Chapter 10
"What the hell's going on here?" Ben murmured as he opened the door to their hotel room. He had just returned from his assignation with Maria, expecting to find his wife still "resting" from her grief and other matters, as he had left her.
Resting, however, was hardly the right word.
True, she was lying in bed, all right. But she was naked, her breasts and vagina were pointing skyward, her arms and legs were outstretched, as if to receive perhaps some form of manna from heaven.
What she was about to receive, as Ben opened the door, was the definitely masculine body of one of the La Quebrada divers.
The La Quebrada divers are two, sometimes three, individuals who put on a twice-nightly show at the restaurant by the same name. Below the restaurant, which is situated on a cliff a few hundred feet in height, lie a few small breakers and sort of cove into which the divers, carrying lighted torches in their teeth, swan dive for the amusement of the well-heeled patrons. It is a chilling, terrifying sight, and one slight mishap-and you're dead.
This particular diver, a slim, elegant-looking guy no more than 22, with moderate-length black hair and slender arms and legs, was perched on the chest of drawers, ready to dive off and onto the bed-and, presumably, onto Angela as well when Ben uttered his surprised query. Which was sufficient to surprise the diver, almost in mid-dive, for he seemed to change course in mid-air, missing the bed entirely and crashing in a heap on the floor, where he lay quietly.
Ben walked over to Angela, grabbed her by the shoulders, turned her over, and proceeded to beat out a harsh rhythmical pattern on her buttocks with the knuckles of his hands. She tried to scream, and he shoved her face into a pillow, at the same time continuing his beating until her ass was redder than an Acapulco sunset. He quickly slipped her bruised body beneath the covers, told her to shut up or he would strangle her. From the violent tone of his voice he could tell that she believed him, for she immediately did as she was told; the way he felt at that moment, he also realized that he himself was perfectly capable of carrying out that threat, and he called the desk, saying, "Hello, this is Brinkman in 314. There's a strange body on the floor of my room, and I want it removed immediately. No silly questions from you, just get up here and get rid of it at once! Yes, that'll be fine. Thank you very much."
Sighing, he dropped himself into a chair, placing his hands behind his head. He was beginning to wish that he had never taken Angela to Mexico, much less himself. He thought, This is such a beautiful country ... but there's sure something strange in the air ... I'm not a mean guy or anything like that, but I'll be goddamned if this machismo syndrome isn't starting to get to me ... I shouldn't have to beat Angela up each time I have to show her I'm a man ... this marriage is getting worse than I ever dreamed ... I don't know what the hell to do anymore.
Angela, cowering beneath the sheets, said nothing.
A few minutes later, two bellboys arrived, asked no questions, picked up the body, and left. Ben sighed again. He walked over to the bed, pulled back the sheets, looked at her ass. The bruises, like knuckle-prints, were still showing. He placed the palm of one hand on one of her buttocks, squeezed gently, patted her, removed his hand and placed it on her neck. His other hand automatically joined it, and before he realized what was happening, both hands were around her neck, their fingers almost joining.
Suddenly, the impact of what he was doing hit him like a blow from somebody's fist. He hurriedly yanked his hands away, looking at them in fear and concern. He could not believe it ... his mind staggered at the impact of this new knowledge ... he had just tried to strangle his wife.
He asked himself, had it come to that?
"Why don't you just kill me and get it over with?" his wife asked laconically, with no trace of emotion in her voice, sounding as bored as Bette Davis in one of her injured wife roles. "I'm no damned good, Ben, and now you know it. I've been fucking everybody since you brought me to this sad beautiful country. And I just don't want to stop ... I like fucking everybody ... I like everybody treating me with machismo ... I like it very much...."
He walked over to the bed again and, placing his hands on her shoulders, rolled her over so that she was now lying on her back. He kissed her breasts, sucking them gently with his mouth; she did not respond, but merely lay there, quiescent and uninvolved. He kissed her on the mouth; same reaction, or lack of it.
He pulled a chair over to her bedside, sat himself down, and reached over to hold her hand while he was talking with her. Her hand felt as limp as wet liver; she was passive in the extreme to him.
Before he could say anything, she said, again in those flat monotones, "You've got a dose of machismo too, Ben. That's what I've done to you ... that's what Mexico has done to you, too ... I wish you'd hit me again ... good and hard ... why don't you break both my legs ... then I can stay in Mexico for that much longer ... and then when my legs heal, you can break them again ... and we can start all over again ... why don't you hit me, Ben ... hit me good...."
He began to wonder if he should call a doctor.
He said, "Please, Angela, don't talk that way. We've had a wonderful marriage for the past two years, even though there have been some rough spots. I think we've managed to get along fairly well. But ever since we've been in Mexico ... well, it just seems like something in this country itself is getting under our skins, tearing our marriage apart. We can't go on like this...."
The telephone rang.
They let it ring for perhaps a dozen times, before Ben finally crossed to the other side of the bed and picked up the receiver.
It was Senor Sanchez.
Ben thought, Who else? Why not? That's all I need.
Nevertheless, he invited the Senor to their room. He thought, What the hell, maybe Senor Sanchez can help her get out of this strange mood. Chances are he'll probably start fucking her right under my nose ... but what can I lose now? ... I may have lost her already ... to Mexico ... to machismo ... oh, fuck it all.
Senor Sanchez arrived a few minutes later.
He was surprised, for one of the few times in his life, to discover Angela in such a corpse-like state. He thought, This is too much machismo for'her, she simply cannot handle such an abrupt transition ... if I had realized that she was this delicate ... yes, I can see why her husband is so worried ... something must be done ... something must be done at once.
He walked over to the sick girl and, uncharacteristically-it just occurred to him on the spur of the moment-he began to hum a Mexican lullaby, then singing the words to her in soft sibilant Spanish, like a member of a mariachi band. Her face began to take on more color, and her eyes brightened. She became more animated, more alive ... and all Ben could do was walk out of the room, go downstairs to the bar, and order a drink.
He ordered the strongest, tallest, most expensive rum drink on the bar menu.
He was halfway through his first drink when an idea occurred to him. Perhaps he should extend his vacation for another week ... figure out some way to keep Senor Sanchez from taking complete possession of his wife ... give Mexico, machismo and all, another week to get straightened out and his marriage with it ... and if that didn't work, just get the hell out and go back to New York alone and try to start a new life with Angela.
What else could he do?
He asked the bartender to save his seat for a few minutes, then went back to the front desk and asked them to place a call to New York for him, and to page him in the bar when the call was completed. Then he went back to the bar, gulped down what was left of his drink, and immediately ordered another.
Telephone calls from one point to another in Mexico are strictly manana, as far as speed goes. But, from Mexico to another country ... well, time often stands still before such calls are completed.
Ben was well into his fifth monstrous concoction, the liquor running through his veins so strongly that, as his phone connection was announced, he almost fell on his ass as he clambered off the bar stool and went back to the lobby to take his call.
It was lucky for Ben that Richard Waywright was working late that evening, and that the switchboard was still connected (as per his instructions, in case he wished to call out). Waywright had picked up the phone immediately; although, Ben was in such a combined state of panic and inebriation that it took his boss several seconds to finally understand who was on the other end of the connection and where he was calling from.
It took Ben several straining minutes to describe his situation-leaving out the more sordid details-to Waywright, finally getting around to requesting the additional week of vacation. Since two weeks was all the authorized vacation Ben had coming, he offered to take the extra week as a leave of absence, without pay.
Waywright, however, had other ideas.
It had not taken him long to figure out that the Brinkmans' marriage was indeed in trouble, even in more trouble than he had suspected would befall them and their initial encounter with machismo.
And, a sudden jolting idea had charged into his brain.
He could use a vacation himself, or at least a few days off. He had been working too hard, especially since Ben was gone. He thought, I'll just tell the vice-president I need a few days off because of a sudden recurrence of an old war wound or something ... have to bask in the sun for a few days ... we're all so far behind anyway that it really won't make any difference ... and this is my chance to really get Angela Brinkman straightened out as to what I want from her ... I may never get a chance like this again.
Especially with Senor Sanchez, as described by Ben, breathing so hard down Angela's neck. He knew Mexican men, and Senor Sanchez sounded dangerous to him ... dangerous for his own plans for Angela.
Ben almost dropped the phone when Waywright told him that he was catching the next plane for Acapulco, and would be there tomorrow, if not sooner. He vainly tried to protest, but Waywright would have none of that. Richard the Good told Ben the Distraught that he, Richard, was doing it for his own benefit as well as Ben's-as he put it, "Ben, you are just too valuable an employee for us to let this horrible thing happen to you. I feel that it's my personal responsibility to help you out in any way that I can. That's why I'm flying down to Acapulco on the first plane out tomorrow. Goodbye."
As he hung up, Richard could not help but chuckle softly. Tomorrow, he would waste no time with anyone except Angela. In her state, as he imagined it, she would be ready for someone new to move right in and take over ... some familiar face from her own country ... him.
He was getting a monstrous erection just thinking about it, and he decided to leave the office at that moment. He was no longer in any mood-or shape-to work.
While Ben, at the other end of the connection, could scarcely believe his ears as he hung up the phone.
His employer, his supervisor, his boss....Richard Waywright ... coming all the way to Mexico to help him out.
It was so fantastic that he found it hard to take. How magnificent, he thought, of my boss to do that for me ... what a great guy he really is.
On the way back to his room, Ben paused briefly to look outside. It was dark now, the moon was a silver globe in a star-sprinkled sky, and the reflection of moonlight on the water was indeed lushly romantic. The sensuous sight almost put him in a pleasant frame of mind.
Until he opened his hotel room door....
And saw, in the dim light from the hall, two figures huddled in the bed, snuggled beneath the sheets, making some rather animated and passionate love.
He did not need to rip the sheets off to find out who they were.
He knew.
He was closing the door, wondering where he would sleep that night, when a sudden inspiration rang a bell in his brain.
Why should he sleep somewhere else? This was his room, it was he who was paying the bill (at the Hilton, a most expensive bill, for sure), and no one more than himself had a better right to be there.
He opened the door, walked inside the room, closed and locked the door, and pulled the chair over to the bedside again. Still dressed, he sat down, reclined, and prepared to sleep in the chair for the rest of the evening.
He watched Senor Sanchez and Angela making love. It seemed to him that they were taking their own sweet time about it, almost as in a film being played in slow motion ... yes ... they weren't moving ... too fast ... not now ... why not ... I can ... do better.
Then he fell asleep.