The Freeloaders, page 5
“That’s candy. Care for a sandwich?”
“No. Nor do I care for your candy.” She tossed the box at my feet. There was something pleasingly ironical about her smallness and the fierce guttural quality in her voice—as if she was daring me to fight.
I shrugged and, picking up the box, hurled it into the ocean. For a second we both watched it go out with the backwash of a wave, then sink. She said, “That was a stupid waste. Or was the candy full of worms?”
“It was supposed to be very tasty and fresh—and chocolate is still hard to get. I merely bought it for one who also appreciates sea swimming. I’ve never seen anyone before … I mean, I had this silly idea that only I liked the clean, fresh feeling it gives.” (Already I was talking clumsy, patronizing English to her.)
“Ah, to swim far out does make one feel alive. You live around here, blanco?”
“No. I drive down here from Los Angeles to swim.”
“You come from such a distance every day?”
“I have time and driving is a pleasure.”
“You come seeking work here? I have never seen you before, even in the cannery.”
“I’m not working at the moment.”
She sighed. “Times are far from good. During the war, we weren’t taken into defense work, but one could find jobs left by others who went into war work. Now it is like before—nothing. And with prices so high! We have a car even older than your rattletrap, but no money for gas. But it doesn’t matter; there are no jobs to drive to. At least we are more fortunate than others, we have our farm. It is a small one, but we will never be hungry. You live in Los Angeles? I’ve been there once. Since there is no work, why drive all the way here?”
“I told you,” I said, finishing my sandwich, “to find a quiet place to swim. I dislike crowded beaches.”
She began braiding her long hair, her stubby fingers moving as swiftly as a machine. “Ay, you do not like the crowded beaches, so you come to mine? Me, I love people on a beach but I am not allowed on their beach. I am a dirty Mex to them!” She glared at me; with her dark hair pulled severely away from her face, the high cheekbones plainly showed her Indian ancestry.
“Don’t blame me for all the stupid people in the world,” I told her, opening another sandwich, a thick roast-beef job full of heavy Russian dressing, direct from a famous Vine Street delicatessen. I held it toward her. “Sure you don’t want to eat this?”
Her exciting lips said, “No!” but the large eyes said yes.
I raised my arm to throw the sandwich into the ocean. She leaped forward, grabbed it from my hand. “Why must you be such a fool and throw away food?”
“I can’t keep it in this heat, and I’ve had my fill,” I said, passing her the apple juice and lighting a cigarette.
She bit into the sandwich, chewed away with a loud, strong motion. “This is very good. When you work, are you a busboy in some fancy restaurant?”
“I do anything I can,” I told her, amused. Actually, being a hack writer, it wasn’t much of a lie.
“Wonderful food. I bet it is a very expensive restaurant. How much do you make when you work?”
“Five fifty.”
She flashed her dark eyes. “With meals? A day?”
“Per week. No meals.”
Waving her free hand in the air, as if crossing something off an invisible blackboard, she said, “You work much too cheap. Even the fruit pickers make more than that in a day. When I work as a maid I get twenty-five dollars a month, a room of my own, and all meals.”
I wanted to laugh at her thinking I meant five dollars and fifty cents a week. Even though I was well aware of being a patronizing bastard with this simple girl, I was pleased with myself. She was so different from Doris. I could easily dominate her, physically and mentally. When she finished eating she walked to the edge of the ocean and washed her face and hands, bending over with a delightful motion which was sheer grace. Then she walked away, calling out thanks over her shoulder in Spanish. “Will we swim together tomorrow?” I asked.
“I do not own the ocean,” she said, stopping but not turning to face me.
“You swim well.”
“You also. I have lived here since I can remember, and always I swim. My father and mother think I am a little crazy; they are afraid of the big ocean. But the water is my friend, I do not fear it. Although it is not good to trust anyone too much, even a friend.”
“I can bring rods and reels. Do you like to fish?”
“No, no, that is a cruel business. The fish never harm me, and I do not eat them. It would bring disaster upon me out there to do so.” She started walking again, the sleek pigtail dancing down her back.
“I will be here tomorrow. Shall I bring food for you?”
“I do not know. Maybe I swim, too. My name is Angela. What do they call you?”
“One pretty girl calls me blanco. Everybody else calls me Al.”
She turned abruptly to glare at me. Then she smiled and walked between the sand dunes and out of sight.
I saw Angela every afternoon for the next week. I think if I had been offered a studio job I would have turned it down. Angela fascinated me; she was a nature girl straight out of Green Mansions. If she was uneducated in any formal sense, her mind was as keen as Doris’ and she had a tremendous practical knowledge of the many forms of sea life. Angela was a relief from the pseudo-life of Hollywood, from the pressure Doris put me under. Angela was one of the few completely honest people I’ve ever known. (Myself included, of course.)
The first time we swam back to the beach together, on reaching shallow water she told me, “Al, turn your back.”
“Why?”
“I must stand up and walk to my clothes. I am naked.”
“I can plainly see you are, and you have a beautiful body. So why turn my back when you go ashore?”
“Al, you must understand me. I do not wear a swimming suit—and I once had one, too—because I do not feel free swimming with one on. While I….”
“Many long-distance swimmers do without suits. As do the women pearl divers in Japan. But I would feel uncomfortable without my trunks—I think.”
Angela nodded. “While I disobey my parents by swimming, and most surely by swimming naked, do not think I am not from a very strict home. Like most American girls of Mexican family. If anybody should see us now in the water, they would certainly think me a girl to whom wrong has been done. I would have the name of a bad girl. Nor would I blame them for such thoughts—a man and woman practically naked. Nor must you take this as meaning I fail to trust you, Al. If that was so, I would not be with you this second.”
“Is that a compliment, Angela? You make me sound like a big brother.”
Turning in the water, she stared at me, her eyes soft and dark. The ocean gently swirled over her hard clean shoulders, the soft rise of her young breasts. Through the water I could see the dark red of her tiny nipples. “Al, at first I do not trust you because you are a … a blanco. But now I know you are also a good man. And each time I see you my liking for you increases. Some nights I dream of you. Al, I told you I am raised very strict. I said that to say this: I know it is right and natural for a man to want a girl and someday I may give myself to you. If you feel the same toward me, as is the way of a male, you take me. I will love you because I want to love only you for all time. It must be the same with you. And it will be out here first we make love, under God’s clean sky, and as binding as the legal papers and ring which will come afterward, when we are both working. You understand?”
“Aha.” Somehow, Angela suddenly sounded—if faintly—like Doris. Floating to her, I kissed her salty mouth. Nothing touched but our wet lips. Then she said gently, “Now turn your back and look at the horizon and I will dress.” I examined the endless line of water where it seemed to join the blue sky … and heard her running, splashing, out of the Pacific.
Later, we sat on the beach, eating and talking. Perhaps she had no one else to chat with, for Angela loved to talk to me. As usual, she scolded me for spending money on “expensive sandwiches;” I think she still believed I was working as a part-time busboy. Then she started on the latest news about the local job situation, and her family. Although she never took me there (not that I wanted to go) from a dune Angela had once pointed out the rambling shack in the distance that was her home.
She had an older brother and three much younger sisters, and when all the adults in the family were working they took home a total of less than a hundred dollars a week. (The worn desert boots I was wearing had cost forty dollars when new.) Out of their meager earnings—and rarely were they all working at the same time—they had somehow managed to pay off their debt on the four acres of land. Angela constantly and proudly stressed the importance of “Our land. It is the land makes us different from the others, that will never let us be hungry.”
She also talked about the family’s ambitions, which were pitifully small. The father was dreaming of someday saving a fat $73.50 with which to purchase some chickens and equipment so he could start selling eggs. The brother had tried, without success, to borrow a hundred dollars to buy an old stand, fix it up, and sell their truck vegetables, and later the eggs. If the stand showed any profit he would be able to marry. Angela said the road passing their house wasn’t too well traveled, and it would mean long hours, but once they had the stand going the younger sisters could run it, with the adults working there in their off hours.
Angela herself had almost no ambitions—which added to her charm. She expected to be married someday. “Of course my husband will move into the house, into a room of our own—if all goes well and we have money to build an extra room, or even add a small apartment to the house. If things went very good, we would even put in electricity, have an electric icebox, a radio, and a fine sewing machine. But first thing we do when anybody finds steady jobs is to fix up the car. Then I see to it my little sisters go to school each day. The school is many miles away.”
Once she told me, “Al, if I ever be fortunate enough to have lots of money … like I win the lottery, or I find a lump of oil from the whale that is still worth much, this ambergris—I hear a man found enough to make him real rich, right along here, before I was born. If I had a fortune, say seven or eight hundred dollars of my own … I’d buy land right on this sand. I’d build a house and always be happy, because I would hear the music of the waves all the time. From the moment they are born I would wash my babies in the sea, to make them clean and unafraid. The salt water kills all kinds of germs, you know.”
Being around Angela fascinated me. In a perverse sort of way—which gave me a great deal of secret satisfaction—she made me forget Doris. If there was my obvious desire for her sleek little body, I also gave Angela much serious thought. In a romantic way I thought of marrying her. I could easily picture her family finally accepting me as another mouth to feed … and their utter astonishment on finding my “five-fifty” a week was five hundred and fifty dollars. I had about $2400 in the bank, more than enough to modernize their house and the car, to start the chicken business and establish the road stand. Living with them would indeed be the simple, honest life. I would install a phone and drive to Hollywood each day from the farm, when I was working. I also could imagine writing a book about my Mexican in-laws. A wholesome novel full of true humor and humanity … which might hit the best-seller list.
Mostly I was afraid of hurting Angela. I wasn’t sure if I had the courage to marry a dark Mexican. With Angela as my wife I would indeed be a Hollywood character, a bizarre sensation in movieland; attacked by the bigots and a cause cèlébre of the few intellectuals. Perhaps my agent would be delighted, since his trite slogan was: For doing good or bad, keep your name before the producers.
Nor was I unaware of my patronizing attitude, thinking of myself as a tin god bestowing “good” on a poor family. Any novel about them would actually be a literary striptease—an invasion of the peace of “our” beach … I could see a publicity photographer clicking shots of us in swimming, for the dust jacket. Taking a truly honest person like Angela and turning her into a freak for the gossip columns would be a dirty crime.
I was sincerely troubled, afraid of acting like a real blanco. There was one simple solution—stop seeing her. If I stopped now her hurt would be brief, more of a puzzled feeling than outright bitter disillusionment. It would be over, she could never find me—she didn’t even know my last name.
But, I argued with myself, wouldn’t that also be patronizing? The plain truth was I couldn’t stop, couldn’t give up the tantalizing promise of her nude body.
By the end of that week, after several miserable nights sick with worry, I reached an easy answer: I would tell Angela exactly how I felt about her, including all my frank doubts. Tell her I was a writer earning (some weeks) what would seem a fortune to her. I’d place all my cards face up. My error had been my blanco arrogance in trying to reach a decision by myself. Whatever we decided would be the result of both of us talking things out. Even if it meant giving her up, I’d be doing the “right” thing. Once this was resolved in my mind, I felt great and went to sleep.
The next morning I didn’t answer my phone when it rang. It could be my agent with a job, or Doris finally phoning to learn why I hadn’t called her. After my usual stop to take on sandwiches and cakes, I sped south toward our beach, driving like a hot-rod. Angela was already in the water. I swam out to her and we kissed, then headed back for the sandy beach.
I’d decided after we ate would be the best time for our trumps-up talk. On reaching shallow water I dutifully turned my back as Angela continued walking out of the ocean. She said, “AI, last night I could not sleep for thinking about you.”
“Spent a restless night myself, dreaming of you,” I said, pleased how well things were working out: this was the right opening for my little speech.
Standing in chest-high water, I watched whitecaps forming far to my left. There was a sand bar out that way I had often meant to explore. I kicked at a tiny crab investigating my toe, and calmly went over in my mind the above-board way I’d explain things to Angela … and in reality, I suppose, shifting the decision onto her as to whether we continued seeing each other.
A hunk of wood carried in by the tide brushed my side and made me jump. The water was touching my shoulders and I realized I’d been standing there for some time. Angela, upon reaching the shelter of her dune, would always call out, “Okay, Al?” Now I yelled, “Anything the matter, Angela?”
“Nothing is the matter. I am waiting for you, Al.” Her soft voice sounded much nearer than the dunes.
I spun around: she was sitting on my shirt, fluffing her long hair in the sun. She was still nude … a small golden goddess waiting for me with a nervous smile.
Rushing ashore, I felt a very slight sense of panic as I realized there wasn’t any time for talk … now.
Hours later, riding back to Hollywood, the panic was still there—but no longer slight. Reaching my place, I immediately phoned Doris. We were married in Nevada that same night.
4
ONE OF THE small tubby excursion boats cut through the blue-on-blue of the Mediterranean and docked almost at my feet. The beach fell off so sharply the boat was able to come within a few feet of the shore. A bunch of German tourists lined up to go aboard. I started back to my hotel to do some work.
I’ve never gotten over my sense of guilt about Angela. I suppose if I ever end up on the couch, my cowardice with her will be the reason. Months later, when I halfway told Doris about the affair (I can’t remember why I was telling her) she took it lightly. “Racism is the greatest sickness of the world today, so you shouldn’t be surprised it touched you, too. That, plus your immature attitude toward sex—although I’m enjoying changing that. No matter what this … Angela.. thought, sex isn’t the beginning and the end of everything. If you had married her—and only because, being such a patronizing bastard, you were sorry for her—she certainly would have regretted it,” Doris had said.
I knew she was right, but I still felt lousy about Angela.
I started working on a detective novelette I’d been writing, on and off, and typed up three pages, then gave it up. I stood by the window watching the palm and orange trees in the Jardin Albert 1, the gals walking below on their stilt heels, the colorful dresses. An open Citröen which must have been at least thirty years old and resembled a bathtub on Wheels in shape stopped across the street, next to the park. Gil Fletcher, wearing only faded tan shorts and sandals, jumped out. Then he opened the door and helped an olive-skinned gal in tight purple pants and red-and-white-striped blouse step out. They both shook hands with the driver, a bearded young man, who handed Gil a small cylinder before driving off. Gil said something to the gal, grinned, then kissed her. She twisted one of his ears, and then we both watched her walk across Place Massena. She walked leisurely, glancing around to see if she had any audience besides Gil.
I assumed this was Simone, and I was too far away to tell if she was pretty, but she had this stocky backside and put it all into her walk. Even from up in my window I could feel the sensuous roll in her hips and, considering she didn’t look silly in purple pants, she had to be attractive. Carrying his cylinder, Gil crossed the street—a fine figure of a man, as the expression goes—and moved out of my view. Minutes later there was a knock on the door and I opened it to see Gil grinning at me as he drawled, “Phoned Charley and he said he’ll pick us up here.”
“Come in.” The cylinder was an underwater lung, with a snorkel and a mask, snakelike rubber tubing. Tossing this on my bed, Gil fell into a chair. “Can you butt me, Al?”
