ESTANISLAO

I am breathing deeply. I am empty. I am passing through a free moment. I walk the historic route past the cathedral, past the county courthouse, past the old jail, past another old county courthouse, past yet another older jail. The rush of an air-conditioned Herald greets me like an old friend. I enter the editor's office. "Great story, Mr. Tamaulipas, great story," pants Rios like an eager puppy. "You slammed dunked this one." "I appreciate that. I'm going to read it and give it back to you." "We didn't make any changes except for the changes that spellcheck made." "You made no changes?" "None." "To what do I owe this honor?" "No one. It's a great story." "Well, thanks. I want to read it once so I can tweak it. Maybe I can give you something to edit." "Do what you need to do." I take a seat at a vacant desk and call up the story. I read looking for something, but I can't find anything. Maybe they appreciate me after all. Maybe I can hang out in Matamoros for the next five years and contribute a few stories a week while dashing off three or four novels that will allow me to retire to Portugal. I'm only listening to Brazilian music these days. A grammar book claims that Portuguese is the fifth most spoken language in the world. I could travel the 350 miles by 125 miles of Portugal in no time and I would know the country and its hidden treasures like the back of my hand. I could be traveling to Spain and Morocco and France and Italy and England and making other exciting forays. I thought that I would like to live in Montevideo with access to Argentina, Chile and Brazil, but Portugal would be much mellower. Except for the earthquake a few centuries ago, I never hear about anything ridiculous taking place in Portugal. I reenter back to Mauricio's office. "Nice work. I couldn't have edited the article better myself." "I swear. I didn't do anything." "That's what I mean. By doing nothing, you did everything. Perhaps it's time for a raise." "I can't help you there. You need to talk to the boss. I can tell you, though, we're on a tight budget." "I was led to believe that ridding the newsroom of the rabblerousers was going to improve the economic situation around here." "Well, I think things have, with no offense to you, gotten better, but..." "I need your expertise, Mauricio. Does a gal's past have an impact on your feelings toward her?" "What do you mean, sir?" "You meet a gal. She's attractive. She's intelligent. But she's fucked a lot of different guys. Could you marry someone like that?" "If she had a longtime boyfriend, an affair or two...I don't think I would be bothered. How many guys are you talking about?" "Fifteen... twenty...maybe more." "And how old is she? About your age?" "About half my age." "That's a lot of guys for me. I wouldn't be comfortable in that situation." "Thanks, Mauricio. You were helpful. I was beginning to think that I was old in my ways, but I'm glad to discover that your generation, like my generation, don't like women to be fucking around." I call Estanislao and confirm our plans to meet at the club in 15 minutes. Estanislao and I met when he started at the newspaper 25 years ago. He had served as an intern in San Antonio and this was his first fulltime assignment. I suggested we go to a bullfight in Reynosa. He had the car, but he was short of funds. I offered to cover the expenses. Estanislao and I drove along Military Highway that in those days retained its pristine charm with stretches of farmland punctuated by small settlements. Sixty miles later we reached Hidalgo, turned south and crossed the bridge into Reynosa. I didn't know Reynosa like I knew Matamoros, but I had visited downtown and the red-light district and I knew where the boxing arena and the plaza de toros were located. We settled on a small restaurant near the plaza before continuing to the bullring. It was one of those aficionado establishments with framed pictures of soccer teams, boxing champs and bullfighters. Over beer and fajitas we covered the usual subjects before departing for the afternoon spectacle. I paid the bill. When the waiter returned with the change, I left a few dollars on the table and thanked him for the service. As we rose from our seats and I turned to go, I noticed out of the corner of my eyes a deft hand sweeping across the table in the same manner my father used to catch flies. Estanislao collected the tip and deposited the bills in his pocket. I was flabbergasted. I was even more disgusted because I didn't want to cheat the waiter of his tip, but I had to admire the swiftness of Estanislao's actions. He has remained a sleight-of-hand artist all these years. Since that first incident, fortunately, he has played fair. He never cheats although he appreciates the gray area, arguing a call now in order to get a call later. I'm musing about my long relationship with Estanislao when I'm filled with an anger as if I've been broadsided. I feel like I'm going to get sick, a dull headache rising from the back of my neck, my throat constricting and butterflies filling my stomach. I think back to Sunday when Fabiola wouldn't fuck me for a variety of reasons. In the morning she wouldn't because the kids might start clamouring at our bedroom door even though they were busy watching television. And before we went to sleep because she was tired and had taken a shower and didn't want to wash again. In a few words she didn't want me to touch her. From two times a day we have relegated our activity to twice a week when she pulls off her panties, spreads her legs and demands that I hurry. The Apostles are laughing in my face. As long as she is passionate and affectionate I can beat them back, but when she refuses me, I remember her tales about fucking them in cars, on cars and between cars. There wasn't a lover she hadn't cheated on, a Friday night with a romantic steady followed by a Saturday night with a past lover whom she liked the way he fucked her. Or while out with the girls and high on ecstasy and alcohol, she might go for broke with a one-night stand. She would fuck anyone anywhere, but she can't fuck her husband. She has replaced fucking with bitching.