Butterfly Winter (11 page)

“Baseball was not unique to Sandor Boatly. He discovered it in America. Perhaps it came originally from Courteguay to America and not vice versa. Perhaps baseball originally came from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago a space ship arrived here with bats and balls and laid out these diamonds where our ancestors enjoyed the game. How did it become extinct? I don’t know. Like birds, animals, insects that have certain life spans then disappear into history, maybe that is what happened to baseball.”

“Ever the charlatan,” said Fernandella.

“You have a better explanation?”

“I do,” said Esteban. “It is God’s will. God allows us to fly above Courteguay to see it as few ever have. There need not be an explanation. God’s will does not need explaining.”

T
he urchins of the green, that is how Julio, Esteban, and their boyhood friends were referred to by parents and neighbors.

In Courteguay, where it was always summer, where the word
snow
was used only to describe a type of daisy, the boys played baseball from dawn to dusk, with teams forming, fragmenting, merging again, all in the space of a few hours. Some boys would leave to eat, run errands, or take a siesta, then reappear a few minutes or hours later, always welcome to fit into the loose structure of the game, like an extra bat on a bat rack.

Only Julio and Esteban never left, their bolted breakfast of pheasant burritos lasting them all day. They never tired or rested or even answered nature’s call. Only when the ball became invisible in the blueberry darkness of evening would they slog off home, with the slim Julio, tall and straight as a post, leading the way, and squat, muscular Esteban trailing him.

Even after it was dark the brothers would still toss the ball back and forth in the dim interior of their home. Julio liked to catch fireflies in a jar and watch the misty, dreamlike glow from behind the
ice-colored glass. He would leave the jar beside his straw pallet, and as he went to sleep the baseball would slip from his grip and roll away a few inches until it nestled against the jar, the pinpricks of light reflecting softly on the scuffed baseball.

When they returned to Courteguay after their first season away it was the baseball fields that seemed to have changed the most. What they remembered as smooth, angora-like surfaces, were highly uneven and filled with hummocks, every step of the outfield an adventure. They had never realized that the grass was not shaved daily with mowers, in fact it never occurred to them to think of the grass at all.

On a cool, green evening some father or uncle, or neighbor, would be loitering on the sidelines, smoking, watching the game, when he would notice the grass was above ankle height. He’d smile slowly and produce, seemingly from nowhere, a scythe, and take one turn across the farthest arc of the outfield where if there had been a fence it would have stood. On the far side of the field he’d toss his cutting implement to another man, or one would be waiting with his own machete glittering in the orange spill of sunset.

And the fields were smaller than they remembered. Courteguay was smaller than they remembered; Julio recalled the first time he ever saw a map of the world and realized Courteguay was not only smaller than a postage stamp it was smaller than half a postage stamp, about the same size as the moon on his thumbnail, a crescent-shaped fragment cut from Haiti and the Dominican Republic.

Everything was small, even Fernandella was not the giant-sized mother they remembered. The boys were startled to find how small and almost frail she was, and their father was thin with bad teeth and a furtive air about him — which was about how they remembered him. And the Wizard … only the Wizard remained larger than life, slicing down out of the sky, silent as a bird of prey, appearing out of nowhere in his spangled costume, part harlequin, part prophet, part priest.

But though the baseball fields were smaller, shabbier, their players less skilled than they remembered, the urchins of the green remained
unchanged, as shadowy, as dreamy as always, and the languorous game went on from sunup to sunset, year after grassy-green year.

School for the urchins of the green had been a sometime thing, sometimes they attended on days when rain made baseball impossible. Uninspired teachers, some missionaries, some local people bewitched by the teachings of missionaries, held classes in humid church halls or basements, or in open air when the weather was fine. Students used the fine, ochre-colored dust as a slate, drawing letters, adding sums by scraping in the earth with a stick.

Then Eugenio Martindale arrived, a black man from Miami, heavy-bellied now, but formerly an athlete, a former outfielder who had made it as far as Double-A ball in the United States.

He chanced by one of the perpetual baseball games and his anthracite face glistened with sweat just watching the urchins of the green engage in their eternal baseball game. He became excited by what he saw in Julio and Esteban, coming forward to offer advice and coaching to the cinnamon-skinned Pimental brothers.

“How many of you know how to calculate your batting averages?” he asked the boys, hoping to induce them toward education by offering something they would desire.

“Courteguayan boys are born with that knowledge,” assured Julio, “
ERAS
also. Esteban and I were a battery before we were born. My
ERA
in the womb was 2.04.”

Eugenio discovered that in spite of Julio’s statements only a fraction of the boys shared his and Esteban’s knowledge, and that notwithstanding their ability to calculate statistics, neither could read more than a few words. Eugenio produced from a scarred leather briefcase a sheet of newsprint that held magic as an educational tool. He taught them all to read and write using Major League box scores first from the
Miami Herald
and later local box scores from the commercial leagues. At his own expense he had score sheets printed and refused to let a boy play unless he could write in his own name. Every boy learned to calculate his batting average, and he had also to be able to check his friends’ averages, for once skill was acquired it was
only a simple step further to cheat. The boy who had played the worst in the previous half hour was pulled out and forced to write a short summary of the game, naming stars, acknowledging great plays. He was force-fed the five Ws of journalism: who, what, where, when, and why. He learned quickly in order to get back onto the baseball field.

A
h, yes, you have come to the right place. Welcome to my humble store. Booth, roadside stand would be more appropriate. Very far from famous American department stores, which I someday aim to emulate, is it not? I have seen Harrods in London, but it is Walmart that thrills my heart. That fine young man named Sam who began Walmart out of his back pocket so to speak, is my hero. He offered his friends a chance to invest $1,000 at the beginning, those who did so are multimillionaires today. I wish to make the same beginnings.

Your question? I have not forgotten your question. The Pimental brothers, Julio and Esteban. I have known them all their lives, indeed I have known their parents before them, the crafty Hector, the shrill Fernandella. Ah, how I came to be in this place is a long, sad story, of which I am sure you are not interested, though I’m sure you as an American recognize me as not being a Courteguayan. By the way, have I told you how much pleasure it is to converse with someone in English, you cannot imagine how little English is spoken here. Dr. Lucius Noir, the noble dictator of Courteguay, speaks English, I know this for a fact, for he studied at a chiropractic college in your
state of IdaHO. Ah, yes, IoWA, to be sure. Dr. Noir once graced my humble roadside stand with his presence, though that is another sad story, and the reason I limp, though I am certain you are not interested.

How old are the Pimental brothers? Well yes, age is relative, is it not? Some of us are very old when we are very young, some of us remain very young when we are very old in years.

I am not exactly evading the question. I have known the Pimental brothers all their lives. They have lived in a hut down that road to the left, which is visible to the naked eye. I remember them coming to my humble stand with a centavo or two to spend. Different as night and day they are; Julio lean and wild-eyed, confident, like candy to the young women. Esteban, born with a scowl on his wide, dark forehead, stocky and lumbering, always eager to learn, the pleasure of the flesh secondary, or, how would you say, less than secondary? It is so long since I have spoken English. You will notice that I speak English with an Oxford accent, for in my native country I was tutored by a fine young man who read history at Oxford and could recite the details of every battle of the Peloponnesian Wars, a subject that I have to admit did not interest me a great deal, for I have always been an entrepreneur, though I tolerated his long digressions in order to learn English. Ah, I see you look askance at my meager supplies, at the warped lumber of the shelves, at the preponderance of flies on the fruit and meat. This is certainly not what I imagined when I agreed to come to this part of the world. I was offered a fine wife and acceptance into a prosperous business. In the Dominican Republic there are a number of families from India, all engaged in trade and commerce. One of these families had many daughters and few acceptable suitors so they advertised in India. I come from a family that had, with the early death of my father, a lawyer, fallen on hard times. I answered the ad and was presented with a photograph of a beautiful young woman, and a one-way ticket from Bombay to Santo Domingo.

Ah, yes, I can see your attention is wandering, you are curious about the Pimental boys. I do not know baseball, cricket is my game, but I recognize an excess of talent when I see it. Julio Pimental pitches
the ball as if it were small as a grain of rice, it is not only speedy, but dips and glides away from the bat of his opponent. One can sometimes hear vertebrae cracking as batters miss the pitches thrown by Julio Pimental.

The brother? Esteban? He catches the balls thrown by Julio. He is an average catcher who always appears preoccupied, as if he would sooner be someplace else. He has a secret. He communes with one of the moth-eaten priests in the compound. I believe the priest has taught him to read. I feel sad for him, their religion has so many restrictions. In my country there are gods in every leaf or blade of grass and they are mostly benevolent except for Shiva and Kali, oh, they are most terrible, women of course.

I needed some benevolence when I arrived in Santo Domingo. Among the many people waiting to meet me at the airport was the beautiful young woman of the photograph, Bhartee by name. But when I walked toward her someone seized my arm. A trifling formality they assured me and I should not fall weeping in dismay onto the airport floor as I had already done. They did not have a photograph of the sister I was to marry, so they sent one of her youngest sister, Chandra. Bhartee was at home waiting with great expectation to meet me.

Oh, what an evil surprise awaited me. The family was very wealthy, very successful in trade and commerce. However, Bhartee, I do her no disgrace to say she looked like a warthog. In many instances I do disgrace to the warthog. I mistook her for a tent, but soon discovered it was all her. Her poor face looked as if she had participated in many boxing matches, all in a losing cause. Her voice was like a fork scraping on a plate. Her eyes were not connected to anything and rolled aimlessly in her head. They offered me wealth, and I, greedy swine that I was, accepted. To my everlasting shame I married the woman Bhartee, was paid a fantastic dowry, and welcomed into the family.

Ah yes, your curiosity is not for my sad story it is for Julio and Esteban. An anecdote, that is what you journalists are seeking is it not? I will tell you one. As young boys they used to frequent my humble
business; they would arrive a centavo clutched in a small hand seeking to buy a candy.

Sometimes, even when they had no money they would stare rapturously at the candies I kept in small boxes on the counter. Esteban was always somber, even at such a young age he had taken to walking with his hands clasped behind his back like the decrepit priests with whom he had become friends. Julio, on the other hand, was brash, outgoing, eyes full of the devil. The young girls in the neighborhood, if they were lucky enough to have a centavo or two, would buy candy and then share it with Julio without being asked, sometimes they would give all their candy to Julio in exchange for one of his smiles, a smile that would open a night-blooming flower.

One day Julio stole from me. I have developed eyes in the back of my head, yes. Almost everyone, except Esteban, is a potential thief if the occasion arises. Then I had occasion to relieve myself out among the dwarf palms and oleanders. As I returned I noted Julio slipping two centavo candies into his pocket. I said nothing. While I could not afford thieves, I could not afford to lose a long-term customer. A payback would be arranged.

A week later Julio came to my counter clutching two centavos and two candies. I looked sternly at him, seized both the money and the merchandise, and pulling my machete from beneath the counter, my defense against thieves and robbers, I brought it down harshly, cutting deeply into the countertop only inches from Julio’s thieving fingers. “You know why I am doing this?” I said. “I see everything, especially the work of thieves. I see even when I am out among the palms and oleander, or dozing in my chair behind the counter. I see everything.”

Julio stared at me with incredulous eyes. Then he scuttled away like a whipped cur, not to return for many weeks, then with his hand thrust forward to show his centavo, and allowing me to pick and deposit the candy into his hand.