Of Pisco and Peru: Mancora
There's this thing about bees. They can really hijack a pool party.
Squadrons of them congregate at the jacuzzi's tantalizing waterline, their cacophonous buzzing fills my ears. From a safe distance, I surveil the steady stream of reinforcements as they zip back and forth from a hive hidden behind a carob tree in a thicket of bushes.
Sweating bullets, I give serious thought to turning on the bubbles and taking a leap of faith, suffering the wrath of the histamine-laced stingers while belting down shot glasses of pure pisco like I'm trying out some New-Age acupuncture treatment. But no, I forgot my epi-pen, so. . .
. . . I saunter to the outside bar and find Auntie M seated in a white plastic chair, sipping from an Aqua Velva-colored drink glass. She adjusts her yellow sun hat from the light's rays rippling through cracks in the thatched ceiling.
I give it a go in Spanish. "Como se dice. . . Ovejas en la piscina?"
She winces. "¿Qué? English, por favor."
I shake my head. "Bees. At the pool."
Auntie M sets down her drink as Molero darts by. Sticking two fingers in her mouth, she produces a sharp-pitched whistle.
I'm apoplectic. "No. It's not that important."
Molero bounds over. A Spanish conversation goes on while I guesstimate how many calories Molero "The Running Man" burns every day. No wonder he's so thin.
I laugh, imagining what my Spanish must sound like, malformed conjugations crashing at each other like drunken shipmates playing bumper cars on the Exxon Valdez.
Pirate John's voice cracks like a whip, summoning Molero. After he leaves, Auntie M sits down and pockets her phone. "Mist-ah Dougito, I has eh-somes bad news."
"Yes, my Queen," I say with an elegant faux bow.
"Mist-ah Molero has informs me that he no can kills your bees eh-since, uh, for the environment. Es. . . en'pro'pi'tious." She nods, regally.
"Un. . . propitious?"
"Sí."
The hazy figures of the Peruvian family, each decked out for some serious pool playtime, pass by in the background.
I lift myself and stretch. "Let's get out of here."
She smiles. "The beach?"
My vertebrae pop. A pleasurable release. "Yes. . . uh, Sí."
reminds me of "The Glass Bees", Ernst Jünger, translated by Louise Bogan and Elizabeth Mayer (NY: Noonday Press, 1960). Many good lines... among them:
“…why should words like ‘government’ still be taken seriously?” [19]
“A work of art wastes away and becomes lusterless in surroundings where it has a price but not a value.” [38]
“This is one of the mysteries of time. The moment is wedded to eternity.” [148]
This is true. I experienced this in my own backyard when bees invaded the oak trees surrounding our pool. I had to skim out their bodies (some drowned, some struggling) before going for a swim. I enjoyed your piece.