Caramel Flava, Page 8

  He put his tongue between her legs. Melissa gasped. Too loud, he thought. Too loud! He licked and licked, carefully, skillfully. She fought, rubbing. “C’mon,” she said. “C’mon.” His hand ran down her legs to the top of the toilet. There it was. Okay, then. Sticking his tongue deep into her he heard her moan, and bringing it up, bringing his tongue up, he licked and licked relentlessly, grinding away on her swollen clit. Melissa grunted, gasped, and as she came, ass shaking, the ear-splitting flush of the jetliner’s toilet drowned out her loudest cries.

  They washed as best they could. “That was a pretty good trick,” she said to Oscar. “Flushing the toilet like that.”

  “I think fast,” he said, combing his hair, his moustache. He smelled like her. They both smelled like her.

  “You act fast, too.” She kissed him. “Sure you don’t want me to do you?”

  He said no. God no.

  “’Cause I’m fast, too,” she added.

  He knew. And wondered if the trip down the aisle to their seats wouldn’t make them as obvious as he imagined it would.

  As the jet approached Mazatlán, Melissa slept on Oscar’s arm. The picture of innocence. He knew he was taking a chance with her. He might have snuck her into Mexico and not told anyone. Then there would be no mess, no questions and no inquiries. Melissa could be as shameless as she pleased. Instead he told his father and brother she was coming, bragged, even. “My girlfriend,” he called her, proudly, even though she wouldn’t let him say it to her or their friends. Or to anyone.

  “I don’t want that,” she had said.

  “Then what are we?”

  “Friends,” she told him, rubbing her forehead. “Just friends.”

  She woke in her seat beside him. Kissing him, she looked out the window with sleepy, lovely eyes. She looked every bit the professional, handsome American woman he had fallen for. Good manners, intelligent, poised. She would impress his brother, Jorge, whom she would meet first. He would try her out on him. Then Papá. Papá would love her. There was nothing to fear.

  “Seat belt time,” he said. The plane tilted low over the city. As he buckled his seat belt he leaned close. “Excited?” he asked.

  She held her compact and lipstick close to her face. “Oscar,” she asked, “have you ever seen a tanned pussy?”

  They rented a car. It was the clear blue day and the brown mountains of Sinaloa Province and the chaos and color and dirt of Mazatlán gleaming by the sea that brought him the real feeling of being home. Despite Papá he was Mexican. To the old man America was the Land of Oz, where all wishes were granted. He wouldn’t mess with the old man’s fantasy. He turned onto the Avenida del Mar, as Melissa insisted. Preparations for Carnaval were everywhere, including flowers and wreaths; beer signs; handmade, makeshift stages; and Mexican flags and bunting—green, red and white—on balconies and power poles and trucks and clotheslines. Men drank beer in the sun, at tables and in bodegas, in Mexican saloons, on benches and in the streets, workingmen getting a jump on the holiday. They stared brazenly at Melissa as she and Oscar bumped along in traffic.

  “My God, what’s that?” she asked. A great stone building stood before them.

  “That’s the Cathedral of Nuestra Señora,” Oscar said. The cathedral rose above them, all ledges and arches, a massive structure, embellished with a hundred saints, villains, devils engaged in a frozen battle for the hearts of man. Heavy stone steps held a score of women, resting peasants and children. Great doors opened to a cavernous interior. “Want to see it?” he asked.

  “Is it open?” Melissa blinked, staring.

  “It’s always open.”

  They parked and walked up the steps. She stood beside him while Oscar crossed himself and walked carefully up the wide center aisle. Here and there a woman, an occasional man, hunched, kneeling in prayer.

  “Is there a priest?” Melissa asked.

  “We can’t talk,” he whispered. He pointed along the dark walls. A candle glowed here and there. “We’ll visit the stations,” he whispered. “You can see the artwork.”

  In the gloom Melissa began to make out people, small women, some in rags, shuffling along the walls. Arched grottos held painted figures in bas-relief, and before these flowers were placed coins, bits of food, votive candles. It was an eerie sight. Oscar held her hand and released it at each station, each depiction of Christ’s journey to Calvary. His lips moved silently. They walked the perimeter and then returned to the great doors. Outside the noise and brilliance of the midday city assailed them. They found their car.

  “Who are the people on the steps?” Melissa asked.

  “Poor people. Sick people. Children.” They drove past the cathedral and continued down Avenida del Mar. “It’s a safe place for them.”

  “Does anyone give them money?”

  “They don’t get money,” Oscar said. “They get hope.”

  “I see.”

  A few blocks down they parked and had lunch at a little bistro Oscar knew. The food was good, and the waiters knew Oscar and greeted him like old friends. They spoke volubly in Spanish, and Melissa swore she would not return without knowing at least a little. At their hotel in the Golden Zone they made love. Afterward, Melissa spoke of the cathedral. Oscar, feeling very close to her, thought she had been impressed by its beauty and mystery. He was wrong.

  “Want to hear a story?” she started. He didn’t. And he did. “When I was working in a church bookstore I went home with two boys. We were in college. They lived in a trailer on the other side of the river. We got drunk and fell asleep and in the morning there was two feet of snow. The city was paralyzed. Well, you know how I am, and around these two guys, and we’re alone and stuck and I’m hungover and we’re playing cards and I’m really really horny.

  “We played strip poker and pretty soon we’re in our underwear and I’m teasing about having sex with one of them and how I’d love to suck the winner off. I knew neither one could get up to get another Bloody Mary. Their cocks were sticking out pretty bad so I said the heck with the winner, I suppose I can do ya both. We cleared out the living room and I got on my hands and knees. The one guy has a big ol’ hard-on and he sits down in front of me and I go to work on him. I sucked him up and down and the other guy puts a condom on and slides it right in from behind me. He pushes in and out while I suck up and down. It was every girl’s fantasy and soon we got a really good rhythm going: Push, suck, push, suck, and it gets faster and better and I feel something happening deep in my stomach. I came and when I do I really suck and as his cock spurts I gulp and gulp and deep down I feel it all the way in one big rolling orgasm from my cunt to my mouth and back down again.

  “Afterward, drinking, we figured we all came together. End of story.”

  “Impressive,” Oscar said. What did she want him to say? They slept.

  An hour later Oscar kissed her ear. “Señorita,” he said. It was early evening, and time to visit Jorge for drinks and dinner. She came dreamily awake. Smiled. His angel. Sleep seemed to wash them both clean.

  After dinner with Jorge, they went to see his new condo. Jorge gestured grandly. “My abode,” he said to Melissa, sweeping his arm as they entered. He spoke English as well as Oscar. They had dined at an expensive restaurant and a nightcap was in order, Jorge insisted. Oscar knew he would take any chance to show off his big condominium, the ocean view, the beautiful carved bar, the ten-thousand-dollar couch. Jorge made plenty of money with his four pizza parlors. “In the pizza business you have to be a drunk not to make money,” he liked to say, usually as a toast. He claimed his own girlfriend was unavailable for dinner, but would love for Melissa to meet her some other night. Oscar knew this was a pose. Jorge spoke of girls, of beautiful girls, of one-night girls, of girls in the coffee shops and girls in the offices. There weren’t any girls. Jorge was the type of shrewd businessman who learned to live without girls. He learned to distrust them, to place a value on them, and ultimately, to refuse to meet their price. Oscar knew him too well
to be fooled.

  When Melissa excused herself to use the powder room his brother poked Oscar in the ribs. “A real tigress, that one.”

  “Yes, Jorge.”

  “You having fun with her?”

  Oscar rubbed his temples. It had been a busy day. “She meets Papá tomorrow. And then Carnaval.”

  “Yes. Watch her.”

  “I hope Papá—”

  “I was speaking of Carnaval,” Jorge interrupted. “Papá will love this girl. He will love her no matter what. She could fart in front of him, tell dirty jokes, take off her clothes.”

  Oscar gulped. Was it that obvious? “He wants me to marry her.”

  “He wants the whole world to get married.” His brother laughed. “He wants me to marry all my girlfriends. Just tell Papá the same thing you tell this gringa. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’Right?”

  “I don’t tell her anything like that. And don’t call her names.”

  “You can’t be serious about this woman, Oscar. Not the way she swings her ass.”

  “That’s enough, Jorge.”

  “C’mon,” Jorge said, raising his glass, eyes alight. He didn’t have to wink. “A little fun with the American girls.”

  “Careful,” Oscar said, his face darkening.

  “C’mon,” Jorge said. “Don’t make it more than it is.”

  “I said be careful.”

  The playful light vanished from Jorge’s eyes. “You be careful,” he said to Oscar. Hadn’t he the right to speak openly? Would he watch his brother be made a fool of? A man who hurt easily, Jorge refilled their glasses. “You be careful,” he repeated.

  The next morning Oscar hugged his father. It was good to see him. Better than he expected.

  “But where’s your girl?” Papá asked, oiled and ready.

  “She’s sleeping,” he lied to his father. “I didn’t bring her because she’s sleeping and I thought it was best, you know.”

  The old man frowned. He had a big comical moustache, the ends curling and shining with Brilliantine. Short and round, he looked all the world like little Mario in Donkey Kong. He still thought himself good-looking. He had the unassailable vanity of the once-handsome. Today he wore an expensive sport coat, brown. It set off his flashing hazel eyes.

  “I’ll bring her tomorrow,” Oscar said.

  “I want to meet her now,” Papá grumbled. “Let’s take my car.”

  “Papá, you’ll meet her.”

  “When? What is this?” He had been a cattle-buyer. He knew rough dealing when he saw it.

  They talked. The old man complained about Mexican business, his many enemies. He said he hoped Oscar stayed in America. “It’s better there. If you’re going to get cheated get cheated honestly.” Oscar didn’t quite follow that one. Papá was retired, a bull who had chased the matador from the ring. Snorting, furious, but there was no one left to fight.

  A maid brought coffee. Oscar watched her closely. Broad-faced, matronly, he couldn’t help thinking it would have been his mother, should have been his mother, had she not died ten years before. The thought made him wince.

  The old man moved from business to his second-favorite topic, marriage. “Tell this boy to get married, María!” he shouted at the maid.

  “Oh, you,” she teased him. “How come you don’t call my sister?”

  “I intend to. I am preparing the proper introduction.”

  “Yes, I know.” She smiled at Oscar. She knew. She knew as well as he knew. And it dawned on Oscar as the old man prattled away about girls and money what a great lie it all was. It was a lie because there would never be another woman for Papá, who could not speak of his mother, who was so heartbroken he clammed up and never spoke to the boys of his grief or consoled them in theirs. He put her pictures away and busied himself with his enemies and after that the comical pursuit of nonexistent women. Right then and there Oscar knew that he, Jorge and Papá lied to one another and all the world every day. His father lied when he said he was cheated by Mexico. His brother lied when he said he would marry. He would never marry but instead form a much more permanent union and make money his mistress. Jorge would love money and never cheat on her and in twenty years tell his nieces and nephews a sad story of being left at the altar by the most beautiful girl in Mexico. He would tell them how all the angels cried for him but all along he and they and everyone knew he had married the richest girl: money.

  “Papá,” Oscar said. “I want a picture of Mamá. I want the big picture we kept in the hall when she was alive.” He saw these words were like a whip upon his father.

  “There’s no pictures,” he said. “I’ve thrown them away.”

  “I don’t believe you. I want a picture of her. I want to start remembering her again. I want to remember her every day.”

  “There’s no pictures. And don’t talk about it.”

  “Please, Papá.”

  On the patio beyond their chairs birds flitted among the banana trees. “A man,” his father said, looking away, his voice subdued. “A man lives his whole life with a plan. That plan can’t be changed.”

  “Sometimes our plans change,” Oscar replied.

  “No. Not my plan.”

  “You need to adapt.”

  “To what? Failure?” The old man rose. “I have to rest now. You’ve worn me out with your foolishness.”

  While his father lay in his room Oscar spent time in the neglected garden, meditating. It was his mother’s garden. In her absence it had grown and changed. He hardly recognized the banana trees, the bushes and banyans. The garden grew all by itself. Soon it was time to go back to the hotel and pick up Melissa. At the door María stopped him. “It’s from your father,” she said. “He told me to give it to you.”

  She handed it to him with solemn eyes. It was the picture of Mamá.

  It seemed to her the whole of Mazatlán had quit working, put on a straw hat, and gotten drunk. In front of the hotel Melissa hailed a Pulmonia, a sort of golf cart–cab, and rattled off in the direction of the Avenida del Mar and Carnaval. She was dressed for fun, in a sleeveless blouse, white shorts, light sandals.

  She tried to call Oscar. “What’s wrong with the phone?” she asked the cabbie, pointing at her cell phone.

  “What?” the cabbie shouted back.

  “The cell phone. It doesn’t work.”

  “Soon it work.” He smiled pleasantly.

  Progress was slow. Buses clogged the Avenida, and the side streets were just as busy. They passed under a great decorated arch, where the cabbie stopped and she paid him. He turned the little Pulmonia and bouncing over the curb putt-putted away. The throng was so great Melissa could barely move. Pushed along, she found herself finally outside the bistro she and Oscar enjoyed the day before. It was much changed. The chairs and tables were missing. Men stood slopping beer on the wooden floor, shouting back and forth to each other. Melissa looked for the friendly waiters, Oscar’s waiters, but they were nowhere to be found. She pushed her way back onto the sidewalk. She didn’t like the way the men in there looked at her.

  A sudden explosion sent screams and laughter rolling up the street. Some men were knocked down. Cries were heard as it continued up the street. A hand took her arm just as horses pulling a wagon tore past. “You shouldn’t be here,” a voice said. It was the man who’d pulled her to safety. He wore thick, round glasses. An old-fashioned camera hung from his neck.

  “What?” Melissa asked.

  “You need to leave. That way.” He pointed up the street. It was even more crowded than the one they were on. She asked him why and he simply shook his head. A parade and passing throng swept him away.

  The crush was incredible. Melissa felt a hand on her neck. When she turned the hand was gone, and so was her necklace. She was pushed along, past drinking men, past stages of blaring musicians, past costumed dancers, past donkeys and horses. Some men in soiled T-shirts and police hats stood laughing and drinking beer. She tried to cross to them but a booming and tinkling mariachi band rolled
past, followed by buses and more buses and she was swept along in their exhaust. More explosions, and screams, real screams this time. Waves of people ran back against the crowds. Firecrackers or machine guns rattled. A rocket burst overhead, spraying them with cinders. Melissa tripped on something. Looking down she saw a man, passed out or dead, lying at her feet. Someone threw beer. She was wet, men were laughing. In a panic she pushed ahead. Dirty hands reached from everywhere. Stained, filthy fingers touched her bare shoulders, pulled at her blouse. They grabbed her breasts, grabbed her ass as wild-eyed men leered with laughing, drunken faces.

  It was Oscar who found her.

  “Melissa,” he whispered in the cathedral.

  “Oh, Oscar!” she cried, jumping up from a pew and throwing her arms around him. “Thank God!”

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I mean, I’m scared, that’s all. But how did you know I was here?”

  “You weren’t in the bars.” He smiled. She was in no mood for jokes. They walked toward the great doors, part open, with sunlight slanting in. “Why did you come here?” Oscar asked her.

  “You said it was safe,” she said. “Why did you look here?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Oscar, listen.” Melissa took his arm once they were outside. “I’ve been lying to you. All the stories about other men? It isn’t true.”

  “How could it not be true?” he asked.

  “Because it’s not.”

  “So all those stories…”

  “Made up.”

  “The orgy?”

  “Made up.”

  “Two men?”

  “Made up.”

  “The girl at school?”

  “Well…That one’s kind of true. I’ll tell you later.”