Crazy Good Fortune Out of the Blue - 36*
Perhaps you recall that the Keltons’ home sat next door to the safe house for Eden Pastora, Commander Zero, the leader of the Contras. This was the group waging war against the Sandinistas in Nicaragua. And this is the loaded gun that was introduced in the beginning of this story. Unlike fiction, however, real life does not always follow the rules. This loaded gun never did go off. We spent eighteen months living next door to Comandante Cero and the only thing that ever happened was that we would occasionally observe the commander rocketing down his driveway and out into the road in a black jeep with the windows tinted so dark you couldn’t see inside. That was it. Oh—and one other little encounter.
I had walked into town one afternoon to meet with my tutor Otto. The jeep was not available because the night before, Barbie had plowed it into a ditch. She had been driving Paul and herself to the Keltons’ and for some reason that we have never fathomed, she decided to comb her hair in the rearview mirror while making the turn into the driveway. It was late at night, and Richard and I were sound asleep when the shrieking, metallic bang that the jeep made crashing into the ditch woke us up. This was followed by a moment of silence, then a shrill, prolonged “Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!” which we assume came from Barbie. Then more silence. Richard got up and dressed, headed out to the road and found Ruby lying in the ditch, Barbie and Paul standing rattled and disheveled beside it. But there was nothing to do until morning, when Luís had it towed and taken in for repairs. So, I had no transportation. So, I decided to walk the six miles into town.
I didn’t mind the walk, actually. In fact, I enjoyed it, even though Lijia and Ana thought I was a bit off my rocker. And I had a nice tutoring session with Otto, even though it was sad, too, because I wasn’t sure when or if I would be seeing him again. I was going to miss him, sweet, good friend that he had become. At any rate, when I returned and approached the entrance to the Keltons’ driveway, which lay a mere ten feet from the entrance to the Contras’ driveway, I did my best not to make eye contact with the man guarding Pastora’s gate with a semi-automatic weapon. Even though nothing had happened with respect to the Contras over the last year-and-a-half, guns make me exceedingly nervous. You never know when something might happen, even if just accidentally.
I thought I was managing to slip past without being noticed when the man spoke to me. I froze. I was so freaked out I had no idea what he said to me, so I blurted, “Como?” —Say what? He repeated his statement, smiling. This unnerved me even more, I guess because a smiling man holding a semi-automatic weapon struck me as extraordinarily diabolical. I started shaking. I felt so spooked, I still couldn’t understand him, so, more faintly this time, I asked, “Como?” He shifted, hoisting his gun from one shoulder to the other, and leaned forward. He repeated, very slowly and distinctly, enunciating each syllable: “Bi-en vi-a-je?”
He wanted to know if I’d had a good trip into town.
I sagged in relief and replied, “Oh, sí!” then scurried down the driveway as fast as I could.
So. That was my encounter with the Contras. Others, I know, were not nearly so fortunate.
Within the Kelton household, there were a lot of long faces as the staff contemplated not only our departure but the fact that Don Horatio and Doña Jane were going to be scarce as well. Everyone’s absence would make their lives a lot more humdrum. And I think they feared for their jobs, too. With everyone gone, were the Keltons going to need such a large retinue of servants? Jane and Horace took care to reassure them that they weren’t going to be letting anyone go, but it was hard for the Ticos to believe that and it was stressful for them.
Near the end, an exchange of presents took place, beginning when I gave Lijia and Luís one of my found object sculptures as a farewell gift. I knew they thought my art was peculiar, but at the same time, I figured it would certainly remind them of me. When I presented it to them in their quarters one afternoon, I didn’t expect to get all choked up, but when I saw how gravely they accepted it and how honored they felt by my memento, I felt awfully teary. Luís handled it with reverence and care, as if I had just handed him a Fabergé egg, tilting it this way and that to look at it, and they all thanked me profusely.
It was basically a rusted old broken oscillator dressed up with shells and yarn. But it was very cool-looking, I must say. I’ve always wondered what happened to it after I left. Does it occupy a place of honor? Did it go directly into the trash bin? Or is it in a closet somewhere gathering guilty dust?
Then the Ticos wanted to get together and give us a present, so they all chipped in and bought us a pen holder, a very fancy pen holder. The sleeve for the pen was fastened to a piece of sanded, shellacked wood, and next to the pen rested a miniature ox harnessed to a gaily painted cart full of teeny little sticks. On the base as well, in black, cursive letters, it said, “Costa Rica.” Costa Rica, home of the ox cart.
This moved us a great deal, as you might imagine. They, like we, had terrific perks but not a lot of spendable income and this represented a truly handsome gift. They invited us over for cake one evening, too, a white, meringuey, frothy, foofy confection, so sweet my teeth nearly fell out upon making contact with the first bite, just from the shock. And then one morning, Luís drew me aside to present me with a little Japanese fan, the kind that closes up into a slim, black metal stick and opens into a circle that you can flutter in front of your face. These sweet, heartfelt gifts made our hearts ache even more. Ah, Costa Rica. Pura vida.
Near the end of our stay, Luís, Richard, and I had undertaken an errand in Jane’s Mercedes one afternoon and we were returning home. We had traveled to the town on the other side of Santa Ana, which was the town in which our language school had resided, so on our return, we drove through the center of Santa Ana on the highway, a two-lane semi-asphalted road. It was probably completely asphalted at one time, but over the years, the road surface had crumbled away and no money existed to replace it. Nevertheless, we were clipping along. Luís and Richard were chatting together up in the front seats while I occupied my preferred seat in the back where I could gaze out the window and space out like my dad.
They had gotten into a conversation—about what, I don’t know since I wasn’t listening—but it was a topic that Luís clearly felt passionate about. He talked loudly, gestured emphatically and turned his attention away from the road now and then so that he could make eye contact with Richard when making a particularly significant point. I was soaking in the sights of the town, such as a moped zipping by with two guys squeezed onto it, one of them carrying an armchair turned upside down over his head, and a man riding a strikingly beautiful black horse outfitted in a silver-studded bridle and saddle. Old men sat together on ancient wooden benches placed along the outside of commercial establishments, watching the traffic go by, while macho young men riding those BMX type bicycles with the teeny little wheels and no gears pedaled furiously by. I admired the waxy, tropical flowers that spilled over garden walls, savored the sight of ripe mangoes the color of dawn hanging from tree limbs, and feasted my eyes on the plump, cottony clouds that drifted lazily across the azure-colored sky.
There is a difference, however, between the way that I space out and the way my father spaced out. I always keep my psychic alarm engaged so that if danger threatens, I’ll be warned, whether I’m paying attention or not. So when a ratty old battered Rambler coasted up to the stop sign on a side street down the road, it immediately attracted my attention. Somehow I had a feeling that it wasn’t going to stop for the sign, and in fact, that is what happened. The station wagon barely slowed, nosing out into the highway that we were barreling down.
I glanced up front to see if either Richard or Luís had noticed this new development, but they were in heated conversation.
“Luís!” I shouted, which in retrospect, was probably the wrong thing to do. He swung his head around to look at me. “¿Sí?” he inquired.
I pointed hastily down the road and exclaimed, “¡Ese carro, Luís! ¡Mira! ¡Mira!”
He turned back around and directed his attention to the road where the Rambler had reached the center of the intersection, spotted us, and rather than continuing on and getting the hell out of the way, came to a pokey halt while the driver gaped out his window at us. Luís slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. Gravel and dirt shooting from our screeching wheels, we smashed right into this guy. I mean, right smack dab into his front fender. To my great surprise, the entire front of the Mercedes crumpled up like an accordion. When we all scrambled out of the car, we were further amazed to see that practically nothing had happened to the Rambler. The fender was bent a little, but that was all.
The guy who got out of his car wore a glum, woeful expression. He was rubbing his neck and lower back, eying the Mercedes and sizing us up. Luís stepped forward to discuss this accident with the man, while Richard and I hung around the outside of the car, feeling self-conscious about the fact that all the old men who were sitting in those benches I mentioned earlier were scrutinizing us. We were Yankees, out-of-towners, and ricos while this other guy was a local and apparently not very well-off if the appearance of his car was any indication; so even though he was at fault and we were the ones who had sustained the majority of damage, it was clear from the vibes coming our way that all the sympathy lay with the sad-eyed, hang-dog, stop sign runner.
After a while, the police showed up, all local Santanans, of course, which was making Luís, a Cartago boy, very nervous. As we waited in the hot sun, one of the employees from the language school came by on her bike. Her name was Gata (Cat), and she worked in the kitchen. She was a tough little hot shit and we were glad to see her.
“Gata!” we called, as she coasted to a stop beside us to survey the wreck. She greeted us in turn and then asked us what had happened. We were feeling put out since this guy had been such a traffic turkey—it would have been perfectly fine to run the stop sign if he hadn’t come to an obstinate, lobotomized stop in the middle of the intersection—so we described the accident in those terms. She gazed at us with an impassive expression while we talked, then finally broke in and told us, “That man is my father.”
“Oh,” we said. Gata left us to amble over and greet her father, so we decided to go stand in the shade of a nearby overhang. While we were standing there, two neighbors of Jane and Horace’s, a young couple, came by as well. They spotted us, so they stopped and got out of their cars to find out what was going on. We told them, they commiserated, and then, because this is the rhythm of life in Costa Rica, they decided to hang out with us for a little while. We were happy for the moral support and company, so we visited while the police made their inspections and scribbled down their notes.
Then a jeep full of profesoras from the language school came along. As this was the center of town, it was where the teachers got dropped off so that they could walk home from here or catch whatever bus or ride they might have. They saw Richard and me cooling our heels on the side of the road, so they came over to say hello, too. And because they didn’t have anywhere to go right away and they knew that we were leaving the country soon, they stayed to chat with us along with our other two friends. A few more acquaintances from Escazú showed up, some who knew Luís, so they stayed to observe the goings-on, and pretty soon, we had a decent-sized crowd around this fender bender. As the crowd continued to swell—I think everyone in town decided to come and check this out—another car came to a halt on the opposite side of the road. A pretty young woman in a blue silk dress and matching heels trotted over to the crowd, clutching a handful of papers.
“Hello,” she told everyone with a lovely, bright, beaming smile as she handed them a flyer, “I am Miss Costa Rica!” She was going to be appearing at some function in a few days, and she wanted everyone to come. “Hello,” she said again and again, “I am Miss Costa Rica and I will be appearing at …” When she had given a leaflet to everyone milling about the scene of the accident, she finally turned to look at and address the cause for the gathering. “That is too bad!” she exclaimed. “Whose car?”
We said that it belonged to our employer.
She shook her head sympathetically. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I hope you’re not offended that I’m taking advantage of this opportunity. Because, you know, in Costa Rica, everything is a party all the time. We will take any opportunity for a party!”
We assured her that we knew this and that we weren’t offended. I hadn’t really ever thought about a car wreck as a party theme, but hey, if a big pot hole could serve this purpose, why not two smashed cars that weren’t going anywhere for a while? I guess this sort of constituted our farewell party, in fact.
I wish I could tell you that a miracle occurred at the eleventh hour to extend our stay … Jane and Horace would decide that they needed Luís, Lijia, Rafa, Ana and Richard and me to housesit while they lived in Texas, or some teaching job that paid more than five dollars a week would materialize … but one thing I have learned about magic is that it is odd, unpredictable, and involves some kind of cosmic sense of humor that we don’t always understand. Wishes do get granted, but usually in the most circuitous and peculiar ways, perhaps partly because we don’t realize how many wishes we make all the time, many of them conflicting. Right now, it appeared that our fate lay in the Dallas/Ft. Worth metroplex.
So, the day of our departure finally came. We had packed up our suitcases and Aunt Connie’s trunk and arisen early that morning for Luís to drive us to the airport. To our surprise, Ana and Lijia were waiting for us by the jeep as well. Every one of them had put on the finest clothes they owned. Ana and Lijia wore brightly colored polyester dresses and high heels, and they had even donned make-up and jewelry. We felt incredibly touched, even more so when they insisted upon treating us to huevos rancheros and hot chocolate at the airport restaurant. We tried to keep up a conversation, but it was difficult. We felt distracted by our impending departure.
By the time Richard and I finally exited the terminal and boarded the plane, we were blinking back tears. We were going to miss everybody so very much.
Once on board, we sat in our seats, tears streaming down our faces as the engines started up and the plane began rolling down the tarmac. I had a window seat and when our wheels lifted off the ground, I twisted around and gazed back at terminal, wondering if I might catch a glimpse of Ana, Lijia and Luís as they trudged to the parking lot. Instead, I spotted them—all dressed up in their Sunday best— clinging to the cyclone fence that lined the runway as tightly as if they feared being washed away in a flood, keeping our plane in sight until the last possible minute. I waved, waved madly, hoping that they might see me, but I don’t believe that they did. Soon, we were airborne, and I caught one final peek of them when they turned away, wiping their eyes as they disappeared from view.
Above: The view from los Kelton. Photograph courtesy of Ted James.
*Intro:
At the end of 1982, both Richard and I had been out of work for a year, despite constant looking, and the best we had been able to come up with was scrounging for odd jobs. It was an economic climate much like the one we’re in now, and we were feeling both dejected and panicked about what the future might hold for us. We certainly could never have imagined what happened next: a dream job in a dream country for a dream boss.
This is the final chapter of the memoir I wrote about the year-and-a-half that Richard and I spent living in Costa Rica. It was quite the adventure, living with a an eccentric and flamboyant heiress** from Dallas, her elegant and erudite husband who wrote Westerns, and their handsome, bad boy son, whom Richard used to babysit. Oh, yeah, and next door resided the safe house for Eden Pastora, aka “Commander Zero,” leader of the Contras who were waging a civil war with the Sandanistas in Nicaragua at that time.
This was a particularly golden era in Costa Rica’s history, before it became “discovered,” even before the introduction of television there, really (it started coming in during the time we lived there). It was wild and exotic and magical and amazing.
So once a week, I’ll be excerpting a chapter from Crazy Good Fortune Out of the Blue until I’ve told the whole tale. I hope you enjoy these stories!
**Jane, sadly, passed away not long ago, but she left a legacy as colorful as she was. In 1984, she commissioned one of the largest environmental sculptures in the Western Hemisphere, a set of standing stones in Arlington, Texas that were designed and built by sculptor Norm Hines. Caelum Moor has been a source of enormous controversy over the years. Check out my blog entry, “The Amazing Tale of Caelum Moor,” for more information.
Friday, November 13, 2009