Distinctly Montana Magazine

D I S T I N C T LY M O N TA N A • S U M M E R 2 0 1 6 48 Once she and her troupe were settled, she turned to Beausoleil. "You're a rat," she said. Joseph, the accordionist, took that as his cue, and soon the instrument was croaking out an odd, rhythmic tune, and she began to warble stuff about banana boats and things that no one had ever heard of in a nasal, sandpapery whine. Mrs. McGivers crooned, repeating chords, giving them spice as she and her monkeys whaled away. e Capuchins gradually awakened to their task, led by the accordion, and soon Cain was whanging the cymbals and Abel was thundering the bass drum. e whole performance veered toward anarchy, which is what Mrs. McGivers intended, her goal being to send the audience into paroxysms of delight. Only not this evening in Helena, in the midst of stern mountains and bitter winters. Were these louts born without humor? Very well then. Beausoleil quietly waved a hand from the edge of the arch, a hand unseen by the armored audience. "Boo!" yelled a certain stagehand, now sitting front-left. "Go away," yelled another stalwart of the show, this gent sitting front-right, four rows back. e Capuchins clanged and banged. Mrs. McGivers warbled. Joseph wheezed life out of the old accordion. e two reporters, front on the aisle, took no notes. "Boo," yelled a spectator. "Refund my money." e gent, well known to Beausoleil, had a bag in hand, and now he plunged a paw into it and extracted a browning, mushy apple, and heaved this missile at Mrs. McGivers. It splatted nearby, which was all Cain needed. He abandoned his cymbals, leapt for the mushy apple, and fired it back. It splatted upon the bosom of a politician's alleged wife. is was followed by a fusillade of rotten items, mostly tomatoes, ancient apples and peaches and moldering potatoes, drawn miraculously from sacks out in the theater, and these barrages were returned by Cain and Abel. It was a fine uproar. Suddenly, this dour audience was no longer sitting on its cold hands, but was clapping and howling and squealing. Especially when Abel fired a soggy missile that splatted upon the noble forehead of the attorney general. After a little more whooping, Beausoleil, in bib and tux, strode purposefully out onto the boards, dodged some foul fruit, and held up a hand. "Helena has spoken, Mrs. McGivers," he said. He jerked a thumb in the direc- tion of the wings. She rose from her stool, awarded him with an uncomplimentary gesture barely seen on the other side of the footlights, and stalked off, followed by the Capuchins, and Joseph, and finally some hands who removed the stools and instruments. "Give them a round of applause," Beausoleil said, and immediately the audience broke into thunderous appreciation. e two bored reporters were suddenly taking notes. All was well. TEQUILA MARGARITA LYRICS by Richard S. Wheeler You're my Tequila Margarita, A little salt around the rim Your hips are swaying to the rhythm The oldest rhythm in the world... It's what gives life In the morning I close my eyes As the evening shadows fall The warmth I feel Lying here beside you I'll always recall Chorus I hear you sing a little love song And every word is like a kiss You hips are swaying to the rhythm The oldest rhythm in the world... Aye, yi, yi, yi... Aye, yi, yi, yi… And now the Margarita glass is empty, There's not a drop to wet my lips I have nothing but my dreams and a mem'ry, Of the swaying of your hips.... Chorus I hear you sing a little love song And every word is like a kiss Your body's swaying to the rhythm The oldest rhythm in the world... Aye, yi, yi, yi... Aye, yi, yi, yi… (Instrumental) But my Tequila Margarita, You linger in my thoughts You said mañana when I asked you, But mañana never came... Never came. Chorus I hear you sing a little love song And every word is like a kiss Our bodies swaying to the rhythm The oldest rhythm in the world... On earth, In heaven, Margarita... A life that was a kiss Richard loves musicals. Here is a song he wrote in spirit of the book.

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