As soon as she saw it she wanted a dress of that color and that intensity. That was not difficult to find in a Mexican sea town. All their dresses took their colors from flowers. She bought the coral tree dress. The orange cotton had almost invisible blood-red threads running through it as if the Mexicans had concocted their dyes from the coral tree flower itself.
The coral tree would kill the memory of a black gnarled tree and of two figures sheltered under its grotesque branches.
The coral tree would carry her into a world of festivities. An orange world.
In Haiti the trees were said to walk at night. Many Haitians swore they had actually seen them move, or had found them in different places in the morning. So at first she felt as if the coral tree had moved from its birthplace and was walking through the spicy streets or the zling festive beach. Her own starched, flouncing skirt made her think of the coral tree flower that never wilted on the tree, but at death fell with a sudden stab to earth.
The coral tree dress did not fray or fade in the tropical humidity. But Renate did not, as she had expected, become suffused with its colors. She had hoped to be penetrated by the orange flames and that it would dye her mood to match the joyous life of the sea town. She had thought that steeped in its fire she would be able to laugh with the orange gaiety of the natives. She had expected to absorb its liveliness intravenously. But to the self that had sought to disguise her regrets the coral tree dress remained a costume.
Every day the dress became more brilliant, drenched in sunlight and matching its dazzling hypnosis. But Renate’s inner landscape was not illumined by it. Inside her grew a gigantic, tortured black tree and two young men who had made a bed of it.
People stopped her as she passed, women to envy, children to touch, men to receive the magnetic rays. On the beach, people turned towards her as if the coral tree itself had come walking down the hill.
But inside the dress lay a black tree, the night. How people were taken in by symbolism! She felt like a fraud, drawing everyone into her circle of orange fire.
She attracted the attention of a man from Los Angeles who wore white sailor pants, a white T-shirt, and who was suntanned and smiling at her.
Is he truly happy, she wondered, or is he wearing a disguise too?
At the beach he had merely smiled. But here in the market, the one behind the bullring, he was lost, and he appealed to her. He did not know where he was. His arms were full of straw hats, straw donkeys, pottery, baskets and sandals.
He had strayed among the parrots, the sliced and odorous melons, the women’s petticoats and ribbons. The petticoats swollen by the breeze caressed his hair and damp cheeks. The palm-leafed roofs were too low for him and the tips of the leaves tickled his ears.
“I must get back soon,” he said. “I left my car alone for two hours now.”
“They’re not strict with tourists,” she answered. “Don’t worry.”
“Oh, it’s not in the street. I wouldn’t leave it in the street. I tried every hotel in town, until I found one where I could park my car near my bedroom. Do you want to come and see it?”
He said this in the tone of a man offering a glimpse of an original Picasso.
They walked slowly in the sun. “It’s such a beautiful car,” he said, “the best they ever made. I raced it in Los Angeles. It’s as sensitive as a human being. You don’t know what an ordeal it was, the trip from Mexico City. They are repairing the road—it was full of detours.”
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing happened to me, but my poor car! I could feel every bump on the road; every hole, the dust, the stones. It hurt me to see it struggle along that road, scraped by pebbles, stained with tar, covered with red dust, my beautiful car that I took such care of. It was as if my own body were walking on that road. I had to drive through a river. A little boy sat astride the hood, and guided me with a propeller-like gesture of his hand, indicating the best path through the water. But I never knew when we were going to get stuck there, my poor low-slung car in muddied waters, where the natives wash all their laundry, and bathe the cattle. I could feel the sand and grit in the motor. I could see the flies, mosquitoes, and other insects cluttering the air vent. I never want to put my car through such an experience again.”
They had reached a low, wide rambling hotel surrounded by a vast jungle garden. There under a palm tree, among sun flowers and ferns, stood the car, sleek and shining, seemingly undamaged.
“Oh, it’s in the sun,” cried the man from Los Angeles and rushed to move it into shadows. “It’s a good thing I came back. Do you want to sit in it? I’ll order drinks meanwhile.”
He held the door open.
Renate said: “I would love to drive to the beach on the other side of the mountain. It’s beautiful at this time of the day.”
“I’ve heard of it, but it wouldn’t be good for the car. They’re building on that road. I hear them set off dynamite. I wouldn’t trust Mexicans with dynamite.”
“Have you been to the bullfight?”
“I can’t take my car there, the boys steal tires and side mirrors, I hear.”
“Have you been to the Black Pearl night club?”
“That’s one place we can go to, they have a parking lot with an attendant. Yes, I’ll take you there.”
Later when they were having a drink, the sun descended like a meteorite of antique gold and sank into the sea.
“Ha,” breathed the man, smiling. “I’m glad it’s cooler now. The sun is not good for my car.”
Then he explained that for the return home he had made arrangements to get his car back without suffering anymore. “I booked passage on a freighter. It will take three weeks. But it will be easier on my car.”
“Be sure and buy a big bottle of mineral water,” said Renate.
“To wash the car?” asked the man from Los Angeles, frowning.
“No, for yourself. You might get dysentery.”
She offered to speak to the captain of the freighter because she talked Spanish.
They drove to the docks together. The captain stood half-naked directing the loading of bananas and pineapples. He wore a handkerchief tied to his forehead to keep the perspiration from falling over his face. The orange dress attracted his eyes and he smiled.
Renate asked him if he would consent to share his cabin with the American, and take good care of him.
“Anything to please the senorita,” he said.
“How will you fare on fish and black beans?” she asked the car worshipper.
“Let’s buy some canned food, and a sponge to wash the salt off my car. It will be on the open deck.”
The day of his departure the beach town displayed its most festive colors; the parrots whistled, the magnolia odors covered the smell of fish, and the flowers were as profuse as at a New Orleans Carnival.
Renate arrived in time to see the car being measured and found too big for the net in which they usually picked up the cargo. So they placed two narrow planks from the pier to the deck, and the man was asked to drive the car onto the freighter. One inch out of the way and both car and man would fall into the bay. But the owner of the car was a skillful driver, and an amorous one, so he finally maneuvered it on deck. Once there, it was found to be so near the edge that the sailors had to rope it tightly like a rebellious bronco. Lashed to the ship by many ropes it could no longer roll over the edge.
Then the man from Los Angeles moved into the only cabin with his big bottle of mineral water and a bag of canned soups.
As the freighter slowly tugged away he cried: I’ll let you know in what state my car gets there! Thanks for your help.”
A month later she received a letter:
“Dear Kind Friend: I will always remember you so gay and carefree in your orange dress. And how wise you were! If only I had listened to your warnings! I used the mineral water to wash the salty mist off my car, and so the first thing that happened was that I got the ‘tourista’ with a high fever. The captain kept his word to you and shared his cabin with me, but also with a barrel of fish, cans of gasoline, and hay for the animals. Then the sea got pretty rough and the car began to roll back and forth, and at each roll I thought it would plunge into the sea. I decided to sleep inside it, and if anything were to happen we would both go together. At the first town we stopped at, we took in a herd of cattle. They were crowded on deck, and they pushed against my car, dribbled on it, and even tried to gore it. At night they quarreled and I don’t need to describe the stench. The heat was as heavy as a blanket. At the second stop we took in a Madame and about twenty call girls who were being moved to another house. The captain gallantly offered his cabin. Tequila was free on board and so you can imagine how rowdy the nights were. After three weeks I arrived in Los Angeles a wreck, but my car is in fine shape. I had it lubricated and I wish you could hear it purr along the roads. Los Angeles has such wonderful roads.”