Diego brushed off some mariachi singers, and made his way through comestible vendors to the soft-drink stand, a tiny thatched thing on pilings, the only actual, nailed-together structure that Playa Washington had. He bought a Bimbo. As he stood swigging it from the bottle, his eye fell on a boy in red trunks who dashed through the crowd, yanking women by their shoulder straps, men by their pant-legs, boys by their ears, and girls by their hair, interspersing these pranks with challenges to wrestle. Through no more than four, such was his strength that several bigger boys got dumped on their backs in a minute or two. After each such triumph, he ran to a girl, who was seated at the foot of a dune and who seemed to be his mother. When she gave him admiration, he ran out to find more victims. “That boy,” said another customer at the stand, “is a pest. He needs treatment on his backside. He needs it tanned up good with a belt.”
“Oh,” said Diego, “he’s little.”
“So’s a goat. But I don’t like him.”
“He has his points. Sure.”
“Name me one. Name me a point.”
“Hey,” Diego called to the boy. “Hey, you.”
The boy, running over, chose a Jippo, and when Diego bought it for him, grabbed it, stuck out his tongue, and ran off. “Gil!” cried the girl on the dune. “You must thank the gentleman. Say gracias.”
“You win, she’s a point. O.K.”
The other customer surveyed her enviously as Diego strolled over lifting his hat, and she got up to smooth her skirt. She was tiny, with something doll-like about her figure, though it didn’t lack for voluptuousness. She was the color of dark red mahogany, and her features were delicate, showing little of the flat, massive moulding that goes with the Indian. Her eyes were a mischievous, flirty black, matching her hair, and her teeth, against the mulberry of her lips, looked blue. Her dress was pizen purple, but considering the form it covered, no dress could really look bad. Her shoes were red, as her bag was. At her throat were big red wooden beads. She was possibly 20 years old.
“Fine boy,” said Diego. “Quite a lad.”
“He must thank you,” she said. “—Gil!”
But Gil paid no attention, and Diego told her: “It’s nothing, let him be. … He’s yours?”
“But of course.”
“And his—Papa? You’re married?”
“… Not now.”
“Perhaps you’ll have a Jippo?”
“Please, for me, Orange Crush.”
He got her Orange Crush, and they sat on the dune together. She confessed she had seen him parked, in front of the cafe where she worked, in Matamoras. He expressed surprise he hadn’t seen her, as he was in the cafe quite often. She said she didn’t serve in the dining room, but worked in the kitchen. “I am only a poor galopina,” she added, but in a flirty, provocative way. He then told her his name, and she said hers was Maria.
“You live in Matamoras?” he asked her.
“In a little jacal, by the river.”
“You and your boy?”
“I and Gil. My little Hercules.”
They had considerable talk about Gil, his exuberance, his strength, his skill at swimming, acquired in the river, which he swam several times daily, “… across to Fort Brown and back.” It was clear that if Gil was a pest to others, to her he was wonderful. However, after Diego prodded with inquiries, she admitted that if Diego would buy the boy his supper, perhaps a snack from the vendors, she had neighbors who would keep an eye on him, so they could tuck him away in the jacal, and have the evening to themselves. He mentioned he might have passengers going up, but she said that was all right, “as I can ride front with you, and hold Gil in my lap.”
“Wouldn’t mind holding you in my lap.”
“Ah-ha-ha.”
With various such sallies from him, and suitable parries from her, the discussion took a while, during which Gil outdid himself, presently arousing a gang which meant to thump him, and running into her arms. Then he darted for the sea, waited for a wave to smash, waded in, and was out, swimming, before the next one rolled in. When the Gendarme screeched his whistle, he waved derisively and kept on. The Gendarme screeched again, and Maria ran out like a little hornet to tell him off. She said Gil swam better than anyone, and it was up to stupid Gendarmes to let him alone. The Gendarme said regardless of who he swam better than, she could get him in or she’d spend the night in the carcel. Diego called “Jippo, Jippo, Jippo,” and this had the desired effect. Gill came in on a comber, ducked past the Gendarme, and ran to the stand for his Jippo. Diego led Maria back to the dune.
Things might have eased off then, but Gil had the Gendarme to settle with. Tossing the bottle away, he ran over, stuck out his tongue, made a noise. The Gendarme paid no heed. He did it again, and still the Gendarme, who was big, handsome, and cold, didn’t look, simply standing there, his hand on his pistol butt, his eye roving the beach. Gil made one more pass, then plunged into the sea as before and swam out as before. However, he went much further this time, and Maria ran down, commanding the Gendarme to whistle. Couldn’t he see that the boy was out too far? What kind of policing was this, to let a child get into danger and then do nothing about it?
“It is a beautiful day,” said the Gendarme.
“But Gil, my little Gil!”
“He swims so well, who am I to interfere?”
Maria now called to Gil but he paid no attention. Diego, joining her, repeated his previous ruse, calling “Jippo, Jippo, Jippo,” and anything else he could think of, but this time unsuccessfully. Gil simply swam on, until he was 200-300-400 yards out, and quite a few people, gathering back of the Gendarme, were beginning to take an interest. And then suddenly disaster struck. The porpoises cavorted over, obviously bent on a play, but Gil’s cry told of his terror. Then he wasn’t there, and a murmur went through the crowd. Maria started to scream. Diego put his arms around her and tried to calm her, but she broke away, and called “Gil” at the top of her lungs.
During this, which took just a few seconds, the Gendarme stared out to sea, then spoke to a boy. The boy ran down to where some girls had a raft in the sea, an inflated rubber thing they were paddling. After a shouted exchange, they wrestle it through the surf, hiked it to the boys’ shoulders, and as he ran to the Gendarme with it, followed with the paddles. The Gendarme hadn’t moved, and didn’t, during the choosing of volunteers, the relaunching of the raft, and its trip out through the swells. He stayed right where he was, his boot-heel marking the spot where Gil had gone out, so he could indicate, with wigwags, the spot where he had gone down. When the raft got there, a boy slipped over the side, but in a second or two came up, to be pulled in by a companion. Cupping his hands, he reported: The porpoises were all around, especially under the surface. One of them had bumped him, and he was sure they were fighting him off. He was afraid to go over again, and asked permission to call the search off. “Come in,” called the Gendarme. “We don’t endanger more lives for the sake of one which is lost.”
No voice was raised in protest, though many by now were watching. But as the raft started in, Maria ran at the surf, to be scooped up by the Gendarme. He held her, talked to her, threatened her. “Anyone know this girl?” he presently asked.
“I do, she’s a friend,” said Diego.
“Get her out of here,” said the Gendarme.
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Soon as I’m done with her, take her home. When the body washes in she’ll be notified. Keep her away from the water. Because if this goes on, and people have to risk their lives to save her, I’ll have to act. I won’t have any more of it.”
“My poor, poor little Gil,” sobbed Maria.
“You might have controlled him, Senora.”
“Who could control one so strong?”
“For lack of control he has drowned.”
“No! I will not believe it!”
?
??The cuerpo perhaps will convince you.”
Diego half carried her to the dune, whispered to her, patted her, and got her a little quieter. The Gendarme commandeered an escriban public, who came over, set up his table in front of Maria, and asked names, ages, place of residence, etc., for the official relato. It had a Doomsday sound, and upset her horribly, but at last he was done, the Gendarme signed, and he went. Maria, it appeared, could now go.
However, she didn’t, remaining where she was, a huddled heap of purple at the foot of the dune, Diego sitting beside her. The sun dropped low, and people lined up for busses. Men approached Diego to engage his car, preferring the expense to a wait, but he said he wasn’t libre. Twilight came, and quite suddenly, dark, bringing a chill to the air. It wasn’t this, however, that emptied the beach of its revelers, but the food situation, for the Playa had no facilities, and people have to eat. Soon no one was there but the soft-drink lady, the Gendarmes, taking a last look around, and the lonely pair on the dune. A vendor offered tamales, and when Diego waved him off, his boy tried to be helpful. Why wait? he wanted to know. The sharks, which come in at night, would eat the body anyhow, so what point was there in hanging around?
“Out!” screamed Maria. “No!”
“Such talk!” said the soft-drink lady. “And to a mother! About sharks!”
“It’s a well-know fact,” said the boy.
“It’s horrible!”
“Why? He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Baffled at such irrationality, he went with his father, and the soft-drink lady had a try. Maria made no response, only staring at the sea, which had changed from its day-time color, of deep indigo, to a nighttime black shot with streaks of iridescent blue, and topped at the surf by bright white feathers rushing in. the Gendarme appeared from up the beach, and clumped on down, his eyes shooting around, possibly looking for drunks buried in the sand. At last Diego took her hand. “Maria,” he said, “it is time. You do Gil no good. You only do yourself harm.”
“And you harm, is that it?”
“I don’t complain, but it is time.”
“Then, I’ll come.”
“You’re a good girl,” said the soft-drink lady.
“I’ll take you home,” said Diego.
“Whatever you say.”
“We’ll have dinner somewhere first.”
She got up, dusted the sand off her hips, got a comb from her bag and began running it through her hair.
As she stood, refastening her silver barette, a wail came from the sea. “… What was that?” she asked sharply. “Did you hear something?”
“No,” said the soft-drink lady.
“Perhaps a gull,” said Diego.
“At night, a gull?” said Maria.
The wail repeated, so no one could fail to hear it, or pretend it was only a bird. It quavered, and with an unmistakable insistence, as though intended for those on the beach.
“It is Gil!” screamed Maria. “He is there! He is calling me! . . . Gil! I’m coming! Gil!”
She dashed once more at the sea, and this time it was Diego who caught her, bringing her back by main force. The soft-drink lady talked to her, but uselessly. The Gendarme came from down the beach, took in the situation, and told Maria if she didn’t stop her nonsense, he was putting her in his car, taking her to Matamoras, and locking her up for disorderly conduct. But as he started to say it all over again, to impress it on her mind, the wail came again, so even he was jolted, and stood irresolute, not knowing what to make of it.
Maria was beside herself, and as the wail kept up, seeming to come closer all the time, it was all Diego could do to hold her. Finally, motioning the Gendarme to take charge, he walked to one side, sad down, and took off his two-toned shoes. Then, stuffing his stockings into them and laying his hat on top of them, he marched down to the surf. “What are you doing?” asked the Gendarme.
“What do you think?” said Diego.
“You’re crazy.”
“If this keeps up,” Diego told him “we’ll all be crazy and that girl will be dead. She’s going after that boy, and something’s got to be done. I don’t know who that is, but if you’ll kindly hand on to her, I mean to find out.”
“Suppose it’s not a who?”
“All right then, it’s a what.”
“You may find out more than you expect.”
“At least, we’ll know.”
He faced the sea, closed his eyes in prayer, and went in. He took a comber sidewise, then straightened out and started to swim. He confessed later to a horrible fear, as it seemed to him the wail was from the other world and suggested death. He reached the spot where it seemed to come from, then was started to hear it behind him. With a sense of being cut off, he pulled his feet up, reversed direction, and started back. Then, in horror, he saw a fin and remembered the sharks. He panicked, digging for shore. Then red trucks flashed at his eyes, and Gil rose in front of him. He rose clear out of the sea, moaning as Diego insisted later, and landed plop in his arms. In utter terror by now, afraid to hold on, for fear the shark would close in, ashamed to let go, he did nothing but thresh with his feet and beat around with one free arm. But the roll of the waves was with him, and in a few moments he made it, Gill still on his shoulder. As he staggered out on the sand, Maria grabbed the boy, the soft-drink woman grabbed her, and the Gendarme grabbed Diego, thumping him on the back for his bravery, and blowing his whistle for help.
Exhausted, Diego collapsed, but revived and yelled to them all: “Work on him—give him artificial respiration! He’s alive! He spoke to me! He spoke and leaped out of the sea!”
“He’s dead,” said the soft-drink lady.
“He’s cold, so cold,” said Maria.
“Thus the tale,” said my friend, the pilot at the Brazos Santiago station, a few miles north of Playa Washington, “as I heard it around Matamoras.”
“I admit it’s spooky,” I said, “and as a feat of derring-do, quite romantic. Only trouble is, I don’t believe it.”
“I do,” he said. “That’s the difference.”
“Captain, you surprise me.”
“Maybe, but I think it’s true.”
“Shark and all?”
“Wasn’t a shark, but sharks figure in it.”
“What was it, then?”
“Porpoise.”
“And the wail, what about that?”
“That was a porpoise too.”
“Bringing the boy in to Mamma?”
“That’s just about it.”
He said, looking at the thing from the point of view of the porpoises, they were probably delighted when Gil swam out where they were, as “they love to play and love little boys. That statue they put in the picture, of a boy riding a dolphin, was not far-fetched. It has happened in the aquariums, as those things aren’t fish. They’re animals. And when Gil began to sink, their idea was, get him up to the surface again, get him breathing. So they handled him just like one of their own pups. They began bumping him up to the surface, and when the boy on the raft said they were fighting him off, he probably was telling the truth. But of course it didn’t work, and then night came on and changed the whole picture.”
“In what way, Captain?”
“The sharks.”
“Then they do come in at night?”
“Or, like most fish, they begin to bite at night.”
“So they’re more dangerous.”
“As anyone who knows them will tell you.”
“And what then?
“The porpoises began bringing him in.”
“Bumping him with their noses?”
“Exactly that.”
“To Maria?”
“I wouldn’t put it past them.”
He said the interest animals take in people is more than is commonly realized. “And in the case of po
rpoises,” he went on, “they talk. I’ve heard them many a time, standing watch on deck, as they swim along with the ship, especially at night. But I’m telling you, I don’t know as we sit here if they talk to themselves, each other, or me. Maybe they’re just breathing, but maybe it’s something more, and they were calling Maria that night, bringing her little boy in, saving him from the sharks. They can handle a shark—they bump him too, and hard, right in the gills, and as they bump they bite, tearing his gill feathers out. But they can’t handle all sharks all night. So they did what they could in their way. But she interested me more than they did.”
“Maria? In what way, Captain?”
“As the eternal soldadera.”
“The soldier’s girl?”
“A muchacha who must have a hero.”
“First little Gil—?”
“And then big Diego. Kind of nice.”
He told me the rest of the story, how the Gendarme, with the cuerpo recovered all the difficult questions settled, outdid himself to make things easy for her. He paced the way, in the patrol car, up to Matamoras, while she followed with Diego holding the little cold body to her warm one. He routed the undertaker out, made all the arrangements for the inquest next day, the services, and burial. He had everything fixed up in a few minutes, so when she walked out, the band was just ending its concert, in the Plaza de Hidalgo, for the same people as had been at the beach, now all dressed up for the evening.
As she sat on a bench with Diego, she felt his clothes, which were wet, clucking with concern. But he motioned toward the band. It was playing Estrellita, and suddenly she started to weep. “For you,” he said, taking her hand and drawing it through his arm. “The play to your Little Star.”