as from the actual vision of the dark young man with hooded eyes who wore a black silk shirt open to the waist. She was enthralled as much by what he stood for as the man himself. For Hector Pimental had an aura of danger about him, a sexuality that widened Fernandella’s nostrils as she breathed the tainted air.
They exchanged a few words. Hector feigned indifference, something Fernandella could not understand, or tolerate, for as the most beautiful young woman in San Cristobel, Queen of the Festival of St Ann, she had all evening been rebuffing the advances of men more handsome, richer, more worthy of her. Her mother had whispered to her that Santiago the furniture maker, a widower, not yet thirty, with a fine home in the green hills above the village, painted the color of raspberries with a coral-slate roof of eye-dazzling white, had expressed an interest in her.
‘I’ve seen you at the baseball grounds,’ Fernandella said, a delicate hand on her hip, one foot placed well in front of the other. When Hector did not reply she went on, ‘My father is a great fan of the San Cristobel Heartbreakers. We often come by in the evening to watch them play.’
‘I am a fan only of teams that win when I have money on them,’ said Hector, staring somewhere over Fernandella’s head, not looking down the front of her dress as other young, and not so young men, had been doing all evening.
Thunder rumbled at a great distance; the colored neon of the ferris wheel cast yellow, green, and blue shadows across the faces of Hector and Fernandella, and Fernandella knew in her heart that she would marry Hector, whose last name she had yet to hear.
‘Take me on the ferris wheel,’ she said suddenly; she had not until that second been aware of what she was about to say.
Hector counted the centavos in his shirt pocket. He grinned at her.
‘Girls are often afraid of great heights,’ he said.
‘I am afraid of nothing,’ said Fernandella.
They boarded the ferris wheel amid the odors of grease, exhaust fumes, cedar shavings and the pounding of the motor that powered the rickety vehicle. The wheel worried its way up then lurched over the top, eliciting a scream from Fernandella who clutched Hector’s arm in a gesture partly fear and partly an unendurable urge to touch this mysterious young man. The ferris wheel turned its requisite number of times, but when the attendant pulled the lever that would bring it to a stop, nothing happened. The wheel continued to turn, its green neon rolling across the sky like giant hoops. The speed of the wheel increased until it drew all the breath from the frightened passengers and the screaming died like bird calls on a breeze. The attendants worked frantically to stop the wheel. The motor was shut down, but a lessening of sound was all the shutdown precipitated. Eventually, the green neon, like parallel railroad tracks, disappeared into the distance of night like two illuminated green snakes.
Hector and Fernandella found themselves on a road outside of San Cristobel, the soft dust under their feet still warm from the day, the moon reflecting in a limpid pool, a stand of scarlet bougainvillea clutching at them as they kissed.
‘When Hector Pimental takes his woman for a carnival ride, he takes her for a ride,’ the young man said, pretending not to be puzzled by what had happened.
Fernandella’s knees were melting.
‘You are magical,’ she said, ‘we will enjoy a magical life together.’
Hector kissed her willing mouth, but all the while he was wondering about the outcome of his bets on that evening’s baseball games.
Fernandella’s family, who were stolid, hardworking, churchgoing people before the priests were relieved of their power, were horrified at her choice. Did I mention that the Old Dictator decreed that all priests were to leave Courteguay? Those who stayed were forced to live behind chain-link fences and quietly mold and disintegrate. Years later, Dr Noir took credit for dispatching the priests from Courteguay and imprisoning those who stayed. Dr Noir of course, was a liar, a thief, a cheat, a murderer and a scoundrel. And those were his good points.
When they weren’t making love in some secret and forbidden place, Hector retained his indifference.
‘I have no intention of changing my ways,’ he told her. ‘I will never work in the cane fields, or the guava plantations. I gamble. If you marry me my luck becomes yours.’
Fernandella agreed. Within weeks they were married.
But before they could be married there had to be a baseball game. The women of Courteguay played almost as much baseball as the men and some of them were exceptionally talented. Before a wedding could take place a team made up of the bride, her sisters and bridesmaids, and whoever else was necessary to a complete team, played against a team picked by the groom. The groom’s team could be made up of anything from rank amateurs to semi-professionals. For the wedding to go forward the bride had to make an adequate showing as a baseball player. The word adequate could be interpreted in many ways. If the groom was reluctant, a bride who went only 1 for 4 and made an error in the field might be rejected by the triumvirate who made the decision, the groom and best man being two, the third often one of the moth-eaten priests who lived behind chain-link fencing. The priest never saw the game but would be told about it by the groom, and was the third leg of the triumvirate to give an appearance of fairness.
If the soon-to-be groom was madly in love, all the bride, if she was not an athlete, or many months pregnant, had to do was show up, stand helplessly in right field and swing weakly at the ball when she batted. But even if the bride was an excellent commercial league player, the groom might want an extra week to sow a few wild oats so would insist that she had not played well enough to be his bride, thus postponing the wedding for a week.
Fernandella was coached by a woman named Roberta Fernandez Diaz Ortega, who now lived in the United States with her lover, a woman who once won the Dinah Shore Golf Tournament, and happened to be visiting her family. Several years earlier in a Wedding Game like this Roberta had been seen by a scout for the Baltimore Orioles. In cut-off jeans, a loose shirt and with her boy’s haircut, Roberta was mistaken for a boy, and the scout offered her a chance in A Ball in the USA. Roberta signed her name as Roberto and hopped in the back of the scout’s Jeep after the game was over. As Roberto she moved quickly up the ladder and played two seasons for the Orioles, batting over .300 and coming second in All Star voting her second season. Her teammates did not suspect her. She was often seen in the company of women.
‘Geez, Robbyo,’ said teammate Bubba, one evening before a game, ‘I seen you dancing last night. I thought that tennis player girl you was with was queer as a three-dollar bill.’
Roberta stared him in the eye. ‘I am Courteguayan,’ she replied, ‘I am able to overcome any odds.’
‘Damn fine,’ said Bubba. ‘Maybe you could introduce me to one of them queer chicks, I’ve always felt that after one evening with Ol Bubba, they’d get over that foolishness.’
‘Maybe someday I will,’ said Roberta.
It wasn’t until the last day of the season after Roberta had won the batting title in the American League and her teammates threw her into the shower that they discovered her secret.
Management
