Loving Eyes

"What happens now?" Jim asked Emiliano as they helped Julio bring in the field-expedient filter that had enabled them to get to shore. The rest of the Tri-Sigs had gone on ahead to the lights of the restaurant and hotel they could see from the waterfront.

"We go up to the Hotel Azul, register, and you gringos go eat while I try to get through on the teléfono to my wife. There is no cell phone service out here, and the long distance phone lines are out as often as they are working. When I can get through, I will tell Maria what we need and she will pass it on to her cousin Marco the Wonder Mechanic. He will get the parts, load up his little truck, and bring them up here, a 275 mile trip each way; and then Julio and I can replace the filter and pump."

The captain gave Jim a hand onto the pier as he continued, "Before you ask, my friend, I would not let Marco work on the Ojo Grande's engine if my life depended on it – which, when you come to think of it, my life really does, as well as my passengers and crew. He can be trusted to do simple things, but not something like replacing that filter system. But he could perhaps take four of you back to Manzanillo, if two do not mind traveling in the back of the pickup."

"There are five of us, you know, mi capitán."

"The others are not creatures of the sea. You are a diver. You know as well as I that the entire intake line will have to be removed and replaced because of that garbage in the pipe, and that replacing the line will be the hardest part of the repair work. I had hoped you would do me the honor of assisting us with the repairs and then sailing back to Manzanillo as my guest."

"I would be honored to assist, Emiliano. However, the beach here seems to be clean sand without rocks. Have you considered laying the boat along the sand at high tide and careening her, as captains did in the Age of Sail when ships far from a shipyard needed hull repairs? We could brace her on the seaward side to stop her rolling back as the tide fell, and do the work in the air instead of under water."

Emiliano looked intently at Jim as they entered the hotel lobby. "I knew I was not mistaken in asking you to stay on, my friend. I would not have thought of that." He banged the bell on the desk for service.

"And you also did not think to ask me for this, mi capitán." Jin handed Emiliano his phone. "It's a satellite phone; you can call anywhere in the world with it. Just dial the country's phone code before you dial the number, it's required. Mexico is 484." The captain took the phone, moved down the counter, dialed, and began to talk to an obviously upset wife on the other end of the line.

"You require assistance, señor?"

Jim turned to the clerk and received a shock. The woman behind the counter was the sort of woman Mexicans refer to as "una catedral" – a cathedral, for her height and beauty. She was nearly as tall as he was, with jet black hair encircled by a beaded headband parted in the middle and falling past her shoulders, and skin the color of freshly ground cinnamon. Slender, she was much leggier than the squat Mexican peasant women he had seen in the stores and encountered as maids in the corridors of his hotel in Manzanillo. Dark brown almond eyes in an oval face put him in mind of a cat, with high cheekbones below and a slightly flattened nose with a high bridge between. She was dressed in what looked like a gold bustier over a bright red sleeveless blouse, and a skirt of unusual style; cut to miniskirt height in the front to show off those glorious legs, it rippled almost to ankle length at the back in the open-toed high heeled sandals she wore. A sort of cape made of translucent gold silk flowed from the shoulders of her blouse, caught by two narrow bands at her wrists and complemented by two wide gold bracelets on her upper arms. A heavy gold necklace dipped into the cleft between two firm breasts above the bustier. She was altogether the epitome of loveliness.

"Yes ... yes, I do," Jim stammered.

"You are with the other Americanos who came in a few minutes ago?"

"Yes, señorita. I don't suppose they reserved rooms for everyone on the Ojo Grande by any chance?"

"No, señor, only for themselves." One perfectly formed eyebrow arched, in question or comment Jim could not tell.

"That being so, we will need three rooms; one for me, one for Captain Emiliano, and one for Julio, the mate." Julio staggered into the lobby with a battered ice chest. The vision behind the counter fired off a command to him; he replied, "Si, Doña, sera hecho!" with a bob of the head and went down the corridor past the stairs and the dining room to what had to be the hotel kitchen. She turned her attention back to Jim.

"It is later than you Americans usually dine, but it is just dinner time for us. Manuel!"

The last shouted word brought a Mexican in a short jacket and tie from behind the bar of the cantina on the other side of the lobby. She gave him instructions, speaking slowly enough that this time Jim was able to understand her.

"When the captain of that charter boat has finished his phone call, take him and his mate to Rooms 307 and 308. Then inform the young Americans that dinner will be served in half an hour or so and see that they find the dining room. I will see to this one myself." Manuel nodded and walked back into the cantina.

She turned the registration book on its stand around, offering Jim a pen. "If you would be good enough to sign the register, please?" Noting his friends had already done so, Jim signed. He took out a credit card; she waved it aside. She came out from behind the counter and motioned for him to follow. He watched her derriere appreciatively as they went up the stairs to the fourth floor where she opened a door and waved him inside.

"I regret that I cannot house you with your friends," she explained as she opened windows, switched on lights and showed him where the baño was as he set his gear on the floor. "There are fishermen in four rooms on their floor. Do you mind?"

"Not at all, Doña ..." he paused significantly.

"Almira. I own the Hotel Azul." She extended a hand.

"A pleasure to meet you, Doña Almira." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. She smiled with amusement but did not withdraw it.

"You seem to have watched too many costume dramas, Señor Jim. I know many yanquis consider Mexico backward, but even we do not follow 19th Century customs."

"And we collectively are the poorer for the modern lapse of courtly manners and speech. How else can a poor gringo like myself express his appreciation of a lovely woman taking the time to show him to his room when she must surely have many more important things to do?"

She smiled again. "And what, pray, did a poor gringo such as yourself find to appreciate in my bringing you here?"

"The grace and beauty with which you climbed the stairs, and the enchanting movement of your shapely legs and buttocks beneath your unusual skirt. All is concealed, but what is inferred fires my imagination and induces fantasies."

She chuckled softly. "In the days of the caballeros, pretty speech such as that would have taken you far with the maidens of the nobility, good sir. But can you say it in Spanish?"

"La gracia y la belleza con la que bajaste las escalaras y el movimento encantadora de sus torneada piernas y las nalgas debajo de tú falda inusual. Todo está oculto, pero lo que se infiere dispara mi imaginación e induce fantasias."

She laughed with delight as she fluttered her eyelashes in the time-honored tradition. "You flatter me, Señor Jim. You have hidden depths that I am sure the girls of Chicalo will be delighted to plumb. But for now, as you said I have things to do. Another time, perhaps?"

"I shall look forward to it, Doña Almira." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it again, and was surprised to receive a squeeze of his own fingers in return as she slowly slipped from his grasp. With a final smile from the doorway, she was gone.

Not having a change of clothes, there was little Jim could do to prepare himself for dinner, but he did shower and shave with the disposable razor and tube of shaving soap before descending to the dining room with a book in hand. His fellow Tri-Sigs were seated at a round table and waved him to a vacant chair. Without an order having been placed, tuna steaks were brought to them, and to Emiliano and Julio as well. An ordinary white wine went well with the fish, and a flan was presented for dessert. Declining coffee, the five crossed the lobby to the cantina and settled at a long table with candles in jars providing ambience that went with the fishnets, stuffed marlin, mounted trophy fish, and photos of people posing with their catches on the walls.

Several Mexican girls about their age were seated with older men, glasses and bottles cluttering the tabletops. Others lounging at the bar were surveying the room. All the girls were worthy of attention. Their outfits ranged from clubwear to outré.

One wore what looked like sprayed-on pants with a molded leather halter top that showed off her belly-button pendant. Two were in sleeveless short dresses of shiny fabric cut almost to the navel, fitted so tightly it was a wonder they could breathe. Another was in a translucent gauze top worn without a brassiere that fastened at the neck and left her back bare almost to the hip, and a skirt made of sheer pleated fabric with contrasting embroidery at waist and hem. One girl standing with a shapely leg on the bar rail was in a micro-dress made of lace net fabric that completely covered her left arm and boobs, the embroidery concealing her nipples while leaving the right arm and shoulder bare, hemmed so high as to leave almost nothing to the imagination. Draped over a bar stool was a statuesque stunner in opaque black tights and skintight leather boots worn with a transparent, flowing blue silk top that allowed a clear view of huge breasts restrained by a fitted bikini top and cinched at the waist with a jeweled belt. The lowest heel in the place was not less than three inches. Altogether, the local talent in the bar was most impressive.

Ohnaka, the smooth operator of the bunch, beckoned to the barmaid. She glided to their table. A few years older than the girls adorning the bar and dressed in a traditional Mexican fiesta skirt and low-cut peasant blouse, she was a somewhat more rounded version of the young lovelies; in Tri-Sig slang a snuggle-bunny, a girl with pleasant features, good tits, and a nice round ass, but thicker in the waist and thigh than is fashionable where feminine beauty is defined as tall, thin, with high-set breasts and a narrow waist. She looked down at the seated frat rat.

"What will you have, muchacho?"

"Sangria all around, a big pitcher – " he looked around the table and no one demurred – "and for the pretty girls waiting all alone at the bar, one of whatever they are drinking, with our compliments. And bring a glass for yourself when you bring the sangria, querida, if you like."

"That could be entertaining, muchacho," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "I'm Raquella. You?"

"Robert," he said, slipping an arm around her waist. She slid onto his lap for a minute, not resisting as his hands explored. She kissed his cheek.

"I'll be back in a moment, Roberto," she promised, regaining her feet. The other Tri-Sigs looked admiringly at their pickup artist as Raquella undulated toward the barmaid's station. Behind the bar Manuel got busy. Raquella took a loaded tray to the gringos' table with a gallon-sized pitcher of sangria and six glasses. She dealt them around and filled them, returning to the bar to serve the girls before rejoining the boys, sliding back onto Ohnaka's lap like she belonged there and taking a swig from her glass. The bevy of beauties took their drinks and came over to join them.

The process of getting to know one another began as the girls felt out the personalities of the boys. The encounter evolved into a party as they paired off with the Americans. Ximena, she of the royal blue transparent tunic, black tights and stupendous chichis, stood behind Hayes and massaged his neck, her tits resting on his face as he leaned his head back to nuzzle them. She wore a knowing, satisfied smile. Tarpals was making himself agreeable to Dayanara, the girl in the gauze top and bare back, one hand slowly caressing her silken skin as they drank sangria with linked arms. The brown-haired Idola in the painted-on, low-cut electric blue club dress had pulled her chair next to Warwick's, and had one arm around his shoulders and the other in his lap, squeezing the lump concealed by his shorts, while her friend Ardiana in the leather halter and jeans had draped herself over his shoulders and was whispering in his ear as she winked at Idola. Only Jim did not have himself a female companion; Novia, bare-legged in a silver-grey club dress a size too small for her, and Pilar, with her hair up in the embroidered lace dress with the bare right arm and black stiletto pumps, were acting as if they had gotten a zonk on Let's Make A Deal. They were sulky and made no bones about it, sitting as far from Jim as they could, barely replying to his attempts to make conversation, talking across him in Spanish as if he did not exist. Jim was upset by their lack of manners, but even more by the fact he had once again allowed himself to hope a chica might like him.

"It looks like one of us will be stuck with this worthless clown," said Novia in her native tongue.

"Not necessarily," replied Pilar. "Look, put some money in the jukebox and get everybody to dance. We get everyone out on the dance floor, and then you lead the baboon out there. Meanwhile, Ardiana and I will pull those business types from the other table onto the floor, and then you and I pull a double shuffle. We cut Hersilla and Consolata out and bail with their papacitos rico in tow. By the time they and the yankee baboon here realize what's happened, we're out and away and off to our rooms with real men. That will leave them stuck with him!"

"I like it." Turning to Jim, Novia asked in English, "Hey, Jeem, you wanna dance? Give me some money for the maquina de discos."

"Yes, do," urged Pilar, parting her legs so he could see the black thong she wore and running a nail down his arm. "I want to dance, you American stud."

"And the dance you want to do is the Chicalo Double Shuffle," Jim snapped, finally losing his temper. He surged to his feet and glared down at the two party girls, his face red and his voice rising.

"Mexican women are supposed to be passionate, with fire in their eyes, their hearts, and the pucha between their legs. The next time you want to ditch a babuino yanqui despistado, at least have the elementary courtesy to tell him he does not appeal to you, you putas sobreutilizadas!" Snatching his book, he stalked to the bar, grabbed the first bottle that came to hand and barked at Manuel, "Put it on my bill!" before storming out.

The Hotel Azul had a patio in front of the entrance on the beach side circled by vintage wrought iron lamps with white globes, with bamboo tables, pipe-framed hammocks, and padded wicker chairs and couches for the guests. Jim dragged a small table to the couch under one of the lamp posts, setting his book on it before looking at the bottle he had snatched. It was mescal añejo, whatever that was. He did not really care, as long as it was booze. Uncorking the bottle, he took a swig. Expecting something raw, he was pleasantly surprised by a smoky flavor similar to a single malt whiskey, but with pronounced citrus notes, a hint of almonds, and a very smooth finish with no aftertaste.

"Well, if nothing else I'll go home with another tipple," he thought. He took another sip before settling into the corner of the couch. The globe over his head gave off enough light to read by despite the dance music coming from the bar that made his head ache. He lost himself in the written words, seeking consolation for his latest rejection. Every few pages, he took a sip of the mescal.

"Ten year old mescal añejo should be savored, not gulped like tequila blanco, Señor Jim," said a voice. Jim looked up to see Almira standing over him, holding two snifters.

"I find treating it like brandy, warming it in the hand, enhances the flavor," she went on. She passed him one and extended the other, raising her eyebrows significantly. He set the book down and picked up the bottle, pouring until she tapped it to signal enough, then poured one for himself. He watched as Almira spilled a little of the mescal onto the ground; she saw him looking and smiled.

"The custom is to offer a little to Mayahuel, goddess of maguey and fertility. You can think of her as the patron saint of the agave plant, which gave the Aztec and the Maya cloth, rope, embroidery fiber, pulque, and of course mescal."

Jim immediately splashed a few drops of his drink on the ground, saying, "O Mayahuel, I did not know of your thirst and the custom. I offer amends and will not forget in future."

"Do you really believe that?"

"It is never wise to ignore local customs. For example, if you are in Hawaii and you see a naked redhead go surfing past in open water, spread the word and batten down the hatches. Madame Pele only comes out to surf when there is about to be a tsunami. Likewise, if you are in the American Southwest, you should not disrespect Thunderbird, who some Indians believe controls rain, the winds, and lightning.

"You will find libation rituals in almost all human cultures going back into prehistory. It is most often alcohol that's poured on the ground, but water, olive oil, honey, blood and even perfume have been used in different places at different times for various purposes, and continue to be. Honoring the gods and the spirits of the dead are far and away the most common reasons for libations." He took a swallow from his snifter, and Almira did the same. They sat companionably for a few moments without speaking.

She broke the silence. "What are you reading?"

He picked up the book. "Miss One Thousand Spring Blossoms, by John Ball. It's a love story set in the electronics boom of the 1960s. An American engineer who is hopeless with women falls for Fujikoma, the premier geisha of Tokyo."

"That doesn't sound like a story with a happy ending."

"Ah, but there you are wrong. Fujikoma eventually falls in love with the engineer, but the course of love never runs smooth. I reread it now and again because like me Richard Seaton is awkward, gawky, backward, and a total failure with the ladies, yet in the end he gets the girl. It give me hope at times when I need it – like tonight."

"I don't understand."

He opened the novel, pointing to a particular page. "This passage says it pretty well." He handed Almira the book and she read.

" 'You have babies?'

For a moment Seaton clamped his teeth and then faced the truth. 'I don't have a wife,' he said.

Compassion swept his companion's features. 'She die?'

Again he shook his head, then he spread his palms upward to indicate the painful truth.

She understood, but the idea itself eluded her. 'Not want?' she asked. Her eyebrows were like gentle question marks.

He could not trust himself to sit there any longer, he stood up knowing how ungainly tall he must seem to her. Afraid that with her poor English she had offended him, she rose too and searched his face. A professional who was devoting her life to the art of entertaining men, she was suddenly fearful that she had failed. Also she felt a tug of compassion for the overgrown foreigner who had hired her and whose feelings she had unintentionally hurt.