Butterfly Winter (14 page)

SITTING IN THE TEAM LOCKER ROOM
in Cleveland, listening to the unkind words of his teammates, Julio recalled that as a child he would wake as the first blue talons of dawn pierced the windows in
the completely renovated tin-roofed hut, to hear his parents arguing about sex.

“Courteguayan boys are born with erections,” his father would say when Fernandella complained about the frequency with which he demanded sex, and the startling positions he insisted on in hopes of producing other offspring as exotic as the twins.

“A true Courteguayan man has an erection from the day he is born until the day he dies. A great man goes to his grave with a bulge in his pants. Those lucky enough to be born in hospitals are no longer virgins by the time their mothers carry them home. There are obvious reasons why hospital nurseries are divided in half with boys on one side and girls on the other.”

The twins, Julio and Esteban, would peer across the hut, eyes straining in the bluish light, trying to comprehend what the ghostlike figures of their parents were doing beneath the sugar-sack sheet.

Fernandella, though she often complained vigorously at the beginning, soon became a willing participant in the morning athletics—in fact it was her voice that always awoke the twins. Her cries of pleasure sometimes frightened the yellow-crested cockatoos from sleep and they would walk about on the coral-tiled roof, their feet making tiny music.

Hector and Fernandella almost always managed to keep a thin, sugar-sack sheet over themselves, Hector gripping it fiercely at the nape of his neck with his left hand, as he changed positions, which he did frequently.

Julio sat stiffly on the pocked bench in the locker room, not afraid to meet the eyes of the harassing ballplayers. This is a chance to earn their respect, he thought, even their envy.

“Courteguayan men are born with erections,” he said, imitating his father. “In the hospital where I was born, when I was but two days old I crawled from crib to crib deflowering virgins. The parents of the girl babies complained and I was tied by my ankle to my crib.”

“You tell ’em, Cinnamon,” said one of the ballplayers, his tone not entirely unfriendly.

“But that,” said Julio, “did not stop the girl babies from coming to me.”

The other players laughed.

Julio had noted by watching the players that bravado was not necessarily doing, but always claiming to be prepared to do, and always bragging on past exploits.

Night after night he watched the ballplayers, including his chief tormentors, J. Carroll and Bubba Lee, sally forth in pressed sports jackets and shined shoes, on their eternal quest for beaver. He also noted that about nine out of ten nights they straggled back to the hotel alone, or in groups of two or three, slightly disheveled, slightly drunk, and virtually never accompanied by women.

“The most beautiful nurse on the ward took me into the supply room where she pressed me against her breasts, while her cool fingers explored my manhood,” Julio went on, staring straight at the other players. Esteban, in the meantime, had dressed without exploring any part of his body, and busied himself at his locker, his ears burning as if they were outlined in red neon.

“
I WILL TELL YOU HOW
my parents met,” said Julio. “My father was a gaucho, herding cattle high in the barrens above San Cristobel. It was sunset, he had prepared his camp, built a fire, eaten his simple fare, and was sitting on a rock, hunched forward, drinking coffee from a tin cup and stirring the fire, when a young woman rode out of the shadows and dismounted.

“My father peered at her from under the wide brim of his leather hat, saw that she was beautiful, strong and healthy, dressed in cowboy gear, and obviously interested in him. He ignored her.

“The cowgirl looked at where my father had tethered his horse by dropping a heavy rock on the reins. She walked into the darkness, carrying a small hatchet she took from her saddlebag, she cut a small tree, sharpened the point, and, in clear view of my father, screwed the stake into the ground with her bare hands, until it was secure enough that she could tie her horse to it.

“My father showed no sign of having observed her feat of strength. He just sat, hat low over his eyes, stirring the fire.

“The cowgirl, determined to impress my father, looked around the gully, her eyes lighting on a good-sized clod of dirt near the fire. She pushed her hat back on her head so my father might see the strength and beauty of her face, picked up the clod of dirt, placed it between her breasts, then. standing straight as an Amazon warrior, placed a hand on the outside of each breast, and with a tremendous thrust broke the clod of dirt into a thousand pieces.

“The corner of my father’s left eye twitched almost imperceptibly, but he remained hunched over, sipping coffee, stirring the fire.

“The woman who was to be my mother was no quitter. She again stepped out of the firelight, only to return with an almost-round white stone the size of a cantaloupe. She positioned herself in my father’s line of sight, making certain he could see her fine shape, her muscular body, the leather chaps she wore over her wrangling pants. She took the rock, which was quartz-like and glittered with fool’s gold, placed it between her thighs, applied mighty pressure until the rock groaned and cracked into gravel.

“Then she stood staring boldly at my father. He raised his head slightly so he could see her with one eye; the firelight skimmed across that eye like lightning. He finished his coffee, set down the cup, but continued to stir the fire with his prick.”

The players laughed in spite of themselves. Julio could see he had crossed the line from foreigner to compatriot.

“What do you reckon a preek is, J. Carroll?” said Bubba Wales.

“You ought to know, Bubba, why I heard a girl explain it all to you the other night.”

J. Carroll, looked at Julio and smiled, letting Julio know that this story was aimed directly at him.

“We were up in Bubba’s room with our dates the other night,” J. Carroll said to Julio, “and Bubba and this girl, who looked a lot like Casey Stengel, were gropin’ around on his bed.

“ ‘What’s that I feel against my thigh?’ the girl said.

“ ‘Why don’t you take it out and have a look at it?’ says Bubba in his subtle way.

“Well, there was a lot of rustlin’ and zippering going on for a while.

“ ‘Why I declare, what is this thing?’ Miss Casey Stengel was saying.

“ ‘That’s a prick, honey,’ says Bubba, just as sure of himself as you please.

“ ‘Oh, no,’ says Miss Stengel, ‘it may be a lot of things but it ain’t a prick. A prick is a foot long and comes from Courteguay.’ ”

Even Bubba laughed. Julio and Esteban were seldom harassed again except with good nature.

L
et me tell you a story. After the coming of Dr. Noir, the whole complexion of politics in Courteguay changed. Before Dr. Noir the Government and the Insurgents were on quasi-friendly terms even though they were officially at war. The story is actually one of how the women of Courteguay came to be excellent baseball players, something I don’t have to tell you, Julio, for as I recall your sainted mother, Fernandella, was a shortstop of cunning, agility, and also wielded a powerful bat.

I recall the time El Presidente ventured deep into the heart of the jungle for a secret meeting with the Commander of the Insurgents, a certain General Bravura.

When General Bravura was in power he estimated that there were three hundred people in Courteguay wealthy enough to buy a Mercedes-Benz. General Bravura then suggested to his cousin Eduardo that he apply for a Mercedes-Benz sub-dealership, a branch of the main dealership in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. General Bravura of course got a percentage on every sale, and the wealthy of Courteguay knew which side their foreign bank accounts were
buttered on so to speak. Over three hundred Mercedes were sold each year; the trade-ins were sent back to the Dominican Republic, sometimes to the United States, for low-mileage Mercedes sold very well there.

When the Old Dictator, after an appropriate term in exile, overthrew the government of General Bravura, there were accompanying riots, as there were each time a regime was replaced. Foreign photographers captured the sacking of the Mercedes dealership in San Barnabas. But what was interesting about the sacking was that the restless young men who were looting and celebrating were—instead of driving the cars at full throttle down the Avenida Bougainvillea—pushing the Mercedes by hand because no one but the very rich knew how to drive.

What can we do to make the women of Courteguay worship baseball in the same way as our men? As I see it baseball can only be totally successful as both our national sport and national export if it is beloved by all the population. In Haiti, fort instance, only the men play soccer, and how beloved is soccer in Haiti? Let me answer my own question with another question. How many world-class soccer players has Haiti produced? Let me answer my own question. None that I know of. Now, how many world-class baseball players has Courteguay produced?

“About three dozen,” said Julio, interrupting the Wizard’s story.

“Please don’t interrupt,” said the Wizard. El Presidente had ventured into the jungle with a large entourage, including representatives of the local and international press. The spring before, General Bravura had visited El Presidente at the Presidential Palace in San Barnabas, under somewhat similar circumstances.

“Let’s not get down to business so soon,” said General Bravura who, as always, was dressed in camouflage fatigues, his beard ragged as Spanish moss hanging from a tree branch. “I miss the city,” General Bravura went on. “Though we have many amenities.” He gestured toward the wall of electronic equipment in his quarters, the television, the air conditioning, all made possible by a huge electric generator,
a gift from El Presidente on his last visit. “I miss the restaurants, the excitement of the marketplaces, the parades, and of course the palace. You are taking good care of the palace?”

“Ah, my old friend,” El Presidente said, “I’m sure it won’t be too long until we exchange places again. In fact I have brought along a small offering to aid you and your conscientious servants in your campaign to unseat myself and the other impertinent brutes, your recent words, I believe, describing my regime.”

El Presidente smiled broadly and waved his orderly, a Haitian dwarf who cradled a submachine gun in his baby-like arms, forward. The orderly dragged a black suitcase to General Bravura’s feet, laid down the gun, and opened the case, which was stuffed with new American bills in large denominations.

General Bravura’s eyes gleamed.

He smiled, but sadly. “I would be less than honest with you, old friend, if I did not mention that certain representatives of the
CIA
and
FBI
have recently sent me, as well as two thousand military advisors, an amount of currency that makes your own noble gesture seem cheap by comparison. As we have anticipated, the Americans have become as disillusioned with your regime as they were with mine, and as we also predicted, they now guarantee me unconditional support in seeking your overthrow.”

“I have to admit, comrade of my youth,” said El Presidente, “that I do have my ear to the earth as it were, and that I have been kept apprised of your secret negotiations with the United States. My gift was indeed a hollow gesture. A test. I wanted to be sure we are still friends, that greed had not come between us. Incidentally, I am keeping the palace in its usual resplendent manner. I am painting and redecorating the east wing—peach and the delicate blue of a baby’s eyes. Do you approve?”

The two friends laughed heartily, filled up their brandy glasses and got down to business.

“Ah, the women,” said General Bravura, “since you brought up the subject perhaps you have some suggestions?”

“I have been trying to remember what it is that women like so that we might be able to incorporate it into baseball,” said El Presidente.

“Well,” said General Bravura, “women like clothes. It is my experience that above everything, except their children, women love silks, satins, laces. Well, most of their children, depending on the individual woman and the quality of the silk. My own Lourdes, bless her loving heart, while we are serving our time in exile, wears her cartridge belt and fatigues, but how she longs for the wardrobe she left behind — I trust her gowns and furs are being stored in temperature-controlled vaults.” General Bravura stared at El Presidente until he received an affirmative nod.

“If what you say is true,” said El Presidente, “then it will be a simple matter to create baseball uniforms made from silks and satins in colors that will cause the flowers to blush. Bats and balls will be painted in alluring pastels. We will plant marigolds and zinnias in the coaching boxes. Women will be allowed to design their own baseball footwear to match their uniforms, which will be unique each and every one; it is important I believe that no two be alike. There must also be a prize for the unglamorous position of catcher, perhaps a mitt studded with jewels, which at the end of each season become the property of the catcher?”

“Unfortunately, the soccer players of Haiti, a pox on them and their offspring, tried those very same methods a few short years ago; silk uniforms of a variety of colors, pink soccer balls, a tea dance after each game. Nothing worked.”

“Nothing is impossible,” said El Presidente. “Think now. What are the fundamental needs of women?”

“Food, warmth, love,” replied General Bravura.

“Right,” said El Presidente. “We could withhold food until they took up baseball. But that policy would be cruel and would cause, to say the least, a certain amount of resentment. And they would play the game out of fear. We must make them play the game out of love. They must have good reason to strive for perfection.”

The two men pondered the situation.

“Warmth cannot be eliminated,” El Presidente continued. “The average temperature in Courteguay is 87°
F
. Neither politicians nor wizards can make Courteguay cold.”