Mojo

Beginnings

Another death has occurred in the simple little seaside village of Portogris. And again, the authorities have no clue to decipher or lead to follow. What is obvious to anyone who has heard the least about these deaths is that they were not natural or accidental. Both men were killed, the first one murdered.

I am beginning to suspect a sequence of events that could not possibly be true, but the fact is I have the only potential evidence. And I am apprehensive to produce it for the officials in charge of the cases. I cannot imagine that they would believe what I am only now beginning to suspect myself.

It came drifting down out of the dark when we were in the alley, looking at the body of the second victim, and it settled softly and quietly on my shoulder. I only happened to see it in motion out of the corner of my eye, and without thinking, picked it delicately and placed it in my pocket. I was preoccupied at the time. Two deaths of suspicious nature in such a small community and within such proximity of one another can be reasonably worrisome.

I have lived here for a very short while – a few months. I came here from the city east of us more than a day’s journey by bus. There, I worked for the paper, which will no doubt be reporting these events before long. During those years of covering stories of crime, sometimes petty sometimes heinous, and unfortunate sordid events and scandals in the lives of unknown people, I longed for the opportunity to create my own stories – stories of fiction in which no one would be hurt and no one the monster – stories of amusement and fantasy.

And so, having saved my money and finally securing a small pension, I found my way to a place of quiet friendly people. I remember stepping off the bus that day and taking a deep breath of sea air, then looking around at the decrease of traffic and commotion. I felt a profound elation and excitement in that moment.

I walked to a nearby café, and people along the way looked me in the eye, smiled, and greeted me with sincerity. And after only a few inquiries, I secured a comfortable apartment in one of the three houses in town with a second floor. It has a small balcony where I have enjoyed many quiet mornings and evenings in contemplation. And I’ve allowed my imagination to wander in the thick blanket of fog, which seems to recur daily. Nor have I had any need of conveyance… everything is a leisurely stroll away.

I’ve taken many strolls – in exploration of my surroundings. This being a sea town, it is understandably teeming with taverns. Every two or three days, a ship will arrive, and the sailors are eager to drink and enjoy themselves. When the ship leaves, some of them stay… and then they are gone again on the next ship or the next. Sometimes, hearts or promises are broken, and sometimes relationships of the lasting kind are forged. But stories of romance are not my forte.

During my first weeks, I walked the boulevard along the waterfront. I visited the many bars that face the sea. But I found them noisome and rowdy, full of drunken men wanton with bravado, lust, and vulgarity. And I could not help but feel uncomfortable and at times intimidated.

Then, one evening, I chose a different street two blocks in from the boulevard. It was darker and quieter, and the fog more settled. I had stopped to light a cigarette when I heard the faint sound of music, billiard, and merry laughter. Looking across the street, I saw a sign on a building that dimly advertised Nat’s Place, Eatery and Bar. And I was drawn into it, as a moth to a flame.

Other People

I entered through swinging doors and saw perhaps a dozen men and a few women, some engaged in quiet conversations and a few in the rear gathered around two pool tables. Most of them turned towards me as I entered, and a few of these raised their chins or their drinks in greeting. Nodding back, I walked over to the bar and found a stool.

While waiting for the bartender, I looked around and noticed at least a couple of people in the booths enjoying meals. And suddenly, I felt a presence and turned around to face one of the biggest men I have ever seen – the bartender. He had soft eyes in contrast to his foreboding massiveness, which suggested at least a hint of goodliness.

“What’ll it be?” he said in a quiet friendly manner.

“You have beer on tap… is it cold?” I replied.

He smiled and nodded. “It’s always cold," he said. He got a mug and started drawing. “You’re the new man in town. Not a seaman?”

“No,” I replied, “I’m no seaman. I’m a writer… used to write for the paper in the city. Are you Nat?”

He went casually about his work. “Natália was my wife. I named the place in her memory.”

Just then, a couple of young women came in through a door beside the bar. They were carrying trays of food and called out to the men at the pool tables, three of which detached themselves from the games and went to a nearby table. And sitting down, they removed their caps and politely thanked the women. I could not help but notice how attractive those two were, and I watched fixedly as they placed the food and utensils down. They appeared to be of some native descent, and they moved gracefully.

“My daughters,” he said. As they headed back to the kitchen, he called them over and made introductions. His name was James and the girls were Rosário and Teresa.

After the women had gone their way, I couldn’t help myself in saying, “Forgive me for being presumptuous, but those girls bear no resemblance to you at all.”

And he laughed a genuine embracing laugh. “No”, he said, “they take entirely after their mother. She was an islander… I happen to be Irish.”

In the following evenings, I came back to Nat’s Place for most of my dinners. In a very brief time, I came to feel as if James had become my friend. And I began to see that the patrons there, who were consistently regulars, were consistently respectful. It was, I felt, in the way James treated them. It was apparent that no one would want to cross this man by acting out of line or offending his girls. But he seemed to think that it was his departed wife who had instilled a lingering attitude of etiquette. She had been one of those women, he said, who could talk down a tempest.

There were three men perhaps in their late twenties or early thirties who at times let the alcohol get the best of them and they would get unruly. James would simply stand and watch them, and when they looked at him, they would abruptly quiet themselves or leave. I soon learned their names – Billy, Gary, and Shank.

It was already getting late one night. I was sitting at the bar having a smoke and drink after another delightful meal, when a very strange fellow walked in. He seemed like someone out of a classic sea novel. He walked with a limp, his face was unshaven, he had his long hair tied back and covered with a bandana… and of all things, he had a parrot perched on his shoulder.

As he made his way to the bar, he was greeted heartily by everyone. He took the stool next to mine, but his eyes were fixed on James.

“Jimbo,” he said merrily, “give us a cold one.”

James had already drawn a beer and set it down before him. “Rogélio, my friend, you’re finally back from the high seas. It’s good to see you.”

“Aye,” replied Rogélio, “and I dare say, I think this time, I am home to stay. I believe I am getting too old to be shipping any more.”

The girls came out of the kitchen then and, without hesitation, threw themselves at him, hugging him and kissing him on the cheek. “Uncle Roger!” exclaimed Rosário, “I thought I heard you out here. Ugh, you need a shave.”

And Rogélio chuckled and hugged them back, “Ah, my little angels.”

I had been watching with great interest, but that parrot, I must admit, had dominated my attention. It was all I could do not to keep staring at it. He had descended onto the bar and stood there looking about. The creature was homely, to say the least, but possessed an air of character that I found striking.

And then, this man Rogélio, was addressing me, “Ah, I see you’ve taken a liking to my little friend. His name is Mojo.”

Sea Stories

Rara Avis

James made introductions then, and I was flattered when he referred to me as a newfound friend. “Rogélio is my brother-in-law,” he added.

“Well, any friend of Jimbo’s...” said Rogélio, taking my hand with a vigorous shake.

The five of us conversed for a while, Rogélio briefing us on his recent journey, Rosário regaling him with her achievements at the school in the city, and I watching that clownish bird. Teresa had found some peanuts and was giving him one at a time. She would set it on the bar, and the bird would slowly but gracefully pick it up with his foot and bring it up to his beak. And she and the nearby customers would giggle each time.

James excused himself to serve someone.

“Alright, girl,” said Rogélio, shaking his head. “Don’t get carried away. He’s liable to have an accident and embarrass the two of us.”

Each time the parrot performed his trick, he would stand there with his breast jutting out, as if waiting for an applause. While the girls and their uncle talked, I continued to watch that parrot strutting up and down the bar. And the people sitting there would greet him, talk to him, and pet him gently.

He was a most unusual specimen, unlike any parrot I had ever seen or heard of. He did not have the bright colorful plumage one might expect. In fact, he appeared to be bald around the head and neck except for a few single inch-long feathers sprouting here and there. And his bodily plumage was a mottled and drab mixture of gray and black with a few more of these longer feathers sticking out randomly. These on his body protruded as much as two inches, giving an appearance of utter misplacement. His beak seemed unusually large and twisted in an unnatural way. And his legs were unproportionately stilt-like, ending in claws long and curved, reminding me of the larger birds of prey.

I kept thinking of that parrot on my way home, and he was the last thing in my thoughts as I fell asleep. He had stirred up mixed feelings of sympathy in me. I was remembering the many people I had encountered during my career in the city – the homeless, the disfigured ones – people who, through no doing of their own, had become the stains of society – rejected, discriminated against, looked down on, and so often harassed and mistreated with no one to advocate for them.

It was as if they had been born to bear the sullage and onus, the ills and lacks, so that the rest of us might seem more gifted, more unscathed, superior in so many ways. And we, the latter, do not consider ourselves cruel or condescending, for that would diminish us in some way. We simply are who we are, and they are less, and we learn to be comfortable with that.

Mojo, apparently, had been born to be the unfortunate one among his kind, except that he had been bestowed with an advocate – Rogélio. It was this last notion that finally allowed me to sleep.

Sea Stories

In the days that followed, Rogélio and I spent many hours visiting and walking together to the bar and to the beach. I came to learn that he and Natália were from one of the Pacific islands, and he had brought her here after their parents had died so that she might find opportunity for a better life. He had known James for a very long time, and he had been more than pleased when Natália and James decided to marry.

Rogélio had been a seaman most of his life. Among other stormy voyages, he had survived one in the Sargasso Sea, a nautical area known for paranormal peculiarities. On another tempestuous journey, a mast had fallen and crushed his leg, which explained why he used a prosthesis – one, he said, he had fashioned himself.

I also came to see that those very few feathers, which adorned Mojo in that distinctive haphazard manner, had a unique quality. While they appeared to be a pale drab gray, up close and in the light, they were actually opalescent or iridescent. Each one reflected the light with a shimmering of color and luminescence, which only added to the wonder of this bird. Mojo had been given to Rogélio by some tribal leader as a token of gratitude for an act of kindness.

“These men who sail,” Rogélio said, “they forget themselves sometimes. They are often out at sea for so long, when they see a woman, they act like animals… or worse. The men I was with that day were going to have their way with the young princess. I tried to stop them and got clobbered for it, but it bought enough time for the captain and chief to show up.”

I admit that his stories had awakened a literary interest in me, and perhaps I was being advantageous when I bought him drinks and pestered him to tell me more of his many exploits.

“Is there one episode in your log which you would call the worst?” I asked him one day.

“Aye,” he said pensively. He removed his cap and stared out at the sea for some time. I sensed that I had touched a sore spot, and I was resigned to leave it alone.

Mojo was also looking out at the ocean as if they were both focused on the same thing. Then, suddenly, he let out a sharp cry.

“Aye,” said Rogélio, as if shaken out of some reverie. “Some years ago, Natália decided to go on a voyage with me because she learned we would be stopping at our home island. She had been away for a long time, and the girls were already old enough for James to manage. We saw to our parents’ graves and visited with relatives and friends for a while. I think it did her some good.

“It was on the homeward journey... we got caught in a bad one... she came out on deck to see if she could be of any help... and she was swept away...” There was pain in Rogélio’s voice and in his eyes. We sat there in silence for a long time staring out at that immense body of churning water. And I never again bothered Rogélio for any more stories.

Feelings at Play

It was two days later, when we were all sitting at a table in the bar. James had asked a couple of his friends to mind the business while he and the girls had dinner with Rogélio and myself, something he rarely did. And Mojo was on his perch, which Rogélio had built for him some time ago, high up near the ceiling so he could watch everything that went on below.

We heard loud laughter outside, and then Shank and his two friends came in. They were in a festive mood, loud and boisterous. Hearing them talk, I gathered that they had just come in on a ship. They were going to eat and then return to the other bars and find some women to finish off the night. Then, they noticed Rogélio and felt compelled to come and say hello. They had often sailed together, so they stood there and exchanged conversation for a while.

“And where’s that ugly bird of yours?” said Shank, looking around. “Or did you finally decide to put him out of his misery?”

“He’s around, and he’s not ugly, and he’s not miserable.”

Seeing me sitting next to Teresa, Shank eyed me with some displeasure. Then he grinned mischievously and muttered, “Don’t be letting this old fool fill you with stories. He makes them up in his sleep.” The three of them laughed. Then he added, “And watch yourself with that one (meaning Teresa). I got plans for her one of these days.”

With that, James stood up slowly, wiping his mouth. “That’ll be enough, Shank. You’re welcome to stay and have your dinner, but keep your mouth under control. Please.”

Shank nodded and backed off a bit, “Okay, okay, Jimmy, I just meant I was going to ask her out.”

And now Teresa started to get up, saying, “Let me give you an answer right now. I would never...” But James had his hand on her shoulder and was gently pushing her down.

I noticed a veiled smirk on Rogélio’s face and found this somewhat curious. Later, on the way home, he explained himself, “She has her mother’s spirit, that one. She’s a sweet girl alright, but you don’t want to see her angry.” And he chuckled and shook his head.

Feelings Spill Over

The following night, Rogélio and I entered the bar and saw that the troublesome trio was already there. James was serving them their drinks. Rogélio and I found a couple of empty stools about twelve feet away, and Mojo descended onto the bar. He liked to strut up and down, entertaining whoever would give him any attention. Then the girls came down from the apartment upstairs. Shank and his friends turned around and watched as the girls walked past them into the kitchen.

When James had waited on us, I saw Rogélio trying to slip something to him on the bar. James shook his head slightly. I noticed then that it appeared to be a large coin, and from the little I could see, it appeared to be gold.

“Come on, take it,” said Rogélio quietly, “it’s high time I paid off my tab.”

James took it with obvious reluctance and slipped it into his pocket. I noticed that Shank was watching what should have been a secret transaction. He looked away when he saw I was watching him.

What happened next was a matter of unfortunate timing. Teresa came out of the kitchen and Shank turned to look at her. Mojo also noticed her and started walking over. She saw Mojo as he was walking past Shank and his friends, and she stood at the end of the bar smiling at him and waiting for him. Shank turned to see what she was looking at.

Perhaps it was a moment of inappropriate showiness or maybe it was just the alcohol or more likely both, but Shank reacted quickly and violently, sweeping his hand backwards and knocking the helpless bird out into the middle of the floor. “Keep that ugly filthy thing away from me!” he muttered.

And while everyone was clearly stunned, Rogélio walked over, and with one quick right-cross, knocked Shank down on his back. Billy and Gary were about to get up, but James was already behind them with his hands on their shoulders.

Rogélio looked around at them and then at James. He lowered his eyes and shook his head. “I’ve broken the rules, my friend,” he said, “and dishonored my own sister. I’ll be leaving now, and I am truly sorry.”

“You didn’t start this.”

“Perhaps not, but I need some fresh air anyway.” As he started toward the door, he glanced over at me, “You stay here, Laddy, I’ll be seeing you later.”

Teresa had already picked up Mojo, had inspected him for injuries, and she handed him to Rogélio, putting her hand on his shoulder as he walked away.

Shank was now coming around and was sitting upright on the floor. James allowed the others to go help him up.

“Yeah, I’ll be leaving too,” Shank said, straightening himself out. He was unmistakably ashamed and could scarcely lift his eyes to face any of us. Billy and Gary chose to stay and finish their drinks, and James silently nodded.

And I sat there, admiring this man… a man who said little and was somehow understood by all… a man who did not judge but could enforce and try with no more than a look or a gesture.

The Two Deaths

Sad News

The following morning, I had chores to do which took most of the day. Then I spent some time resting. It was late afternoon when I heard someone knocking at the door. It was Teresa, and she was terribly upset.

“Uncle Roger is dead,” she blurted out. “He’s been murdered! I know it was that bastard, Shank. And he’s nowhere to be found.”

I had her sit down, and then I had to sit and let this all sink in. I was unable to say anything. I could not even think straight. Finally, I got up and held her for a moment, and then I walked her back to the bar, hoping that James might give me a different perspective. But all I got there were cold, hard facts.

Rogélio had been found in an alley near his home, apparently dragged there after he had been stabbed several times in the back. It appeared that his pockets had been picked. There was no clue as to who could have done it. When the inspector came to the bar to ask questions that morning, he had been told about the scuffle the night before. The search for Shank was in the process. The other two men had already been questioned, but they knew nothing.

The days that followed were full of activity, preparations, and mourning. I tried to stay close to the family and lend any support I could. Having no family of my own, I had found something akin in these people. Rogélio had been so much more than a friend. And now, I looked at James and wondered what was going through his mind. He remained quiet and did all that had to be done. And after everything seemed to be settling down, it occurred to me that no one at any time had mentioned or asked about Mojo.

Rather than bother James or the girls about it, I discreetly asked one of their other friends. He shared my interests and informed me that it had been presumed, under the assumption that Shank had been the guilty one, more than likely he had killed the bird as well.

Revelations

Two weeks passed, humorless and more steeped than ever in that relentless fog.

The day came when Rosário was to return to the city for more schooling, and Teresa was seeing her off at the station. I offered to go along for nothing more than a change of activity. Teresa looked at me warmly and said, “I think my father wants to talk to you.”

And so I bid Rosário good-bye, and she, of course, could not leave without a hug and a wish to see me again. And then, I received a hug from Teresa and a look and a smile that left me with a warmth unlike anything I had ever felt before.

A short while later, I entered the bar. James signaled to a friend to take over and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. I was beginning to feel apprehensive, for there seemed to be an air of mystery in all this. He asked if I would like a drink and I shook my head, but I asked if we could talk out on his balcony so I could smoke more comfortably. We sat out there and both took a whiff of damp air.

“Rogélio owned that little house he lived in, you know," he started. "It will sit empty now unless someone takes it over. I have been wondering if you would like to move in there. He left it to the girls, but they are not ready to move out of here. With Rosário away, Teresa would not be comfortable living there alone.”

I thought for a moment. “And how would everyone feel if I did this? I assume I would be paying them some rent?”

“If that would be more comfortable for you, we can work something out. We have talked about it. We can think of no one we would rather have in there.”

I looked at him and smiled, nodding slowly, perhaps assuming his own quiet way of communicating.

“There is something you should know,” he continued, as he stuck his hand in his pocket. He brought out a large brassy coin. “Rogélio had more of these.” He handed it to me.

I was astonished. As I turned the coin over in my hand, I saw that it was indeed a gold Spanish escudo dating from 1577. I do not know much about old coins, but I had to assume that a gold coin of this age had to be worth a great deal.

James continued, “He never carried more than one at a time. I have to believe that whoever killed him might have been looking for more of these. It was all for nothing.” He became quiet then and looked away over the rooftops. We could see the ocean appearing to conceal itself in the shroud of the fog. For the first time since I had known him, I thought I saw a glint of anger in his eyes.

“Anyway, there are more of these. I don’t know where he kept them, but I would guess they are somewhere in the house or on the property – a whole bag of them. If they were to turn up someday, I trust you will do the right thing.”

“Well, they are yours, of course… or the girls’.”

He smiled. “That’s not what I meant. Remember, Rogélio was killed because someone thought he had some on him.” Then he added, “There’s one other thing. Most people have assumed that Mojo is dead. I am certain he is not… and he’ll be turning up.”

I was very surprised to hear this. And I began to get the impression that James was not telling me everything about this revelation, albeit, it was the most I had ever heard him say at any one time.

Occurrences

In a few days, I was settled in at my new home. The house was teeming with seaman’s artifacts and items from all sorts of places, including a modest collection of very interesting books. And among these, I found a set of journals from his travels. These I considered most appreciable for they contained subject matter, which I could be writing about for years to come. I was missing the balcony upon which I had spent many thought-filled moments, but now I had a backyard, where I could see Rogélio had enjoyed similar detachment.

That first night, I stood in the middle of the house and felt a darkness come over me. I glanced around into every possible niche and corner and, for a moment, I thought about turning that habitat inside out in search for those coins. But then, everything I glanced upon reminded me of that man who at times had seemed like a brother or an uncle, and so, that spirit of greed abated. And I decided that I would never seek out that fortune, for it would only tarnish that special memory. And besides, what I had was worth far more.

The news arrived one day that Shank had been found. Admittedly, it was somewhat of a disappointment for us to learn that he had an alibi for the night of the murder. His story was that he had been with a prostitute from the city, and he had gone there with her that very same night, shortly after he had left the bar. The woman had been located and had verified his account. With no evidence to hold him, he was free and, rumor had it, he would soon be leaving on a ship. This left us all with a lingering lack of closure, for there was no one else to suspect.

On the morning of the day he was to board ship, Shank’s body was found in an alley in the warehouse area of town. No one would have had any reason to be there until later, when a worker discovered it. Oddly, his duffel bag was found a short distance from his apartment, at least a mile away.

His landlord stated that he had said goodbye very early that morning, as he usually did when he was going off to sea. Shortly after, he heard some yelling and went out to see what it was, but it was still dark and, as usual, it was very foggy.

Some of us went to the scene when we heard the news. Because of my connections with the paper, I was allowed to approach the area with the inspector. I could not believe what I saw.

Shank’s body was completely lacerated with large open wounds, some of which covered the entire length of his torso. One of his arms had been pulled from his body and tossed a good twenty feet away. His face was literally gone. And most of the alley was spattered with entrails and blood. The smell was enough to hold me at a distance.

The inspector turned to me with a riddled look, “A shovel perhaps? Or a scythe – except there would be no such implement in this town.”

I shook my head, “I don’t know, inspector... I have no idea.”

He went on about the business of inspecting the scene. I backed off a bit so as not to be in the way and lit a cigarette. I looked at the crowd that was gathering and saw them pointing and murmuring. Everyone was focused on that horrible pile of flesh. Then I noticed a small object falling from above and alighting on my shoulder – a little feather, which I thoughtlessly picked and put in my coat pocket.

I found it there later as I was walking to the bar, and I stopped and looked at it closely. It was gray and finely textured. The idea that it could have come from Mojo did occur to me, but clearly, this was not one of his iridescent feathers. It was too large to be a pigeon’s, and a seabird’s would have been whiter. And so, trivial as it seemed, not knowing the origin of that little feather held my interest, and I stuck it back in my pocket. I had in mind to ask someone about it later, but I never did.

Mojo

The next day, I was up rather early and decided to go walk the beach where Rogélio and I had walked before. There was a stretch that led out and away from the road and afforded some dunes where I had seen a variety of birds.

I was enjoying a bit of a climb and a healthy breeze when I heard a loud and raspy familiar cawing. My heart seemed to stop for a moment, and I hesitated and looked around. But then I promptly raced to the top of the dune. And there looking down on the other side, I came to an abrupt halt and altogether froze in horror.

There was Mojo, looking more hideous than he had ever looked before, for now he stood a towering fifteen feet tall at least. I cannot describe the disbelief I was having, some part of me wondering if I was in a nightmare. And he was looking at me with a menace in his eyes that brought forth images of Shank’s mangled body.

He took three or four steps towards me, stopped and cocked his head in a distortional manner. Then he let out another loud cry that thundered painfully in my ears. I thought of running, but I doubted I could get very far. And he stretched his wings out as if he had read my thoughts. For what seemed an eternity, we stood there in what otherwise could have been a laughable face-off. Our eyes were locked in each other’s, and my heart was pounding audibly.

I do not know how it happened then. I can only remember gazing into those eyes and getting drawn into them. I have a vague mental image of standing next to an eye so large, it seemed to enswathe me. A darkness came over me, something like one might experience in a dream, never actually passing out, but lost in an empty foggy environment, only awareness and nothing to be aware of except perhaps a morbid resignation.

And then I was looking down at little Mojo. And I slowly sank down to the sand on my knees, gathered him up in my arms, and cried and laughed at the same time.

r. nuñez, 9/2009