Read by Carrie Cohen
Year after year I’ve driven this road from Casa Bodega to Bar Merengue along the River Paraguay. Every evening we drive past the hummingbirds roosting like magical fruit in the pink lapacho trees. Children sleep in their orange-crates while over their heads, the plastic sheeting roofs of la chacarita rattle in a breeze scented by excrement and roasting beef. Somewhere a goat wanders to the end of its tether and steps into the river for a drink, and the piranha shift across the riverbed like a creeping silver shadow.
Tomorrow it will be five years since Dan’s disappearance. For fifty years I’ve kept his secret about the dreadful business in Amsterdam but for five years it has belonged solely to me. It was never my secret. Never. If I wrote an anniversary letter to expunge my guilt, it would simply be an attempt at excusing unforgivable behaviour. Of course, there can be no excuse for the unforgivable.
I pull my coat tight at the collar and stroke Frida’s feathers. She rubs her head against my neck and rams my chin.
“I’ll turn you into a boa.” I shift my shoulder. She hops onto the seat and settles with her tail directed towards me. I pat my lap. She blinks but doesn’t move. “If that’s the way you want it.” I peer into the mirror, lick a finger, press the black curl into place against my cheek and smear lipstick the colour of dried blood over my mouth. It will have to do.
Outside Bar Merengue, a rat forages amongst the garbage; a pair of pigeons strut on a balcony; the stucco has been pitted with bullet holes for decades. Tourists think we harbour terrorists or border drug barons. I’m not going to dispel the rumours. We have a little trouble from time to time, that’s all.
Facundo has set red tea lights on the old cream metal tables on the patio. A nice touch. Good for business. The banana palms are out and the shutters are open. A couple is drinking beer. I pull a dead rose head from the pot on the wall and throw it into the gutter. The air is thick with the scent of frangipani. I nod at the couple.
Inside, smoke hangs beneath the ceiling. My whisky is waiting at the bar and Facundo straightens his dickey bow; the pearl cufflinks glint and his pencil-thin moustache twitches into a smile as he takes my old musquash. His skin glistens in the orange light as he slides the whisky towards me.
“How can you stay so cheerful? Did the new chef turn up?” I drain the glass and suck on a slice of lemon.
“Yes and his chipas are disappearing.”
“Let’s hope he won’t be scared off.” I tug at my turquoise pendant and pick an ice cube from the glass and rub it down my throat. Dan bought the pendant when we first came here, 1946. We had so little. I picked them out of a basket on the side of the road and from nowhere, the hands of an old Guarani woman thrust bangles up my arms and necklaces over my head until Dan made her stop. Payback? A little reward for my loyalty? Maybe.
“What are we going to do?”
“Is not so bad,” he says. “They left. No damage.”
“It could happen again at any time? Threats are one thing but next time...”
“We must be more careful, that’s all.”
I don’t want guards at the door. ‘Security’ is another matter, a few dollars here a fistful of guarani there and everyone’s happy.
The smell of frying chipas drifts in from the kitchen and mingles with the heat and humidity of the street. Frida is lounging on the air conditioning unit pecking the feathers under her wing. I tap my fingers on the counter. She turns her head and glides down, landing gently on my shoulder. Her beak flicks my earring, the obsidian teardrops, another gift from Dan, after one of those bloody awful hunting excursions. The stone was lying on the riverbed and he had them cut especially; or so he said.
Even during the worst days of the Stroessner regime our doors stayed open. We kept up appearances, showed solidarity. Most of the crime around here isn’t violent. The police sit on park benches waiting for something to happen, but last night a group of youths barged in, one pulled a knife on Serapio and threatened to return if we weren’t cooperative.
From here at the end of the bar, I see everything: the door, the kitchen, the punters and at the edge of the dance floor, Enrique, in his pink cummerbund, at the grand piano. Facundo polishes glasses, watching the door and the drinkers. Soon Enrique will signal. Serapio leans against the bar next to me.
“Do you think we’ll still be open next year?” I ask.
“Si,” his voice dips; he’s being reassuring rather than honest.
“If any of us is still alive.” I take his hand. He crosses himself with the other and holds my fingers to his lips and kisses them.
“Serapio, Serapio, Serapio.” I run my finger along his jaw, stare into his dark brown eyes, and mimic the pout of his luscious plum lips as I say his name. “If it weren’t for you, this old bird would have flown many springs ago.”
“Señora, you are a big liar.”
A large group enters the bar and stands chattering in the doorway. I let go his hand. Serapio hustles them into chairs, pressing pockets, shaking hands, checking them over for firearms, seeing if they’re high or up for a fight. They’re a familiar type, young Europeans sampling the supposed old-time decadence of Asunción. Serapio takes their order. Enrique winks at me, the signal for me to start. I pat a handkerchief round my face to remove the shine, kick off the silver shoes and slip into the pair under my stool. I check my lipstick in the compact and smear on a little more red.
“Hello Dolly.” Enrique starts my signature song with a sinister tango bass line today, which is a little mischievous of him.
“No one visits Asunción réal without spending time at Bar Merengue and the main reason for visiting El Merengue.” Enrique spreads his arms and sweeps them towards me. “Put your hands together for our very own,” he winks, “lady of the night, the glorious, Dolores Trescoe.”
The lights dim. Serapio and Facundo scoot over and help me down from my stool. I adjust my dress, always black silk, this particular black silk is trimmed with a scalloped frill of hand-beaded lace at the ankles and shoulders. I press my hair to my scalp; tuck a strand into the bun. I allow Serapio and Facundo to take my elbows and I lean a little on Serapio. A mobile phone rings. The spotlight waits for me. I strut with all the attitude possible for a woman in her eighty-fourth year. As I approach the piano, Enrique slows the pulse. I am settled onto another stool. I cross my legs, kick out one scarlet stiletto, turn my ankle and run my hands up the black satin gloves. Serapio places a cigarette in my holder. I put it to my lips and Facundo lights it. I touch the pendant at my neck. The piano intro begins.
“Falling in love again.” My singing voice sounds husky and I can’t pitch well nowadays but I can still spin out a good song. The room rustles with applause. I nod, smile and drag on the cigarette. “Never wanted to.” I look around the bar and blow a stream of smoke into the spotlight. “What am I to do?” I shrug, open my palms. This is my world, the orange lampshades, the dusty plastic roses, the creaking air con. I drag on the cigarette again. “Can’t help it.” More applause.
“I remember…” I break into speaking voice. “I remember when Eva Perón sat over there.” I point to a table near the piano where two middle-aged men are eating pasta. “Yes you two, where you’re sitting.” I point. They smile. “You may have noticed, Argentina is not a million miles away. Slipped over the border, she did.”
I pause. “Anyone here do that tonight?” From the bar, Facundo laughs loudly.
“I guess you’re not saying. Anyway, Eva, she wasn’t the best conversationalist but that wasn’t what Eva Perón was about; you don’t need to converse if you’re the wife of el presidente, not that she was here with Juan Domingo.” I grin lasciviously. Someone hoots. I take a moment to wipe my brow. “She had a way of getting what she wanted while she was here. Oh and I remember, the waiters were keen.” Serapio and Facundo whistle. “Not these boys, their grandfathers, and it wasn’t only for tips. Marlene was the same.”
I drag on the cigarette. The piano rummages amongst its bass notes.
“No, she didn’t sing here.” There’s a melodic crescendo. “But she listened and she ate her chipas with mayonnaise, can you believe that? She left us a memento,” I point to the framed picture behind the bar, “see the little bow tie, or is it a garter? You must take a closer look and tell Facundo what you think next time you fetch a drink. Facundo is taking bets, we are expecting the Dietrich fan club before Christmas. Leave your details and we’ll add you to our mailing list.” The piano picks up the tempo.
“You look the intellectual types.” I raise my chin at the Europeans. “Hemingway drank my whisky when he was here covering the riots for the New York Times. True. Carver wrote a poem at the bar. You know, Raymond Carver. He had those deep, crazy eyes. Not unlike you, my darling.” I lift an eyebrow at one of the European boys. “The poem is over there, in the book. Go see. Make yourself at home. You like it here? Me too. And look, I stayed.” They laugh.
“Love’s always been my game, play it as I may. I was made that way.” I flick ash onto the floor. Brush the dust from my dress, gesture with my palms up, “Can’t help it.” Facundo brings me an ashtray. Serapio sets a coaster and glass on the piano, and fills it with whisky. Frida flies from her perch by the air con; her claws dig as she grips my shoulder.
“Men cluster round me, like moths around a flame.” I drink the whisky. Frida tries to do the same. Facundo brings me a cigar, lights it. I drag. It’s as if I’m sucking on a thumb. Smoke surrounds us. Frida flutters around my glass. She’s downed more whisky than I have. I waft her away and she hops onto my other shoulder and I stroke her head, a warm fist nestling into my neck.
“And if their wings burn. I know I’m not to blame.” Serapio and Facundo help me off the stool and we walk slowly with Frida fluttering overhead.
“Falling in love again.” The piano fades. People stand and applaud. At the door, I finish, “Can’t help it.” Serapio slips my old musquash over my shoulders. I climb the steps to the street and throw the cigar into the gutter.
Tonight Facundo has ordered the yellow cab to take me home and as I open the door, reflected in the glass, I see Dan behind me. I turn but no ... Frida flaps down. But there, up on the balcony. He wants to know if his secret is still safe with me. Yes, I tell him, until tomorrow.
“Come back tomorrow, and maybe you’ll find out.”
(c) Amanda Oosthuizen, 2013
Amanda Oosthuizen’s stories have succeeded in various competitions and are published online. She has an MA with distinction in Creative Writing from the University of Chichester. The Glorious Dolores kicks off a novel set in Paraguay; she’s tickled pink that Liars’ League is performing it. www.amandaoosthuizen.com
Carrie Cohen: Theatre includes Woody Allen’s fictional Irish and Jewish mothers (Pleasance), Recipe for Success (King's Head), The Boundary (Bridewell), Irene in Talking Heads (Latchmere) and The Queen at The Royal Court with Ken Campbell. Film includes a florist with hayfever in Something for the Lamppost. www.CarrieCohen.co.uk
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