"Appreciating Literature"
“‘Cortes Island’!” Cindy reads the title aloud, thrills at the name, imagining hard- muscled conquistadors, their polished armor glinting in the primitive Mexican sun, brilliant parrot plumes, viridian and aureate, azure and magenta, fastened into the studded trappings of their cantering mounts, snorting horses whose hooves strike sparks from the crackling stones as they carry those haughty warriors across the New World into the pagan splendor of the Aztecs drenched in gold and the blood of virgins from the altar stone.
It's even better in American, she reflects: CorteZ! Slashing his way through California's golden valleys full-filled now with pregnant ruby grapes weighing down the trussed and twisted vines, Zorro, too, masters a raging horse bedecked in ebony and silvered gear. The heavy, heady aroma of hand-tooled leather mixing with the sharp scent of the lathered stallion proclaims the irresistible male rousing the sun-soaked land laced over with the genteel fragrance of orange and azalea blossoms but still, unmistakably, the fertile female. And Zorro descended from the conquistadors, physically separated by generations but spiritually their immediate heir, the proud Castilian smile, the elegant courtier's mustache, the entrancing midnight eyes, ennobled now to see not just the glint of treasure but the riches of the heart. Oh, it all fits together perfectly!
Cindy leans back, exhales. It’s so exciting, overwhelming really, how a sibilant word ere, a pungent phrase there can explode the suffocating prison of her mousy life and catapult her into an iridescent world pulsing with arterial blood. She hopes she’ll have raunchy dreams tonight, like the girl in the story, and wake bathed in funky sweat, remembering the bestial couplings on the jungle carpet of her dreams, knowing she should be ashamed but luxuriating in the smell and texture and weight of her body, the chattering little gnaw of conscience actually intensifying the musky, shuddering spasms of the animal into the defiant delight of the forbidden.
“Enough of this!” she lectures herself, sitting up, closing her book. “It's all well and good to daydream through a story book, but what’s needed, Cindy Mathews, is to get up, go forth, and bbring some real excitement—adventure, romance, mystery—whatever—into your life. You go right down to Mr. Soto's room, and you see him, smell him, sense him, every nerve soaking up every scintilla of what he is and whatever he was. Just like the girl in the story!”
Cindy strides down the bright, cluttered hall of the Vancouver Sun Nursing Home. Like a relic he was, an old warrior from barbarous times, she reminds herself.
The door to Mr. Soto's room stands half open. She knocks as she sticks her head in, her professional smile broad, her practiced eyes wary, ready for . . . whatever. But he isn't there. Then, amidst snarling and scraping, Mr. Soto emerges clumsily from the bathroom, leaning on his walker, dragging his useless leg, his fly unzipped, his belt barely buckled, his pants about to be pulled down by his awkward motion.
His half-wrecked hulk of a body endangering the furniture and battering the walls, he makes his momentous progress from his privy closet.
Mr. Soto sees her and growls, "Arrgawargawa!"
She understands and goes over to help him, pulling up his pants, cinching his belt, zipping his fly.
He tries to turn so her hand will land on his penis—his usual trick—but she avoids that--her standard response. He shoots her an angry look, hawks up and spits back toward the sink. Then he struggles across his room and grunting with difficulty hefts his bulk onto the bed. He turns over, showing her his back and crack.
A slight but permanent smell of urine: an expression of ancient privilege. His private chamber, even after he has left, is the lair of some mangy, still powerful beast.
Cindy turns eagerly into the bathroom. Mr. Soto had missed the toilet again. An oily yellow puddle of warm urine slowly slithers across the tile and permeates the air with the stench of failing kidneys. He had missed the sink, too. The saffron mucus of his phlegmy sputum oozes down the mirror where her face should be. Crusting remains of earlier visits, brown-smeared wads of toilet paper populate the bath, adding their unique color and perfume to the swampy mix.
“Damn that Martha! She should've cleaned those up,” Cindy grumbles. Watching where she puts her feet, she carefully picks up the wads and drops them in the bowl, then holds the handle down. She doesn't want to clog the toilet. That would really make her day! She looks through the doorway at Mr. Soto, who has turned again and is now staring at her.
He was on a grand scale. The palsied side of his mouth pulled open, showing, between ruby lips that in youth were the vivid sign of lust but are now the mark of fever, his original, wicked teeth with their dark fillings glowering through the damp enamel.
“No, that's just his way of smirking,” Cindy sighs.
While Cindy mops the floor, cleans the mirror and scours the toilet, Mr. Soto paws through the bed covers, manages to find the remote and gets his TV on.
“As the World Turns”—her silver lining. She knows it’s just cheap, boob-tube prattle, but she can’t help escaping into the melodrama as she cleans.
Mr. Soto slobbers, "Shruugaspligglestru" as she starts to leave.
"Same to you," she says, refusing to stop and wipe the spittle off his face.
Cindy resumes her place at the nurse's station and takes up her Munro reader. “Jakarta”! Another exotic title! She plunges in.
It's even better in American, she reflects: CorteZ! Slashing his way through California's golden valleys full-filled now with pregnant ruby grapes weighing down the trussed and twisted vines, Zorro, too, masters a raging horse bedecked in ebony and silvered gear. The heavy, heady aroma of hand-tooled leather mixing with the sharp scent of the lathered stallion proclaims the irresistible male rousing the sun-soaked land laced over with the genteel fragrance of orange and azalea blossoms but still, unmistakably, the fertile female. And Zorro descended from the conquistadors, physically separated by generations but spiritually their immediate heir, the proud Castilian smile, the elegant courtier's mustache, the entrancing midnight eyes, ennobled now to see not just the glint of treasure but the riches of the heart. Oh, it all fits together perfectly!
Cindy leans back, exhales. It’s so exciting, overwhelming really, how a sibilant word ere, a pungent phrase there can explode the suffocating prison of her mousy life and catapult her into an iridescent world pulsing with arterial blood. She hopes she’ll have raunchy dreams tonight, like the girl in the story, and wake bathed in funky sweat, remembering the bestial couplings on the jungle carpet of her dreams, knowing she should be ashamed but luxuriating in the smell and texture and weight of her body, the chattering little gnaw of conscience actually intensifying the musky, shuddering spasms of the animal into the defiant delight of the forbidden.
“Enough of this!” she lectures herself, sitting up, closing her book. “It's all well and good to daydream through a story book, but what’s needed, Cindy Mathews, is to get up, go forth, and bbring some real excitement—adventure, romance, mystery—whatever—into your life. You go right down to Mr. Soto's room, and you see him, smell him, sense him, every nerve soaking up every scintilla of what he is and whatever he was. Just like the girl in the story!”
Cindy strides down the bright, cluttered hall of the Vancouver Sun Nursing Home. Like a relic he was, an old warrior from barbarous times, she reminds herself.
The door to Mr. Soto's room stands half open. She knocks as she sticks her head in, her professional smile broad, her practiced eyes wary, ready for . . . whatever. But he isn't there. Then, amidst snarling and scraping, Mr. Soto emerges clumsily from the bathroom, leaning on his walker, dragging his useless leg, his fly unzipped, his belt barely buckled, his pants about to be pulled down by his awkward motion.
His half-wrecked hulk of a body endangering the furniture and battering the walls, he makes his momentous progress from his privy closet.
Mr. Soto sees her and growls, "Arrgawargawa!"
She understands and goes over to help him, pulling up his pants, cinching his belt, zipping his fly.
He tries to turn so her hand will land on his penis—his usual trick—but she avoids that--her standard response. He shoots her an angry look, hawks up and spits back toward the sink. Then he struggles across his room and grunting with difficulty hefts his bulk onto the bed. He turns over, showing her his back and crack.
A slight but permanent smell of urine: an expression of ancient privilege. His private chamber, even after he has left, is the lair of some mangy, still powerful beast.
Cindy turns eagerly into the bathroom. Mr. Soto had missed the toilet again. An oily yellow puddle of warm urine slowly slithers across the tile and permeates the air with the stench of failing kidneys. He had missed the sink, too. The saffron mucus of his phlegmy sputum oozes down the mirror where her face should be. Crusting remains of earlier visits, brown-smeared wads of toilet paper populate the bath, adding their unique color and perfume to the swampy mix.
“Damn that Martha! She should've cleaned those up,” Cindy grumbles. Watching where she puts her feet, she carefully picks up the wads and drops them in the bowl, then holds the handle down. She doesn't want to clog the toilet. That would really make her day! She looks through the doorway at Mr. Soto, who has turned again and is now staring at her.
He was on a grand scale. The palsied side of his mouth pulled open, showing, between ruby lips that in youth were the vivid sign of lust but are now the mark of fever, his original, wicked teeth with their dark fillings glowering through the damp enamel.
“No, that's just his way of smirking,” Cindy sighs.
While Cindy mops the floor, cleans the mirror and scours the toilet, Mr. Soto paws through the bed covers, manages to find the remote and gets his TV on.
“As the World Turns”—her silver lining. She knows it’s just cheap, boob-tube prattle, but she can’t help escaping into the melodrama as she cleans.
Mr. Soto slobbers, "Shruugaspligglestru" as she starts to leave.
"Same to you," she says, refusing to stop and wipe the spittle off his face.
Cindy resumes her place at the nurse's station and takes up her Munro reader. “Jakarta”! Another exotic title! She plunges in.