A Little Walking Tour

By Steph

Editor's Note: This is not a story about an Banderas character, nor is it a story about Antonio. I guess you could say it's one inspired by them, and him.

Gabriel entered the cantina with Tony's arm over his shoulder.

"Sit there," Tony said, pointing to a small table with two chairs in a dark corner.

"Are you going to order something to eat?" Gabriel asked.

"Just shut up and do as I say. You'll eat soon enough."

Gabriel swallowed his own saliva and felt his stomach roll with hunger. He'd only eaten a bread roll and some partially rotten apples in two days. Still, this didn't seem like a good idea. Tony said it would be easy, and it probably was for Tony, but Gabriel couldn't help but think that he was about to commit a mortal sin.

He caught himself wringing his hands and rocking on the chair, then forced himself to stillness. Tony slammed a drink in front of him.

"Drink that and stop acting like a scared kid. Por dios, you're almost twenty."

Seventeen. He was seventeen and stupid. "So stupid," he whispered when Tony walked away to talk to some fat guy who was playing cards with two other dirty looking men. The fat guy smiled and nodded and looked at Gabriel like he was looking at a prize pig before the roast. He handed Tony some money.

Tony walked over to Gabriel and said, "that guy's going to buy you dinner. You do what he wants and I'll be back later to pick you up."

"Wait," Gabriel said, jumping to his feet. He moved too fast, felt dizzy and fell back into the chair. Tony was gone.

The fat guy stood up laughing, said something to the bartender, then walked towards Gabriel.

"Excuse me."

Gabriel blinked. A woman, a very pretty young woman, sat in the chair across from him.

"Excuse me," she said again, "I hate to bother you. But I'm lost, you see, and I was wondering if I could pay you to help me find my way. I could pay you five dollars right now, and forty-five more when we get there."

Gabriel blinked again. She had reddish blond hair and hazel eyes and her full lips smiled in a quirky sort of way, tilting to the right.

"Hey, that's my seat," said the fat guy.

"I don't think so," she said, looking sincerely surprised. "Excuse me," she called to the bartender, "could I have an order of fried potatoes and two glasses of lemonade? Thank you."

"I paid for that seat," said the fat guy. He snapped his fingers at Gabriel and made a motion like a man commanding his dog to come.

"Well, I'm sorry you're disappointed, but I do believe I was sitting here first."

"Look, bruja," he said.

She stood, a little thing, really, in flat shoes and a sundress. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, move, puta, or I'll move you."

She waved at two men at the bar. "Pardon me, but this man is threatening me. Could you gentlemen see him out?"

Gabriel sat silently as the two men escorted the fat guy away, telling him to get out and never come back. "This is a reputable establishment," they said. "Or what would such a nice lady be doing here?" Then the fried potatoes were in front of him, and bottled lemonade. He didn't even wait to add ketchup before he started to eat.

Fifty dollars, thought Gabriel as she warned him, for the third time, to eat more slowly. "You would really pay me fifty dollars?" he said.

"Five now."

"But a taxi will probably take you anywhere in town for five dollars."

"I want a walking tour," she said.

Now, looking at her, she didn't seem so pretty, not like the model he thought she was, but more like a healthy pretty, her hair bleached blond by the sun, a person who enjoyed the outdoors, but not too much. She definitely looked like a tourist. When she slid the five dollars across the table, he stared at it for a long time. She was talking American Dollars.

The answer, of course, was simple. She was a dream brought on by hunger.

"Okay," he said. He shoved the five dollars into his pocket, then stood and offered his arm. Fifty dollars was nothing to Americans.

She took his arm. "I have an apartment next to the Hidalgo near the Alameda." She didn't sound like an American tourist. Her accent could have come out of his own village.

"That's only a few blocks away," Gabriel said.

"I know, but, as I said, I would like a little walking tour."

"Okay," he said. "I'll start by telling you that this is the bad part of the city, and you should stay away from here."

They stepped out of the cantina onto a crowded street, narrow and shaded by tall stucco and wood buildings. Tony and the fat guy moved toward them as if to block their way. Gabriel felt his pulse race as he gripped the woman's arm and backed away from the men, then he must have tripped on something, because he fell backwards, knocking his head on the street.

"Gabriel, Gabriel, wake up."

Gabriel opened his eyes and stared at the beautiful woman who leaned over him. "What happened?"

"I think you fainted," she said. She tugged on his arm and he rose to his feet.

"I don't faint," he said, rubbing the back of his head. He looked up and down the street but there was no sign of Tony or the fat guy. "Where did they go?"

"Who?" she asked.

"Tony and his friend."

"I don't know," she said. "You fainted, so I was paying attention to you. Maybe we should go straight to my apartment and see to that bump."

He rubbed his head again and said, "okay." Then he followed her, trying to remember if she always had brown hair.

Her apartment was a three room flat with a balcony garden that looked out onto the street. It was white, sea green and yellow, tiled and painted, with sheer white curtains that danced with every breeze. The apartment made him think of his village and the mayor's house where he learned herb lore from his mother, and gardening from his father. The mayor's house was nothing like this apartment, except that it was clean, and he felt dirty, like the mayor's wife always said he was.

He stopped next to the kitchen, just inside the open doorway.

"Well come in," she said.

"I don't want to make your place dirty."

She nodded very slowly, and at once she seemed older, like his mother, quiet and wise, always prepared to think on the problems he presented before answering in a slow, even voice.

"Then you should take a bath," she said, and she turned through a doorway, her long dark hair swinging behind her.

He stood still, ashamed of how he must smell while the scent of roses came to him from the hotel garden next door. He heard the rush of water and thought that now he needed to use the toilet, and his embarrassment increased.

"I should leave," he muttered, but his feet seemed planted. Then there was the money. He had done nothing to earn such a large sum, but she promised it. He looked with hunger at fruit in a bowl on the white counter that separated the kitchen from the living area. From where he stood, he caught sight of the balcony garden.

She returned from the bathroom. "Just leave your clothes on the floor, here," she said, pointing to a spot on the tiled floor next to the bathroom door. "There's a robe inside."

The bath was a luxury he had never dreamed about. The water was scented with rosemary; for stamina, he remembered now. He tried to remember the events of the day, but could only think of his mother and how his father had been before she died. How they had danced at the festivals! Where was his sister now? Did she stay with their father, a tyrant in his misery, or did she find herself a husband and escape?

"I will write to them," he promised.

He thought about his village high school. Oh yes, and he remembered how his father had insisted that he work hard at his lessons, even though he had worked so long in the mayor's gardens all afternoon. His father would say, "the gardens in Mexico City are marvelous, but there, the rich people all look for the boys out of college. To be a gardener in the city, you must understand science." It never occurred to his father that Gabriel didn't want to be a gardener. "You must get good grades, so you can qualify for the university," he had said. But when Gabriel last saw him, he said, "in the city, you will be a bum without an education. Your hand will be out as a beggar. Millions of boys go to the city to be actors and musicians, and where are they now? Huh? Where! In the gutters, that's where!"

Gabriel wiped the tears from his face and stood in the bath. His father had been right. Gabriel had never even made an audition. He didn't know where to go, and he was so afraid of everything. And now, look at him.

He turned and saw himself in the mirror, wearing a plush robe, his hair down to his shoulders, his chin dark with stubble. He lifted a can of shaving cream from the counter next to the sink, then found a razor in a drawer. His girl, Lydia, would have liked to see him now, he thought. She said he was the most handsome man in their little village, but then she had to go and marry Ernesto, the butcher.

He heard the front door open.

Then came a soft knock on the bathroom door. "Gabriel?"

"I am shaving, if it's all right?" he said.

"That's fine. Help yourself to whatever is there."

He took his time, and as he wiped his face with a soft white towel, he wondered again about the day he was passing. How did she know his name?

He stepped out of the bathroom and said, "what is your name?"

She stood in the kitchen, slicing papaya, while a pan sizzled, giving off the smell of oregano and chicken, ah, yes, and sage. She laid the knife down and turned to stir something in a small pot. She had auburn hair, and he thought, now that is the right color.

"My name is Christina."

"Christina," he said, moving towards the open french doors and the balcony, where the table had been set for two. The smell of chocolate reached him, a dash of nutmeg. Here on the balcony, he found herbs and other plants; basil under a cooling screen, tomatoes, bright red, and peppers, green and yellow. He picked a small tomato and looked at the splendid orange veins. Had he ever seen such a perfect tomato? He bit into it and felt the juice and seeds gush into his mouth, dripping over the corners, cooling his tongue and throat. The fruit was meaty and sweet.

"They are good, aren't they?" Christina said.

He turned and noticed that she was smaller than he thought, or maybe, somehow, he seemed just a bit taller. He felt a strange confidence, strange because he could find no reason for it. She brought food to the table while he stared out at the street, and at the people who rushed here and there. Tourists snapped their photographs. Students wrote in their notebooks. Businessmen ate dinner in the shade of umbrellas.

It suddenly seemed to him that he belonged in this place, on this balcony, in this apartment.

"Eat, señor," she said.

He sat across from her, following her lead by placing his napkin on his lap, by lifting the chicken leg with his fork, then carefully slicing the meat away from the bone. He did not shove the stuffed peppers into his mouth with his fingers, the way he had eaten the potatoes in the cantina. He drank his lemonade from a tall glass, and never opened his mouth to belch afterwards.

"Your clothing fell apart," she said, looking beyond the hyacinths to the street. "I sent for some new things."

"Thank you," he said, eating slowly, tasting the salt, the sweet, the sour. He could still smell the chocolate, and the scent of lilacs came over the breeze from somewhere else.

"Christina," he said, in a moment of clarity. "Who are you?"

"I am a tourist," she said.

He began to speak, but his question eluded him. Instead, his mind turned to his sister, and how proud she had been the first time she made chocolate good enough to serve to the mayor and his wife. The whole family had been so proud.

"So, have you had any auditions?"

"What?" asked Gabriel, "auditions?" He suddenly realized that evening had arrived. The time had passed without his noticing.

"Didn't you say you were an actor?"

"Did I say that?"

"I thought you did," she said. She stood and began clearing the table.

"No, I have not had any auditions yet," he said. "But I will."

"Of course, you will," she said, returning with a tray of cookies and cocoa. "You're very talented. People will say that you are just a pretty face, but slowly they will see beyond your face. You just have to have patience."

He drank his cocoa, bitter and delicate, from a demitasse cup, and wondered why she was telling him this. The only reason he called himself an actor, and not a musician, was because he had been in a two act play in the beggar's theater which turned into a pornographic melee. He barely escaped with his clothes on, and someone stole his father's guitar. It wasn't the kind of thing he could put on a resume.

They sat for a long time until it was dark, then the street lights were enough. Below, a mariachi band played for the tourists. Gabriel hardly understood the pleasure he felt, except that it reminded him of those nights during festival, when everyone sat up late and sang and danced and told stories.

Christina stood. "I'm going to bed now. The sofa inside folds out. Sleep well."

Gabriel sat up until the moon disappeared to the west, then found a new toothbrush in the bathroom drawer and brushed his teeth until his gums bled. When he returned to the living room, he noticed a tablet of writing paper and pens on the corner of a small desk. He sat and began his letter, "Querido papa, forgive me." The letter was short, assuring his father that he was fine and that he would continue his education.

After he folded the letter neatly for mailing, he pulled out the sofa, then lay naked between cool sheets.

In the quiet of night, his thoughts turned to Christina in the next room. Maybe she was a rich woman who wanted to keep him. He could do that.

"I was going to pay you yesterday," Gabriel heard, "but I never got my walking tour. So I thought you could earn that forty-five dollars today."

Gabriel lifted himself onto his elbows and looked at Christina, surrounded by the garden. She sat at the table, drinking coffee, and the smell of the brewed bean made him raise his nose in anticipation.

"What do you think?" she said.

"I'll take you wherever you wish to go," he said, though a tiny fear struck him that he really knew very little about the city. What if he disappointed her?

He dressed in jeans, the kind that he could sell for a lot of money, and a cotton shirt with long sleeves that he rolled to his elbows. He tied his hair back at the neck, slipped on his sandles, and stepped onto the balcony, feeling that, the way he looked, people will think he was raised in the city.

Christina looked at him as he approached the table. "You really are beautiful, Gabriel. You should be careful. If anyone uses your beauty, it should be you."

"I want to be known for my talent," he said, though he wasn't sure he had any talent.

"And you will be, but first the women will come to see your beauty. That is the way of it."

"I want to go to Hollywood," he said, and laughed at his own boldness.

"And you will," she said, "but don't go too soon, or everytime, you'll end up reading just two lines about love or vengeance before you're character is killed. No, become known in your own country. Wait for Hollywood to ask you, then you can say, well, yes, but after I finish the project I'm in. Make them understand that you know you are worth something to them, and that you control that asset that is yourself." She stood. "So come on, lets go for a walk."

"Christina," he said, as he followed her out. "Does this mean you are going to be my agent?"

"Just today," she said. She pointed to some tables outside a cafe. "Let's go over there and have some coffee first."

They sat next to a table where a heavyset gentleman ate breakfast with a woman who looked like she might be his wife. She wore diamonds on her hands, not ostentatious but diamonds just the same. He had a cravat and a cane. Gabriel could hardly believe he was eating next to these people when the day before he was sent running for begging nearby.

"Con permiso, señor," Christina said to the man. "May I introduce this young man, Gabriel Martinez."

The man looked annoyed at the interruption.

"Señor Trava," she continued, "look at this young man carefully, because you are about to discover him. Look at his face, at his beauty, at his innocence. This boy will become your most promising male star. He will do whatever you ask, as long as you do not ask beyond the profession."

Señor Trava, only the greatest filmmaker that Mexico had ever known, took a long look at Gabriel and said, "auditions are this afternoon."

"But señor," Christina said, while Gabriel tried to keep his knees from shaking. "This young man cannot get into your auditions because he is from the country and he has no resume."

"And you, Señora, are his agent?" said the filmmaker.

"No, Señor, I am his friend, and I tell you that I guarantee he will be a success under your tutelage."

Sr. Trava studied Gabriel again.

"He is quite a looker, mi amor," said his companion.

"Yes, that he is," said Sr. Trava. "All right, boy, you come to the doors and tell them your name. What is it?"

"Gabriel Martinez, señor," he said in a breath.

"You come at three o'clock and give your name, and you can have an audition."

"Gracias, gracias, señor," Gabriel said, standing and bowing, as his father always did to the Mayor and his wife. He felt a tap on his toes and saw that Christina disapproved, so he sat, mumbling his thanks once more.

Christina calmly finished her coffee, but Gabriel only took a few sips. He wanted to go back to the apartment and practice something for the audition, though he had no idea what, and he had no idea how he would find out without asking. Yet, it seemed that everytime he formed an important question, he lost it in a flood of memory.

When Christina stood, Gabriel jumped to his feet to follow her. Instead of going back to the apartment, she took his arm and said, "now, show me the city."

"Now? What about the audition?"

"The audition is at three o'clock," she said. "A good walk will relax you. Have you ever seen his movies?"

"Oh, yes. We had a little theater in our village. Well, the mayor had a screen and a projector in his garage, and we paid him to see the movies."

"Which one is your favorite?"

"El Cantador."

"Then you will do a scene from that movie."

While he was thinking about the movie, they stopped in front of a pawn shop, where his father's guitar hung in the window.

"I like that one, don't you," she said. Gabriel could only nod his agreement.

Inside, the pawnbroker left another customer at the counter to offer his assistance to Christina. When she said that it looked a bit used, the balding man nodded his agreement and offered to throw in a set of new strings.

All afternoon Gabriel polished the guitar and stretched the new strings, and practiced the scene where the lead ends up singing his promise to die rather than give up his love to another. Christina never praised him, but said things like, "Keep your chin up. Look at the audience. Use your eyes to say what you are singing, what you are feeling. Better, but you must work very hard, Gabriel."

Christina knew where the audition was being held, which didn't surprise him. And it didn't surprise him that the moment he said his name, the guard let him pass, and that someone escorted him and Christina to a stage set. He was beginning to believe that he was blessed, and that Christina, his guardian angel, for what else could she be, would make sure that he got whatever part it was that he was trying to get.

When it was over, everyone said that he had a very nice voice, but Christina said, "well, the main thing is that we got you inside." That's when he knew he didn't get the part.

"Gabriel," called Sr. Trava. "Come here." When Gabriel was at his side, he said, "you have some promise, and I understand you need a job. You can work for Miguel Gonzales on the sets while you learn how to act, huh?"

"Yes, señor," Gabriel said, "thank you, señor." But he didn't bow his head, and he promised himself that he never would again, well, except to his audience, and, of course, to God.

After promising to be at work at eight in the morning, Gabriel turned to find Christina. He saw her talking with a young actor. For a moment, panic stilled his breath, then his insides contracted with jealous fury. She laughed at something the whore boy said and Gabriel started towards them. She turned and put her hand out, like the police who say stop. He slowed.

"What is it, Gabriel?" she asked, leading him away from the others.

"I thought," and he swallowed to calm his heart, "I thought, maybe you were done with me, and going on to him." What a ridiculous thing, he told himself. How could he think that way? As if he owned her.

"Come, lets go eat at the apartment," she said.

He took her hand as they walked across the plaza, wanting all to see that they were together. He wanted to shout out the joy that touching her gave him, yet fear quelled that desire.

"It is true," she said, when they entered the apartment. "I have to leave."

He stared at her, unable to believe her words. "You are playing with me," he said.

"No, Gabriel," she said, her voice so sad that tears filled his eyes. "I must go home. There is someone there, and I said that I would be back tomorrow."

He rushed to her and embraced her for the first time, and knew that he loved her, not like his mother, no, but as someone who would understand his passion. He looked at her and saw that she was young, not much older than him, and she was sad, just like he was.

"I am afraid," he said. "When you leave, everything will be as it was."

"No, Gabriel," she said. "It will be as you make it."

Then she let him kiss her. She let him caress her, and this time, she did not guide him, but let him explore her. Each of her kisses were like chocolate, bitter because he believed each one to be the last, and delicate as she was in his arms. Her auburn hair smelled of honey and sweet basil, her lips tasted of papaya, her rosemary skin slipped like silk beneath his fingers. And when he tasted the salt of her tears, it was as if he was tasting her soul.

When Gabriel woke the next morning, he found an envelope with forty five American dollars, the keys to the apartment, and a note that said rent was paid to the end of the month.

The phone rang as he wept. He rushed to the kitchen and answered. "Hello, Christina?"

"It is Sr. Trava," came the voice. "Your friend, Christina, said you would need a call, and that you would be sad today. So, come to work, boy, and learn the trade of making movies."

Gabriel said he would, and though his body ached with the breaking of his heart, he dressed himself and found his way to the studio.

Sr. Trava greeted him with a squeeze of the shoulder. "Don't worry, boy. Its better to have a witch leave you early on, then after a long time."

"But she took my soul," Gabriel said.

"She didn't seem evil to me, so look to yourself, boy. When a witch takes her fill of yours, she usually leaves some of her own."

So, he searched within himself, and there, he found a bit of her, a bit of magic that she left beneath his skin, that showed up in his smile, that rang out in his voice.