Butterfly Winter (30 page)

“Quita! Quita, my love.…”

And she answered him in voice, and breath, and passion.

Hours later as they cuddled softly in the large bed, their aura seemed suddenly to lift like a cotton candy cloud. When he looked down Quita was no more. The girl Carmen was there, plain, unremarkable, breathing softly into his shoulder.

After Carmen left Julio felt guilty for experiencing such unrestrained pleasure. But, he thought, it is the first happiness I have known in two years. Can it be wrong?

He could hardly wait for the game to end the next day. He picked a woman who, while not unattractive, was of a type not desirable to him. She was a black girl with a wild tumbleweed of hair. She wore a red skirt slit to the waist, and a turquoise blouse that showed off her sloping breasts. She was brazen, not very intelligent, and almost impossible to understand when she spoke. He hustled her back to the hotel and into bed. In the throes of sexual activity Julio, to his delight, experienced all the exotic passions he had enjoyed every time he made love with Quita.

Every night that week he took a different woman back to his hotel. In his bed, for a few blissful hours each one turned into the essence of Quita Garza. Slowly, that magical week, Julio came to understand the true meaning of Quita’s dying words.

T
he player who rusted in the rain. Did this actually happen? The Wizard says it did. I am always noncommittal for I hate to spoil a good story. His name was Pasqual Ruiz, says the Wizard. An average outfielder, an average hitter, destined never to rise above Triple A baseball, his one uniqueness was his abiding fear of rain. At the first sign of rolling black clouds he would become uneasy. He would spend more time watching the sky than watching the hitter. At the first spit of rain he would walk off the field and conceal himself in the dugout. The manager tolerated this eccentricity. If he was called upon to come to bat while it was raining, no matter how lightly, he refused to leave the dugout. The times this happened were few and the manager replaced him in the lineup when it was necessary.

However, in the middle of his second season in America, management changed. The new field manager was a man with a reputation of never quitting, and of expecting his players to follow instructions with no questions asked. When he was told of the peculiarities of Pasqual Ruiz, he spit contemptuously on the field and said, “My players play when and where I tell them to. There are no exceptions.”

A few days later a fine drizzle began while the team was batting. When Pasqual’s turn came to bat he remained seated. The manager strode to a spot in front of him and demanded to know why he wasn’t batting. Pasqual Ruiz instantly forgot whatever English he had learned. He signaled frantically for a fellow Courteguayan to come and explain the situation. The manager listened, then said, “Tell Pasquali here if he wants to continue playing baseball in America he’ll go to bat, otherwise he’ll be on the first plane back to whatever heathen hinterland he came from, a place where he’ll have to spend a whole year burning off rain forest in order to earn half as much as he gets for one day’s meal money.”

Pasqual Ruiz listened. He picked up a bat and walked out into the drizzle, where he swung at the first three pitches, none of which were near the strike zone, and trotted back to the dugout.

When the inning ended he was the last player to leave the dugout, in fact he waited until the manager had stared at him for several seconds and was about to make his way down the bench to confront him again, when he reluctantly ventured into the outfield. He stood the whole half inning in the ever-increasing drizzle, and when the inning ended he walked stiffly back to the bench. The next inning it was raining harder, so hard that about twenty minutes into a four-run inning the umpires called the game. The players ran toward the dugout, all but Pasqual Ruiz.

“What’s the matter with Pasqual? I thought he hated the rain?” said the manager.

“He is rusted,” said a utility infielder.

“People don’t rust,” said the manager.

“Unless they are from Courteguay,” said the infielder who, it was rumored, had been conceived from a union between a glove and a bat, and had been discovered, when he was a few hours old, in an equipment bag.

Ruiz never played again. He remained in right field for two seasons while the fielders played around him. Gradually it became known that there was a statue in the right field of the baseball park. Pigeons sat on Ruiz’s head. Young thugs painted graffiti on his body.

“What became of him?”

“The team, somewhere in the Midwest, lost its Major League affiliation, the ballpark was closed, eventually torn down. Ruiz stands now in a cornfield, I am told, no longer visible from any road, longing to again someday hear the crack of the bat.”

“Is that how it happened?” I ask the Wizard.

“If it isn’t, it’s the way it should have happened,” replied the Wizard.

D
r. Noir, his instinct for survival more delicate than most, became suspicious of herons. Though Courteguay was landlocked and there was no lake close to the Presidential Palace, Dr. Noir noticed that there were an inordinate number of herons on the palace grounds. The tall, blue birds stood like statues on the manicured lawns, walked slowly and softly in the gardens, stared with squinted eyes at anyone who approached them, displayed a certain arrogance as they let guards or visitors get almost close enough to touch before slicing the air with their dark wings.

“Where have they come from?” Dr. Noir demanded of his chief of security.

“They are only harmless birds,” came the reply. “A change in migration patterns, who knows? They are nondestructive, virtually silent, nothing to worry about.”

“But I do worry,” said Dr. Noir.

“I assure you, sir.…”

“Kill them!” said Dr. Noir. “Not now …” He grabbed the sleeve of the security chief to keep him from drawing his weapon. “Instruct the guards. I want an attack. I want them all killed at once.”

As if they had heard, the herons suddenly took flight, their giant shadows darkening the sun for a few seconds. The security chief barked into his radio. A gunshot shattered the quiet of the palace grounds, a heron landed with a thud near the Japanese garden thirty yards from the palace.

Like feathered spears the herons attacked. There was a crackling of rifle fire, more herons dropped on the lawns. Two hurtled toward the presidential balcony. The security chief bellowed into a radio held in his left hand, in his right he waved his handgun. But before he could get off a shot a heron arrived from above and to his right; he screamed as his right arm was pinned to his body, the gun fired wildly. Dr. Noir held a wooden deck chair in front of him, and just in time, for a heron impaled the seat of the chair, its beak driving all the way through. Dr. Noir, holding the chair as a shield hurried into his apartment, quickly closing the door and drawing the curtains.

D
uring their twentieth season in the Major Leagues, when everyone but the Wizard and their parents thought they were thirty-six years old, Esteban decided he had had enough. He had been studying for the priesthood for several years and was nearly ready for ordination in the outside world, but not the world of Courteguay where he was already a bishop, with a good opportunity of becoming a cardinal.

Julio, while moderate in most of his habits, was gregarious and outgoing, even more so after he learned to speak English, if not well, still well enough to understand the offers that were being made to him by the Baseball Sadies. He was delighted by media attention and the attention of women, many of whom were not Baseball Sadies at all, but professional models, and actresses. Julio’s reputation was that he never turned a Baseball Sadie away unsatisfied. His reputation of course was inflated by the tabloid press; colorful people in sports are at a minimum, and their color can and will be enhanced by the tabloids. On the other hand Esteban became accustomed to being ignored. When they were younger Esteban wished that he and Julio might have been identical twins so he could have impersonated
Julio on occasion. Esteban found himself uncomfortable with even the most aggressive groupies, and, after his experience with the mysterious Gypsy girl, had been very selective when it came to female company for nearly five years.

Julio won over 300 games during his career, and would certainly have won more if he had not played for a perennially second division team. Julio and Esteban never got to play in a World Series.

Even in the most humid days of July, the President of the United States attended many games when Julio started. A Secret Service man would emerge from the shadows of the locker room, his shoulders bulging with hidden weaponry, and state that the President would appreciate it if Julio would stop by his box and say hello.

“We would like to help Courteguay achieve freedom for itself and its people,” the President of the United States said to Julio.

Julio noticed that when the President smiled the left corner of his mouth turned up and a dimple like a small pentastar appeared at the left corner of his mouth.

“I would be grateful for any help you could offer,” said Julio carefully.

This was the third time in a month he had been invited to dinner with the President. He did not know what to make of it.

The President smiled again, picking up one of the linen napkins that Julio noticed were heavier than most of the drapes on the windows.

“Our problem is, as international politics goes, we do not have a solid reason to invade Courteguay, even temporarily.”

“I still think we can use repression of human rights,” said the Attorney General.

“Courteguay is no worse than, in fact in many ways it is much freer than, many nations in Central and South America. Dr. Noir persecutes only baseball players and some priests, so far as we can gather.” The President looked to Julio for confirmation.

“The economy has certainly improved under his dictatorship,” said Julio. “But he has murdered children for playing baseball. He uses his
skill as a chiropractor to personally mutilate his enemies, to break their backs and limbs and rearrange their bodies in grotesque shapes. Is that not reason enough to intervene?”

“Not according to international protocol. During the off-season when you are in Courteguay, are you or your brother’s lives at risk? You’re somewhat of a national treasure. The death of one of you two might be excuse enough.”

“But which one?” asked Esteban, proving that he had been listening after all. “I would suggest Julio, since I have already been murdered twice.”

“Dr. Noir is intelligent,” said Julio. “He knows what will create an international incident and what will not. After our retirement it is another matter. Once we are not in the public eye of the United States Dr. Noir will kill us like dogs. We will not be able to retire in safety to our homeland.”

“If he would just consummate diplomatic ties with Cuba or some other of our enemies. But he rejects all their offers. Bulgaria sent its national soccer team to tour Courteguay. They even offered Dr. Noir box seats for the World Cup final in Brazil,” said the secretary of state. “Just to be safe he’s deported every American from Courteguay, even the three who had become Courteguayan citizens. He takes no chances.”

“I would like to help with his overthrow,” said Julio. “I have personal reasons for hating Dr. Noir.”

“And your brother?”

“Esteban lives life on a more ethereal plane. He is opposed to violence. He turns the proverbial other cheek.”

“Being referred to in the third person is always a pleasure,” said Esteban.

“Would you consider becoming President of Courteguay?” the President asked Julio. Then glancing at Esteban, he added, “Perhaps co-presidents?”

“Neither of us have political aspirations, other than removing Dr. Noir from power. But we have a friend, the man who discovered us so to speak. We will refer to him as Jorge Blanco, and I assure you
he will continue in the tradition of all Courteguayan El Presidentes. Looting the treasury and pocketing foreign aid for his personal gain will be his most endearing qualities.”

“I believe I have met your Mr. Blanco,” said the President. “He dresses in a rather flashy manner, if I remember correctly. Yes, I think he has leadership qualities.”

Later it would be determined that it was because of Julio that the Wizard became President of the Republic of Courteguay.

W
hen Julio and Esteban returned to Courteguay in retirement, they decided for their own safety to take whatever American aid was available and start the process of overthrowing Dr. Noir.

As he discussed the overthrow of Dr. Noir with the Wizard, Julio noticed that the Wizard was dressed in a new silk robe with red embellishments brighter than scarlet, purer than vermilion.

“I want to visit the Hall of Baseball Immortals,” said Julio.

The Wizard’s eyes shifted rapidly for a split second. He produced a baseball from thin air, tossed it to Julio.

“Of course you should familiarize yourself with the baseball greats of the past. I should like to see the Hall of Baseball Immortals myself. If you could see fit to pay my way I could accompany you. It is in a place called Cooperstown in the great state of New York. Just before the season starts would be a good time.…”

“I mean the Courteguayan Hall of Baseball Immortals.”

The Wizard’s eyes reflected pastoral sunsets. He picked up a silver table lighter from his desk, flicked it and a rainbow-hued parakeet appeared.

“There is no Courteguayan Baseball Hall of Fame. Where did you get such an idea?”

“You must remember that I loved Milan Garza’s daughter,” said Julio. “Everyone knows he was murdered and his body is on display there in a crystal coffin.”

“Are you losing your mind?” asked the Wizard. “Milan Garza had no daughter. He was the most wasted talent in Courteguayan baseball history. He died of alcohol poisoning, on a cot in a flophouse when he was only twenty-nine.”