The Sand Trap (44 page)

It was dinnertime and getting dark by the
time he was satisfied that his apartment was in order and he
decided to walk down to Vulture’s by the harbour to get a fish
dinner.

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The shock of hearing his name had largely
worn off as she tried to figure out if he really was the Burt she
once knew. She had spent most of the day working on the gardens
behind the driving range in order to get a better look at him and
to hear his voice. He had seen her and showed no sign of
recognition, but she probably would not recognize herself she
looked so different from the young girl who left California so many
years ago. He passed right by her on his way to the range and they
looked at each other, but he had sunglasses on so she could not see
his eyes. That was what would tell the story for her. She would
never forget those eyes and while age and gravity can change a
person, the eyes remain the person. Not just the colour and hue,
but the kind of person they are seeps from the eyes. When she sees
his eyes she will know.

She often stopped at Vultures after work
before she headed to the casita. The owners, Jan and Frank, were a
young Canadian couple from Calgary and she liked to hear them talk
about home and hear news from the country she left behind so many
years ago. They often had the bar TV connected by satellite to one
of the Canadian cities so she could keep regular tabs on the
politics, economy and weather back home. She even managed to watch
a hockey game or two, especially during playoff time.

“Hola Maria!” Frank greeted her as she
walked into the palapa-covered bar.

“Hola Frank.
Cómo
estás?
" While they knew she spoke some English, Frank and
Jan were working hard on their Spanish, so she spoke Spanish with
them, correcting the odd word or grammar as necessary.

Vultures was a typical tourist type beach
bar, with a palapa roof and open to the rolling surf a hundred
yards away. A collection of a dozen or so tables and chairs were
randomly placed on the smooth sand floor.

“Pacifica por favor,” Maria asked as she sat
down at the bamboo bar. “Looks quiet here tonight?”

Most patrons of Vultures were either people
who came off their yachts for a land meal or residents of the homes
and condos around the golf course. The odd person came over from
San Jose del Cabo, but with the abundance of good restaurants
there, most tourists stayed and ate near their accommodation.

“Yeah, never much action here in November.
It will pick up around Christmas,” Frank offered. “There are few
parties on the boats, but other than that it’s pretty quiet. How
are things with you? Anything new at the club?”

“Not much, just some new employees. What
wonderful fish is Jan cooking tonight?” Maria had discovered that
Jan was a great cook and, in fact, was a graduate of SAIT in
Calgary, one of the best professional cooking programs in
Canada.

“Manuel brought in some nice snapper so she
is going to grill some of that for tonight.”

“Ok. I’m in…” Maria offered and stopped in
mid sentence as Burt ducked under the edge of the palapa roof and
walked into the bar. He paused for a moment to take in the
surroundings and his eyes stopped for a second on Maria and turned
to Frank.

“Hi, you serving dinner tonight?”

Frank replied in his own brand of Spanish
and Burt laughed a friendly laugh and replied in English. “Ahhh,
Canadian eh?” Burt announced as he offered Frank his hand. “Burt
Van Royan. Most recently from Ottawa.”

“Frank Tisdale. Most recently from Calgary.
Is my accent that bad?”

“Pretty much,” Burt replied, “But keep
trying, you’ll get it.”

Burt turned to Maria who was sitting at the
bar. “Hi, Maria isn’t it? I’ve seen you around the club,” he
offered in Spanish as he took off the sunglasses he had been
wearing when he came into the bar. He put out his hand. She took
his hand and while she looked him in the eyes she held his hand
longer than the usual handshake and when she realized that, she
pulled her hand back like it had been burnt.

“Yes, and you are the new golf instructor
from Canada. I watched you teaching that man to play hockey
today.”

Burt laughed. “It’s Burt. Now if you could
just tell me where I can get a sheet of ice?”

The wave of relief that Maria felt washed
over her whole body and, like an adrenalin rush, changed her mood
from somber to playful in seconds. This was not the Burt Van Royan
she had feared. The face could be an aged Van Royan and the body
shape was similar. But the eyes and the smile could never have come
from Van Royan, no matter how he aged or matured. The eyes she saw
now were not only blue, but also were kind and intelligent and led
into a person who had a goodness that Van Royan could never
achieve.

“Would you like a drink Senor?” Frank
interrupted in his Canadian Spanish.

“A Negro Modela would be a good start,” Burt
suggested, hoping that Frank could understand enough Spanish to get
the order right. He turned back to Maria. “Your gardens are lovely.
Where did you learn to do that?”

For the next hour, as they sat at the bar,
Maria and Burt exchanged stories. Maria told stories about her time
as a teacher and as gardener. She described the years when she was
studying horticulture at the university and how proud she was when
she was awarded her Masters. As the beers multiplied she mixed lies
with truth in ways that even confused her. She taught math and
science, not English. She was born in Spain and came to the
Autonomous University as a foreign student. She was never married
and had no children. She loved music, especially old American blues
music. She used to run marathons but developed a bad hip so she
quit. She likes motorcycles and drives a Honda.

Much to her amusement she learned that he
claimed to be originally from California but went to a small
college in Montana on a golf scholarship. He didn’t finish college
and drifted into various business ventures until after his parents
died in a boating accident. They left him a little money so he
moved up to Canada to see if he could make a career in golf. He
eventually received his CPGA teaching credentials and was a pro at
a number of courses across Canada. When he realized he couldn’t
make much of a living at golf he became an insurance salesman and
made enough money so he could now retire and pursue his dream of
making the Champions Tour.

Dinner came and they moved to a table on the
sand floor. She spit her tortilla soup across the table when he
described his two years in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan and how he
played this weird course north of Regina one day. She heard that he
learned his Spanish as a youngster living near the Mexican border
and going across the border to party. She raised her eyebrows when
he told her he had studied Spanish at Clapshorn College before he
left without getting his degree. Apparently he had a huge
collection of blues music that she had to hear. He had been in a
car accident a few months ago and his knee and face were still
healing but he was back to normal. He did push-ups.

And after the fish they moved to
tequila.

Maria could not remember when she had
enjoyed an evening so much. His lies were certainly entertaining,
but there was more than that. She really didn’t know who he was,
certainly not the Burt Van Royan he claimed to be, but she was
getting to know the man he was and she liked him and was oddly
attracted to him, whoever he was.

“So tell me how you learn golf with a hickey
stick and a wet mop – I mean hockey…” She was beginning to slur her
words just a bit and had a passing thought that she hadn’t been
drunk in twenty years.

“Are you interested in gulf – I mean golf?”
They both laughed.

“My father taught me a bit in Spain when I
was younger. I often thought that it would be interesting to take
it up in my old age.”

“If it is old age you are waiting for you
have quite a wait,” Burt offered as he raised his glass to toast
her. She smiled, appropriately demurred by the compliment. “But if
you truly want to try it again I’d be glad to assist,” he offered.
“Just bring your own mop!”

This time they both fell off their seats
laughing. They were the only patrons in the bar so Frank and Jan
just watched with amused looks on their faces as the two of them
drank and talked and laughed. It was now close to 10 pm and with no
other customers they would have been glad to close up and go to bed
themselves, but they just could not interrupt what they determined
was special event occurring right in front of their eyes.

As Maria and Burt continued their animated
conversation, they were now loudly debating the merits of Memphis
vs. Chicago roots in modern blues music, there was a lot of yelling
and whooping from the beach side as a group of four young men in
their late twenties or early thirties, came staggering into the
bar. Frank recognized them from breakfast the day before when they
had come in off their yacht demanding some “ real breakfast. Bacon
and eggs. Not that Mexican huervos shit.” They were apparently a
group of young stockbrokers from New York having a bachelor’s party
on one of the father’s yacht parked in the harbour. As far as Frank
knew the yacht had not left its mooring in three days. Maria and
Burt were sitting on a table close to the back edge of the dining
area, so at first the group didn’t notice them as they lurched into
the small area and sat at a table near the bar.

“Tequila, beer and food, por favor!” a tall
muscular young man with a brush cut hair yelled over to Frank. “And
four rib eyes, medium rare. Fries.”

Frank looked over at Jan and she nodded. She
would have to get the steaks from the freezer, thaw them and fire
up the barbecue. It was late for this, but the revenue from four
full meals, not to mention the drinks, was badly needed at this
time of year. He pulled a bottle of 1942 from below the bar and
four tequila shot glasses and took them over and put them in the
middle of the table.

“Hey, you speak any English?” one of the
others asked.

“Si, pequito, a leetle Seenore,” Frank
answered in his best spaghetti western accent. Another of the group
took a quick glance at Burt and Maria as they listened to Frank and
tried to choke back their laughter.

“Well, we were having a little argument back
at the boat. Maybe you can help,” the large one suggested as he
poured the tequila all around.

“Si, eef I can Seenore,” Frank replied.

“We wondered how long it was going to take
before you Mexicans killed yourselves all off. Herb here is a
statistician, and he extrapolates that at the rate of the current
murders, Mexico will be empty in ninety-two years. Bob over there,”
he pointed to another of the group, a tall man with a clump of
brown hair hanging over his eyes and throwing back a shot, “he
figures that if we just sent the illegals in New York City home it
would take another hundred years! What do you think?” They all
laughed as more shots were poured.

Burt went to get up from their table, but
Maria put her hand on his arm and shook her head.

Frank just looked puzzled. “I don’t know
Seenore. I don’t understand that extrapo thing. No one is keeling
anyone here!”

The speaker just waved him away and told him
to bring some beer. Frank backed away and went to the bar to get
the beers while the group continued their party. Maria and Burt
tried to continue their conversation, but the four intruders ruined
the energy of the moment, so they just sat quietly and finished
their fish and coffee while Jan served the men the steaks.

“Hey look,” one of them said as she came out
with a tray of steaks. “A blonde wetback! You busy later honey?” he
asked as he put his arm around her waist.

“No hablo Ingles Senior,” she said as she
pulled away and put the steaks down around the table and hurried
back behind the bar. Frank said something to her and she went back
to the kitchen and when she brought out the plate of fries he took
them to the table. The big guy with the brush cut pushed him away.
“We want her to serve us,” he ordered.

“She’s not available,” Frank replied in
perfect English. No one at the table noticed.

“Fuck off and tell her to get back
here.”

Frank put the tray down on the table and
walked away, ignoring the yells from the table for Jan to come
back. The big guy started to get up and follow Frank but the guy
beside him pilled him down. “Fuck 'em John. Let’s just eat.”

He reluctantly sat down again. The party
gradually became louder as they all dug into the food, the beer and
the bottle of tequila. Apparently they were all members of some
sort of mixed martial arts club and in addition to the bachelor’s
party this was their annual boys’ excursion to some warm place
where they played golf, sailed and partied. Much of the
conversation was a debate on the strengths of one form of fighting
over another, and which one of them was the best, and who could
kick whose ass and what was the greatest martial arts movie ever.
Burt and Maria stood up from their table and went over to the bar
to pay Frank. Frank didn’t say anything, just gave them a shrug and
a “what can you do?” At the same time the guys collectively threw a
bunch of bills on the table and began to leave.