Keys of Babylon by Robert Minhinnick Read Free Book Online Page A

likes, ‘The Breeze and I’ played on a Wurlitzer organ.
    Her mother had sung it to the family, using the Spanish words. All about far-away Spain. About Andalucia, mythical kingdom.
    Maria had once sung it for Frank who had smiled and danced her round the room. Before even Frank’s era of course. He told her he remembered Caterina Valente and the new English lyrics on every radio station in the country. But Frank was no dreamer. He played driving music. Little Feat and the Allman Brothers were his choice, the house in the trees awash with that tuneless guitar squall. Frank catalogued the songs on the tape cards, his writing too big for the spaces. Strange that. She’d never thought him a man who made lists. But it passed the time, she assumed. She recalled the old Impala pulling up in the slush, ‘Dixie Chicken’ playing until the engine died. Frank always liked the rock stars who died young. That Lowell George. Poor Greg Allman, coming off his motorcycle. He spoke about them as if they were role models, though he was an older man, a grey-haired caretaker dressed like an outlaw. Tongue between his teeth, making his lists.
    He doesn’t urinate enough, does he? said the bald man.
    Urinate, she thought. Why not say micturate ? Why not pull your own father’s jogging bottoms up just one time. And weep for his yellow loins.
    Larry was eighty-five. He complained about his pants. About them rucking and twisting. Or coming down. About something he called sting ring . About not being able to take a crap. Yes, pissing and shitting. That’s what it came to in the end. In the ending-up type of end. The real end. Which was no type of end she could imagine for herself. Because ending up cost money.
    Maria smiles. Mr Chernowski, your father has good bladder and bowel control. But he doesn’t drink because he feels the bottle is an indignity. He tries to avoid it. But a bottle’s better than a catheter.
    She turns to the television.
    Where’s that? she asks.
    Oh, little treat for Dad, says the son. Our premiere. Folks in the office clubbed up for my retirement present. Bought Mrs Chernowski and me a weekend in Rocky Point. We took some film so dad could see where we were.
    Rocky Point?
    In Mex. Sorry, Mexico way. About an eight-hour drive from here. We stopped in Gila Bend for lunch and were there by early evening. Went through a place called Why . Stopped the car and took pictures by the sign. Why not? ha ha. But there was nothing there. Then we crossed at Sonoita. Bad roads at the other end. Dogs with no hair. But what can you expect.
    Maria watches the film. Mr and Mrs Chernowski are on a promenade. The Sea of Cortez is violet behind them. There are palm trees, pelicans perched on bushels of kelp, an old man with a machete cutting mangoes into flower shapes. Mrs Chernowski is holding her mango flower to her face, and now Mr Chernowski is choosing an oystershell at a fish stall and the stall holder smiling and opening the shell with a stiletto and squirting sauce over the oyster and Mr Chernowski saying no, no, don’t make it hot, I get heartburn. Phew, I can’t eat that.
    There are fishing boats in a harbour. A low stone posada with the couple outside, a panorama of the town from some high place.
    We put the organ music on because it’s my father’s favourite, explains Chernowski. Polka too, he likes a good polka. Hey, look, this is the next morning.
    The Chernowskis are at breakfast in a bar called Mickey’s. A beaming man has brought plates of eggs and bacon and glasses of orange juice, plus two small bottles, to the table. The camera homes in on these. They say ‘Mickey’s Tequila’.
    Yes, that’s Mickey, says Chernowski. He served us himself. Speciality of the house, Mickey said. Free tequila with your breakfast. Mrs Chernowski looked at me, she said Jacob, you even sniff that stuff you’ll be inebriated. And I bet she would have been right. Oh yes.