Protest

Monica hurried down the cobbled road with the sun's rays on her bare shoulders. She smiled, listening to the chaotic rhythms of the streets. Music blared from storefronts, and vendors at each corner offered up helado — shaved ice with flavoring. Her new home wasn't that different from New York, less tidy but just as crazy. She still wasn't used to the openness of the police toward drinking cerveza outside of restaurants or bars. Different laws, different customs.

As she turned down the street past the financial district of one bank, and the old courthouse and permit building, the mood shifted. Men and women lined the narrow sidewalks, spilled out into the streets with signs demanding justice. Stop the Corruption. Vote for Independence. Drug Lords Govern. Stop the Bombing. Monica had thought she was the only one who didn't shrug off the nightly US bombing practice on a nearby deserted island.

A publico, filled with young girls, drove through the streets, nudging along behind the protestors. The passengers yelled from their open windows, "You can't make us disappear!"

Monica adjusted her sunglasses, straightened her posture, and began her sensuous strut meant as a distraction. She feared for these young girls. They were playing with fire. No amount of protest would stop men from being men. This wasn't the first time that she had witnessed protests since she had arrived on the island, but today's demonstration frightened her. Two of her lady workers were out in daylight, looking for business. Granted it was on their time, but soon Monica needed them at her bar, not behind bars.

A ruckus broke out, and policemen carted off two young boys, still in their school uniforms. Their painted sign said, Stop the Raping of Women and Beaches. A hush, and then a man yelled, "Be careful, you'll be the next desparecedos! Who knows where they will take you."

Monica edged her way through the crowd to enter her bar. She pulled her sunglasses off and shut out the outside world. The bar's dim lights, after the glare of the sun-kissed tropical day, were a welcome reprieve for the patrons who came from the sugarcane fields and financial offices. Her bar offered an escape from the heat, a way to ignore the emptiness in their hearts.

As her eyes adjusted, Monica surveyed the room. She felt tension, perhaps remnants from the protest outside. She needed to transition quickly into the Madam, the bright star who shone through the dark moods of the patrons. She'd chosen her dress to do just that — a rich blue silk dress cut low at the neck and tight around the hips.

Monica didn't consider herself beautiful, but her voluptuous body promised physical gratification and delight in its softness. She became all things for those who fantasized in sexual exploits, offered strength for the abusive and warmth for those who sought mothering.

She turned her strut into a dance and wove her way among the small round tables. The nonexistent aisles became part of her design, a purposeful tightness to push her patrons in the way of her body. Slight touches, a pat, a pinch, a glance, all created a sense of familiarity, cloaked in the forgiving dimness.

People spilled into the bar from the protest, many of them recipients of the protestors' taunts. She recognized the businessmen, the bankers, the government officials. Monica watched as money changed hands. One interaction stood out. The owner of the Banco de La Gente rushed into the bar, his face flushed, the pockets of his pants askew. His hands shook as he slipped a wad of money into the hands of a government official. Monica recognized the official by the name of Pedro.

Soon afterward, Señor Modesto, the bank owner, left with one of Monica's younger helpers. They headed up the back stairs for a private rendezvous. Monica noted his puppy dog behavior, as did all the patrons in the bar. One called out, "There goes Modesto. He is paying for his pleasure with my house payment."

For the most part, everyone tolerated the banker's self-indulgent behavior. He was a good tipper and not too demanding. Monica predicted he'd be down for another drink in less than an hour and that the bank's coffers would suffer accordingly. She wondered who here would be the lucky recipient of a loan after his latest foray upstairs.

Of more concern were the two borrachos sitting in the corner. Payday brought in the men from the field, and the woes of these two escalated as they drank. With raised voices, their insults became bolder and the swearing nastier. Monica sidled in closer as she heard the ultimate in swear words, Como tu madre. To talk of another's mother begged for a fight.

Monica slid her body between the two jibaros and signaled for the music to be turned up. She danced the salsa, undulating her body to the rhythm of the music, first facing one, then the other. When two young, attractive dancers tapped the men on the shoulders, she made her exit.

Monica could almost predict the future absence of one of these men. After years of hosting in bars, in New York or here on the island, she knew all men were the same. The boasts, the drinks, and the inner turmoil would intensify and lead to irreconcilable differences over a bet or a woman, usually money. The outcome would be settled forcefully, with words of intimidation, pressure from families, or brute force. One of two men would go missing, and no one would say anything. Monica preferred to give them a chance with the natural rhythms of music and the warmth of a woman. She offered her patrons a sense of security, which didn't exist outside her doors.

As Monica surveyed the room, her gaze fell upon a young man seated in the farthest corner. Blond hair and tanned but light skin spoke of gringo, while the gestures of the hands and the rapid movement of the lips marked him as a Latino. She'd seen him sporadically each month for the last year at the bar. This local businessman owned a coconut farm, traveled, had lots of friends, and ignored her. Today, Carlos was all business.

Two men Monica didn't recognize sat with Carlos. She watched as they shook hands and patted each other on the back. A deal had just been sealed, but the men still appeared ill at ease. As...