Read the story here in regular installments, or buy the novel at Amazon.com
Eleven
Familia. You don’t ask questions. You do what familia tells you. When the old man says go north with your cousin,
you do it. And you end up in hell, with a gringo boss who learned his Spanish
in the wrong place and talks like a gay Castilian. And a hundred degrees of
heat, and these pinche hooked knives that tear your hands to ribbons. But you
shouldn’t have lied, you shouldn’t have said you had worked the vineyards. And
you shouldn’t have raised your hand when jefe Cathtilian asked for volunteers
to work on Sunday. But it’s time-and-a-half, and it’s la familia. It doesn’t
make it easier, but it does make it inevitable, and that’s something.
Esteban
worked his way down the rows, pulling his boxes alongside. A strange yellow
smoke had been drifting over the gold-grass hills all morning, making it hard
to breathe, and his baseball cap was soaked through with sweat. Still, at least
he was alone, and he didn’t have to listen to ranchero music, or that boom-boom
German nonsense. Give him norteño, Flaco Jimenez on the squeezebox, or that hot
Puerto Rican salsa. Esteban was a man of rhythm, a man of action; he would
dance with the Cuban bonitas on Miami Beach, to Celia Cruz and Poncho Sanchez.
He
looked up and discovered, much to his surprise, that he had only two rows left.
After that, he would sit down with his treasure: two Tecate cervezas, sealed in
a Zip-Lock bag filled with ice, and a spicy lingua burrito. Just the thought of
it quickened his hands.
An
hour later, Esteban held the last clump of pinot grapes and pretended he was a
caballero castrating a bull. As the testicles dropped into his box he let out a
joyous grito. He ran to a sprawling oak on the hilltop, opened the Zip-Lock and
nearly cried as the ice-cold fluid struck his throat.
After
he finished his burrito, Esteban felt the long hours of work pummeling him to
the ground. When he woke up, the yellow smoke was rolling over the hill like
smog. He stumbled to his feet and realized that he had to pee very badly. Without
the presence of the other workers, Esteban saw no reason to hide behind a tree,
so he raced into the golden grass, pulled down his shorts and released a great
yellow stream.
Someone
giggled. Esteban let out an “Ay!” and turned to see a lady on a horse. Then he
realized he was facing her with his pendejo hanging out, so he spun back
around. He thought of pulling up his shorts, but then he would wet himself, so
he waited anxiously for the stream to subside, all too aware that the caballera
was now looking at his brown buttocks, out there in God’s daylight. He shook
off the last few drops, pulled up his shorts and tried to adopt a casual
demeanor.
He
half expected the lady to be gone, but still she was there, wearing a strange
grin. Her mount was an enormous creature the color of straw, making him almost
disappear into the grass. The woman lifted herself up, dismounted and walked
his way. Esteban had an urge to bolt, but the woman was beautiful, like no one
he had ever seen, with blonde tresses that went from honey to straw to sand,
and white skin, and large green eyes. Her clothing was like something out of a
movie: a long white dress, a corset of chocolate brown with braided patterns in
gold. The corset was pulled tight by a web of laces that pushed her breasts
upward; half of their surface was laid bare to Esteban’s eyes. Her hair was
strewn with flowers and ribbons, the sleeves of her dress puffed out like the
shirt of a pirate, and around her head she wore a copper band, festooned with
etchings of oak leaves and birds. He had seen some of these things on the
folklorico dancers back home, but never in such perfect array, like the
clothing of an angel, like a dream. Is
that it? he thought. Am I still
asleep? Oh let it not be so!
It
wasn’t. She came near, speaking as she approached, but although Esteban knew un
poquito de Ingles he did not know this. The rhythm was formal, like a march,
and her words were marked with the lisping sounds of his boss’s Spanish. But
words were not really needed; the caballera placed her hands against Esteban’s
chest, giggled sweetly and brought her thick lips to his. He had kissed a chica
before, but never like this. She slipped her tongue into his mouth, and he
found his tongue pressing back. It was very odd and exciting. He felt his thing
growing in his shorts, and he worried that this would scare the woman away, the
way it scared Maria Sanchez. But when the caballera drew back, it was only to
undo the laces of her corset.
He
had never seen anything so white. The nipples were like the pink sugar cookies
his abuelita would make on Sundays. He took one of her breasts in his hand, and
when he nibbled on the tip the caballera let out a gasp of pleasure.
His
member was painfully stiff. When the lady knelt to unzip him and take him into
her mouth, it was too much for him and he burst. He expected her to be angry,
but instead she kept sucking, swallowing his seed and continuing until he was
hard again. She motioned for him to lie down, then she spread her skirts and
crouched over him, bringing his cock to her opening.
This,
then, was Esteban’s first time, and now he understood why the older muchachos
spoke so endlessly of the wonders of puta. It was like a liquid fire wrapped
around his cock. He wished he could see what it looked like, his staff
disappearing into the caballera’s white body, but there was something just as
stimulating about this mysterious force beneath the pile of skirts, the dreamy
look on the lady’s face as she rode him.
This
time he was able to last much longer. Soon the gringa was shaking, and moaning,
and letting out gritos of her own. He took her by the waist and exploded into
her. As his body subsided, he lay back, leaking into her depths as the yellow
clouds drifted across the sky. He fought the urge to sleep – he wanted so badly
to stay with this pleasure – but inevitably he fell back into slumber.
Esteban
woke to the sounds of a scuffle. When he saw white men in green uniforms he did
what his cousin had told him and immediately sought cover. He climbed into the
low branches of the oak and peered around the wide trunk to see the men leading
the caballera away. Another man led the horse by its reins.
Esteban
waited fifteen minutes, then walked carefully to the other side of the hill,
where he found a dirt road. He could see the fresh tracks of the horse, and the
bootmarks of the uniformed men. He followed them downhill until he came to a
small valley where everything had been burned to black. All that was left were
the charred trunks of trees and the smoldering remains of small structures. He
followed the track of the fire as it climbed the opposite hill and beyond,
where the burning grass sent up menacing plumes.
Esteban
decided that this was the most he would find out this day, so he turned back
uphill toward the vineyard. He stepped upon something that let out a tiny
whoop, and found a square of metal, scorched black. He turned it over and found
fancifully lettered words in English: Renaissance
Pleasure Faire. He had no idea what these words meant, so he tucked the
sign under his arm and kept walking. Perhaps he would ask his cousin.
Sculpture by Nina Koepcke
No comments:
Post a Comment