House of the Blue Sea (5 page)

Ian had been kind of a big deal back in the day, at least on the folk music scene, touring with a number of groups and single performers, playing guitar, singing backup. In the ’90s he had as many album credits to his name as any other artist in the country. By the time he inherited his childhood home and a hundred thousand dollars from his father, he was mostly doing solo gigs in restaurants and bars in Vancouver, where he’d been living for two years. He decided if he was going to be a bar musician, he might as well do it in a warmer climate. He loaded his ‘98 Dodge van, sold everything that didn’t fit, and drove as far south as he could on the west coast of the continent—Cabo San Lucas.

He played in the tourist bars and lounges, made a name in the area, and threw himself in with the throngs of vacationers, many from Canada. From Ian’s stories, it sounded like quite a party for a few years. When he turned fifty he decided he wanted to settle somewhere quieter and get back to writing music. As Ian put it, when the crowd only wants to hear “Margaritaville”
one more time
, why bother writing? San Leandro was his quieter place.

He still played in Cabo and La Paz from time to time, and regularly at Casa del Mar Azul, enough to pay the bills, and the house in Montreal provided a steady stream of rental income during the slow months. The instrumental piece was over and he was singing something Sandra hadn’t heard before. Ian didn’t have the smooth voice of a crooner like Frank Sinatra, but his singing had a unique dusky quality that buffed the rough edges from whatever kind of day you’d had.

“How was your meal?” Paul hoisted himself onto the stool next to Sandra.

“Exceptional, as always. Where did you learn to cook like that anyway?”

“As an under-employed actor, a chap has plenty of time to tail after other interests, and my ex-wife was an appreciative diner. I was quite successful on that particular stage.”

“Speaking of your acting days ... I can’t believe you are friends with Mark Jeffery and have never mentioned it.” She leaned forward and gave him a gentle punch on the shoulder.

“Ah yes, my famous mate. Where did you meet him?”

“Up on the deck this morning when I was painting. He’s actually offered to buy the piece I was working on.”

“That’s great! Good for you, Sandra.”

“I hate to ask, but he was looking a bit, ah ... rough. Is he all right?”

“This morning ...” Paul pursed his lips and tapped them with the first two fingers of his hand. “Right, he was here for coffee, rather urgently as I recall. Yes, he’s fine. He’s just been having some trouble recently.”

“So do you know him from your acting days, did the two of you perform in something?”

“We did, more than once, but we knew each other from before that. We went to public school together, were great chums. I was actually the one who convinced him he should join the drama club. I don’t know that he had much intention of acting, but when Mr. Dewhurst asked who was keen to play the romantic lead next to Mary Templeton’s character, his hand was in the air, along with five other guys’, including mine. As it turned out, she was why he’d agreed to join in the first place. I should have known.” Paul looked away from Sandra, his eyes on Ian for a moment. “He got the part, was raved about in the school paper, and from that experience was prompted to follow me to the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art.” His eyes returned to Sandra. “Oh, and he got the girl. Mark always seems to get the girl.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“I was thrilled, at first, going to LAMDA with my best mate, but it got tricky after a bit, him getting the leads and me playing supporting roles. It turned out he was a natural, and much better looking of course. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

“That must have been hard.”

“It was, but he was a good friend to me. He got me auditions I wouldn’t have had otherwise, introduced me to people who could help me with my career. But it just didn’t happen. I never wanted to be a celebrity and carry all the baggage that goes with it, but I did want to make a good living at the work I loved. My security became my wife’s job. And we both know how that turned out.” His eyes travelled back to the stage.

Paul’s ex-wife was a lawyer, and when his career hadn’t met her expectations, she’d found herself another lawyer. At least that was the short version of the story.

“And how is it now between you and Mark, with you out of the business?”

“It’s easier in many ways. I can be interested in his career without feeling badly about my own. I’ve made my choice. I love my life here and I don’t envy him. It’s not easy, you know, being famous for the work you do. It brings some huge expectations.”

“I can imagine. Precisely why I don’t sell my art!” Sandra laughed.

“But you have sold a piece. Best beware or you’ll lose your obscurity, and then where will you be?”

“Hiding out in a small town in southern Alberta, like I am now. And he hasn’t actually bought it yet. I insisted he see it finished before making a final commitment.”

“He’ll like it, I’ve no doubt. He has good taste. You had a chance to catch up with Ian?”

“Briefly, and he’ll be back during his break to claim that stool you’re sitting on.”

“Ah yes, the most popular seat in a bar, right next to the attractive single woman—or married works just as well for some of us rotters.” His eyebrows bounced with mischief. Paul stood. “I’d better get back to the kitchen. I’ve left Carmelita alone to finish up the dinner orders.”

“Isn’t that the boss’s prerogative?”

“Not around here. That’s what happens when you empower your employees. Damn that Stephen Covey!”

T
he endless blue skies and warm weather didn’t help Mark’s mood. In fact, they seemed to emphasize how lousy he felt. At least in London he could commiserate with people about the unending fog or drizzle, revelling in the shared wretchedness. Here in Mexico there were all these northern tourists grinning and bleating about the fabulous weather, as though it were unexpected to have a warm winter in Baja. He wished it would rain and send them all scurrying indoors.

The square was busy today with locals and tourists, all shopping, visiting, or wandering. The streets of San Leandro were scarce in number, but showed a pride of place in architecture and cleanliness. San Leandro was yet to become a full-fledged tourist town but those keen to find a place off the beaten path returned again and again. Mark had initially come here because of his friend Paul and found the place rather dull on those first two visits, but this time it was perfect, the ideal place to escape from the world—other than the idyllic weather.

“Señor!” A man called from behind the fish counter at the main street market. “Fresh fish, amigo?”

“No. Thank you.
Vaca
.” Mark answered.

The fish vendor pointed down the aisle to his left with an enthusiastic smile.

“
Gracias
.” Mark walked to the centre of the village each day for the ingredients for that night’s meal. If he didn’t, it was too easy to eat cheese and crackers washed down with a bottle of red wine.

With just over five hundred people, San Leandro was small, but the surrounding population and visitors made for a solid enough base of consumers to support a decent Sunday market and a few permanent shops. The variety wasn’t huge but everything was fresh, sometimes caught or picked that very morning. The local beef was tougher than he was used to, and Pablo’s was a better option for a steak, but there were always too many of those weather-worshipping tourists there. He preferred to dine on his verandah with his feathered friends, despite their constant chatter and squabbles over bits of food.

The farmer’s stall had a wooden cut-out of a cow’s head on one side and a pig’s on the other, each hanging from the rough corner post that held the front of a blue tarpaulin. The market was a mosaic of orange, blue, and white poly tarps, to keep the sun at bay, held up with long sticks and guy-lines of twine. When he’d first seen it, Mark thought the market resembled a refugee camp. It was not at all like the weekly markets at home with their uniform pop-up structures.

“Do you have any steaks?” Mark asked. The woman stared at him. “Vaca?” he tried again.

“Si, vaca.” The woman stood and smiled up at him. Her black hair was pulled back into a long pony tail that nearly reached the waistband of her apron. There was a regular butcher shop in the village but Paul told him the meat from the weekend vendor was a bit more tender. He should have asked Paul what to order; requesting porterhouse or New York cut was not going to get him far with the farmer’s wife.

“Steak?” Mark put his index fingers and thumbs together to form an “O” with his hands.

The woman nodded and reached into the large cooler on wheels that formed one side of the stall. She pulled out a small roast.

“No, señora. Steak. Like ...” he held one hand over the other in an attempt to show something slimmer.

“Ah, sí!” She put the roast back and dug around in the cooler, producing a bag containing a two-inch thick slab of red meat.

It looked like a steak. Worth a try.

An electronic chirping cut through the sounds of the market. Mark pulled his cell phone from his pocket and looked at the display. “Sorry. I have to answer this. I’ll come back.”

“Hello Nate ... Yes, I read it. ... Truthfully? I hate it. ... I don’t think I need to read it again, unless the goal is to hate it more. ... You’re actually going to ask that question. No! Of course I don’t want the role! What part of
hate it
isn’t clear? Did
you
actually read that piece of rubbish? ... Sure Nate, if giving a second thought to how much I hate it will make you happy, I’ll do it, for you. Call it for old time’s sake, when you used to give a shit about my career.” Mark had wandered into the middle of the market, people flowing past him on both sides. “Yes Nate, I heard you the first time, and the second!” He smacked the red box on the small screen with his index finger. There was just no satisfying way to slam down a smart phone.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his forehead, slowly turning in a circle. He stopped when his eyes fell on the coffee vendor’s cart parked at the end of the row of low, makeshift tents. Thank God. Lorenzo was here. Mark had met Lorenzo the week before and was impressed by the quality of the coffee he dispensed from the sidecar of an old motorcycle. The bean grinder rested on the carrier at the back of the bike and the sidecar held a steel counter with the coffee machine and condiments. A small trailer carried a cooler for the dairy products and other supplies. It was quite a clever set up, and Lorenzo was doing well at the many markets frequented by American and Canadian tourists accustomed to a gourmet coffee shop on every corner. All that was missing was a Starbucks logo on his gas tank.

Mark covered the length of the marketplace like a man abandoned in the desert who’s spotted water. “Lorenzo. You’re a life saver. I’ll have the largest cup of your strongest coffee.”

“Sí
,
amigo. Latte?”

“No thanks, straight up please—no foam, no cow, no sweet.”

Lorenzo smiled and nodded. “Coming right up. It is a beautiful day, no?”

“But when isn’t it a beautiful day here?” Mark spat back.

“Señor?”

“Sorry Lorenzo, I’m just not having a great morning. Yes, it’s a beautiful day.”

Mark carried his double-layered paper cup of steaming black coffee to the fountain that sat in the middle of the village square and sat down on the concrete wall containing the fountain’s pool. His head was pounding. Hopefully the caffeine would help. It was getting hot and he should have worn a hat. Mark stared down into his cup, his face floating on the surface reflected back at him.
Old. That’s how you look, Jeffery. Old.

“Mark!”

Paul was walking toward him across the uneven stones of the cobbled street. “Here you are. I thought we were meeting at the hotel?”

Mark dropped his head and exhaled with a sigh. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot.”

“I’ve been waiting in the café. I saw you sitting over here.”

Mark glanced at his watch. “Right, we were meeting at noon. I got distracted ...”

“Not in a good way, by the look of things. Let’s go get some lunch and you can tell me about it.”

The San Leandro Hotel was the hub of the village, with a restaurant, bar and small store on its ground level. The rooms were basic and mostly occupied by budget travellers; the majority of area visitors staying at resorts and hotels nearby like Casa del Mar Azul. The restaurant took up the front corner of the building’s main floor, its windows looking out on the square. The yellow adobe walls were sparsely decorated with colourful plates and copper light fixtures hung low over tables draped with green squares of vinyl.

“I’m over here by the window.” Paul gestured to a table with a half full bottle of Coke set to one side. “Are you hungry? You don’t look so good. How long have you been sitting out in the sun?”

“It’s not the sun, although I do have a headache. Nate, my agent, called.”

“Does he have something for you?”

“Yes. And no. He sent me a script a few days ago. This piece of trash.” Mark pulled a pile of papers from his shoulder bag and slapped it down on the table.

Paul raised his eyebrows. The pages of the manuscript were warped and dog-eared with red stains along one end. “How did he send it, by carrier pigeon?”

“No, it ... fell, in my kitchen, and there may have been some wine on the floor.”

“Fell? You mean you threw it.”

Mark shrugged. “He’s trying to appease me with this ... this ... one hundred pages of crap!”

“I’ve heard you say that before, about scripts that were quite decent. You’re picky, admit it.”

“I admit I can be particular, but this one is complete drivel and the part they’re offering is not even the lead. Read it. I don’t see how you could possibly disagree.” Mark pushed the manuscript over to Paul’s side of the table.

“All right, I’ll have a look. But first, let’s order some food. I’m famished.”