When they took him out and put him in the panel truck she was there. He told her to take care of herself. She gave him a look that was sad and sort of longing and told him to take care of himself, too. She said, “I won’t shoot at you no more.” Some war.
They told him see, we’re not bad guys; we’re good to you. It’s your government, your President Johnson we don’t like. They handed him over to a Marine patrol on the west end of Independence Park. The Marines looked at him like he was some kind of weird freak and drove him to the field hospital at Haina.
It was the end of Moran’s war.
Mary was patient because she enjoyed watching him and could feel the enthusiasm he tried to keep inside him. Like a young boy. Excited but self-conscious at the same time. It gave her a feeling about him that was tender and made her want to touch his face. But maybe she simply liked to touch him; she would watch him asleep, breathing softly, and the same feeling would come over her.
When he returned to the taxi and got in next to her, she said, “That’s where you were wounded?”
He nodded slowly, several times, then cocked his head, looking out the windshield. “It seems bigger. You go back to a place where you lived or spent some time and it always seems smaller. But Santo Domingo seems bigger.”
“It probably is,” Mary said. “It’s grown. A million people live here.”
“I don’t mean that way,” Moran said. “I guess I mean it isn’t as easy to understand as I thought it would be. Things aren’t black or white, are they?” He shrugged and said, “Maybe it’s me. I see it differently now.”
With feeling, Mary thought. How many people did she know who spoke or looked at anything with genuine feeling? Without being cynical, on stage, trying to entertain. Without puffing up or putting down. She wanted to know what he felt and, if possible, share the feeling.
“What happened then?”
He hesitated for a long moment. “I was taken to a field hospital. Five days later I was evacuated. Home.”
* * *
They returned to the hotel along the broad expanse of Avenida Washington with its tall palms, its view of the Caribbean on one side and the facade Santo Domingo presented to the world on the other: sun beating on walled colonial buildings and straw markets, the old giving way to solitary glass structures rising in the background. Mary said, “This is one section that’s never blacked out.” She told of a Dominican couple she’d met at the country club who paid twelve hundred dollars a month for electricity. Moran said it would be something to tell his neighbors in Pompano; they were into electric bills and loved to compare them.
He asked Bienvenido about the radio broadcast. Was it true, what the lottery-ticket man had said?
Bienvenido said, “Yes, all day it’s on the radio about you. You don’t hear it?” He began switching dials on the car radio, getting static and rock music until he found a voice speaking dramatically in Spanish. “There,” Bienvenido said. “Listen.”
“What’s he saying?” Moran hunched over the front seat rest, laying his chin on his arm.
Bienvenido was leaning toward the car radio. “He say . . . the American Marine who fell in love with the girl name Luci has returned.”
“What? Come on—”
“For many years since the way Captain Morón has been thinking of her, missing her . . .”
“Captain?”
“. . . with his heart breaking, until now he has returned to find her.”
“Jesus,” Moran said. “They’re making it up. I hardly even knew her.” He turned to glance at Mary who sat composed. “They’re making all that up.”
“He say . . . if anyone knows where to find Luci Palma, tell her that the Marine, Captain Morón, is here who loves her very much and wants to take her to the United States to live. He is at the Hotel Embajador.”
“I don’t believe it,” Moran said. “How do they know all that? I mean my name. I didn’t give anybody my name.”
“Captain Moron?” Mary said.
“Morón,” Moran said. He poked Bienvenido’s shoulder. “How do they know about me? What’d you tell the newspaper?”
“What you told me, only. I think the radio station call the newspaper and maybe the hotel,” Bienvenido said, “talk to some people there. I don’t know.”
“But it isn’t true. None of it.” He turned to look at Mary again. “Do you believe it?”
Mary gave him a nice smile. She said, “I can’t wait to meet Luci.”
There were a dozen or more Luci Palmas scattered about the hotel lobby, some with relatives, mothers and perhaps fathers; several more were in the cocktail lounge talking to winter ballplayers, doing all right, forgetting why they had come here. There was no announcement. It was like a celebrity, a movie star, arriving. A bellman nodded, holding open the door, and all the Luci Palmas converged on the bearded man with the stylish lady, who was maybe his aide, his secretary. They called out to him, “Captain! Here I am!” They said, “Oh, it is so good to see you again!” They said, “My Marine, you have return!”
Moran said, “Wait a minute! . . .”
The bellman said, “Can I assist you, Capitano?”
Mary slipped through the girls crowding in, walked over to the front desk. She watched from here, standing with a travel group of Chinese from Taiwan who nudged each other, staring. Mary said, “It’s George Moran, the American film star,” and some of them raised their cameras and began taking pictures.
She watched Moran in a much different role now, but the same Moran, surrounded by girls with silky dark hair and woolly Afros, girls in dresses and girls in tight jeans, girls with imploring eyes trying to make themselves heard in both Spanish and English—Moran in the middle, hands raised close to his body, trying not to touch them. He was working his way out of the pack now toward the front desk, his eyes with a helpless look finding Mary. She smiled at him.
Reaching her he said, “What do I do?” And looked at the desk clerk who stood composed, almost indifferent.
“Will you tell them I’m not the one?”
The desk clerk raised his eyebrows. “You are Captain Morón.”
“I’m not a captain. I never was.”
“I don’t believe they care you aren’t an officer. You are Mr. Jorge Morón, are you not?”
“They’re not old enough,” Moran said.
The desk clerk seemed surprised. “You like them to be older?”
“They’re not old enough to be Luci Palma. It was sixteen years ago. There isn’t one of them over thirty.”
“Take a good look,” Mary said. “There isn’t one of them over twenty-five.”
Moran said to the girls, “Wait, stand still. Be tranquilo, okay? I’ll ask each of you one question, una pregunta, all right?”
“I’ll be in the bar,” Mary said.
“Wait. Help me, will you?”
“You’re doing fine, George. Ask your pregunta.”
Walking away, working through the girls pressing in, Mary heard him say, “All right, I’m gonna ask you how old you are. Comprende? Quantos años tiene? . . . You first. Hi, how’re you doing?”
She was aware of the tender feeling again: a comfortable feeling, even as she realized there was much more to Moran than a natural, easygoing manner. At times he seemed almost naive; yet he continued to surprise her.
She chose a table on the far side of the lounge, away from the entrance and the ballplayers at the bar, and ordered a scotch. The chair felt good; it was low, with soft cushions and casters; she crept it closer to another chair at the table and put her feet up, stretching her legs, brushing at the wrinkles in her beige slacks. When the waitress brought her drink she looked up to thank her. The waitress moved off and a man was standing at the table.
“If you’ll permit me . . .”
“To do what?” Mary said.
“Speak with you, please.” His manner was pleasant, unhurried. “You’re the friend, I believe, of the Marine.”
Mary nodded. “We’re b
uddies.”
The man’s dark eyes relaxed in warm creases. He looked to be in his early thirties with a trimmed mustache and hair styled by a hotel barber, swept straight back from a high forehead: the look of light-skinned Dominican aristocracy, Mary judged. He wore a tailored white cotton shirt that hung free of his trousers like a light jacket, open enough to show some of his chest hair.
He said, “I like to have a woman who is a buddy. I didn’t know it was possible.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I suppose the way we are, men and women, uh? The difference between us.”
“How do you know the Marine and I aren’t married?”
“I find out those things.” He smiled.
More than pleasant, his manner was instantly familiar, confident, the Latin lover come-on. Mary sipped her drink; she’d been there several times.
“Excuse me. My name is Rafael Amado.” He paused, giving Mary a chance to introduce herself, but she passed. “I think your friend should know that none of those girls could be Luci Palma.”
“He knows,” Mary said. “He’s just having a little fun.”
“Yes, that’s good . . . My name is Rafael, but by most people I’m known as Rafi.”
“That’s cute,” Mary said.
The Dominican smiled. “You like it? Good. I wonder if I may join you.” He brought over a chair without waiting for permission and eased into it, careful of the press in his black trousers. “Thank you. May I buy you a drink?”
Mary raised her glass. “I’m fine.”
He looked up, snapped his fingers and said something in Spanish that was abrupt, without the pleasant manner, though it returned instantly as he said to Mary, “If I may have one with you.”
She wished Moran would hurry up. She wanted to see the look on his face, coming in and finding her taken care of. It might tell her something. Then immediately doubted it. Moran wouldn’t make assumptions, waste time being jealous. If he were to hesitate, appear to be just a little awkward, that would be good enough.
Rafi said, “When I heard on the radio about the return of the Marine I thought, Could it be? Then in Listin Diario I see the message, Cat Chaser is looking for the girl . . . and I thought, It is, it’s the same one.”
“The message,” Mary said, “I haven’t seen it yet.”
“In the newspaper personal column,” Rafi told her. “Cat Chaser is looking for the girl who ran over the roofs of buildings and tried to kill him. Call this hotel. It’s very clever the way it’s said.”
“The girl named Luci tried to kill him?” Mary straightened in her chair, bringing her legs down.
“Well, she try different tricks, you know, to lure him.”
Mary wanted to be sure. She said, “To lure him?”
“To bring the Marines where they shouldn’t be. Trick them. But that was a long time ago. It was the war.”
“You said you were sure then he was the one. What one?”
The waitress appeared with Rafi’s drink. He took it from her without a word, then leaned toward Mary, his expression grave.
“I was with Luci Palma. In the group of partisans with her. I was on the roof with her.” He continued to stare at Mary before easing back in the chair. “He didn’t tell you? The Marine?”
“What? I’m not sure.”
Rafi placed his hands on his chest, fingers spread, an amber stone with a dull gleam on his little finger.
“On the roof,” Rafi said, his expression still grave, “I’m the one he shot and almost killed.”
7
* * *
ALL THOSE WHITE TEETH flashing at him, different scents of perfume, a couple of the Luci Palmas taking his arm and rubbing against him. At some other time in his life, not too long ago, Moran would have asked them more than how old they were, might have staged a mini-Miss D.R. pageant and chosen a winner.
Going into the lounge he was thinking of something to tell Mary—that he was getting out of the motel business to become a movie producer; at least a casting director. He saw Mary’s hair and a guy in a white Dominican dress-up shirt and took it a little easier going over to the table. The Dominican guy saw him now and was getting up.
Mary said, pleasantly enough, “How did it go?”
“Well, it was different.”
“If you’re through casting . . .”
It amazed him, how well she knew him already.
“. . . this is Rafi. I’m sorry I didn’t hear your last name.”
“Rafi Amado. I’m very pleased to meet you.” Extending his hand across the table. “I’m honored.”
Mary was looking up at him. “Really? . . . And this is Jorge Morón, Rafi. The infamous Marine.”
Moran glanced at her, taking the Dominican’s slender hand, the grip not too firm.
“What did I do?”
“On your last trip it seems you shot somebody on the roof of a building,” Mary said. “Well, Rafi’s the one you shot.”
Moran stared at him now, not sure what to say, the Dominican giving him sort of a guarded look, like he wasn’t sure what to expect.
Moran said, “You’re the one?” He seemed awed now.
“I believe so,” Rafi said. “A house on Padre Billini near Carreras? Up on the roof? I was with Luci Palma.”
Moran said, “Boy . . .” He moved his hand over his beard, still not sure what to do in this situation. He said, quickly then, “Sit down, please. What’re you drinking?”
“I have one. Thank you.”
They sat down and Moran ordered a beer. It gave him something to do, time to settle, get used to the idea that he was looking at a man he had once tried to kill.
“You had an automatic weapon. Like a grease gun.”
Rafi was nodding. “Yes, I forgot what kind. They gave out all types of guns the first day of the revolution, in the park. I had different weapons.”
“You tried for me first,” Moran said. He held up his hand. “I don’t mean that the way it sounds. But I remember you fired a burst. I was in a window across the street.”
“I believe so,” Rafi said, “but I don’t shoot too straight. Which is good for you.”
“Listen, I’m really sorry,” Moran said. “Were you hurt bad?”
“No, not seriously. You like to see it?” Rafi leaned forward unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it open now and thrusting out his chest, giving Mary a sly glance. He brushed at the hair covering his left breast to reveal several inches of white scar tissue. “The bullet went this way, across me, instead of into me, which was good, uh? It took off the nipple,” Rafi said, “but I wasn’t using it, so it doesn’t matter.”
He chuckled and Mary smiled, seeing him glance over again. Mary said, “You’re a good sport, Rafi.”
Moran said, “I thought I hit you lower and more in the side. Down around the belt.”
Rafi pressed his chin to his chest looking down, feeling his mid section as though to make sure.
“No, I don’t think so. It seems all right.”
“We went up on that roof,” Moran said. “You were gone.”
“Yes, I hope so. Luci help me to get down. Maybe without her, I don’t know, I may not be here. She was the one take me to the hospital.”
The waitress brought Moran’s beer, half the bottle poured in a glass with a foamy head. He said, “Thanks,” still looking at Rafi and let the glass stand on the table.
“You know where she is?”
Mary’s eyes, mildly curious, moved to Moran and waited for his reaction as she heard Rafi say, “Luci? I didn’t see her after that war. But, I didn’t hear anything happen to her either.”
Moran seemed to accept this calmly enough. Mary had thought he’d be sitting on the edge of his chair. He said, “You knew I was taken prisoner.”
Rafi hesitated, somewhat surprised. “Is that so? No, I didn’t know that. And they release you?”
“The same day,” Moran said. “I found out later a guy from the Peace Corps worked it out.”
&n
bsp; “Ah, that was good.”
“But I got a chance to talk to her. It’s funny, I remember I asked about you.”
“Me?”
“She said you were alive and would be okay. She told me your name . . .”
“Yes?”
“But I forgot it. She brought me a beer . . .”
Rafi seemed to relax. “Yes, she was very thoughtful of people. And very brave.” He sipped his drink, placed it on the table again as though in slow motion, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You come all the way here to find Luci Palma?”
“No, not really,” Moran said. “I wanted to see Santo Domingo again. As a tourist this time.”
“It’s much bigger now,” Rafi said. “You live where, in what state?”
“Florida. Pompano Beach. It’s about fifty miles north of Miami.”
“Pompano,” Rafi said. “Is a nice place?”
“George owns the Coconut Palms,” Mary said, “a very exclusive resort.”
“Yes?” Rafi appeared thoughtful again, nodding. “I think I heard of it. Like the Fontainebleu in Miami? Very big place, uh?”
“Not as big,” Mary said, ignoring the look Moran was giving her, “but much classier, if you know what I mean.”
Rafi brightened. “A swanky place, uh?”
“That’s it,” Mary said. “It’s got a lot of swank.” She gave Moran, shaking his head slowly, a look of wide-eyed innocence.
Rafi was saying, “Perhaps I can be of help.” It brought them back. “Find out for you where Luci Palma is.”
“Well, I doubt if she’s still here,” Moran said.
“Yes, if she’s still here in Santo Domingo she must know about you. Everyone seems to,” Rafi said. “So I think she live someplace else. La Romana, Puerto Plata . . . There isn’t much mobility among the Dominican people. I can find out for you.”