The Gift of Women Page 6

  “But this run-over guy still got his wallet,” I tell Rose-Marie. “This mean he is jus’ run-over. Not no victim in no robbery.”

  “Ah-oui,” Rose-Marie, she yell at me – “ne touches pas ça!”

  Okay, I got my fingerprint on the dead sailor wallet. I rub them off, but that when I remember what like I see from the corridor back of our room. I waiting for Rose-Marie to finish fix the hair. That corridor got windows that look inland and I got my big glasses that can see all the way to Japan.

  It morning and the Club de Tenís get lotsa light from the east and I see the run-over sailor and this other sailor wrestle in their tennis short. On the tennis court – on the roof, they do like that lambada. One of them get the other from behind and he hold him. Hand in his pant, for squeeze him, like kids do when they play like they are mad at each other. Except Rose-Marie, she tell me, now that she have a good look, now that she have the hair combed out of her eye, “Ils sont fou d’amour,” crazy in love.

  Two ladies come out, start play, make pretty shot. They bend for pick up the ball and look at them two sailor, to watch see a smile at their nice move with that bat and the ball. Now, those guy are off each other back. And, the two sailor boy smile at the women like the women are the ice cream and their tongue keep one special lick for them.

  Then, I remember I see the run-over guy, one night, at the Club de Tenís. He shove out the door. He rock up and down on the Club de Tenís sidewalk, which is all wreck with the truck and with the taxi. The sailor boy slip, and he turn, yell good and loud at this ol’ man in this Mexican shirt. You know them silk shirt, like jacket with pockets. That old guy, he hold that other shipmate – his sailor friend, he hold him by the arm. He say, “Puto, no tokay.” Then, he yell, “No tokay o te mato.”

  ‘ Tokay, te mato,’ that what he say. He as mad as Rose-Marie when I touch the wallet to find this run-over guy name.

  I confess. I got this one habit. I sneak big sundowner before Rose-Marie finish the siesta. I go to the lobby, talk to the porter, then I go down the street see what new at the Club de Tenís. That when I see the old guy.

  One of the Anglos at La Copa and me, we watch that mêlée between this angry old guy and those two sailor. Anglo tell me, “You find those fags, fucked to death at your feet, don’t interfere! That there is a love triangle. Old gentleman there is keeping that young one he’s got by the arm and he is pissed at his new playmate. Mexicans fix problems like that with guns. Don’t interfere.”

  “Me,” I say. “One guy be eating the balls of the other guy on a plate, and all I say is bon appétit!”

  But Rose-Marie say I nosier than her mother. ’Fact, her mother love me more than Rose-Marie for I got all this stuff to tell.

  The old guy I see one, maybe two time more. He have the condo down this street by the beach. I see him drive in, Friday, 8 p.m., then, Monday, 7 – ’e drive out same. Same thing nex’ Friday an’ Monday.

  You bet I watch. Giving the eyeball a refill with jus’ sunshine get boring, if you got one month to kill. You bet I get to watch this street like it my neighbourhood.

  This old guy, he got his condo so he be near the big naval base. Anyway, that time in the street, when they play the love triangle. It a real ding-dong match. The old guy take the black ball for the squash. He squeeze his thumb in it, and he flick it in the face of the run-over guy. He take the birdie thing and he squish it on the run-over guy head.

  But the run-over guy, he too flat and bad beat-up for that birdie or some ping-pong bat to be the murder weapon.

  Anyway, we go get taxi and tell this Mister Tiger guy. We tell him what I tell you, Clement. Them Mexican at the desk lick up our French, like it ice cream, but they talk English back. The Acapulco Mountie, he talk French good, and he talk it until we go back and we see this cadaver with all the Mexican cop in Acapuko stare at it. Then, he not talk, he say nothing in Mexican or English.

  “Merci,” he say for the statement, “merci,” for the old guy description. For the condo informations, the informations about the birdie and squash ball that the ol’ guy squeeze. “Merci. J’aime le Québec, c’est pour les raisons de famille que je suis de retour au Mexique.”

  He say all this in French, like he talk to himself. He has this wife, a Mexican woman, and her family not like the police – detective of the police, no better. She think Mexican police are the criminals, he say. He say he tell her we go to Canada where the police have respect, and he study, and he work so he can make RCMP, but the wife, she stay in Mexico with the son. See what happen to him, Mr. Tiger, in le Canada, first.

  Next thing, he tell me she say she divorce him. So, he come down for get back the respect of his son. And he still pay so his wife can eat les petit-fours, les entrecôtes. Now, he say, I will see you and Rose-Marie to your hotel, Jean, and you will have the protection of my department.

  “Why we need the protection?” Rose-Marie ask. And when she see the big tear in Mr. Tiger eye, she think it because the Hot-Dog-Eater not be able to protect us. We are in some hot shit.

  “We stop go out late. If we lose the nightlife, we are having the pleasure of the morning. Firs’ light – up. But morning is good time to make the hit. No people. Only fishermens in the boat that pull in the net. And any assassin follow our footprint, easy – in the sand. I tell Rose-Marie so every time we walk over where the little guy from the hotel rake the san’. “But this is dumb, Jean,” Rose-Marie say. “Other people out for the walk mix up their mark with our mark in the sand.”

  Rose-Marie pretend she is the brave one, but for two, three day we are real scared. Everything look bigger than I ever see it. We see this small hairy fish that got big head and whisker like Rose-Marie maman. Fat head you can’t tell from the body, with the big cut ’cross it, like some speedboat hit it good with the propeller. I see the sun make the hair stick out on Rose-Marie face. Québec women sure have the bristle. They take the electrolysis for kill the hair on their faces, an’ they don’t show moustache. If we get back, I make that the present for Rose-Marie. But we see no cop, no criminal no place, but how we tell undercover cop from criminal?

  When fish boats come in, chef from the bistros go pick in the boat for the good fish. They make the bargain. This morning we see the demonstration at this boat that lie way up on the sand. We say, for sure – they buy the fish. Only the other guys, the Shore-Patrol guys, they come. They are looking for the sailor that get drunk and not make it back to base. They look under the boat for them, like the people from the bistro look for the fish, inside.

  Or Shore Patrol buy fish this morning, ’cause they bored for not find guys go AWOL. For now they are poke in the boat with les chefs bistro. And me, I got the blister on my bare feet from the tough brown sand here and I am real glad to make the stop. I don’t know what the matter with that sand. Maybe the sea make her too quick and not grind her up right.

  “Jean, dépêche-toi,” Rose-Marie say when she see the feet that stick out of that boat. Feet that are cover in one big cake of this crazy ginger sand.

  Rose-Marie, she have the front row. “Jean, this the other, the not run-over guy,” she shout at me. “Jean, Jean,” she shout.

  One big argument go on with the Shore Patrol and the guy who own that boat. The Shore Patrol point at what in the dead guy mouth, what stick out with the wet feather. Sure this thing have feather, but for sure is no seagull. The Shore Patrol, they pull it out and the top is turn brown with the blood, like end of hot dog I dip in the ketchup.

  Rose-Marie, she choke, but she say, “See.” And all those guys see loud and clear.

  But Acapulco Times say it is this:

  The son of Police Chief Tigre and the son of the Mayor of Igualada have been found dead two days apart. Both were doing their military service at Hornos base and both were able-bodied seamen. Although recent elections in Guerrero have recorded fewer murders, these deaths are considered political and designed as warnings for the Mayor and Chief of Police, who are known to be independents and who s
top at nothing to see justice done. The Mayor was not available for comment, and when interviewed, Alonso Tigre said that all kinds of love speak their name in Mexico nowadays, but the one that must bite its lip is the love of freedom and fair play. My loss is your loss that is how democracy works. A crime committed by one is like a mistake made by all.

  We got all kinds of stuff in Québec. We keep what we seen from the Mexico reporters. I tell you, Clement, this what happen. It no love triangle, like the Anglo say. This what I learn in geometry, long time ago. This is love quadrangle, for these two sons and two poppas square off. You get the big picture, Clement? Guys who got sons gotta be the policeman nowadays.

  After it all over, we still got two week and Noel. . We have the Christmas turkey in the Copacabango. But out there on the big deck with all that water rush at the hotel, turkey that the chef carve not look right size. It shrink or something. We don’t know. Rose-Marie and me, we don’t like eat turkey outdoor. The fresh pineapple, cut up, is better. It look jus’ right.

  CUP-W

  What’s wrong with me is I never had anybody like her to paint the way for me, make sure I didn’t do dumb stuff that would hurt. I bin pretty active in CUP-W and done crazy stuff on the picket line. What do I care if I ain’t married, I got CUP-W to keep me warm. Okay. CUP-W is like the size of the Union bra, but if I had somebody like her, I wouldn’t complain if I had to deliver her bikinis to the dry cleaners every day. But material like that isn’t machine washable. I’d do them by hand. That shows you how lonely I get in that apartment of mine near the river there, in Hull. I quit drooling over what women got in their undies and start thinking about what a good wash I could do for them. Any woman’s smell’s gotta be better than them ball-huggers and socks of mine, especially after I’ve stood through the weigh-ins of the morning mail at the delivery bay.

  Another sign you’re gettin’ old, when you remember the price of your underwear, what percentage of polyester you got in your shirts, how much wool there is in your socks like it was part of your union contract. I got this thing against material that shrinks now, like it’s life-threatening. My damn skin, the poor stuff is thinning and wrinkling all over me too.

  Now her. That cloth she’s got makes her bikinis fit perfect. Then, maybe it’s that perfect body she’s got that holds them on right.

  I’m an expert on textiles for the Local. I read up on the new materials like, so when management decides to fix up our image again, they will give us the real goods. Style and stuff that will make us feel snazzy all day.

  Uniforms are a problem. The letter carriers going up and down steps and holding the addresses of the envelopes up to their faces to read them takes its toll on knees and elbows. It’s an occupational hazard for the uniform, never mind their health. They’re outside, walking about, that’s their problem; ours is we’re inside, under artificial light. Colours don’t look the same inside as they do out. You can take a blood red out of the daylight and put it inside a mail station and it looks like veal. I gotta figure out what makes us look good and feel good so we’re more efficient, without we work any harder.

  I tell you, federal prisons got better décor than our mail stations at Canada Post, but it all boils down to being indoors. We end up as washed-out and grey as chickens that have bin lyin’ in a pot of water too long.

  Every year I give up on Hull and ever finding the cloth and colour that’s going to make me look alive. Only one thing for it. I come down to Acapulco and turn on the rays.

  Every morning when I take a look at her again, I think, maybe I got it wrong. Is it her or the bikinis are well made? They’re super soft and glossy. Super fit. Like made-to-measure, but not the boyfriend – Gonzo. He doesn’t fit her at all. A big bugger, like those wrestlers in the WWE must be before they go to fat and slob all over TV. Every morning she organizes the sunblocks, paints his nose and shoulders by numbers before she does herself.

  As soon as she unties the strings of her bikini-top to lie on her front, she cups her breasts in her hands and twists round to see where he is. The way she leads him about! But I’d take to her leash like a dog, anyway. You bet, but I’m not hardly big enough to cross her notice.

  Still, being big looks to this babe like more helpless. Like a guy’s liable to bump into things, do himself damage. And the only part about me that’s got bigger since I saw her wouldn’t impress her none.

  For a while, like, I believed the big lunk was a reetard – impaired, isn’t that what we gotta say, or someways challenged? They tell us to at Canada Post. Now, her way of talking to Gonzo doesn’t make him appear too swift. Her “Bien, tu es content, maintenant s?” come out like he’s been to the potty and is still in training. I suppose what she says shows she’s real considerate of him.

  You know I live in Hull, like, and work for Canada Post, so I’ve got the French Canadian and can tune in to these two, easy.

  She’s real chic. That short black hair. Chic, right – like women used to say when I was a kid? And her hands move like a hairdresser’s over his head and chest.

  Disgusting ash blond, silvery…real hairy chest. She ruffles it like you would a kid’s. The hair on his head, and tits.

  Tell you straight, I only fancy her, but it’s the two of them I watch. The guy came second in the Handsomest Man of the Morning Show our entertainment girl put on at the pool. All the guys got paid a Piña Colada for taking part, and the top three got two. Ms. Bikini takes the second Piña Colada off him and sucks it, like it was some part of his anatomy she had oiled, personally, that morning

  The latest: Gonzo’s in a water polo game. Team captain. The entertainment girl Piña Colada's me into it too. “I guarantee you all get one for playing,” says entertainment chief with the cute ass.

  Trouble: the real entertainment – Best Bikini in Acapulco – is behind the goal, which is made up of these red traffic markers that look like hose-ends, or nipples some guy ripped off of King Kong. Bikini gives Gonzo his what-to-do’s for the game and takes photos of his ugly mug while I stand in the shallow end trying to fire one that’ll score, but not hit her.

  The other guys on our squad got their eyes down her cleavage and forget what to do with their hands. There’s one, he’s a basketball star on his school team, who’s worst. Keeps lobbing it up so she does a stand-up stretch and kneel-down to put the ball into the goalie’s hands.

  Our goalie complains about getting hit by the ball ’cause it’s too soft and keeps skipping off the water and into his face. He’s blattered and blinded, he says, and every time the big guy’s arms come down, they spray water in our goalie’s eyes. Our goalie just wants Gonzo to let him get on with eyeballing her.

  The big lunk scores six or seven times and does a smile for the camera, so when I go for the ball, I decide that I’ll forget to stop my fist. So, while the big silver-grey gorilla plucks the soft green rubber ball out of the water like a lump of snot, there’s a crack. His nose is gone for sure, I tell myself, but the hair on his pectorals just chokes me as he rolls away on his back and takes me with him on top of his chest and belly. I flap on him, like he’s an oil drum. I hit him alright, but on the skull. Which he kept bent forward, chin tucked into his throat.

  His eyebrows pucker and bristle with bubbles.

  But give Bikini her due, she lays into the bugger for nearly drowning me. “Gonzague,” she yells, “ce jeux n’est past serieux. Aide lui la, pêche vite pour le pauvre petit poisson. ”

  You know how Quebeckers say pêche, like it’s pish. “Pish yourself,” I splutter. Gonzo’s big forearm is over my shoulder, his hand under my chin, trailing my head off my body toward the wall while he leaves the rest of me behind to drown.

  As soon as he throws me at her feet, and as soon as she finds out I’m from Hull, Quebec, she wants to know all about my flight, what I paid, and what I do for a living. Gonzo, the wrestler or a buffalo-butt football player, says damn all and leaves the grilling to Cecile. That’s her name, Cecile Gendron. Wife of Gonzague Gendron, the ape.


  Once she hears I work for Canada Post, she laughs and says, “You guys are the weightlifters.” Gonzague makes a fist and moves it up and down, like he’s supposed to be holding a post bag. Except, I see it like a dead chicken whose neck he’s just wrung.

  I say, “A letter carrier’s got a limit to what they carry, CUP-W won’t let us inside workers touch bags over 20 kilo.”

  Now, a conversation on labour rules and regulations takes place.

  Gonzague gives me his top-dollar advice. “Carry more. Good practice, that,” he says and he winks. “Good for muscles, good for business.”

  “I’m not in the business of muscles,” I tell him and he laughs, slaps my back so hard he leaves fingerprints on my shoulder.

  Good for business. I smell a gorilla for the Chamber of Commerce and I hit confrontation mode: “Bags go out, bulging with flyers. Get me? ’Cause they’re flyers, the guys in business think they’re flying light as air. Ask a paper maker, he’ll tell you a ton of paper is a ton, no matter what feather-brained guff ’s printed on it.”

  I’m waiting for his fist to send my head on a holiday, but he laughs and says, “Canada is not the Canada without the Canada Post and Monsieur Parrault at the CUP-W.”

  Anyway, we are on speaking terms, and Cecile always makes sure to bonjour me and ask again about how best to mail her postcards – in an envelope, or just the bare card… “Which?”

  I say. “Letter-carriers and CUP-W people need to see somethin’ sunny in the winter, it puts pizzazz in their day to see where you are. Think of poor stiffs doing miles in the snow and then they get a view of Aqua-puko.” Aqua-puko goes right over her head. “Don’t hide your fun in an envelope, it won’t arrive any faster – just lick the stamp.”