her if she’d like to have an ice cream later. She’d said she would, and moved in with Danny Pastor two weeks later, heaven for a village girl. His apartment was small, but it had running water and a bathroom and a bed and closet. All of that plus a refrigerator and a stove.
Danny had known about making true love, more than Luz knew, but that didn’t lay claim to much. Still, he’d been married and had read books on it. He told Luz he wanted to please her in bed, to bring her happiness, and taught her how to use her hands and mouth on him. The first time he put his tongue on her she tore the bed apart with pleasure and learned to scream into a pillow so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. If truth usually lies somewhere in the middle of all continuums, it seemed in this case the magazines and television knew more than Esmeralda Santos and the other villagers about men and women and the things they do with one another. Besides, Mexican men preferred that their wives remain ignorant of the erotic arts, afraid, as they said, “she might get to like it too much.” Those were good things for mistresses or other bad women to know, but not wives, who might then seek out even more distant frontiers.
Danny had bought her three cassette tapes by María Conchita Alonso, whose love songs were popular with the younger women. He also had bought her two tapes by Pedro Infante to play on his battered tape player, since she still liked the old música ranchera she’d heard as a girl in Ceylaya. And also two tapes of salsa music by a guitar player called Ottmar Liebert, looking on the album cover as very close to a young Marlon Brando and playing rhumbas with just a touch of Maríachi woven into them. When Ottmar Liebert played “La Rosa Negra,” that one especially, was when Luz would dance a lickerish, naked rhumba for Danny. Danny, grinning and lying back on the bed and spilling tequila on the sheets and shouting, “God, let it all run forever!”
In the evenings, if Danny had money, they would go uptown and listen to Willie and Lobo in Mamma Mia. María de la Luz Santos had been born for this sweet life, and she wanted even more of it. Though it could get a little over the edge if you weren’t careful. Such as the night Danny had been hanging all over a blond woman from San Diego. Just to show him, Luz went off to someone’s yacht, where three men practically drowned her in tequila. She didn’t remember much about it, except she was very sore in her lower parts for days. She never did that again.
The abortion had been a hard, hard thing for her, though it was common enough in Mexico among women of all classes, even those who considered themselves good Catholics. There was, first of all, the idea of family, drilled far and deep into a young girl’s soul by a mother who could not see beyond that. And the village priest had railed against abortion—murder, he said it was. Above all, however, was the sense she wanted the child, wanted motherhood, and wanted Danny for a husband, even though he was nearly twenty years older than she.
But, after her wild night on a harbor yacht, Danny wouldn’t hear of it, wouldn’t think about having a child in any case, and she was afraid of losing what she had with him. So Luz had submitted to the abortion on a hot July day. She’d tried to forget it and after a while did forget it most of the time, yet the thought of it sometimes would come back to her, dwelling within her like a tack in the soul. Even after a year or two, she would cry when she remembered that summer morning. Afterward that same day, Danny had bought her a new Panasonic tape player. He’d also made sure she had plenty of birth control pills and made just as sure she took them.
Slowly she’d repressed thoughts of the abortion and got back to the way things were meant to be. When Danny’s checks had arrived, they’d driven to Bucerias and eaten lobster and afterward driven out to Punta de Mita and swum naked in moonlit
Danny had known about making true love, more than Luz knew, but that didn’t lay claim to much. Still, he’d been married and had read books on it. He told Luz he wanted to please her in bed, to bring her happiness, and taught her how to use her hands and mouth on him. The first time he put his tongue on her she tore the bed apart with pleasure and learned to scream into a pillow so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. If truth usually lies somewhere in the middle of all continuums, it seemed in this case the magazines and television knew more than Esmeralda Santos and the other villagers about men and women and the things they do with one another. Besides, Mexican men preferred that their wives remain ignorant of the erotic arts, afraid, as they said, “she might get to like it too much.” Those were good things for mistresses or other bad women to know, but not wives, who might then seek out even more distant frontiers.
Danny had bought her three cassette tapes by María Conchita Alonso, whose love songs were popular with the younger women. He also had bought her two tapes by Pedro Infante to play on his battered tape player, since she still liked the old música ranchera she’d heard as a girl in Ceylaya. And also two tapes of salsa music by a guitar player called Ottmar Liebert, looking on the album cover as very close to a young Marlon Brando and playing rhumbas with just a touch of Maríachi woven into them. When Ottmar Liebert played “La Rosa Negra,” that one especially, was when Luz would dance a lickerish, naked rhumba for Danny. Danny, grinning and lying back on the bed and spilling tequila on the sheets and shouting, “God, let it all run forever!”
In the evenings, if Danny had money, they would go uptown and listen to Willie and Lobo in Mamma Mia. María de la Luz Santos had been born for this sweet life, and she wanted even more of it. Though it could get a little over the edge if you weren’t careful. Such as the night Danny had been hanging all over a blond woman from San Diego. Just to show him, Luz went off to someone’s yacht, where three men practically drowned her in tequila. She didn’t remember much about it, except she was very sore in her lower parts for days. She never did that again.
The abortion had been a hard, hard thing for her, though it was common enough in Mexico among women of all classes, even those who considered themselves good Catholics. There was, first of all, the idea of family, drilled far and deep into a young girl’s soul by a mother who could not see beyond that. And the village priest had railed against abortion—murder, he said it was. Above all, however, was the sense she wanted the child, wanted motherhood, and wanted Danny for a husband, even though he was nearly twenty years older than she.
But, after her wild night on a harbor yacht, Danny wouldn’t hear of it, wouldn’t think about having a child in any case, and she was afraid of losing what she had with him. So Luz had submitted to the abortion on a hot July day. She’d tried to forget it and after a while did forget it most of the time, yet the thought of it sometimes would come back to her, dwelling within her like a tack in the soul. Even after a year or two, she would cry when she remembered that summer morning. Afterward that same day, Danny had bought her a new Panasonic tape player. He’d also made sure she had plenty of birth control pills and made just as sure she took them.
Slowly she’d repressed thoughts of the abortion and got back to the way things were meant to be. When Danny’s checks had arrived, they’d driven to Bucerias and eaten lobster and afterward driven out to Punta de Mita and swum naked in moonlit
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