The Ann Ireland Library. Ann Ireland
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he making fun of her? “You could write your own ticket.”
Abruptly he lets go. “A one-way ticket.”
The waitress hovers, lowering a basket of hot tortillas wrapped in a checkered napkin. Manuel says something, and the waitress replies in a way that sounds as if she’s reciting from a poem or a song.
Trace picks at the tube of squash filled with some kind of white cheese. When is he going to say something about her playing? She knows she’s good. She won the Kiwanis Festival, regional division, last year and played at the lieutenant governor’s New Year’s levee. Certain people understand music from first breath; she could sing before she could talk.
The waitress reappears to set down jumbo-sized margaritas on the table, and no one asks if Trace is old enough. After running her finger around the rim of the glass and licking her salty fingertip, she takes a generous sip. Tart lime and tequila pucker her mouth into a gasp of pleasure: her first cocktail. Back home it’s straight rye or gin, stolen from some parent’s stash.
“If I don’t return on the date of my visa, maybe I can never go home again,” Manuel says. “Tell me what I should do.”
Trace says, “It would be amazing if you moved here.”
He waits a beat, hops off his chair, and slips in beside her on the banquette, then starts stroking her fuzzy scalp. He’s wanted to do this all evening.
“I could do this all night,” he says.
Staring straight ahead, Trace says, “Prove it.”
The hand stops moving, and he tips her chin to study her face. “You mean this?”
For a moment she wavers, then says, “Sure.”
Trace slouches on the bed in Manuel’s room at the fancy hotel where he insists on being put up, disdaining the cheaper B and Bs where other judges stay. He moves about the space restlessly and pours Trace a glass of water, then one for himself.
“Are you drunk?” he asks.
“No,” she says, though she is a little.
“Too much alcohol since I arrived in this country,” he says, loosening his collar.
He’s wearing a gold chain, like baseball players or rappers. He paces and drums his thigh as if girding himself to say or do something. That’s his guitar case propped in the corner, loaded with airline stickers from all over the world. You’d never guess by the banged-up container what lies inside, the succulent rosewood-and-cedar instrument, chaffed honey-brown by decades of performing. She wonders if he’ll bring it out and play a private recital for her. She decides she will be calm, and that this will be the most amazing night of her life. The buzzing in her head is new. She’s not much of a drinker, not like some of the kids back on the island.
“Water is good?” he asks.
She lifts her glass in salute. “Primo.”
Then he stands before her, knees pressing against hers. “Such a long day, yes?” he says.
Trace smiles, not understanding that he hopes she will go now. She has followed him around all evening and now she’s in this man’s room, the same man everyone watches as he struts down the hallway or huddles in conference with the other judges: Manuel says this, Maestro says that. While other contestants prowl around downtown Montreal, she’s been spending hours solo with Manuel Juerta.
“This is a dangerous place for you, young lady,” he says.
“Yes?”
“Alone in a hotel room with a man you barely know.”
She shrugs, pretending to be unimpressed.
“You should be back in your own room practising.”
She sucks in a breath. He wouldn’t say this if she hadn’t been chosen to head into the finals. No need to practise if she were to be sent packing. Maybe he’ll tell her she’s a rare talent; that’s what people say after they hear her play.
But Manuel’s plump face sags with weariness. Dampness soaks through the cotton shirt that sticks to his muscled back. On his island, buildings never have windows sealed shut. Back home, fragrant sea air follows you everywhere.
He takes her head and squeezes it into his chest.
This is it, she thinks, this is how it begins.
“I am going to telephone a taxi and send you back to the dormitorio,” he says.
But he doesn’t push her away. Instead, his hand lowers to her shoulder blade, and she feels him shift, some adjustment being made.
“So you think you want to stay with some old Cuban guy?” he asks.
She looks into his puffy eyes and wonders how old he is — forty? Fifty? She always knew her life would never be ordinary.
“Answer me,” he says.
She says nothing.
He disappears into the marbled bathroom, and soon she hears the faucets drill water against the tub, then a clank as his belt hits the floor.
She picks up the TV remote and waves it at the screen. It’s that crappy movie where Jennifer Lopez pretends she’s a maid. She turns the sound way down so that she’ll hear when the faucets stop running. New York City must be great, she decides, watching JLo waltz along a Central Park trail in midsummer. If she wins the competition, she’ll make sure they book her into a New York recital hall, one of those fancy places with chandeliers. People will flock to hear a kid from a Canadian island. Well, they might. Her teacher, Trig, will fly down for the event even if she has to pay his fare. She’ll keep her head shaved and won’t slink onstage in some diva gown. She’ll stay authentic to herself.
When the bathroom door creaks open, Trace waits for the Maestro to stride out naked. She tells herself she won’t blink or act surprised, but the truth is she hasn’t exactly done this before.
She snaps off the remote and the movie dies.
He’s hairy, she notes, with stocky legs that he’s crouching to towel dry.
“Now we go to bed,” he says, very matter-of-fact, then reaches over to switch off the light. As he does this, she sneaks a look. Somehow she thought it would all be more pink.
The mattress heaves as Manuel rolls in beside her. “Take this off.” He tugs at her shirt sleeve.
Maybe she was supposed to have done it already, while he was in the shower, and she obeys, turning away. Suddenly, she’s not feeling so great. Perhaps she shouldn’t be here. Not too late to escape. Street light begins to seep through the curtains, and she feels him watching. Off with the shirt. She unhitches her bra, which is a little grotty on day four, then pulls at the hemp pants, lifting her bum so she can slither out without rising from the bed. Underpants, she decides, can stay on for now.
God, it’s actually happening, the mighty deed.
“You headed for breakfast?” It’s Larry the Texan making for the cafeteria, sticking his hands deep in the front pockets of his jeans.
“Not yet,” Trace says. She hardly knows where she is, what day, what month, what year. Her face must be flaming, and her feet coast over the pavement, light as feathers.
Larry squints, trying to stare her down to where he can see her plain. It’s the lobby of the dorm building. She found her way here after sharing a cab with Manuel, after saying goodbye at the iron gates. Her teeth are crud, tongue coated with last night’s meal. Tex has no idea. But he cocks his head and asks with obvious curiosity, “You just coming home?”
Let them think what they think.
Manuel’s chubby leg dropped over hers, a dead weight, and for a minute she thought he’d nodded off. But soon he lifted his head and peered into her face; he smelled of soap and toothpaste.
“I