Latin Moon in Manhattan Page 2

  “No, man. Rusty and the Boners—you’ve got to meet them sometime; they’re my best friends—do all kinds of shit. I just smoke pot, and drink beer on the weekends and do a line of coke once in a while.”

  I was horrified. “Gene, I didn’t start doing anything until I was twenty-one.”

  “Yeah, well, that was a long time ago, right? You’re old, Sammy; you know that.”

  “If you’re lucky, some day you’ll be my age,” I said, pissed off, as if I were putting a curse on him. “Promise me you’ll never do crack.”

  “You think I’m fucking crazy? I don’t wanna get fucked up; I wanna be a famous actor.”

  Let’s hope his thespian instincts will win out in the long run, I thought. We finished smoking the joint; I felt as if I were tripping.

  “What are you doing tonight?” Gene asked.

  “Nothing; just hanging out. Want to go see a movie?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. I’m going to a party. Want to come along?”

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked, although I had no intention of going to a party with a bunch of drug-addicted teenagers.

  “You know, girls, beer. We smoke jays and listen to Sinead O’Connor.” Gene stood up. “Okay, Sammy, I’ve got to go. I promised the Boners I’d be there by now.”

  “What kind of name is that—the Boners?”

  “They’re twins. You have to meet them. They’re real sleaze balls, but I know you’ll like them. They’re cool and neat as hell. They’ve done so many drugs they’re all skin and bones. The Boners, you got it now?”

  “I got it.”“

  “If you get bored, just go by the Rose Saigon. Mom goes on around midnight. Okay, catch you later.”

  “Have a nice time and don’t get too wasted,” I said, feeling old. Gene disappeared into the darkness, and I was left by myself, pleasantly stoned. I thought about uncles and nephews, and, specifically, I thought about my Uncle Hernán, whom I worshiped in my adolescence. Twelve years before, he had died in a plane accident. In the sixties, he became mixed up with radical politics in Colombia and fled to Venezuela when the military got on his case. There, he go a job working in the diamond mines near Ciudad Bolívar. One Christmas, he was on his way to visit my grandparents when a bomb went off in the plane, blowing it to pieces and all that they could find of him was his arm.

  The last time I had seen Uncle Hernán I was around Gene’s age. That was the year my mother came to New York to see about settling here. She had dismantled our home in Bogotá and my sister and I were sent to stay with our maternal grandparents in the country. Uncle Hernán was twenty-two then, the youngest of my uncles. Although I had many cousins, he felt a special kinship for me. Every day after lunch he’d pack his rifle and I my fishing gear and we’d ride to Las Marías, my grandfather’s farm a few miles outside of town. Uncle Hernán taught me to ride horses, burros and mules, to lasso cows and milk them, to fish and swim in the ponds of the Magdalena and César rivers. He read books about Marxism and the Cuban and Russian revolutions and was passionate about radical politics. Yet hunting was his favorite occupation. Every afternoon, he’d hunt ducks and other birds, and each night after supper he’d drive the jeep down to the savannah, where enormous termite colonies loomed, spectral and lunar in the darkness. There he’d hunt deer, tigers, armadillos, and wild boar.

  My male cousins made fun of how clumsy I was at all the country activities for boys, but Uncle Hernán was patient. Sometimes, he’d take a break from tracking prey and, finding a shady tree on the plain, he’d read to me about Lenin or Trotsky. But that December, I had turned sixteen, and he informed me that the time had come for me to visit the town’s whorehouse. The particular afternoon I remember so vividly, he had been looking for game without success and we had wandered far away from the farmhouse, arriving at the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. It was getting late, and in the mountains it was much cooler than in the town. The brooks and streams we waded through were cold and clear, and their sandy beds glittered with gold. In my grandfather’s youth, this had been a gold-mining region and there was still gold to be found, but not in quantities sufficient to exploit commercially. The hills we ascended were paved with the palest green grass; the mango and ciruela trees, upon which fed flocks of parrots, macaws, and parakeets, and bands of boisterous monkeys, were now below us in the plain surrounding the river. Occasionally we ran into stray cows and menacing bulls and shy wild horses, but Uncle Hernán seemed pretty sure of the direction in which we were heading.

  I was beginning to get tired of carrying his heavy rifle, as I always did, but I felt it would be unmanly to complain. Now we had an unobstructed view of the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada as they caught the reflection of the setting sun. The world was growing still, hushed. We started descending into an open potrero of verdant pastures with high hills on all sides fencing it in. At its center was a shallow pond where scores of burros were drinking and playing in the water. Above them, rainbow-colored dragonflies darted about. The burros seemed young, but tame and friendly. Uncle Hernán approached them cautiously, talking to them in low, silky tones, patting their backs and stroking their long ears. “Burra, burrita,” he said, separating two of them and patting their behinds until they had wandered meters away from the rest of the herd. Then Uncle Hernán stood behind one of the burras and lifted her tail, putting his fingers inside her vulva. He motioned me to do the same with the other donkey which stood still, expectantly. When I lifted her tail, little white gnats flew into the saffron light of sunset. It was smelly down there. The rims of the vulva were pinkish and ivory, and the tips of my fingers felt warm and gluey. A few inches inside the vagina a flexible but resistant membrane stopped my fingers from exploring further. Even though the animal seemed to enjoy it, I was afraid of pursuing this activity. I saw Uncle Hernán unzip his pants. With his huge dick sticking out, he approached me. Not understanding what was happening, I was seized with terror and started to shake. He motioned for me to move aside, and penetrated the burra once, twice, rocking back and forth. The burra stamped one of her hind hoofs on the ground and grunted, as if she were pleased. Uncle Hernán grinned. “Okay, Sammy, she’s all yours: a virgin no more.”

  He hurried over to the other burra, which had stood motionless, waiting for him, and penetrated her. I imitated his bumping motions and was about to get an erection when several male burros with their black, baseball-bat-sized members, began circling the herd at a gallop and braying hysterically. I was afraid that they were angry and were getting ready to attack us. My cock kept falling out of the enormous vagina. Soon, Uncle Hernán was in a frenzy, eyes closed, his buttocks pushing in and out, in and out; he moaned and cried in pleasure when he finished. Then he rested his head on the burra’s rump and embraced her around her haunches. He remained that way, panting, until he stepped backward and collapsed on the grass, his penis limp but still large, his pants tangled around his boots. I walked over to the burra he had just fucked, and what seemed like large quantities of semen oozed out of her vagina. Becoming aroused, I put my hard cock inside her.

  A car door slamming brought me back to reality. Mother was back home from her bingo game.

  “Buenas noches, mi amor,” Mother called out to her friend as the car pulled away.

  2 Volver

  I had locked up Mr. O’Donnell in the bathroom by mistake. At first, he sat behind the door, patiently waiting for me to realize it. As time passed, he became anxious and started scratching the door and pacing the room restlessly. Getting frantic, he jumped from the bathtub to the sink, and, losing his balance, fell into the toilet, which automatically flushed. Tail first, Mr. O’Donnell began to disappear. … I woke up panting, the palms of my hands clammy. I sat in bed. It was true I was worried about my cat, Mr. O’Donnell, but I was sure the nightmare had been caused by my mother’s Colombian cuisine.

  A gentle breeze blew through the white lace curtains and through them I caught a glimpse of a sunny day and a cloudless sky. After many months in Manhat
tan where I had only seen concrete and glass, the deep green branches of the tree by my window had a soothing effect on me.

  Although I had left home over ten years ago, nothing had changed in my room. The old Janis Joplin poster hung over my desk, the colors faded, Janis looking more ghostly than ever. The black Olivetti typewriter I had brought with me from Colombia now prehistoric. No new books had been added to the bookshelves, but the volumes were dustless and neatly arranged. Becoming nostalgic for my adolescence, I longed to be sick, to surrender to an asthma attack and to have the course of my life stopped. I longed for the freedom I had experienced during those times: no school, no duties, long stays in bed reading Crime and Punishment, Wuthering Heights, and other morbid books, and having my mother make baby pigeon soup for me and feed me spoonfuls of hot, buttery carrots and potatoes puree.

  I could have stayed in bed indulging myself with these reveries, but the smells of arepas, chicharrones and tostones traveled up from the kitchen, their potent aromas luring me like a siren’s song. I had decided to visit my friend Bobby. Perhaps this was the main reason for my trip to Queens this weekend. Bobby was deteriorating very fast and he was dying. I got out of bed, showered and shaved before going downstairs to meet my mother.

  In the kitchen, a Spanish radio station was playing a Gardel program. I could hear my mother, singing along with Gardel, the lyrics of “Yira, Yira”:

  When luck is rotten

  Laughing and laughing

  While you lie in the streets.

  When you’re down in the gutter

  Lost, in despair;

  When you’ve lost even hope

  And you’re drinking the dregs,

  When your last cent is gone

  And you’re looking for crumbs

  To keep you alive

  The world couldn’t care less.

  Yira, yira.

  It wasn’t exactly the most cheerful music to listen to first thing in the morning, and Simón Bolívar, who was particularly excited by Mother’s tango renditions, squealed along, “Yira, yira, yira, yira.” On the other hand, it was better to listen to such existential angst in the morning. I could see how listening to these tangos late at night could drive one to suicide. My mother and Gardel were reaching a crescendo:

  Even if life breaks you up

  And the pain doesn’t end

  Don’t wait for a handout, or a favor,

  or friends.

  “Sammy,” Mother cried, stopping her singing. “Did you sleep well?” she added in Spanish, rushing over to kiss me. “I’ve been making your breakfast.”

  There was enough food on the table for a baseball team. “How are you, Mother?” I asked, sitting at the table and pouring myself a cup of chocolate. The pile of arepas in a straw basket was warm and tender.

  “I’m as good as could be expected, considering everything. How’s Mr. MacDonald?” she asked.

  It was nice of her to inquire after my cat, but it mortified me that after many years she hadn’t taken the trouble to get his name correctly. “His name is Mr. O’Donnell. He’s the same, I guess.”

  “No wonder he’s sick, cooped up in that apartment all the time. Look at my cats, they’ve lived all their lives outside and they’re as healthy as can be.”

  “Mother,” I said calmly, concentrating on my breathing, trying to muster a serenity I never had when we conversed. “First, I cannot let him out in Manhattan; he’d be killed in a minute. Second, he has an enlarged heart, and that’s a congenital condition.” As I finished saying this, I realized the absurdity of trying to explain anything rationally to a Colombian.

  “Anyway, it’s unnatural to love a cat that way,” Mother said, baiting me. “That’s what happens to men when they don’t get married and have a family.”

  I felt like saying, Oh yeah? And why is it more natural to love a stupid parrot? But I held back. I didn’t want to get upset before breakfast. Besides, I had been in her presence barely five minutes and had the rest of the weekend to fight.

  She placed a tray of pork chicharrones on the table. “It’s been fifty years since Gardel died,” she said dreamily, changing the subject, “but for my money he sings better every day.”

  I cut open an arepa and buttered it. “Ummm, it’s delicious,” I commented, since I didn’t feel like discussing Gardel. Half-closing her eyes, Mother hummed to herself the last bars of ”Yira, Yira.”

  Waiting for the song to end, I picked up one of the chicharrones and bit off a juicy piece of pork meat. As I chewed, I studied my mother who was sitting next to me, her legs crossed. Even this early in the morning she wore a ton of jewelry, Colombian style: her wedding band, her heart-shaped emerald ring, gold bracelets, a gold chain with an emerald and diamond crucifix, plus her diamond earrings. I wondered if she ever took these things off. As usual, her auburn hair was made up and lacquered, her fingernails manicured and painted a transparent pink. She wore a Mexican cotton blouse with short sleeves, khaki bermudas, and open-toed blue cotton slippers. She had turned seventy in the spring, but with the years she had grown svelte. It bothered me that I got a kick out of how nice she still looked.

  Mother selected a chicharrón and took a dainty bite. Her wonderfully lustrous maple sugar skin was smooth, unwrinkled, and the only places her age showed were on the back of her hands, and her neck and thighs, where her flesh sagged a bit. When she married Victor, over ten years ago, mother had the bags under her eyes removed and this procedure had considerably enlarged her marvelous hazel eyes so that at first she looked spooked, as if she had just seen a ghost. But with the passage of time, the eyes became more natural-looking and attractive. The Gardel program came to an end and Mother got up to turn off the radio. Then she got a pitcher of guanábana juice out of the refrigerator and poured me a glassful. I realized these gargantuan breakfasts Mother subjected me to were a continuation of my grandparents’ breakfast table, where meat, fish, wild game, suero, butter and cheese, breads, arepas, and empanadas, fried plantains and yucca, papaya, mango, pineapple juice, coffee, chocolate, and kumis were the fare.

  I was finishing my first cup of deliciously brewed Colombian coffee, when the phone rang.

  “You’d better get it; it’s for you,” Mother informed me.

  “Lorito real, lorito real,” Simón Bolívar twaddled, excited by the phone.

  “It’s Carmen Elvira,” Mother went on. “I told her you’d be up by eleven and to call you then.”

  “Why is Carmen Elvira calling me?”

  “She wants to invite you to become a member of their literary society, The Colombian Parnassus. Please, Santiago, don’t humiliate me. She’s one of my best friends. So please accept her invitation. It’s a great honor.”

  The phone kept ringing and Simón Bolívar continued screaming his nonsense and flapping his wings.

  “Please, Santiago, it will be the last thing I’ll ever ask of you. She knows you’re here. If you don’t pick up, she’ll come over.”

  “This is blackmail,” I protested, picking up the receiver. “Hello,” I said with great trepidation.

  “Hola, Sammy. Es Carmen Elvira.”

  “Hello, Carmen Elvira. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you, honey, and you?” she said in her polite cachaco manner. “I’m calling to give you great news; you’re being invited to become a member of The Colombian Parnassus. Enhorabuena! Congratulations,” she added in English.

  I couldn’t feign surprise, or happiness for that matter. But I saw Mother getting up and approaching me, so I said, “Thank you very much; I’m honored.” Mother smiled at me.

  “I thought you’d be. Anyway, we plan to induct you this afternoon. We’re meeting at Olga’s home around 12:30, American time. You know where she lives, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said grimly.

  “Well, cariño, it’s been a real pleasure talking to you. Say hello to Lucy,” she said, referring to my mother.

  “Thank you very much. I will.”

  After I hung u
p, Mother rushed over and kissed me on both cheeks. Taking advantage of the proximity, Simón Bolívar bit me on the shoulder.

  “Ouch,” I complained. “Mother, he bit me.”

  “God, you’re sensitive,” she said. “He pecked you affectionately, that’s all.”

  “Jesus, Mother!” I burst out. “What have you made me do? And the gall of that woman! She expects me to show up at 12:30 and I just found out about it. What if I had made plans?” Feeling all sorts of emotions welling up, I picked up an arepa and started gobbling it down.

  “What plans? People in Queens don’t make plans. And don’t stuff yourself. They’re making a delicious lunch just for you. So, please, Sammy, please be a gentleman and eat everything they serve you. Show them I’ve taught you some manners.”

  “I refuse to eat iguana stew!”

  “I don’t know when you became such a squeamish gringo; you used to love iguana eggs, and you ate plenty of iguana when you visited your grandparents in the country.”

  “I never ate iguana,” I protested. “I loathe iguana eggs. They smell worse than a skunk’s fart.”

  “Iguana stew,” Mother said sadistically, “and rattlesnake sancocho, and barbecued sloth, and alligator tail fricasse. You ate all those things. And monkey brains soufflé.”

  “I’m going to puke if you don’t stop.”

  Simón Bolívar leaped off my mother’s shoulder onto the table and scurried toward me. I hopped off my seat. “Get that fucking bird away from me before I wring his neck!”

  “Don’t you dare use that language in front of me, Santiago! And don’t talk about him like that. He understands you. He speaks.”

  “He doesn’t speak; he imitates sounds.”

  “He’s bilingual,” Mother said. Looking dejected she stood up. “Come here, Simón. He wants you in prison. Come here, my darling,” she purred, offering him her wrist. “What’s going to happen to you after I’m gone?” Tenderly she stroked his feathers. “I only pray to God that when my time’s up, he’ll take you with me. Who’s going to take care of you after I’m gone, my love?”