Chapter 1

Playa Norte

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TOCAYO
Part 1
Prologue
Playa Norte
Charly the American
A Catholic Education
Cold Showers
A Peruvian Name...
Tossing Armando...
Bob Cousey's Shorts
Inside Immaculada
Warming the Bench...
A Little Socrates...
Running From Lola
Ping Pong Politics
A Perfect Basketball Day
A Man Needs His Friends
A Pig In a Hole
Condors Over Ticlio
Wrestling in the Plaza
Handcuffs and Curfews
Rochabus
A Hero Hiding
Hitting A Brick Wall
Part 2

From my chair I considered praying to Mary and the Apostles, but I knew better. Instead of interceding with Mamina on my behalf, the Apostles would have started to write my sins in the dust with a stick. It would be a long list. When one apostle became tired of writing, he would pass the stick to the next apostle. Here, you take the stick. I have a cramp.

While I considered my few remaining options, Mamina entered the dining room and began to adjust the tablecloth the maid had draped over the dinner table. The tablecloth, it looked straight to me, but no, not to Mamina. While one maid cooked, the other maid was supposed to prepare the table, but according to Mamina, the young ones did not understand the importance of getting the details right, so she always had to fix their work.

When Mamina returned to the kitchen, I looked around the room. Alessandra, my sister of 18 years, sat with deceptive calm on the sofa. How could she be my sister of 18 years when I am only 16 years old? Because she spent two years preparing for my arrival. I pulled myself up onto the edge of my chair. As I expected, Alessandra glanced my way. I stared back at her. When she looked away, I jumped and ran to the patio door.

"Carlos, we all have to wait for Papito," Alessandra said without losing her place in the magazine.

She was too late. I had reached the door. I opened it. The breeze brushed across my face and rushed into the room, filling it with the fresh scent of the ocean.

"Carlitos!" It was Mamina. She had materialized in the kitchen doorway, holding a round glass pitcher filled with ice water, drops of condensation clinging to the sides, afraid to slide down. "Where are you going?"

I inhaled the ocean one last time. Its breeze brought peace to my hunger. The ocean nourished me. When I become marrooned on a deserted island, I will survive by breathing deeply.

"Car-li-tos," Mamina insisted, lengthening the last two syllables of my name in the universal language mothers around the world employ when they want to issue a threat without troubling themselves to find the right words.

"I am praying to Poseidon," I replied. "I am begging him to toss me a plate of baked scallops over that part of the railing, right there. A little parmesan cheese melted over the top, the tips of the scallops a warm, golden color--”

"Don’t annoy me," Mamina said, setting the pitcher down on the table. "Papito will be here soon. Sit down."