running?) and a loud scraping noise (metal on wood or cement?), and the next moment Frank yelled, his body jerking upward. Confused, Vera uncoiled. She saw the blood. In the left sleeve of Frank’s white shirt it formed a thick stripe, and Frank backed away from the machete, now directed at his groin.