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

The people on the next table asked if we were going to drink it. No way, we said. So we passed it over. Phew, it just vanished. And at that time in the morning. Takes all sorts but you need to keep your wits about you down there. Yip, there’s Mickey. What a ham. You just wouldn’t believe how cheap it was. Look at those sunny sides now.
    You’re retiring? she asks.
    Well, that’s the idea. I’ll be a retiree. Funny word. Moving up to Anthem, out of the city. I could keep going of course. In accounts, experience pays. Everybody tells me that. But they’re always changing the software. Like, why? And Mrs Chernowski says she wants me home. Says it’s a long day on her own, though she has her magazines.
    Anthem’s nice they say.
    Well, yes. The great outdoors. And the golf’s going to be good I suppose. I’ve actually played the Ironwood. Well, first nine. Six. Company’s paying the membership for three years, which is a fantastic deal. But you know sometimes I just stroll around and can’t believe it’s so green. Everywhere else burned off, but the course like the Garden of Eden. And those red birds flying about.
    Would you take Larry, I mean your father there? He might enjoy an outing.
    Chernowski smiles. In theory, fine. I’d love to. But even in his new wheelchair, even with those straps, he slips down, and with my hernia, you know, it’s hard to make him comfortable. I get this shooting pain. And there’s the bottle business. What if he needs to go?
    The son looks old. His glasses are pebble-lensed. Maria thinks he’s Jewish, but maybe he’s too tall. Are there tall Jews? Even here in the room, the room smelling of his father’s piss and pine-scented disinfectant, he’s stooping. She notices the waste bin is overflowing with tissues, and opens the second window.
    Okay, says Chernowski. And sits down. I’ll come clean. Truth is, golf’s not really my bag, as they used to say. It’s tougher than it looks. And it takes so long, phew, out in that sun. Then there’s a drink at the clubhouse. Those nibbles they lay on, they’re to die for. But then I’d never want lunch, would I? And all the time there’s Mrs Chernowski fretting at home, thinking I’m in an accident. I got blindsided once on Buckeye and she’s never forgotten it.
    He crosses his long legs.
    Tell the truth, she didn’t really like Rocky Point. You know, there were beggars there. Grown men and women, out and out begging. We both wore money belts and stayed on the main drag. Hotel had a safe, no messing. But you even wonder about that these days.
    You didn’t enjoy Mexico?
    Well I did, says Chernowski. I certainly did. We saw a good show there, the Saturday night. You know, those mariachi guys, in those suits they wear, all gold embroidery. Big sombreros too. Called themselves Los Burros. And a girl, just a kid really, dancing on a table, lifting her skirt right up over her head.
    Sounds great.
    Oh yeah. We bought their CD. Brought it in for d ad to hear. But, you know, what was disappointing was this woman we met. Outside the hotel. She was selling rugs, these Mexican rugs, traditional design and all that. And you know what she said?
    Yes, I do, smiled Maria.
    You know? How can you know? What did she say?
    Maria steadied herself. She was being forward. This was unlike how she behaved. In a way she had transgressed. All those years ago she had vowed to agree with everything she heard. Never to stand out. That was the rule. Wasn’t that how she had survived?
    She says that the rugs aren’t made by Mexicans. That they come from China. And that the Chinese make them cheaper than the local women.
    Wow, breathes Chernowski. Hole in one. And the thing was, they looked… authentic, those rugs. Like they were just off some country loom. You know, like tortillas in the ash. Like home weaving. All that Mexican schtick.
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    The next day at 4