Tropical Disco

He spotted her in the headlights of his car close to the road. She was dressed in a white party dress, bare at the shoulders and discreetely open in front. She made no attempt to thumb a ride as he passed by. He thought it peculiar, her being there, alone, since the night was breezy and cool.

He stopped, put the car in reverse and drove until he reached her. She just stood there, staring forward, unmoving.

He opened the window on the passenger’s side. “Waiting for someone?” he asked.

She was slow to answer. Finally, she said, “My date. I think he stood me up.”

“Where are you headed?”

“The Tropical Bamboo. I’ll have to walk, I guess.”

“I know the place. But you can’t go there unescorted. The management has a policy of allowing only couples and single men in. You won’t get past the guard at the front door.”

“I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me. This is so disappointing.”

“Forgive me asking. What is disappointing?”

“The disco, it would have been my first time. A graduation present.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“And you say your date stood you up?”

She folded her arms, shivered. “Yes. He should have been here an hour ago.”

“My God, you’ve been waiting an hour.” He paused. “Listen. I have nothing planned for the night. And you’ll catch your death if you don’t get out of the cold. If you like, I can be your escort at the disco. What do you say?”

She smiled, and her teeth were even and white. “That would be wonderful. But we’ve never met, and I don’t usually talk to strangers.”

“We can remedy that easy enough.” He opened the passenger door for her, and she got in. She buckled her seat belt, and he said, “My name’s Raúl Santos. I’m a systems analyst and live in San Germán. And you?”

“Barbara. Barbara Dosamantes.”

“A pleasure, Barbara. Do you live around here?”

“Yes. Down the road a bit.”

“You were lucky I came along. Not too many cars travel along this lonely stretch of road at night. I had a business appointment in Rincón and was on my way home just now.”

She looked at him, touched his shoulder. “If it’s an imposition, you don’t have to do this. Honest.”

“No, it’s okay. There’s no one waiting for me at home. And it might do me good to relax. Not that I would be doing any relaxing on the dance floor.”

She smiled. “Thank you. You’re very kind. I’m so excited.”

“Well, Barbara Dosamantes. We’re off to the disco. Hang on.”

The building stood on raised ground, a boxlike structure painted matte black with violet trim. An asphalt path led to the parking area and the entrance. Pulsing off and on, in red letters, the neon sign read The Tropical Bamboo.

Raúl drove Barbara there and parked. The discotheque was in a beachfront district of Rincón known as Corcega, on the western shore of the island. The area was a haven for tourists and other carefree types because, apart from the discotheque, there were gambling casinos, caves, reefs and ruins to explore.

The couple went in and sat at a table where they had an angle view of the dance floor, the bar and the other tables. Luckily the place was not at full capacity, or they would have had to wait in line outside.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

She sat, mesmerized by the disco lights, the sounds and smells, and the delight evident on the faces of the other couples there: handsome dark-featured young men, and smartly dressed women of all shapes and sizes.

“Barbara?”

She looked at him. “Sorry. Did you say something?”

He lit a cigarette. “Yes. I asked if you would like something to drink.”

“I never have anything with alcohol in it. Only diet Coke,” she said.

“Well, diet Coke it is, then.” Raúl motioned to one of the waiters, a mustachioed young man wearing black and white, and ordered their drinks: a diet Coke for her and a whiskey sour for himself.

“This is a lovely place. So modern. Thank you for escorting me here.”

“My pleasure, Barbara. It would have been bad form not to assist a damsel in distress.” She laughed, and he said, “What’s so funny?”

“You. You called me a ‘damsel’. I’ve never been called that before.”

He puffed on the cigarette. “Well, you are. And a very pretty one at that.”

“Your compliments are turning my head,” she said.

Their drinks were served. When the waiter left, Raúl said, “Perhaps it’s the music. I also bet you’re a great dancer.”

She took a sip of his drink. “I am.”

He snickered. “My, no false modesty. I like that.”

There was a record change. The DJ had put on Donna Summer singing “Last Dance.”

“Last dance,

Last chance for love.

Yes, it's my last chance

For romance tonight.”

“I love Donna Summer,” she said, moving to the beat of the music.

He put his drink on the table. “Well, then, would you like to dance?”

“What?”

He stood, held her hand and whispered in her ear, “Let’s boogie on out to the dance floor. Better now than never.”

“It’s so crowded,” she said. “We won’t be able to move.”

“We’ll mingle then. Or we can shove everyone out of the way.”

“Okay, we’ll mingle” she said, stood, and he led her to the dance floor.

Surprisingly, Raúl discovered Barbara was an exceptional dancer, a dancing machine. There was a definite strength to her movements. She could hip-swing and stay on beat, and the coordination of her arms and legs seemed extraordinary. At one point, when the beat picked up and became frenzied, she unexpectedly released her partner and began dancing freestyle, going as far as to duplicate some of the same dance moves that made John Travolta famous in Saturday Night Fever. Awed, the other couples appreciated her effort. They began to applaud, urging her on.

Open-mouthed, Raúl watched in amazement. When the music stopped, he grabbed her hand and led her back to their table. They sat.

“That was something,” he said. “You were absolutely stunning.”

“Thank you,” she said, wiping sweat from her forehead with a napkin.

“You’re a great dancer, Barbara Dosamantes. A free spirit. No human I know can move like that.”

Her smile was beguiling, lips spread without her teeth showing. Presently she said, “What time is it?”

He checked his watch. “Almost midnight.”

“I think we should be leaving,” she said.

“Why? Your coach will turn into a pumpkin if we stay past midnight?”

“No, silly. I have a curfew. Twelve-thirty at the latest.”

“Are you sure? I’m enjoying myself. And you definitely are, too.”

“Very sure. Please, Raúl. Take me home.”

“If you insist, my lady.”

They stood. Her arm in his, they walked past the dance floor and out the door to where Raúl had parked his car. He opened the door for her.

Soon they were off. As Raúl drove, he noticed Barbara sat quiet, stoic, unblinking.

“You’re so quiet,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Just sleepy,” she said. “I hardly ever stay out late. I guess I’m not used to it.”

“Early to bed, early to rise, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“I had a good time, even if it was short. Just watching the way you move on the dance floor was an education. Madre mía.”

“Was it?”

“Yes. Only a professional dancer can move the way you do. I’m impressed.”

“Well, I’m not,” she said, “a professional dancer. I just love to dance.”

“You could have fooled me.”

They were quiet. On the road ahead an arrow pointed to the entrance of a motel. She noticed and said, “I’ve never been to one.”

“What?”

“A motel. I’ve never been in a motel. I wonder what it’s like.”

“What’s what like?”

“To sleep in a motel.”

He slowed the car, veered and parked near the entrance to the motel. He looked at her and said, “Is that an invitation?”

She smiled, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Would you think me fresh/forward if I told you I would like to go there, now--with you?”

He breathed, exhaled. “Not at all. Better now than never.”

He put the car in gear and negotiated the path leading to the motel. It was called The Oasis.

Inside the room was Spartan: just a double bed, a cushioned chair and a night table with shaded lamp. The light from the lamp was amber-colored and dim.

Barbara had held Raúl’s hand as they entered. He noticed she was trembling, and not necessarily from the air conditioning in the room.

She said, “I-I want to use the bathroom.”

“Be my guest,” he said, and pointed the way.

He watched as she closed the bathroom door, then went to the bed and pulled back the sheets. He took his clothes and shoes off and waited for her in bed.

She came out wearing nothing, which surprised him. She was stunningly petite: slim but shapely, with small breasts, ample hips and sleek, athletic legs. At the cusp of young womanhood. She looked white, pale from head to toe. Her straight hair hung loose, a platinum blond, and her pubic hair was sparse, tawny colored. Even in the subdued light she displayed something special—an aura.

She stood by the bed, and again he noticed she was trembling.

“Is this your first time?” he asked.

“Y-yes,” she said. “Please, take me now before I back down.”

“Are you sure about this?”

She nodded, and he said, “Come.”

She lay next to him on the bed, eyes closed, eyelashes fluttering, barely moving.

“I’ll be gentle,” he said. “This may be your first time, but it isn’t mine.”

“Love me,” she said. “Please, love me.”

And he did, with strength and passion. But he soon realized that she wasn’t a virgin. She lied.

Why? he wondered.

After he had finished, he rolled off her and said, “I could tell this wasn’t your first time. Why did you lie?”

She thought before answering. “I wanted it to be special for you. Did I disappoint you?”

“Not in the least. I’m glad we met, and glad we went to the disco and the motel. And I’m happy I had the foresight to give you a ride.”

“I should be getting home. I’ve never stayed out so late.”

“Your folks are probably worried, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Let’s get cleaned up. Then I’ll take you home.”

She asked him to leave her at the same spot where he had found her. He protested, wanting to escort her to the front door.

“You’ve been very thoughtful, but that won’t be necessary. It’s only a short walk along that path. I’ll be fine, really.”

“Okay, but at least take my coat. It’s nippy out. Besides, it will give me an excuse to come see you during the day.”

She laughed, a girlish titter. “That’s very clever, very flattering. Thank you, for your coat.”

He gave her his coat. She put it on and opened the car door. “Thank you, Raúl,” she said. “I had a delightful evening, and you were wonderful.”

“Adiós, Barbara.”

He put the car in gear and left. When he looked in the rearview mirror, he was surprised to find she was no longer there.

Early that afternoon, Raúl went to see Barbara, the mysterious young woman he had danced with and made love to during the night. He located the path she had mentioned, a vereda, and found he could use it to drive and park close to her house.

He got out and noticed a mailbox with a sign: Familia Ortiz Dosamantes. He knew then he was at the right house.

The house was a modest structure, constructed of clapboards painted white, a gabled zinc roof (red from rust) and a balcony with a wood balustrade. He climbed the three steps that led to the balcony and knocked on the door.

An elderly woman answered. She wore a plain house dress, an apron and had tied her gray hair in a severe bun. “May I help you?” she said.

“Hi. My name’s Raúl Santos. Barbara Dosamantes told me she lives here. We met last night.”

The woman remained mute, just scratched her head and looked at him.

After the lull became uncomfortable, Raúl said, “Barbara lives here, doesn’t she?”

“I think you should come in,” the woman said, a forlorn look in her eyes. “We can discuss it inside. I’m having coffee. Like some?”

“Sure. Thank you,” he said, and followed her in.

They sat in the kitchen, which looked as modest and bare as the rest of the house. Somewhere around the house he heard pigeons cooing, and a goat bleating.

She served him coffee and said, “You mentioned Barbara Dosamantes. If you are referring to Barbara, my granddaughter, her last name was Sánchez, not Dosamantes.”

“Was? What do you mean, was?”

“Barbara Sánchez died three years ago, on the way home from the discotheque. She was eighteen at the time.”

He sipped the coffee. “Listen, last night I met someone named Barbara Dosamantes. She too said she was eighteen. But, lady, the Barbara I talked to was definitely alive.”

“Let me show you a picture,” she said. She went into another room and returned with a framed photograph. She showed it to him. “Her graduation picture. Is this the young woman you were with last night?”

He held the photo, said, “Yes, it’s her. Only, the blond hair was a shade lighter, and it hung loose, not pinned. But the dress is the same. I’m confused.”

She took the picture and sat. “Let me explain. My husband and I raised Barbara since she was four. Alas, her early childhood wasn’t very pleasant. Her mother died young, from a heroin overdose, and her father abandoned her in infancy. His last name was Sánchez.”

“Then why would she say her last name was Dosamantes?”

“Barbara was a romantic. She loved the sound of our family name. Besides, she never knew her father so had no desire to use his name.”

“You said she died three years ago?”

“Yes.”

“Mind telling me how it happened?”

“Not in the least. After the discotheque opened, she desperately wanted to go there, because most of her friends did. Many times she asked our permission, but being old-fashioned, my husband and I refused. He passed away last year.”

“So sorry to hear it,” he said.

“Thank you, young man. We understood we were way over our heads raising a rebellious teen, but we did the best we could for her. She had no other family.”

“Then you adopted her?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“If you refused, how did she end up at the disco?”

“She left the house without our knowing and arranged for her friends to pick her up. The accident happened on the way back. The road was wet. The car skidded, struck a guardrail and landed in a ditch. Sadly, Barbara was the only casualty.”

Raúl held the coffee cup but didn’t drink from it. “Señora, I appreciate you telling me something which is obviously painful, and I’m sorry for your loss. But the Barbara who was with me at the disco last night was a young woman of flesh and blood. Believe me, she was not a ghost.”

“Let me—”

He stood. “Thank you for the coffee, and your time.”

The woman’s eyes suddenly turned misty. She wiped them with a tissue from her apron. “Before you go, will you do me a favor? Please?”

“If it’s within my power, sure.”

“Barbara’s remains are buried in the town cemetery. Go there. As soon as you enter, her tomb is the seventh on the right. Can you humor an old woman with this small request?”

Raúl didn’t answer. “Adiós,” he said.

As he left, she said, “Young man, don’t feel sad. You are the third one in three years.”

He drove to the cemetery, entered and located the tomb. The tomb was unadorned, just a patch of brown earth encircled by a linked chain held on four corner posts. The tomb marker read simply:

Barbara Sánchez Dosamantes

In Loving Memory

As he walked closer, Raúl saw a bouquet of withered roses, and then something else. Something which made his skin crawl. He saw his suitcoat, the one he had lent Barbara Sánchez last night, neatly folded, lying on the ground next to the tomb.

The End