I explain this all to Broodje.
“Sounds too good to be true,” he says.
“It’s no too good, and it is true,” José answers in English. “So many people buy, make such a big decision after just one day.” He shakes his head, in wonderment, or disgust, or both.
“Fools and their money,” T.J. says, laughing. “So y’all gotta look like you’re loaded.”
“But he is loaded!” Broodje says. “What does it matter what he looks like?”
José says, “No matter what you is; only matter what you seem.”
I buy Broodje and myself some linen pants and button-up shirts for next to nothing and spend a ridiculous amount on a couple of pairs of Armani sunglasses from one of the stalls in the touristy section of town.
Broodje is aghast at the cost of the glasses. But I tell him they’re necessary. “It’s the little details that tell the big story.” That was what Tor always said, to explain why we had such minimal costumes in Guerilla Will.
“What’s the big story?” he asks.
“We’re slacker playboys with trust funds, renting a house on Isla Mujeres.”
“So, aside from the house, you’re pretending to be you?”
The next day is Christmas so we wait until the day after to set off. At the first car rental agency, we’ve practically rented a car by the time we realize that there’s no one there offering us a tour. At the second car rental agency, we’re met by a smiling, big-toothed American blonde who asks us how long we’re in town for and where we’re staying.
“Oh, I love the Isla,” she purrs after we tell her about our villa. “Have you eaten at Mango yet?”
Broodje looks mildly panicked but I just give a little smile. “Not yet.”
“Oh,” she says. “Does your villa come with a cook?”
I just continue to smile, a little bashfully this time, as if the largesse embarrasses me.
“Wait. Are you renting the white adobe place with the infinity pool?”
Again, I smile. Little nod.
“So Rosa is the cook there?”
I don’t answer, I don’t need to. An embarrassed shrug will do.
“Oh, I love that place. And Rosa’s mole is divine. Just thinking about it makes me hungry.”
“I’m always hungry,” Broodje says, leering. She looks at him quizzically. I give him a discreet kick.
“That place is very expensive,” she says. “Have you ever considered buying something down here?”
I chuckle. “Too much responsibility,” says Willem, Millionaire Playboy.
She nods, as if she too understands the burdens of juggling multiple properties. “Yes. But there is another way. You can own, and have someone else take care it for you, even rent it out for you.” She pulls out glossy brochures of several different hotels—including the Maya del Sol.
I glance at the brochures, scratching my chin. “You know, I heard about such an investment for tax-sheltering purposes,” I say, channeling Marjolein now.
“Oh, fantastic moneymaker and money saver. You really should see one of these properties.”
I pretend to casually glance at the brochures. “This one looks nice,” I say, flicking a finger at the Maya del Sol brochure.
“It’s sinfully decadent.” She starts telling me all the things I know about the place, about the beach and the pools and the restaurants and the movie theater and the golf. I feign disinterest.
“I don’t know,” I say.