Casco Viejo: the Second Season


Chapter Seven

Joe Berger wasn’t happy. In fact, he was miserable. He had just eaten a hamburger at Mojito’s, an inexpensive but trendy open air bar on a corner of Plaza Herrera—by himself. “Geesus,” he thought, “I’ll never, ever kick a dog again.” Indeed, since he had been sent off in disgrace by Beth Page, he felt like he was not back to square one but somehow strangely further behind the curve than when he first arrived and knew no one. It wasn’t like everybody was aware of the story. For some reason, maybe “because she’s a classy gal,” Joe was pretty sure that Beth had not made him the butt of gossip as a notorious dog kicker. Yet, he had to believe that some of the folks knew something was up or more correctly down in his case. His e-mail account wasn’t exactly burning up with invitations (none in fact). A couple of chance encounters, once with two Panamanian women in their thirties, who seemed to be on a girl’s day out, and an older woman in a broad-brimmed sun hat, out walking her dog Oh, oh, turned out awkwardly.

Joe had lost his confidence, again, not without reason. If you go up to the plate and strike out every time, then there’s no reason to expect to get a hit. Berger never got beyond Little League and that was sometimes a painful experience, stuck out in right field hoping that no speeding baseballs would come his way. If you usually get knocked out, after a while you’re reluctant to climb back in the ring. Face facts, you’ve got a glass jaw. Enough with the metaphors, the reality was that Joe was in a new slump in a new land.

It was only about 9:00, so Berger wandered up to check out a popular night spot called the Relic, which he heard about but never visited. “Who knows?” he thought, I might get lucky.” Luck had nothing to do with it. As Joe descended the long stairway down to a courtyard with palms shielding the soft lightning, he noticed that the crowd was about evenly split between male and female. At least there weren’t more guys. The only problem, that Joe became aware of as he made his way around and through several talkative groups, was that everyone in the place appeared to be under 35 and most looked to be under 30. What also surprised him was how many kids seemed to be expats, or tourists, but definitely speaking English. Kids Not one young lady, and there were many, many of whom looked bright and sexy, with nice long hair, blonde, brunette and lots of black, short skirts and high heels; not one made eye contact with Joe. Against his better judgment, Joe elbowed his way onto a stool at the bar and ordered a rum and coke. It didn’t help that the bartender called him “jefe.” As he looked around expectantly, he soon realized that he was virtually invisible. To be seen, the person in question has to come into focus, and not a single young woman even bothered to allow him into her depth of field. “They must all consider me a dirty old man, and I’m not that old.” Even at 50, Berger realized that if he stayed until closing time, which he was sure was way past his bedtime, that the ugliest girl in the place would simply give up, find her purse and head out the door. When a young fellow accidently bumped into him while carrying a couple of drinks, and the guy said, “Excuse me, Sir,” Joe thought, “I’m outta here,” and paid up; climbed the stairs as if he were headed to a hanging, his own; stopped in the men’s room for what was becoming an all-too-frequent pee; and found himself back out on the street. Sir

At that moment, no kidding, coming up the street, illuminated by a streetlight, was Carmen. Without hesitation, she pranced up to Joe, and was the first being to actually make eye contact in the past half hour. “Well, well,” Berger said as he bent over and gave Carmen the pet that was expected. “At least, you don’t hold a grudge.” He played with the one white and one black ear for a moment and then patted the dog on her fuzzy white side. Carmen gave a quick little shake that made Joe think, “Oh shit, she shook it off,” and then continued her jaunt down the street, stopping once at a streetlamp for a sniff.

Joe had become used to facing defeat and decided he might as well go back to his apartment and see if he could get interested in a porn site on his computer. As he came around the corner of his building he spotted a young woman pacing back and forth in front of the Columbus House. Not skinny, but curvy rather than pudgy, she was wearing a strapless, leopard-print, what could only be called a party dress, sandals with a short heel and an angry expression on her face.

In fact Bebe Castro was pissed off. Not only had Allan Myers not called her for three days, he had not returned her calls and then that day apparently changed his phone number. This was a guy she had allowed to fuck her in her ass. Of course he paid the first time they had sex, but after that she gave it away. Allan was her boyfriend and he seemed to like to take advantage of her willingness to suck his cock any time and any where. He bought her sexy underwear, which he expected her to wear when they were alone in his apartment and nothing else. Okay, they didn’t talk much. Allan didn’t seem that interested in learning Spanish, but she tried a few words in English; and “oh baby, yeh baby,” was a kind of universal language. The problem was that she really thought he liked her, beyond the good sex. Maybe she hoped too much that he liked her. If she gave him what he wanted, then he would appreciate it and make it worth her while. Marriage, sure, why not? Instead, he dumped her, like a discarded candy wrapper, without a word, without a gesture of good will, without a cent. Bebe truly believed that Allan owed her something; and her plan was that she wasn’t going to leave until he took her back or until she got paid.

Berger recognized her as Allan’s girlfriend, if that’s what you want to call her. He also recognized an opportunity for a bit of revenge. How’s it hangin’? So he tried to push his casual button and nonchalantly strolled up and said “Hey, what’s up Babe?” To which, the woman, who had her hair pulled over to a ponytail on the side of her round face, said “Be Be,” emphasizing each syllable. This caught Joe off guard for a moment and he repeated “Bay Bay?” in the tone of a question. “Si,” she said, “Bebe.” The fact that was her name finally dawned on Joe and he said “Oh, si, Bebe,” as he shook her right hand and leaned over and kissed her left cheek. “Mi llamo Joe. Como esta usted?”

“Bien,” she said. Since, Joe couldn’t think of how to say “How about a drink?” He countered with “Habla, usted, inglais?”

“A pequeno,” she said with a shrug of her bare shoulders that glistened with a sheen of perspiration.

“Okay, how about a drink?” Joe held out his elbow for the girl to take and she did.

“Okay,” she said, and for the first time since he arrived she smiled. Bebe couldn’t exactly remember where she had seen this gringo, but she was pretty sure he was a friend or at least an acquaintance of Allan’s. “Vive aqui?” she asked pointing to the front door.

“Si,” Joe said. He was pleased and surprised he understood. Then a bit too formally “Yo vivo aqui.” He pointed actually at a window of his apartment instead at the entrance.

“Muy bien,” Bebe thought. She too recognized an opportunity for revenge.

* * *

When Beth and Allan entered Indigo’s they immediately came upon Jack Smith sitting at the bar. In fact he was the only person seated on a stool along the front side wall.

“So are you reviewing this place, old buddy?” Allan gave him a friendly faux slap on the back.

“No, not tonight,” Jack said, looking up from his vodka on the rocks with a twist. “Actually, I’ve already written up this place, when it first opened.”

“So what did you think?” Allan persisted.

“Four out of five stars.” Jack shrugged. “So Beth, I saw an article in the paper about whatshisname Feliz, the happy-go-lucky developer. I’m pretty sure though I didn’t spot your name. Isn’t the building in question right next to your much more legitimate development project? I’m surprised the reporter didn’t try to get a nice scathing quote out of you.”

“Oh, shit,” Beth said with just the hint of a forced smile, “I’m glad they didn’t. I would have probably stuck my foot in my mouth.”

“I doubt that,” Jack said, and he did too. Beth was becoming a major player in Casco Viejo, and he was still enough of a newspaper man (retired) to wonder why she wouldn’t have been the first person a reporter would have gone to for a statement about that Feliz character.

“I’m not the only one who is trying to save Casco,” Beth pointed out. “I’m glad that other property owners and developers and residents even are concerned about preserving our heritage.”

“And our property values,” Allan said. It was pretty obvious that Allan wanted to move Beth on to a table and back to him as the center of attention.

“Indeed,” Jack said. Beth’s response sounded to him like a prepared statement, with no high-heeled foot in her mouth. As the newest couple on the social scene moved away, Jack figured Beth knew more than she was saying about her involvement in “saving Casco Viejo.”

What did that mean exactly? Save what from what? Obviously, Casco Viejo, which was also known as Casco Antiquo, is a place, but somebody, even a greedy bastard like Feliz, would not change that by putting up a brand new building. In many places that would be considered urban renewal. Certainly, there were plenty of buildings in Casco Viejo and the greater San Felipe district that were run-down or worse to fallen down. Those old structures had not been saved—not in time. The deal is that the whole peninsula was declared a World Heritage site back in 1997 apparently because of its rich historical and cultural importance and is supposedly protected by the National Historical Heritage Office. There is a finite number of a bit over 800 buildings; and every one of them are supposed to remain true to their original architectural plan. In fact, a few years ago Jack climbed nearby Ancon Hill and took a panoramic photo of the whole area. When he compared it to an antique photograph taken in the 1890s the view was remarkably similar.

After all, neighborhoods even cities decline then decay and sometimes are abandoned but often replaced with newer, not necessarily better or more charming, but practical and improved buildings where people live, work and have families. Jack had lived in Casco longer than most expats or gringos or whatever including the many younger Panamanians who worked in the modern high-rise city and wound their way through the narrow streets of the old section, back to their small apartments in renovated buildings and out to sidewalk cafes like the Casa Blanca or Ego’s or restaurants like Cedro’s or Indigo’s. As far as Jack could tell, the vague hoped-for plans for the area didn't really include family life. The parks or squares were sites for cathedrals and/or sidewalk cafes. The streets and sidewalks were narrow and not stroller friendly.

If Casco Viejo was being saved it seemed like it was being saved for a future group of residents, people who weren't there yet, but who would purchase the renovated buildings and condos and apartments for more than they cost to restore. It was being saved for baby boomers, who had not yet retired; for Venezuelans who had not yet gotten their money out from under Chavez's thumb; for Columbians, who needed a place to invest their drug money; and for Panamanians who needed some place to reinvest. Most importantly, with about a half dozen hotels in the works, including the renovations (or more correctly the rebuilding) of the old Union Club and the Hotel Central; Casco Viejo was being saved so tourists would have a place to visit. It is doubtful that as many tourists would go to San Juan if there wasn't a fully restored, heavy on the charm and safe Old San Juan to tour. The streets of the modern Panama City were like anywhere; but the streets of Casco Antiquo reminded some of the French quarter in New Orleans with wrought-iron balconies and jazz music coming from a club nearby.

Of course, Panama as a nation needs to remember its history from Simon Bolivar and the founding fathers; through first the French and then the Americans and their involvement in the canal and up to Torrijos and Noriega. Even the fact that Casco Viejo exists on the peninsula it does is because the true original town was burned to the ground by Henry Morgan and his private army of pirates. High walls on a peninsula made the town easier to defend. Yes, that history too of exploitation goes back to the early days of the Spanish conquest and it too was based on greed, the greed for gold.

Now what is either being exploited or saved is because of greed for profits made from history and old -time architecture. Jack felt cynical when he had these thoughts, as he stared at the prism of melting ice floating in vodka. The great old days of Casco Viejo, were when it wasn't called that; when it was simply Panama, the capital and a town that bordered on the American territory known as the Canal Zone. Come to think of it, that wasn't that great either—the capital of an occupied country.

What Jack knew was that the place wasn't being saved at all. Not restored, not renewed, but replaced. When many or most of the buildings are finally renovated, most of the people, not all squatters, by the way, would be moved out; either relocated by the government to huge developments of tiny houses out along the Pan American Highway; or priced out with pretty much the same destination—those ticky-tacky little boxes out on tracks of land stripped of trees and character. Probably, many also would end up occupying the smaller, older high-rise apartment buildings, whose views have been blocked by the newer, taller towers along Balboa Avenue.

The people who would move in, who already started and lived in buildings like the Columbus House and the old Hotel Columbia and the Art Nuevo Building or their own three story mansions on cobblestone streets, would not share the heritage that was preserved. Being well-off, they might be able to appreciate it, but relocating for maybe six months a year or retired from Spain, Canada, Russia or the States, meant that the Canal Museum was something to show visitors from back home. The history of daring splits from Columbia or the fall of a two-bit dictator were stories to be told; value added to the setting. If people like Beth and that Feliz character had their way, Casco wouldn't be Viejo at all, but Nuevo, with new buildings that looked old. And the native people who remained would have plenty of opportunities selling handicrafts and souvenirs on the streets; or as waiters, cooks, and bartenders; maids, superintendents, store clerks; and yes some would own the shops that catered to the new clientele and probably a new generation of Panamanians would join the mix, but most of them would speak English and tip badly, like the expats and retirees who seem determined to take over.

So Jack at least, who had embraced yet a different Panama, the land of his deceased wife, a place cut in half by an American-built waterway, couldn't really go along with the idea of anyone, not the government, not the developers and certainly not future residents saving Casco Viejo. Yes, there were good strong even worthwhile reasons to protect the concept of a quaint quarter, filled with historical landmarks and tourist attractions. Definitely, it would be a shame if the old places were bulldozed away and even more towers scraped the sky—that would be a total loss. However, Jack couldn't help seeing self interest in any notion of saving Casco Viejo, not for posterity as much for economic potential; not for the people as much as for personal gain; not for the soul of a nation as much as for the bank accounts of the few who dared to invest. It was probably true that people like Beth and Allan saw it as a win-win situation, where a unique place is not destroyed, and because it isn't, they double their money. What could be wrong with that? Nothing was wrong with that, Jack knew, but he also wished that the section of the city, now known as Old/Viejo, would have stayed nice and really true with Panamanians living and working and governing from a neighborhood that didn't need to be renovated, because it had always been kept up and lived in and maintained as a place worth saving.

* * *

When Beth Page and Allan Myers followed the waiter out to the back open-air courtyard (so Beth could smoke), they immediately noticed Barb and Mitch Multusky sitting with Madge and Jerry Cole at a table along the wall. Even though she wondered if Cole would be civil, Beth led Allan across the small space and greeted the other two couples with the required hugs and air kisses. Along with Mitch, who towered over the group, Jerry stood up and shook Allan’s hand with both his eyebrows arched high on his forehead. He nodded toward Beth, in an I-know-you’re-here kind of way. Without much chitchat, Beth and Allan retreated to the relative safety of their candle-lit table. Both exchanged smirks.

“Well, had we announced our date on CascoViejo.org, I’m not sure any more people would know about it,” Allan, who really didn’t mind, said as he lit Beth’s cigarette. “Not that there’s anything to be ashamed of or secretive about. In fact, I’m proud to be seen out with such an attractive woman,” Allan asserted as he signaled the waiter, who had not bothered to take their drink orders when he seated them.

“You’re such a flatterer,” Beth said, “and don’t stop for a minute. I just hate the tension that is caused by just having Jerry Cole in the room.” It occurred to Beth that she had never before had such a long list of enemies—probably the price of being an independent woman in a macho land, a concept even the gringos seemed to embrace the minute they landed at Tocumen Airport. Maybe not so much with Mitch, who simply let Barb do most of the errands; but definitely Cole who seldom missed an opportunity to brow beat his wife. That’s why she liked the idea of Allan. He was a bullshitter, for sure, but he was also apparently independently wealthy and had been accomplished, so not likely to feel jealous or threatened or uncomfortable when dealing with a woman as strong and capable as Beth hoped she actually was.

“I think Jerry was so surprised to see us together, that he forgot to hit you over the head with a chair,” Allan said as they clicked their glasses, each a Mojito.

For the next hour or so, one couple at one table and two couples at another in a pleasant courtyard surrounded by a stone wall bordered by leafy trees that only allowed a glimpse of a half moon, tried to speak in hushed tones so the other table wouldn’t be aware that they were talking about them. Everybody agreed that Beth looked good in what Mitch called “yet another strapless dress,” this time white on white lace. Nobody at the couples table knew what had happened to “that Joe fella” but they weren’t surprised that Beth had apparently moved on rather quickly. They agreed that they were a bit more surprised by Allan being added to the equation since “he seemed to be into las chicas,” as Mitch put it.

“I just hope Allan doesn’t invest any money with her,” Jerry said.

“Oh, Jerry, give it a rest,” Madge said. She hoped to get away with the rebuke because they were with another couple. Further, she hoped that after some more red wine that Jerry would forget the putdown. Probably not, but she was having a hard time putting up with his tirades. Also, since she was the only one who would listen, she often found herself in the position of surrogate object of his wrath. Beth for example had not replied to any e-mails sent by Jerry in months, and she wasn’t the only one. No doubt about it, Madge was tired of being her husband’s scapegoat, most probably because no one else would listen to his invective, particularly not most of the contractors, foremen and laborers responsible. She was sick of being his whipping boy or girl or whatever and wasn’t willing to take the rap any more. No wonder Madge felt the need to reply in kind on occasion, when she had a chance.

* * *

When Beth spotted Berger walking from the other direction toward the door of Columbus House with Allan’s puta on his arm, she laughed out loud. “This is unbelievable,” she said. Actually, it wasn’t that surprising since the expat community was small and concentrated within a few blocks. Beth, way more often than not, saw people she knew out and about town. Heck, the question back at Indigo’s was who didn’t she know. Plus Berger did live in the same building as Allan, but the timing seemed ridiculous. It also seemed to her that the other couple, who were closing quickly, were somehow pleased by and welcomed the opportunity to confront the two of them.

As Joe said “Good evening,” in a very hearty almost boisterous manner, Bebe slipped her hand from Berger’s elbow, stepped forward, with her shoulders back (which meant that her breasts were thrust forward), her chin up and her eyes big, and said “Hello, Allan.” The way she said his name was all so very formal—Al and lan being two distinct and overdone syllables—that Beth laughed again. It was like getting the giggles during a funeral or in court. Everybody seemed to be taking things so seriously and at least as far as Beth was concerned it was pretty darn silly.

“I woulda like to speak you, uno momento,” Bebe said as she glared at Beth, who was failing in her attempt to stifle her laughter.

“Sorry, that ain’t gonna happen,” Allan said with a sneer that could have almost passed as a smile.

“That was a good try, but no cigar, Baby,” Beth said, as she tried to catch her breath. Sure she had what three, maybe four Mojitos, but this was just too funny.

“What so funny, bitch?” Bebe said, with her hands on her hips.

At that another laugh burst from Beth. “Oh, please,” she sputtered.

“Say, look here,” Berger said, as he put a foot on the step as Allan worked his key in the lock.

“Oh, this is too much,” Beth gasped. At that, the mechanical lock clicked loudly and the door swung open. Allan smoothly swung Beth, unsteady on her high heels, through the entrance and turned to the other two. After he gently shoved his giddy school-girlish date toward the elevator, he held the door partly open and snarled “listen you two losers—get the fuck out of our face.”

“Hey, wait a minute. I live in this building too,” Joe said.

“Yeh, I know. So, fuck off,” Allan said as he shut the door which locked automatically. Since Berger did not have his key out, that was that as the elevator door could be seen closing behind the barred windows. That was certainly that as Bebe turned and walked away at a quick and determined pace.

Unseen by the two couples, Jack Smith sat on a park bench, and watched life unfold on the front steps of his building across the street. From his point of view not hidden really but not under a street light, Jack found that he was able to appreciate the comic element of what he had just witnessed. Jack often sat on a bench in one of the squares “playing the role of an old geezer” as Mitch suggested one evening when he came by walking Carmen. “Takes one to know one,” Jack said and Mitch readily agreed. “You betcha,” Mitch said “I’m an authority on geezer behavior.” He was too and hit Jack with a series of one liners.

“You know you’re a geezer when you try to get your jubilado discount on a hot dog from a sidewalk vendor. “You know you’re a geezer if you can remember when Noriega was in power. …when the US of A owned the Panama Canal. …when real estate was cheap in Panama. “

Jack had laughed, but it wasn’t because he was old exactly, but because sometimes sitting by himself in his apartment made him feel extra lonely. Out on the squares, there was life, even if it turned out to be screwballs like Berger, who chased after a young woman, half his age, who looked vulnerable rather than sexy in that little bit of a leopard-print dress; or couples still lucky enough to have each other, walking by; or groups of young guys out on a toot; or even a Presidential police officer riding by on a noisy ATV. It was somebody to think about and observe for a moment. It was seldom as diverting as watching the local soap opera play out on the steps to Columbus House, but it was better than focusing on himself and the empty space in his world.