Spanish Disco

“I never thought the computer would be so big. The Internet…do you know they have over a hundred Web sites devoted to me? That puzzles me.”

“You’re an enigma. You disappeared.”

“Yes, but they post fuzzy photos of me…supposedly me. Someone who vaguely looks like me. One hundred sites…” he shook his head from side to side.

“Anytime someone pulls a disappearing act, seems like people can’t handle it. For God’s sake, how many idiots out there think Elvis is still alive?”

“You mean he’s dead?”

I choked on my enchilada but then spotted a twinkle in his eye.

“You know what I do sometimes?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“I invent a name for myself, and I bash myself on the Web sites.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I make up a chat room name like ‘Simonsucks’ and I visit the Web sites and post how I think Simple Simon is a load of crap.”

“What happens?”

“I get flamed, of course. People send me all kinds of terrible e-mail. No one has ever caught on that it’s me.”

He looked quite pleased with himself. I took in a breath. “God, these enchiladas are hot. Aren’t you having some?”

“Shh. No, I’m not hungry. Maria is a blessing, but this hot food is all she cooks. I can’t cook at all, so I…make do. But Maria makes a fuss when I don’t eat what she puts in front of me. A mother hen kind of thing. So keep a secret and say I ate a few.” With that he went into the kitchen and took a clean plate from the cabinet and started rinsing it under the faucet. “I put it in the drying rack, and she thinks I ate.”

Next he took two enchiladas from the casserole dish they had been baked in and dumped them down the garbage disposal, running it swiftly while looking over his shoulder.

“You know that night a long time ago when you met Lou?”

He nodded and walked back to the table.

“Did it really last a weekend? A three-day bender?”

“Near as I can recall. I do remember thinking Lou was very smart and if I ever wrote a sequel to Simple Simon I’d want to work with him. Of course, I didn’t think it would take me this long.”

“Have you been working on it this whole time?”

“God no. I’m not that pathetic.”

“Can I see it?”

“The manuscript?”

I nodded and washed down another burning bite of food.

“How fast do you work?”

“Very.”

“Well, then I think we should wait. I want you to understand why I wrote the book first. Otherwise you won’t understand it.”

“Post-modern?”

“Uh…not exactly.”

I lifted my fork, about to subject myself to another bite, when two rabbits appeared from behind a living room chair. They hopped toward the table. I put down my fork and squinted. I blinked. I blinked again. One of the rabbits sat up on its haunches and licked its paws. For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating. Roland turned around to see what I was looking at.

“Oh…those two fellows are Pedro and José. They’re Norwegian dwarf bunnies. Siamese. See how they kind of resemble a Siamese cat around their noses?”

I nodded. “And they just hop around the house? Like that? Loose all the time.”

“Don’t worry. They’re not vicious or anything.”

I looked at his face, trying to discern how serious he was. Apparently very. His eyes registered concern about my fear of loose rabbits, so I tried to put him at ease.

“I wasn’t worried that they’re vicious. I…I just never knew anyone who had them just…hopping around like that.”

“Later you might see Cecelia. She’s a white one. More shy. We think she might be pregnant. They’re housebroken, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Most of the time. I occasionally find rabbit poop on the bathroom carpet. I keep telling Maria it’s because the carpet is green and they think it’s grass.”

I stood and slowly approached Pedro, who wisely saw I was not an animal lover and hopped away.

“So you like rabbits?”

“I never thought about it, actually.”

With that, Maria burst through the door carrying an armload of fresh cucumbers from an as-yet-unseen vegetable garden.

“Maria, this is our houseguest, Cassie Hayes.”

“Hello,” she smiled, her black eyes open wide.

“Hi.” I was struck by how beautiful she was. She was probably my age. Her dark eyes were framed by jet-black lashes, and her raven hair trailed halfway down her back in a braid. She didn’t wear a trace of makeup, and her skin was a deep yellow-brown. Wide cheekbones and a classic nose made her look like an Incan sculpture. At the same time, her hands were rough and chapped as they clutched her vegetables, and she wore ripped jeans and a T-shirt. She was chubby by the standards of Vogue. But then again any woman who has actually gone through puberty and grown breasts and hips is fat according to Vogue.

“Maria lives in the guesthouse on the other side of the pool.”

“Did you eat lunch yet, Mr. Riggs?”

“Sí, Maria.”

“You, too?” She looked at me.