Mojo - 33. Chapter 30: Marigolds

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Chapter 30: Marigolds

An alabaster pediment glowed sadly near the ceiling. It was held in place by two Corinthian pillars, which also shimmered softly from the funeral parlor lighting within. This was the setting afforded the final rites of a feared and honored drug lord.

From back to front, the wall enshrined by the columns and pediment supported a large framed picture of Lloyd in black and white. Around it were foliage and blossoms of yellow mums and marigolds, while on a table below the portrait rested a bust of Jesús Malverde, the Mexican narco-saint. His pediment too was bathed in soft light and sat atop palm fronds speckled with more golden-orange flowers.

The stoic plaster eyes of this venerated icon stared straight over Lloyd’s open casket; Malverde presided in judgeless gravity while the rest of us got on with life and the burying of our dead.

Flanking it, two tall pillar candles demarcated the head and foot of Lloyd’s coffin, and off to their sides stood six-foot-high easels, festooned with wreaths of green and yellow foliage.

To the left and right, tables were piling up with gifts: bottles of Scotch and tequila; cratons of cigarettes; bright red pastries; green and yellow citrus plucked with healthy stems and leaves still attached; mounds of banana and plantains. And all was illuminated by tiers and tiers of flickering tea lights.

As people made a slow progress past the dead man lying in state, no one seemed to begrudge Lloyd’s orientation in life, at least not under El Bandido Generoso’s carful inspection.

Uniquely, Lloyd was dressed in a suit with a turtleneck sweater. When I saw him, I gasped at knowing why; the bruises under it were brutal, and their existence meant he was still alive when the kelp cordage asphyxiated him.

“Beautifully morose ceremony, isn’t it?” Sadeeq asked in a low voice from my side.

As honored guests, and near-family to the deceased, we’d been given positions to stand beside one of the gift tables. Our duties were light though, and mainly consisted in nodding as passersby made deposits of presents for the afterlife.

“It’s very solemn and beautiful,” I told him.

“Octavio Paz said: ‘For the inhabitant of New York, Paris or London, death is not spoken, lest it burn the lips in passing. The Mexican, by way of contrast, belittles it, cherishes it, calls it sweetheart.’”

I stared the poet in the eye. “Pablo Neruda: ‘If nothing saves us from death, may love at least save us from life.’”

He nodded his head. “Well played, my fellow poet.”

“I want to take a couple of these flowers for later.”

“Ah, yes.” A smile arose on the mad poet’s visage. “Gordon will like that, and since he couldn’t attend this—”

“Well, he had to make arrangements, and he speaks Spanish, so….”

“Yes. Taking a few flowers is a perfect idea.” His hand reached out to stroke a vibrant saffron-colored blossom. “Do you know the significance of marigolds to Mexican culture? It dates back to long before the Spanish arrived.”

“Flower of death?”

“Yes and no. To them it’s both a remembrance of death and sacrifice – Aztec rituals to the sun god – but so too it has meanings of reunion and connectedness in love and relationships.”

He had said this in a warm way, and naturally. I smiled. “So, it’s perfect then.”

Sadeeq nodded. “We’ll get a pair for your lapels.”

It excited me to know the lives of me and my boy – no, correction: of Gordon and me – would be changed by the early hours of the evening. However, that notion put me in mind of Lloyd’s partner. “It’s a shame Trọng couldn’t be here, where he belongs.”

“Well, as I said, it seems most of the Ekdíkisi’s survivors have already been put on busses for San Diego.”

“Yes, but still—”

“I know. But he’s here in spirit.”

Just as he said that, a large group of young men filed in. They all wore suits similar to the photos I’d seen on the wall of Lloyd’s shrine. Bearing no gifts, other than the intense gravity set upon their shoulders, the others in line to view the body stepped aside. The young men came up to the casket like a sad troupe of pilgrims, individually trekking to an icon of sacrifice each and every one of them was prepared to make because of their chosen profession.

Christ’s words about living and dying by the sword have never been better actuated or exampled than by this line of young men paying tribute to a fallen comrade.

As I watched, I thought that if this life is rightly considered, shipwrecks are lurking at every turn, looming partially seen over every horizon. If so, then which is better? To die in the cold depths of the sea; to go out in a blaze of glory for what you consider a worthy cause; or to molder and die in bed as a faint whisper of your old self – you tell me which is better. Which inequity can be said to be any nobler than the others when fish, flame or worm, all of us are supposed to be consigned to what we consider a painless hereafter. So, rather than live in fear of it, we should acknowledge Death is all around us. Moreover, it has the power to be a great unifier – the ultimate equalizer – for gluttons die in feast; misers in soul-starved suffocation; health fanatics and joggers of heart attacks; slackers of thrombosis. Simply put, there is nothing about life that is not fatal.

What matters is to choose it actively every day.

A few months ago I wondered where ‘our future’ lie, and back then the obvious answer seemed a joke. Today, no. Life is no joke, nor is it something to run from. It’s been twenty-four hours since my boy said yes, proving he loves even the broken version of me, but my better half and I will re-commit to finding a cure and putting things right. Or, I have no doubt, we will die trying.

˚˚˚˚˚

“So what.” Sadeeq said flatly. He’d propped elbows on the small table and was twisting his sparse ponytail in mock nonchalance. “So what? We couldn’t stay with the fishermen in their homes any longer. They collected coins and convinced the hotelier to put us up, didn’t they?”

Gordon stated the obvious. “Yeah. For one night; after that, who knows.”

“Well, sometimes one night is all it takes.” The mad poet laughed at his own insider-joke. My boy and me just stared him down.

“And,” I added on a serious note to Gordon, “this one night is special—”

“I know; I know!” Sadeeq blurted like a bounding puppy barking.

I turned to him. “So, stay out of our room for the night, please. Just one night, Sadeeq – please.”

He smiled and nodded, leaving me to believe he’d gotten the point. We’d see.

“Where will we stay tomorrow?” Gordon asked sadly.

“We’ll be together, honey. That’s what matters.” I raised his hand and kissed it.

“Yeees,” cheeped Sadeeq. “As the old saying goes, one day at a time, but at least we’ll be together.”

My boy and me glanced at each other, just daring the other to laugh. Instead, I told the poet, “Or, maybe it’s better to quote your President Lincoln, who said ‘It better to take things one war at a time.’”

There was only one hotel in town, and it was orientated as a series of walled haciendas with terraces and sea views. The bar, where we were relaxing now after a long day, was likewise comprised of an indoor area and a long, ocean-facing patio.

The cooling breeze on my arm around Gordon’s back felt great, and the rhythmic crashing of the surf always soothed.

Not too many people were out here on the terrace with us, but at the bar sat a pair of handsome local boys killing time and looking for girls or guys to hang out with. Right now, they were laughing at some antics occurring at the other end of the bar.

I followed their eyes to a seated woman – perhaps a ‘professional’ – and a standing man leaning heavily on the bar to talk to her. He stuck out like a sore toe, for not only his wrinkled linen sack of a suit and shapeless Panama hat, but for his off-kilter speech. I didn’t have to know the language to realize he was speaking Spanish with a thick, mush-mouth British brogue – or speech impediment, as that word means – for it was pompous almost to the point of incredulity. The half-drunk man tried to ooze charm on the young lady, no doubt fishing for a pity-drink from her.

I broke off watching, not wanting to draw his attention to us, lest he sniff his way over here like a hound scenting a bone.

Turning my attention to Gordon, it was easy to get lost in the rich brown pools of his gaze. Over the yolks of our chairs hung our borrowed suit jackets. Seeing them, and his eyes, put me in mind of standing in the courtroom this afternoon and noting the likewise-borrowed marigolds in our lapels from Lloyd’s wake. I took my vow to Gordon with ‘death till we part’ sincerity. The ceremony was simple and honest, and would have been perfect if not for the necessity of needing the mad poet there as witness.

A smiling waiter arrived. In his arm he cradled a napkin-encased bottle; gold foil protruded from the end.

He set down a folded card, and Gordon picked it up first.

While the server began to uncover the cork, and uncage the libation, my boy read and translated the accompanying message.

“It’s from – well, here. Listen:

“Congratulations to the

young señores on their nuptials.

A long, happy life to you both!

Captain López, El pez espada.”

POP!

The champagne cork unleashed a tremendous sound.

Gordon and I kissed, and the whole bar erupted into applause and raised glasses. With my eyes closed, and the celebratory clatter in my ears, I was happy but troubled too. Our wedding night would not be as it should because of the curse, but I’d please my boy – my husband – of that I was sure.

When I opened my eyes, I noticed Sadeeq looking at something to my left.

The disheveled gringo from the bar was making his way over. He sat down, effortlessly crossing his legs and latching onto a glass. “Don’t mind if I do.” A sticky grin parted his thin lips as he held the drinking vessel up for the server to fill.

Sadeeq nodded at the waiter, who obviously knew the panama-hat-wearing intruder was a parasite, but poured anyway.

The lanky Brit impatiently waited as the rest of us were attended to. “What’s the joyous occasion, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He removed his hat, using a knee as a hall tree. The man then brushed back his thinning and greasy badger hair – black with a central white streak. His face was gaunt, although engaging eyes tried to flicker out from his semi-permanent drunkenness to take in his surroundings. The man and his clothes had the smell of fuel about them.

Sadeeq explained, “The occasion is the wedding of my friends here, Kohl and Gordon.”

The Brit stranger raised an eyebrow, but he also lifted his glass. “Cheers. Many happy returns and many blissful years together.”

He downed his champagne before any of us could get a glass to our lips. Then, as the waiter was leaving and setting the bottle down, the man grasped at it and poured himself another.

Just then, one of the ubiquitous stray dogs about town came up, sniffing at the shabby drinker’s pant cuffs. The man grunted and swept it aside with his wing-tipped foot.

“Damn mongrels, they have a penchant for not leaving me alone. Squiffy Wellington, at your service.”

“Sadeeq Amergin.” The poet forced a handshake on the man. “Social media poet and internet sensation. Follow me at American-4-all.biz.”

“Ahh,” Squiffy eked out audible disdain, “an American. How charming. And you two…?” He vaguely motioned our way before draining and refilling his glass again.

“I’m German. Gordon is from Northern California.”

“Well, as I said – Squiffy Wellington. Yes, that one.”

The three of us exchanged glances.

Gordon asked, “That one, what?”

“My dear boy,” he said, exasperated highly. “There’s only one me. Squiffy Wellington!” He squeegeed his greasy hair with a free palm.

We gave him no reaction, nor indeed, had any to offer.

“Come now; come now. You must know me; celebrity tell-eey chef. Squiffy Sautés Africa; Squiffy Stews South America; Squiffy Stir-Fries the Orient; I had my own bloody BBC cookery show for decades.”

I resisted the strong urge to ask: ‘So, how’d that work out for you?’

“Yes, yes,” Wellington mused, grabbing a passing waiter by the arm and popping the now-empty champagne bottle in his hands. “Shall we”— he asked us—“order another bottle? They make them so small these days. Hardly enough for one…or something different—”

Before we could answer, he’d already told the server, “Una botella de vino tinto, por favor.”

“So what do you do now?” Sadeeq seemed to be drawn in by the man’s insufferable affability.

“Now, my dear North-of-the-Border friend, I do as I please: I go where I like; I eat…what I can…. I sleep beneath the stars some evenings on the warm Playa público, while other nights I slumber in an abandoned tequila vat.”

“In a what?” Gordon asked.

“It seems a former mayor used to indulge himself and his local political party in quite a penchant for the fiery stuff. He had it shipped in by the barrelful. One of the old wooden containers rolled down hill to the city dump, and forms my own little corner of heaven. It retains the sweet smell of mother’s milk in it, and I find I need it to get to sleep these days.”

“And is Squiffy your real name?” the poet asked out of curiosity.

“Good gracious, no. It’s one of those old-boy names one acquires in public schools – which naturally means exclusive, private schools in Britain – and it stuck. I’m not even sure I could conjure my real name anymore. ‘Squiffs’ even on the passport.”

A bottle of red wine arrived, and Squiffy topped up his champagne glass to the brim. To be frank, he looked a bit nervous. “I don’t usually come out this time of night, however, this evening is the exception. You see”—he glanced around the room with hunched shoulders—“the wife of the current mayoral alcalde fancies me, and has arranged a tryst for later on. I’m here to fortify myself for a performance of a different kind than cooking in front of a camera.”

He laughed at his own joke.

I asked, “Did the mayor’s wife give you any cash for the arrangements?”

“No. Why…?”

“Because we’re broke too. We’re survivors of the Ekdíkisi disaster.” I paused for acknowledgement of our dire straits; none came.

After sitting back again and languorously draining half his glass, he said blasély: “Oh. Do tell.”

Gordon, incensed, quipped, “We’re marooned here. No money. No homes.”

“Yes, rather like me then.” He ‘shooed’ away another dog with a meaningful swoosh of his heel. “You’re not an American, are you?”

“I’m German.”

“Ah, yes, indeed. Dreadful cuisine – all crimson cabbage and red vinegar. No wonder you’re in Mexico; you wanted to get something decent to eat.”

I gave up. I didn’t see the point in arguing of our poverty with someone who didn’t care.

“So, you sleep in a tequila vat. That sounds interesting,” Sadeeq said with genuine interest.

I just realized something. “Didn’t some old Greek do that?”

Blank-eyed, Squiffy inquired, “I beg your pardon?”

“A philosopher. I remember something about one living in a wine barrel in Athens.”

The washed-up TV chef took a sturdy drink. “Never heard of him. And I hardly do anything ‘Old Greek’ anymore. At least not since my fagging days at school. Not that I mind your love-style, young man. Get your wild oats sown while you can, and luckily you won’t get snared by a shrill harpy who’ll divorce you a mere four decades later….”[1]

His tone drifted off into a general grumble concerning the female of our fickle species.

“You, young men,” he finally said with conviction and a pointing finger, “are lucky.”

And to that I wholeheartedly agreed by smiling and taking Gordon’s hand above-table.

“But regarding knowledge of this Greek philo chap, I suppose I do not feel comfortable with anyone open and willing to display more knowledge than me. It’s the sort of intellectualism run rampant these days.”

I scoffed silently to myself. What a typical Drump-head contempt for ‘intellectuals’ this man just coughed up like phlegm. I laughed. “Only in this brave-less new world could a lazy, shiftless German substitute teacher like me be ridiculed as an intellectual. Well, so be it.”

The man popped on his formless hat – backwards – and stood up. He slurred something about “needing the loo,” but grabbed the bottle firmly by the neck before skulking off.

“That’s it,” I said. “We’re rid of him. See? He’s already slipping out the door, thinking he’s stiffed us with the tab.”

The three of us laughed, but I was gladdened by the thought that I’d never see Squiffy Wellington again.

˚˚˚˚˚

At least the archaic PC in our hacienda could access the internet, and Gordon called me over to watch something once he’d found an old cooking program. “This one is the opening episode to the Squiffy Simmers Down Under series.”

I pulled up a chair, not knowing what to expect.

The opening sequence was a gorgeous shot of blue ocean: a large sailing yacht slicing through the waves with sails vivacious and full of air.

The scene cut to a well-appointed galley and Squiffy – looking at least ten years younger than the desiccated specimen we knew – stood there miserably as he swayed back and forth with the moving vessel.

He held a bottle of champagne tightly on the countertop for support.

“Welcome to our new series. Currently I’m – God knows where – somewhere on the Indian Ocean, off the shore of sun-parched Perth”—he made mocking-fun of the Aussie vowels—“Auuuh-STaaa-leeah.”

He unwrapped the foil-clad bottle as he continued.

“My producer, that is my darling wife, thought it would be fun to film a sequence on a moving yacht, but where is she when I need her producing?! Projectile-tossing vegemite Lamington cakes over the side of the boat. So it’s just me and my intrepid cameraman, Harry.”

The cork popped and a spew of bubbly erupted, which the middle-aged man slurped up with mouth to bottle.

“So, as you can see”—he moved to the stove, not daring to let the bottle out of his grasp—“I have water, a mess of garlic for our Australian friends, and now we add the clams with a healthy dose of Aboriginal wine. You may choose your favorite kind, such as a fine Sydney Syrup, or if unavailable, a pinch of Cuvier Reserve Château Wogga Wogga will do.” He looked sly all of a sudden. “You Monty Python fans out there will know what I mean. Oh, dear. Now Harvey, I mean Hubert, is scowling at me.”[2]

He held up the bottle.

“This, my friends, I have been assured is some of Auustraalia’s finest, and I take their word for it, but when in Rome, drink like a slave, I suppose.”

Squiffy dumped in some onion and chopped parsley, which smoked violently while he set the empty dishes on the counter.

The boat suddenly ratcheted up its rocking.

“Steady on, and aim the camera properly, Harold darling. Get my best side, there’s a good chappie.”

By now Gordon and I were helplessly laughing our asses off. It was like watching a circus where the animals were holding the whips over the humans; you didn’t want to watch, but you couldn’t turn away!

In another second, the unfilled ingredient plates went crashing to the floor, making a nerve-shattering racket.

“Oh, well,” announced Squiffy. “It was cheap, local crockery anyway. At least I saved the so-called sparkling wine.”

He held the bottle to his lips, and the rest of the sequence was devoted to making the audience at home watch him drain the bottle while his clams burned in billows behind his back. Once empty, he frowned at the camera and said, “Welcome to bloody Down Under.”

We couldn’t stop howling with laughter, gripping onto one another for support.

Now we knew how and why he had had a show for decades; it was produced like a realityTV sitcom. Oh, man. We book-marked more links to watch later. The series called Squiffy Smokes Across Canada looked highly promising for its comedic content.

We’d left the poet about an hour ago in the bar, with me giving him one final warning to leave us alone tonight, of all nights, and he agreed, although with puppy-dog eyes and pouting lips.

Now, after we showered and changed into shorts and tees, the cool ocean breeze coming from our fully open terrace felt great on our skin, prickled with laughter as we were.

Suddenly, Gordon placed tender palms on both my cheeks and drew me in for a kiss. My heart thumping with mirth, easily transitioned to beating hard with love for my spouse. We may not have known what tomorrow would bring, but the here and now was what mattered.

“Honey,” I said, pulling away after a few minutes. “The funeral this morning made me re-vow to do what I need to to end this hex on my Schwanz.”

“I know, Kohl. We’ll track down Trọng’s Priapus lead, and actually, one old woman today told me the place we may want is not near Puerto Vallarta at all.”

“No?”

“No. She told me it’s closer to us right now, and on Baja California. It’s an ancient place, she said.”

“Did…she…say…how long—”

I was stopped mid-thought, for behind Gordon, I saw a white, formless thing be thrown over one of our hacienda walls.

We stood up and walked to the open patio doors. Our ‘visitor’ was a crumpled panama hat.

A moment later, sounds of excursion and pants preceded Squiffy Wellington clambering up to the crest of wall.

Once he was fully straddled across the top, roast-pig fashion, he paused, noticing our astounded stares at him. “Evening, gents. Lend a hand…?”

I honestly felt like getting a broomstick and poking him back where he came from, but my better half pulled me with him to the wall, and we helped the drunkard down onto our terrace.

Once on his feet, he sprightly scooped up his hat, and ushered us into the room. He then closed the doors and drew the blinds.

Stopping him as he was turning out the lights, I asked none-too politely: “What is going on?!”

“My escapade with the mayoral missus went horribly awry, and now I need to get away.”

“What happened?” Gordon asked.

Squiffy turned to me. “It’s something you know about, dear boy – I can’t get it up.”

“And how, pray tell,” I inquired with false patience, “would you know such an intimate detail about me?”

“Your social media friend. After you two left, I went back and drank with him. He went on and on about your condition – your peckless pecker, shall we say.”

Just then, Sadeeq strolled in the front door, toting a six-pack of beer, “Hi, guys, It’s me. What’er we up to?”

‘Gott im Himmel,’ I thought as I walked past him and locked the door. ‘Just one night! That’s all I asked.’

Sadeeq spotted the down-n-out TV chef. “Ah, Squiffy, Old Boy, how was the rendezvous?”

“Dreadful, dear soul. Simply dreadful. I’m afraid it’s the usual problem again. But now I must flee, because there’s nothing worse than an unsatisfied woman. I fear she’ll turn the town loose on me.”

“Oh," Sadeeq said.

“Um—” Gordon tried to say, but was cut off.

“What I need – what this young man here needs”—Wellington put a hand on my shoulder—“is the Spanish fly. The real stuff made from the aquamarine shell of the blister beetle. I’ve heard tell of a town in the desert where one can get it, and the Aztecs used to go there to ‘take the cure,’ or pluck the feather of Quetzalcoatl, as they used to call it.”

I glanced at Gordon; I for one was not too sure about joining forces with the TV hasbin, but my boy seemed more hopeful.

“I don’t know if we should leave this place,” Sadeeq said. “The people here have been generous supporting us.”

“OH, dear sport. I’ve had further intelligence that this town in the wilderness is an eccentric place where poetry and poets are highly valued.”

A slow smile crept across Amergin’s face. “Welcome to the gang, Squiffums, old chapareeno. It’s settled, and we’ll be off to this town then!”

“Wait a minute; just wait a minute,” I said. “How are we going to get to this weird shang-gra-la-la land where poets are valued?”

Squiffy popped the hat on his head, holding himself a little more erect with the pride of purpose. “Allow me. I have a friend who can arrange means of transport.” He moved to the front door to exit. “We will leave at first light, so be ready. And,” he added gratuitously, “don’t do anything strenuous tonight. You’ll need your strength.”

His leaving the hacienda left me with a feeling I was still not too sure about. We needed to find Priapeans to un-Behexen me, and it seemed unlikely the donkey dick folks would have a desert outpost. But then again, with them you never know, and I have come to realize…they are rather like fly poop – everywhere.