“Que quién es usted para decir que nos vayamos.”
“Han oido, Julio, muchachos, me pregunta el gachupín que quién soy yo para ponerlos en la calle,” Montalbán answered without looking at me. I thought (if there was time for such a thought) that it was odd that he said I was the one asking who he was: it was Presley who was asking and I was only translating, it was a warning I didn’t pay attention to, or that I picked up on too late, when you relive what happened, or reconstruct it. “Soy aquí el propietario. Aquí soy el dueño, por muy famoso que sea su patron,” he repeated with a slight tremor of one of his mobile biceps. If he was the owner, as he claimed, he was very unfriendly, my boss didn’t impress him, they hadn’t come over to say hello when we came in and now they were throwing us out. “Y les digo que se larguen y se lleven a la bailona. La quiero ya fuera de mi vista, no espero.”
“What did he say?” It was Presley’s turn.
I was getting tired of the double onslaught of this crossfire. I looked at McGraw, la bailona, as Romero had called him, he was breathing more easily now but was still terrified — the tiny psychotic eyes were glazed — he was pulling at Hank’s jacket to get us to leave, Hank was still making gestures with his head tilted towards Presley, Sherry was already heading for the door, McGraw leaning on her, maybe taking advantage, he was one of those guys who never learns. Fat Julio was in his seat, he had recovered his composure after his exertions, his whiteness had returned like a mask, he was following the conversational match with his hands crossed (rings glinting), like one who has not abandoned the idea of re-entering the fray.
Before answering Presley I thought it was a good idea for me to say something to Ricardo: “El no es quien usted cree. Es su doble, sabe, su sosias, para hacer las escenas de peligro en el cine, estamos rodando una película allí en Acapulco. Se llama Mike.”
“El parecido es tan logrado,” Julio interrupted sarcastically, “que le habrán hecho la cirugía estética a Mike, como a las presumidas.” He wiped the by now utterly revolting handkerchief across his forehead.
“What did they say?” Presley insisted. “What did they say?”
I turned toward him.
“They’re the owners. We’d better go.”
“And what else? What were you saying about Mike? Who’s Mike?”
“Mike is you, I told them that was your name, that you’re your double, not yourself, but I don’t think they believe me.”
“And what did they say about George? You said they insulted him. Tell me what those guys said about George, they can’t get away with just saying whatever they want.”
This last comment was a genuine piece of North American naiveté. And that was where my share of the blame came in, though Presley and I were to blame only in the second place; the guilty party was primarily McGraw, and maybe I was only to blame in the third place. How could I explain to Mr. Presley, at that moment, that the tough guys were using nouns in the feminine gender to refer to McGraw, la nena vieja, pesada, bailona, English nouns have no gender and I wasn’t about to give him a Spanish lesson right there on that dance floor. I glanced over at la nena vieja, la bailona — I’m the same age now that he was then — he was smiling weakly, walking away, the coward, he was starting to feel as if he were out of danger, he was tugging at Hank, Hank was tugging a little at Presley (“Let’s go, Elvis, it doesn’t matter”), no one was tugging at me. I gestured my head towards César Gilbert.
“O.K. He called Mr. McGraw a fat faggot,” I said. I couldn’t avoid putting it like that, and I couldn’t help saying it, I wanted the owner of the Herald to hear it and not be able to make any display of despotism or punish anyone or do anything except swallow the insult. And I wanted the others to hear it, pure childishness.
But I hadn’t been thinking about what a stickler Presley was and for an instant I’d forgotten the ghost. We’d all been drinking tequila. Mr. Presley raised one finger, pointed it at me dramatically and said, “You’re going to repeat this word for word, Roy, to the guy with the moustache, don’t you leave out one syllable. Tell him this: you are a goon and a pig, and the only fat faggot here is your little girlfriend there with the handkerchief.” That was what he said, with that way of twisting his mouth he sometimes had that inspired distrust in the mothers of his youngest fans. His insults were a little on the schoolboy side, nothing about sons of bitches or motherfuckers, words that had more weight in the sixties. He paused for a second, and then, with his finger still pointing, added, “Say that to him.”
And I did say that to Ricardo César, I said it in Spanish (stammering a little): “Usted es un matón y un cerdo, y la única maricona gorda es su amiguita del pañuelo.” As soon as I said “maricona gorda,” translating my own words, “fat faggot,” into Spanish, I realized it was the first time those exact words had been spoken there, really, though they weren’t much more offensive than “bailona” or “nena vieja.”
Presley went on: “Tell him this, too: We’re leaving now because we want to and because this place stinks, and I hope someone sets fire to it soon, with all of you inside. Say that, Roy.”
And I repeated in Spanish (but in a less wounding tone and a softer voice): “Ahora nos vamos porque queremos y porque este lugar apesta, y espero que se lo quemen pronto con todos ustedes dentro.”
I saw how Gilbert Ricardo’s biceps were quivering like jelly and a corner of his moustache twitched, I saw fat Julio open his mouth like a fish in feigned horror and run his fingers across his rings as if they were weapons, I saw that one of the two thugs at the table openly pulled back the front of his jacket to exhibit the butt of a pistol in its holster, like an old print of one of Pancho Villa’s men. But Ricardo Romero stretched out his hand to the horizon again, as if he were indicating “five,” which was not at all comforting because there were five of us. Then, with the same hand, he briefly signaled to me with the index finger pointing upward, as if he were holding a pistol and his thumb were the raised safety. Sherry was at the door by then, along with McGraw whose hand was clutching his damaged loin, Hank was pulling at Presley with one hand and kept the other in his pocket, as if he were gripping something. I already said that no one was pulling at me.
Presley turned around when he saw I had translated everything, and in two shakes he was there with the others at the door, and the meaning of the way Hank had his hand in his jacket was unmistakable, to the Mexicans, too. I followed them, the door was already open — I was the straggler, all of them were walking outside, quickening their step, they were already out — I was about to go after them, but the rubber man shoved in between Presley and me, his back in front of my face, he was taller and blocked the others from sight for a second, then the rubber man went out with them, and the bouncer who’d been standing at the door keeping an eye on the street came in and closed it before I could get through. He stood in my way and kept me from passing.
“Tú, gachupín, te quedas.”
I had never believed it was really true that we Spaniards are known as gachupines in Mexico, just as I never believed the other thing they told us when we were kids, that if you were ever in Mexico and ordered “una copita de ojén”—an anisette — to the rhythm of seven thumps on the bar of a cantina — or even if you thumped rhythmically seven times and didn’t say a thing — they’d open fire on you without further ado because it was an insult. It didn’t occur to me to try and verify this just then, I didn’t much feel like having an anisette, or anything else.