Crowned Heads (18 page)

“Emiliano!” one of the beachboys called, and the god waved. He pushed his snorkeling mask onto his forehead, slipped his feet out of his swim fins, and carrying his spear gun and catch, he went loping along the sand toward the hotel. Emiliano? She hadn’t heard of any gods named Emiliano, but in her private pantheon, he would do. She rushed through breakfast, and put on her brightest bikini and went onto the beach. She had the beachboy put up the umbrella where she could observe this wonder, Emiliano, without being noticed. He was around all day, in his white trunks, being friendly with everyone, a flashing white smile, so lithe, so graceful, so … godlike. Tall, dark, and handsome, every coed’s dream. At lunchtime she inveigled Cupie into sitting a moment at her table, and information was subtly elicited concerning Emiliano’s true self. The god, it seemed, was employed for the season as a flamenco dancer; he and his partner performed every night in the bar. And his partner, it turned out, was Rosalia, the maid.

Well, Lorna said, she had traveled all through Spain, and adored flamenco; she certainly would enjoy seeing the team perform. In addition to dancing, Emiliano sometimes tended bar, or oversaw the beachboys, or helped Steve manage the hotel. Behind her dark glasses, Lorna watched him carefully that afternoon; he seemed to enjoy everyone’s respect and admiration, he had presence and authority and the grace of a
caballero
of old Mexico. In short, a most special man.

Starting at sundown and continuing through the evening and into the night, everyone gathered at the bar. It opened out onto the beach patio, and the guests all congregated to drink banana daiquiris or coco locos, a deadly concoction of four rums, brandy, cream, and other exotic ingredients—no one was ever specific as to the recipe—served in a coconut shell and made pretty with a flower. Coco locos cost four dollars and were meant to last a long time. Lorna wouldn’t touch them; she had an orangeade or a Coke with lemon. Nor did she go into the crowded bar itself, preferring instead one of the patio tables, well away in a corner. There was candlelight and music and it was really very lovely. Over the bar was a mural, a curved panel behind the cash register, framed in bamboo. The scene depicted an Aztec temple, with renderings of Montezuma on one side and Cortés on the other. Between them was an eagle, and below this a serpent, crowned by a bird. The serpent was intricately decorated with reticulated designs on its scaled back, and a forked tongue protruded from the mouth; the bird was brightly feathered. Lorna had no idea what these figures represented. From her conversation with Cupie she knew about some of the people in the bar: the honeymooners, always hand-in-hand—he was plain, she plainer; they nudged and touched and whispered and laughed; their skins were unattractively red and Lorna didn’t know why people didn’t take more care in the sun; she speculated as to what the newlyweds had in common and how they would make a go of things. There was the couple from Duluth—she’d heard “Duluth” several times—God knew what people did in Duluth. There were the people called Atwater; she knew those types: he was hearty and full of jokes, she was gushy; both were to be avoided. Mr. Atwater ankled over, introduced himself as Walt, and asked if they mightn’t buy her a drink; she thanked him politely, but no. She had nothing in common with them, they would only talk about themselves and would ask how
she
was in order that they could tell her how
they
were; wasn’t that always the way? There was Joan Taylor, who ran the handicraft shop—she was tall and cool and stylish, though hardly what you’d call beautiful—and the man she lived with, Bob something—craggily handsome, with one of those healthy year-round tans and bright eyes; an innocence about him, the innocence of age, Lorna decided. Though they nodded and smiled pleasantly, they didn’t trouble her, but continued talking with an elderly couple named Tashkent, who lived in a house up on the hill and came down in the evenings to socialize. They seemed sweet enough. Later the group was joined by the young local doctor, Patrick O’Connor, who ordered a coco loco and tried to smile at her. She avoided him. There was also a smart New York couple; he a fashion photographer, she a writer of children’s books. Cupie said they had a town house that had been featured in a magazine and were often mentioned in Suzy Knickerbocker and even Earl Wilson. Cupie came and asked if Lorna would like to sit at the communal table; Lorna appeared to give it thoughtful consideration, it honestly sounded so tempting, then with a rueful laugh said perhaps she’d better just take one by herself in the corner, if that would be all right. Be our guest, Cupie said.

After the meal she resumed her place on the patio, half hidden in the shadows, but her face attractively illuminated by a candle, to watch the dancing. The couple appeared in a spotlight in ruffled costumes, snapping castanets, and they were really quite good. They put on that scowling gypsy look flamenco dancers always have, and stamped their feet and cried out Spanish words no one understood, and arched their backs and profiled their heads and clapped their hands, Rosalia throwing her long shining hair across her face and swirling her ruffled train, Emiliano flashing his dark eyes, grimacing passionately so his teeth shone white, his black wet hair falling over his eyes, the material of his shiny mohair trousers cut so tightly it showed the bulges of his thighs and the incredible curve behind. When the dancing was over she hoped they would come past her table so she could tell them how much she enjoyed them, but instead they sat with Joan and Bob and the doctor, who, at last catching her eye, indicated an empty chair. But she shook her head and left.

She went along the walkway, where the dried bougainvillaea petals fell like confetti; she stood looking out on the beach. Couples were huddled in the dark and she supposed some were making love. She went to her cabaña, and when the Delco went off she lit her lantern and read herself to sleep:
Centennial
by James Michener. She’d been meaning to get to it.

She found herself getting up earlier than she had for years; she liked the quiet morning, the little boats going out with their long rods and nets, the busy beachboys, the barking dogs, the sweeping maids; she thought of her cleaning woman’s vacuum on the wall-to-wall carpeting; none of that at Boca de Oro. She sat on her patio and did her meditation exercises, and when she would again open her eyes, bringing her from that inner peaceful world she sought, there would be Emiliano out on the point of rocks. She would wave and call
Qué tal
? which her Spanish phrase book said was “How are you?” She liked watching his lithe brown body in the water, to see his powerful legs kicking the blue rubber fins, like a dark brown fish down there. She simply had to bring her camera and take some shots of him and his catch and have him tell her the names of the fish in Spanish. Oh,
trucha
? and Oh,
bacalao
? She was glad she could appreciate his remarkable qualities without falling all over him, as the other women were inclined to do, thinking up little extras for him to bother with, showing him snapshots of their daughters, suggesting he give them snorkeling lessons, asking to be shown his spear gun. Though his
Buen’ días, señorita,
was no more friendly to her than to them, though his smile for her was exactly as it was for the others, she liked to think he harbored the secret knowledge that they were fellow entertainers, and thus kindred spirits. And after all, when you came right down to it, he was just a beachboy; but
muy simpático.

It had occurred to her that in the matter of Emiliano she had perhaps made a mistake darkening her hair, she had heard that Latins liked blondes, but there was nothing to be done about that now. She wondered what impact it might produce on him to learn who she really was, so she dropped hints to the maid, Rosalia, but evidently Rosalia hadn’t seen her movies. Then she removed her glasses right in public; still nobody recognized her. Finally, one noon when the excursion boat had come in and she was having lunch, a little girl came and poked a camera in her face. Click! Don’t do that, she told her. My mother says you’re a movie star, the child said; are you? Lorna smiled, wouldn’t say, and then the mother came over. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, she began, but we’ve been wondering just who you are. So have I, thought Lorna, and smiled. The woman seemed to recognize the smile. Why, you’re Lorna Doone—the Perkies girl! Lorna’s smile faded. Nearly forty movies and she was remembered for pop-up tarts. Word got around the beach fast after that; the dreadful woman Mrs. Atwater hurried over and said, Well, Miss Doone, we
tried.
Tried? Lorna repeated. Tried to keep your secret. We knew who you were and we want you to know you can just go on being any way you want to. She said her name was Celia and just to call her “Ceel,” and if Lorna wanted to play cards or join them for drinks, her daughter was crazy for her on
Hollywood Squares
and who would have thought that Lorna Doone would be a brunette and what was that lovely nail polish? Oh, Revlon’s Misty Lilac?

The loss of her incognito seemed to do nothing to alter her effect on Emiliano. He was as friendly and smiling with her as he was with everybody; but no more. She would wave, he would wave back. She tired of waving, and beckoned instead; he came. Her beach mat had oil on it; might she have another?
Cierto, señorita.
At least he didn’t say
señora.
When the exchange of mats had been seen to she initiated a little conversation. She was edified to learn that he was named after Emiliano Zapata, savior of Mexico; Emiliano’s brother, Benito, was named for another savior, Benito Juárez. Oh, Juá
rez
! Very interesting. She thought it was nice, rather like colored people—no,
blacks—
naming their babies George Washington or Abraham Lincoln. She watched him lope away, those long brown legs, the pale soles of his feet.

At lunchtime she told Cupie that Emiliano ought to be in the movies. Cupie laughed her rich laugh and said, oh, that was just what Emiliano would like.

Ah ha.

Cupie must have mentioned this, because he was more attentive after that. He nodded pleasantly when she asked him the next day if she might be served lunch in the library, it was so restful and shady there. He would check to see. He ran off, she watched him go. He returned, she watched him come.
Sí,
he said, if the
señorita
wished it; the
señorita
did. She handed him a bottle of lotion and asked him to put some on her back. She had on another of her bikinis, aqua and yellow; she lay on her mat while he dropped the oil on her shoulders and she watched the round shapes of his brown knees as he knelt by her to perform this task, and when he was done she offered him a violet tissue to wipe his hands on. Then he went away.

Yes, she thought; a very good type; definitely in the movies.

She sunned on her stomach for half an hour, then half an hour on her back, then went into the water. Afterward she called Emiliano again and asked him to put more oil on her shoulders. Following lunch, carried by a smiling Rosalia to the library, she took some more sun, first on her back, then on her front. The glass of wine must have made her drowsy, for she fell asleep. When she awoke she touched her abdomen: her finger made a white spot which immediately became red. She hurried to her cabaña and tore open her cosmetic case, looking for sunburn lotion.

Oh, she said, oh. It was going to hurt and it was going to peel. It was stinging badly by the time she got out of the shower and at dinnertime she felt sick to her stomach. She sent for Rosalia, who sent for Cupie, who got Steve Alvarez, who sent a boy up the hill for the doctor. Dr. O’Connor came and gave her a sedative and a painkiller and a salve. She stayed indoors all next morning, hurting, and gingerly applying the ointment. Returning at cocktail time to see how she was, the doctor brought his drink from the bar, and sat by her bed and made small talk. Call him Pat, he said; Doctor was too formal. He was boyishly affable, red-faced, puffy and bibulous. He cracked jokes while his eyes roved the lines of her body under the light nightdress. His risibilities escaped her; she knew what he wanted. He held her hand in a professional manner, but his hand was as hot as hers. After he left she lay burning on the sheets, and when they brought her a tray she only picked. Emiliano didn’t come, as she had hoped he might, to see how she was. She took more painkillers and a Tuinal to make her sleep.

By the following day the burn had stopped hurting but the red remained, sore-looking and ugly, and she fretted about the extent of the peeling. She shrank from the thought of anyone seeing her this way, so she sat under her straw hat and behind her glasses on the patio, first meditating, then reading or doing needlepoint, a therapy she had taken up after Menninger’s.

Rosalia was sympathetic, and they had many conversations. The girl seemed intelligent and spoke good English. Lorna professed an interest in her and—what was his name? Oh, yes, Emiliano. Rosalia’s face glowed, her eyes shone as she talked of him. He spent six months of the year in “México,” which was what they called Mexico City, dancing in a club. There he had another partner, but one day Rosalia hoped to work with him as a team in the capital or in Rio de Janeiro. Had he made love to her? Lorna asked. Rosalia smiled; Emiliano was the best lover in the world.

Lorna nodded; she was sure he was.

When she felt better, she thought she must get away from the cabaña, and since she was still unable to go to the beach she planned a trip to the village, which she had not visited yet. She put on her white Jax slacks and the red bandanna blouse and the pale-blue sneakers, she tied her hair Apache fashion with a scarf, and walked down the beach.

The lagoon had halfway filled and a trio of burros stood knee-deep in the teal-green water, staring vacantly at her. They looked like such amusing, friendly creatures; once she’d had her picture taken astride one in Tijuana, when she and Jerry the jockey went down for the bullfights. She passed the yacht club, and Joan Taylor’s shop, went over the bridge, and along a dusty path into the village. She was disappointed. It was dirty and dusty, the houses were ramshackle adobe-and-stick affairs with roofs of broken terra-cotta tiles, and chickens and goats in the yards. Children played there, thin and dirty, and she wondered how people could live like that.