El Batey
by Charles Francis
There was a sign, “El Batey,” hanging over a small dilapidated bar on Calle del Cristo in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico. I once asked a native what the word meant; he told me the pre-Spanish, Taino Indians called the small dirt yard in front of their hut a “batey”, a fitting name, El Batey, for this funky joint. The dimly lit bar seated a dozen or so of us U.S. expatriates. In its dark corners there were four or five old tables. An otherwise empty back room was mostly occupied by a small pool table. Paint was peeling off the walls and the few stools that stood haphazardly in front of the beat-up bar were barely safe to sit on. This was no problem for the Puerto Ricans; they did their drinking standing around the pool table or outside in the street. The “Continentals”, though, often complained about this lack of amenities.
The grizzled owner, Peter, hailed from the States. He was gruff, taciturn but rarely serious. When a newcomer complained about the ratty facilities, Peter would recommend that he go next door, where awaiting them would be a new, elegant cocktail lounge, with a marble bar top, modern lighting and plenty of comfortable stools—all of which was true. Paradoxically, in El Batey, it was always standing room only, while the new bar rarely had more than a handful of patrons.
The main attraction at El Batey was its veteran bartender, Sally, who was fifty-ish, slender and might have once been blond. Her face was weathered and wrinkled like a mariner or ranch hand. She had a raspy voice and said little to strangers but we regulars found her chatty and interesting. She worked only half the week and so she lived very frugally. The alternate bartenders were usually pretty young local girls who didn’t stay long. Sally, though, had been at El Batey for years. She had originally come to Old San Juan to be able to visit her lover who was a convict in La Princessa, the Island’s notorious penitentiary. Sally’s romance was now ancient history and she had for years lived alone in a small room near the Plaza Armas. I occasionally saw her sitting on a bench in the Plaza sunning and reading a science fiction novel or shopping at the hardware store. When she was away from the bar, however, the most you could get from her was a begrudging nod.
While I was sipping a rum and coke in El Batey one afternoon, the postman came in and handed Sally a bundle of mail. From among all the postal junk, Sally extracted a manila envelope. She opened it and took out some snapshots. She smiled as she looked at them and then laid a few of them in front of me on the bar.
“This is how I spend the week’s vacation that Peter so magnanimously gives me every year.”
I stared at these in amazement, for they were full-length photographs of Sally in evening gown and jewelry, high heels and hair elaborately coiffed, looking like a society matron. She was standing among a similarly attired throng in the lobby of New York’s Metropolitan Opera House.
“I love opera and manage to save enough to attend at least one of the performances at the Met each year,” she modestly admitted. “It’s the only time I ever splurge.”
Bob, one of the regulars at El Batey, was a reporter for the San Juan Star, the only English language newspaper in San Juan. He was a slender, road-worn warrior, who was reputed to have once been a ‘Beat’ in San Francisco. This was years before finding his way to Puerto Rico. He was gentle, wise, and the paper’s best journalist. We English speakers read his column daily to keep abreast of things of interest to our little community of expatriates. We were a tight-knit group. A burglar once broke into Bob’s small penthouse flat and stole his portable typewriter. The thief was apprehended and the typewriter recovered before the thief could get out of Old San Juan with his booty.
I walked into El Batey one evening and took the vacant stool next to Bob at the bar.
“Hey Bob, how’s it going?” He was looking pensive.
“I’m suffering from a broken heart,” he complained.
“I thought you were too old for such nonsense.” I was only half joking.
“I did too but I didn’t have a chance to dodge this one. Do you remember that lovely young French girl that came into the bar yesterday afternoon?”
I certainly did; she was a beauty. Every man in the place had gaped at her in awe. She appeared to be 18-20 years old. She had a backpack and wore blue jeans and a T-shirt and spoke English with a strong French accent. She was sweet and unaffected—bumming around the world before finishing her education. The local studs immediately hit on her but she wasn’t looking for love—she was just avid to hear everybody’s story, hungry for experience. When I left the bar that night, I left her surrounded by an enthralled circle of admirers.
“Yeah, I vaguely recall her—probably the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen? Is that the one? Who was the lucky dog who took her home? Whoever, I envy him.”
“Surprisingly, I was that one.” Bob admitted, “As it grew late last night, she remembered that she hadn’t arranged for a hotel. I offered her my couch and she accepted. After lights out, she found it too hot inside my small place and dragged her sleeping pad out on my rooftop patio. A couple of hours later, I awoke because I heard it beginning to rain, so I went out on the roof to check on my guest. She was just lying there with her eyes closed, the rain pelting down on her face. As I leaned over to rouse her, she, laughing, reached up, grabbed me around the neck, pulled me down on top of her. She gave me a passionate kiss that instantly aroused me. We made love, came up for a breather, and went at it again with gusto—with the warm rain running off of us. When I awoke around noon, groggy, she was gone—not even a goodbye note. She’s on her way to New York by now but I’ll never forget last night. Never!”
“Wow, I guess not! What a story!” I had now seen a side of old self-effacing, world-weary Bob I hadn’t known existed.
One Sunday afternoon a young Coastguardsman dropped into El Batey. He was not in his usual uniform, so at first I didn’t recognize him as one of our regulars. He announced he was being transferred back to the States and was on his way to the airport. He was choked with emotion as he shyly said goodbye to Sally.
“Sally, would you do me a favor?”
“Maybe.”
“May I kiss you goodbye?”
With the boy leaning awkwardly over the bar, Sally considered his request for an uncomfortably long time. Finally, she said, warily, “Okay . . . but no tongue.”
The grizzled owner, Peter, hailed from the States. He was gruff, taciturn but rarely serious. When a newcomer complained about the ratty facilities, Peter would recommend that he go next door, where awaiting them would be a new, elegant cocktail lounge, with a marble bar top, modern lighting and plenty of comfortable stools—all of which was true. Paradoxically, in El Batey, it was always standing room only, while the new bar rarely had more than a handful of patrons.
The main attraction at El Batey was its veteran bartender, Sally, who was fifty-ish, slender and might have once been blond. Her face was weathered and wrinkled like a mariner or ranch hand. She had a raspy voice and said little to strangers but we regulars found her chatty and interesting. She worked only half the week and so she lived very frugally. The alternate bartenders were usually pretty young local girls who didn’t stay long. Sally, though, had been at El Batey for years. She had originally come to Old San Juan to be able to visit her lover who was a convict in La Princessa, the Island’s notorious penitentiary. Sally’s romance was now ancient history and she had for years lived alone in a small room near the Plaza Armas. I occasionally saw her sitting on a bench in the Plaza sunning and reading a science fiction novel or shopping at the hardware store. When she was away from the bar, however, the most you could get from her was a begrudging nod.
While I was sipping a rum and coke in El Batey one afternoon, the postman came in and handed Sally a bundle of mail. From among all the postal junk, Sally extracted a manila envelope. She opened it and took out some snapshots. She smiled as she looked at them and then laid a few of them in front of me on the bar.
“This is how I spend the week’s vacation that Peter so magnanimously gives me every year.”
I stared at these in amazement, for they were full-length photographs of Sally in evening gown and jewelry, high heels and hair elaborately coiffed, looking like a society matron. She was standing among a similarly attired throng in the lobby of New York’s Metropolitan Opera House.
“I love opera and manage to save enough to attend at least one of the performances at the Met each year,” she modestly admitted. “It’s the only time I ever splurge.”
Bob, one of the regulars at El Batey, was a reporter for the San Juan Star, the only English language newspaper in San Juan. He was a slender, road-worn warrior, who was reputed to have once been a ‘Beat’ in San Francisco. This was years before finding his way to Puerto Rico. He was gentle, wise, and the paper’s best journalist. We English speakers read his column daily to keep abreast of things of interest to our little community of expatriates. We were a tight-knit group. A burglar once broke into Bob’s small penthouse flat and stole his portable typewriter. The thief was apprehended and the typewriter recovered before the thief could get out of Old San Juan with his booty.
I walked into El Batey one evening and took the vacant stool next to Bob at the bar.
“Hey Bob, how’s it going?” He was looking pensive.
“I’m suffering from a broken heart,” he complained.
“I thought you were too old for such nonsense.” I was only half joking.
“I did too but I didn’t have a chance to dodge this one. Do you remember that lovely young French girl that came into the bar yesterday afternoon?”
I certainly did; she was a beauty. Every man in the place had gaped at her in awe. She appeared to be 18-20 years old. She had a backpack and wore blue jeans and a T-shirt and spoke English with a strong French accent. She was sweet and unaffected—bumming around the world before finishing her education. The local studs immediately hit on her but she wasn’t looking for love—she was just avid to hear everybody’s story, hungry for experience. When I left the bar that night, I left her surrounded by an enthralled circle of admirers.
“Yeah, I vaguely recall her—probably the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen? Is that the one? Who was the lucky dog who took her home? Whoever, I envy him.”
“Surprisingly, I was that one.” Bob admitted, “As it grew late last night, she remembered that she hadn’t arranged for a hotel. I offered her my couch and she accepted. After lights out, she found it too hot inside my small place and dragged her sleeping pad out on my rooftop patio. A couple of hours later, I awoke because I heard it beginning to rain, so I went out on the roof to check on my guest. She was just lying there with her eyes closed, the rain pelting down on her face. As I leaned over to rouse her, she, laughing, reached up, grabbed me around the neck, pulled me down on top of her. She gave me a passionate kiss that instantly aroused me. We made love, came up for a breather, and went at it again with gusto—with the warm rain running off of us. When I awoke around noon, groggy, she was gone—not even a goodbye note. She’s on her way to New York by now but I’ll never forget last night. Never!”
“Wow, I guess not! What a story!” I had now seen a side of old self-effacing, world-weary Bob I hadn’t known existed.
One Sunday afternoon a young Coastguardsman dropped into El Batey. He was not in his usual uniform, so at first I didn’t recognize him as one of our regulars. He announced he was being transferred back to the States and was on his way to the airport. He was choked with emotion as he shyly said goodbye to Sally.
“Sally, would you do me a favor?”
“Maybe.”
“May I kiss you goodbye?”
With the boy leaning awkwardly over the bar, Sally considered his request for an uncomfortably long time. Finally, she said, warily, “Okay . . . but no tongue.”
