and Marla as if someone were playing a joke on her. Marla, in perfect Spanish, assured her they were only here to eat.
The hostess wasn’t the only one in the joint who found their presence a curiosity. A strange silence had fallen as the other diners noticed the two them being shown to a table.
The silence was replaced by a low murmur and pointing fingers.
“How uncomfortable is this?” Joe whispered to Marla.
“Psychologists learn to trust discomfort. It can be a very good thing and I’m kinda enjoying it.”
“You would. Besides the hostess and the waitresses, you’re the only other woman in here.”
Joe was right. Though not full up, there were about thirty other customers in Iguana; ten at the bar and the rest at tables. They were all men between the ages of twenty and forty. And though they were still dressed in jeans, boots and t-shirts, they were almost all clean shaven, well-groomed and respectful of the women serving their food.
“God, what a strange existence,” Joe said.
“Yes and no. They’re no different than any other ex-patriot community. In some ways I think it’s better than being alone in a foreign country. At least they have each other.”
As they ate, the place filled in. Men now stood three deep at the bar and the tables were all taken. There was a palpable sense of excitement in the air. Joe and Marla were seated close to the bar. Directly across the dining room from where they sat was a raised platform. There were no tables on it and no one in the place seemed to even notice it existed.
Then, promptly at nine-thirty, the mariachi music which had played quietly yet noticeably in the background all evening long was turned off. Lights came up on the platform across the dining room. The darkness and shadows had hidden a beat up P.A. system that looked like it was salvaged from an old school auditorium. Also on the stage was a DJ stand, featuring two microphones and double turntables. The hostess stepped on stage, grabbing one of the microphones. She was greeted by a round of polite applause and a few whistles. She blushed and curtsied. How long, Joe wondered, had it been since he’d actually seen a woman curtsy?
She launched into some rapid fire Spanish of which Joe understood little. Marla translated: “It’s show time.”
Next came a second volley of Spanish. This time, Joe caught a word here and there. But the last word the hostess-turned-emcee said sounded like the name Nelson. Only when she said it, it came out NEL-sown. Apparently, NEL-sown was quite popular, because when she mentioned him the crowd went nuts. They began to rhythmically stomp their feet, clap their hands and whistle.
“NEL-sown, NEL-sown, NEL-sown,” they chanted. “NEL-sown, NEL-sown
…”
The stage again went dark, but this time when the lights came up the hostess was nowhere in sight. On stage stood a pot-bellied, middle-aged man with sleepy eyes and a salt and pepper mustache. He was dressed in too-tight black suede pants trimmed in silver sequins, a matching bolero jacket, a frilly white shirt, black snakeskin cowboy boots and a black suede sombrero the size of Staten Island.
He removed his sombrero and bowed to the crowd. They started shouting to him. He cupped a hand around one ear.
“They’re shouting requests to him,” Marla said.
“I figured that one out for myself.”
Nelson heard something he liked. He moved behind the DJ setup, threw a disc on the turntable and rushed out to center stage. When the music came up, Nelson added the vocals, strutting and dancing about the stage, snapping his fingers, clapping his hands. The crowd was beside themselves. In between refrains, Nelson would scream out “A-cha!” or “Ya-ha!” sending the audience into a frenzy. It was a bizarre mixture of karaoke, Lord of the Dance, and The Cisco Kid. But Joe and Marla had to confess they had rarely seen an audience enjoy themselves so unapologetically. By the third number, they had ceased being observers and were screaming wildly themselves.
In between each number, Nelson would work the crowd. He would tell jokes, stories. He would ask members of the audience where they were from, if they had family back home-which they all did-and what it was they dreamed of doing when they had earned enough money in the United States. Both Marla and Joe were surprised and happy to hear that many of them dreamed of bringing their families to the U.S. and becoming citizens. That they didn’t view the U.S. as a place to earn a few bucks and to be abandoned and forgotten.
Before the fourth song, Nelson pointed toward the bar area. All eyes seemed to be on Marla and Joe. Nelson removed his sombrero and whispered into the mike.
“Even I understand that,” Joe said. “A song for the beautiful lady.”
It was a lovely ballad, not unexpectedly about a boy who goes off to war and leaves his betrothed behind. She waits for him to return, each evening preparing a dinner they will never share. She grows old and the children of the village tease her. Yet when she dies, the people of the village honor her belief in love by setting an extra place at their tables every evening. There were very few dry eyes in the place. Remarkable, Joe thought, given the emphasis placed on machismo in the Latino community.
“You’re mistaking our sense of machismo for theirs,” Marla chided.
After another round of drinks and a few more numbers, they left. Joe slipped a ten dollar bill to the hostess to give to Nelson. He promised to return. She seemed pleased at the prospect.
Outside, Joe didn’t wait for prompting. He took Marla in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth. She seemed to mold her body to his as they kissed. Although she seemed so small and delicate, she was in fact muscular and surprisingly strong. That feeling of her muscles pressing against his was intoxicating. It was a good five minutes before they came up for air.
“Okay, you’ve gotten dinner, a show, and kissing,” Joe said. “See, I keep my promises.”
“A surprise. You mentioned something about a surprise.”
“Yeah, that’s one word for it. C’mon.”
Mulligan was so pleased to see any other human being besides Joe he nearly nuzzled Marla’s ankle to the bone. Women and male cats, it was amazing. When Marla found a spot on the couch, Mulligan nestled into her lap, squinting his flirty green eyes at her, and purring like a motorboat.
“You can be gotten rid of, cat,” Joe warned, handing Marla a bottle of Blue Point.
“What’s that smell?” Marla asked, raising up her nose.
“The finest number two home heating oil mixed with just a hint of kitty litter. Sorry, I guess I don’t smell it anymore. Let me light a candle or something.”
She didn’t protest. Joe dug out a scented candle one of the Triple Ds had brought over several months back. Its cellophane wrapper was still intact. That was par for the course. There was often a pretense of atmosphere with the women Joe had been with since the troubles; candles, champagne, dress-up. But the hunger would usually overtake them before the candles could be lit or corks popped or layers of clothes peeled away. Joe was happy to have made a move to leave that sort of rawness behind. The pleasure in it was so fleeting.
“Vanilla,” Marla said. “Thank god it wasn’t something embarrassing like potpourri.”
“Yeah, vanilla’s embarrassing enough.”
He leaned over and just brushed his lips against hers. It was intimate and shy all at once.
“One second.” Joe stood up, went into the closet that had once only held Vinny’s uniform shirts and retrieved a large shipping envelope.
“What you got there?”
“It’s a surprise, a good surprise, but it might be a bigger surprise for other people.”
“Now I am intrigued.”
Joe handed her the envelope. “Go ahead, open it. But remember, I warned you.”
Marla undid the clasp, pulled up the flap and removed three video cassette tapes. She opened her mouth to ask for an explanation when she noticed the labels on the tapes. “Oh my God! You got-These are tapes of-But how?”
“Do you know the other names?”
“Anne, I’m not sure. Could be a few people, but Kisha, yeah. She worked as a cook for us, but left suddenly last year.”
“I think maybe we know why she left in such a hurry. Do you think you could find her if you had to?”
