“I don’t think we’re ready for this,” she said. It was those words and that image—Elizabeth closed off, tears flowing in thin rivulets, her face flushed to a pale red—that had sent Francisco out carelessly into the brutal winter, thinly clad. His shoes leaked, the overcoat had small rodent-type holes on the back. Its lining had ripped weeks after he’d bought it at a fancy secondhand store. He wished he’d forgone style and bought sensible winter wear; as a graphic designer he made enough to afford it. As it was, he usually wore the ragged coat with a number of layers, or at least a sweater. Tonight he had on only a T-shirt and cotton sweatpants.
His flight, Francisco now understood, had been propelled by guilt and apprehension. For all their arguments he still cared deeply for Elizabeth. They shared a history, a passage through time. Their relationship (and he thought of it as an individual entity, a growing, living thing) had withstood passion and indifference, conflict and resolution, even a year of separation while Francisco attended art school in Madrid. When he’d first seen her, calmly sipping Grand Marnier from a brandy snifter at a friend’s dinner party, he had become convinced that they would end up together. That was three years ago, but he could still picture her perfectly; wrist turned awkwardly, moist lips barely touching the contoured crystal as if she were kissing a relic, bare legs crossed under the kitchen chair, face and glass lit subtly by flickering candlelight. Right then he had fallen in love with her.
The blustering wind sprinkled loose snowflakes on his beard and hair, then swirled around his feet and crawled up his legs to fill his clothes. Even inside the deep pockets his fingers felt stiff and painfully dry. Across Cambridge Street he noticed the colorful lights of a flower shop, gaudily decorated for the holidays. It was then that it hit him: a gift for Elizabeth, that was precisely what he was after. The window display looked like a magic screen, a tempting portal to a lush tropical paradise. Improbable greens mingled with rich reds, purples and yellows, tones made brighter by the dirgeful gray of winter. Most of all, though, the plants promised soothing temperatures. They reminded him of home. Francisco could think of nothing better right now.
Christmas in Puerto Rico: Noche Buena up in the mountains, the family gathering as heavy raindrops played a quick rhythm on the tin roof, heavy smell of roasted pork and gandules hovering around Francisco like thick cigar smoke. Loud, dissonant conversations over rum and watery beer....
The light changed and Francisco rushed across the street, almost slipping into a pool of dirty slush. When he reached the shop he opened the door so abruptly that the counter person—a short brown man with shiny black hair and inset eyes—jumped from his stool as if startled. The warmth and green scent hit Francisco like a Caribbean wave; for a moment he stood at the entrance and let himself be enveloped. He shook the snow from his face and clothes, then stomped his feet.
“How can I help you?” said the man behind the counter. His words came out with difficulty, twisted by a heavy accent.
“I’m so glad you’re still open,” Francisco said, “being like it’s Christmas Eve and all.”
The man didn’t respond. His leathery face showed tentativeness that Francisco thought he recognized. He tried again, this time in Spanish. The man smiled and perked up, as if a weight had been removed from his back.
“Last minute we usually do good business,” he said, “plantas y flores, people don’t want to buy them too early. But I was going to close up soon.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t because I am in serious need of something nice for my prometida. It’s kind of an emergency, really.”
“Go ahead, look around. I can wait.”
“Gracias, hermano,“ Francisco said, turning toward a majestic display by the left wall. The plants were arranged in shelves, stacked all the way to the ceiling; giant succulent leaves shared space with delicate orchids and spindly lilies. On the floor, plastic buckets held cut flowers: carnations, violets, daffodils, and many others Francisco had never seen before. A whole comer was crowded with red poinsettias—Flor de Pascuas, as they called them back home.
The possibilities baffled Francisco. He had no idea what would best serve as a peace offering, what would once again open the channels of communication.
“Is this all you have?” he said.
“No, no, no, we have a refrigerator in the back, you know, with the delicate ones, roses and things.”
Roses, that sounded better to Francisco.
“Could I see them? That might be more appropriate.”
“Sure, hold on a minute.” The man got off the stool and walked to the front door. Immediately Francisco noticed a significant limp; he seemed to drag his right leg rather than step with it. He took a key chain from his stained orange apron and locked the door with some difficulty.
“I’m by myself here,” he explained as he fumbled with the lock.
“No problem,” Francisco said. The short man turned around and led him to the rear of the store. As they pushed through a little swinging gate behind the counter Francisco wondered if the limp was due to a war wound. The man’s accent placed him someplace in Central America, where crippling violence seemed a likely possibility. Francisco considered asking, but thought better of the idea.
“So you’re doing the Anglo thing,” the man said, “giving Christmas presents, Santa Clos and such.”
“Yes,” Francisco said, then reconsidered. “Well, no, actually. See, I got into a big fight with my prometida tonight, that’s what happened. Probably holiday stress, I think, combined with the wedding it’s making us kind of edgy.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling people, why do they go crazy with the gift-giving thing on Christmas? I mean, isn’t the Baby Jesus gift enough for everybody? Take it easy, I tell them, wait until the sixth….”
Francisco shrugged. “Well, I’m from Puerto Rico,” he said, “and we give presents on both Christmas and Three Kings Day. We kind of play it both ways, I guess.”
“Oh,” the man said, as if disappointed, “I didn’t know they did that in Puerto Rico.”
For a moment Francisco expected to become enmeshed in an argument about the Americanization of Puerto Rican culture (Lord knew that he’d heard them before), but as the man limped down the hallway he did not say another word.
They walked past a cluttered supply room—black bags of potting soil, miniature hoes, fertilizer—then through a glass sliding door covered with mist. From inside, the refrigerated case reminded Francisco of a small bodega aisle, if slightly colder. Harsh fluorescent lights illuminated the space, somewhat diminishing the impact of the colorful arrangement. Still, the packed shelves were stunning. Each level displayed hundreds of flowers: roses, cut orchids, tulips. As an artist Francisco was quick to detect subtle permutations of hues and shapes, careful patterns that served to enhance the visual experience; round petals mingled with insect-like blossoms, wiry stigmas hung from bright red poppies and reached lovingly into the adjacent bellflowers.
“Did you do this?” Francisco asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, did you put this room together?”
The man looked around and smiled. “Yes,” he said, “that was me. My cousin Eriberto, he owns the store, and he used to keep the place in such a mess, but I straightened it out.”
“It’s beautiful,” Francisco said absently. The man smiled again and nodded, but did not speak.
“Why don’t we do this,” Francisco said, “why don’t you put together an arrangement for me. Put your nicest flowers together in a bouquet, I’ll pay whatever it costs.”
“We’ve got catalogues if you want to see them....”
“No, that’s fine, I trust you.”
“Bueno,” the man said, then with a quick wave of his arms sent Francisco out to the front of the store.
While he waited for the flowers Francisco paced back and forth, framed by walls of greenery, and in his mind he kept running Elizabeth’s words—“I don’t think we’re ready for this…”—and
with every repetition they became more definite, until, after a couple of turns, they had changed to “I know we’re not ready for marriage…,” and finally “We shouldn’t get married.” The weight of the imagined statement stopped him in midstep and made him shudder.
A few minutes later the man came forth with the finished bouquet. To his surprise Francisco found it rather disappointing. Not that the arrangement itself was ugly, far from it. The lavender orchids looked sublime nestled within a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums, and the single, central rose, red like a burning torch, conveyed a sense of longing and desire. But as he cradled the flowers in his arms Francisco wondered if such a gift was really suitable. Within days, he realized, the blooms would be nothing but wilted stems and dried petals—not exactly the message he’d wanted to deliver to his fiancée.
Francisco stared at the bouquet for a moment, then glanced quickly at the man. He was smiling, apparently satisfied with his work. Francisco couldn’t blame him; he’d really done a good job.
“This is fine,” he said as convincingly as possible, “they’re beautiful. Now, how much do I owe you?”
The man dropped his smile just as Francisco finished the question. “Make it twenty,” he said in a dry voice, “that’ll be fine, twenty.”
Francisco paid the man, thanked him, then headed for the door. Outside it had started snowing again; thick clumps slid slowly down the tempered glass, leaving watery trails like tears. People walked hurriedly on the frozen sidewalk, wrapped tightly in bright ski jackets and woolen hats. Francisco paused just as he was about to push the door open, right hand stuck to the cold glass. Suddenly he couldn’t face the prospect of going back to the apartment, of stepping nakedly into the sharp wind, carrying with him such a slight offering.
“What is it?” the man asked.
Francisco said the first thing that came to mind: “It’s the cold, I just can’t stand this freezing weather.”
After a moment the man said, “Why don’t you come out back to the office, I’ll make some café con Ieche so we can heat up your insides. It’s not like I want to head out there either.”
“My name’s Agustín Irriñosa,” the man began. He held the coffee cup right under his nose and took a deep breath.
“Francisco Arriví.”
“You said you’re from Puerto Rico, is that right?”
“I live here in Cambridge now, but that’s where I’m originally from. I left the island when I was eighteen….”
“I’ve heard it’s nice down there,” Agustín said, smiling.
“Well you know,” Francisco said, then paused to take a sip. The liquid burned his tongue but felt good going down; he could feel it drip all the way to his belly. “It’s home so you don’t really think about it much until you’re gone.”
“Bet you think about it now,” Agustín said, “with this weather, I mean.”
“Yes, I do,” Francisco said plainly.
“I think about home too, Guatemala.” Agustín stroked his chin, then leaned back on the chair. Francisco rested his elbows on the crowded desk and sighed.
“Must’ve been rough,” he said. “I’ve read horrible things about the war.”
“The war was one thing,” Agustín said, his free hand fluttering, “but there was so much more to life than that. People think it’s hell, but we had our share of happiness, me and my family, when the fighting stopped we made milpe grow with our hands, we drank balche and watched the sun being smothered by the rubber trees. And when the stars came out we told stories to each other, tales of Cha-Chaac and Kukulcan, but most of all, no matter what the soldiers did to us, we were always warm, and the trees never died, and in the river the water always flowed.”
Francisco nodded hesitantly and drank from the steaming cup. At first he did not know how to respond; what Agustín described was so far from his staid urban experience. Instead he stared at a small framed picture of Jesus hanging on the opposite wall. Between his pierced hands he held a realistic-looking heart, like an Azteca sacrifice. Sagrado Corazón, Francisco thought.
“What about snow,” he said after a moment, “what did you think of it when you first saw it.”
Agustín turned away like he’d smelled something awful.
“Bah,” he said, “it’s just frozen water, that’s all it is.”
Francisco chuckled, splashing coffee onto the desk. “I was never too hot on it myself,” he said as he reached for a napkin to clean the mess. Soon Agustín was laughing as well.
“You hate it here too, huh?” he asked.
While considering the question Francisco ran a hand through his hair and glanced blankly at the paneled ceiling.
Originally he’d come to Boston only for school, fully intending to return to the island. But then his parents divorced and going to Puerto Rico lost some of its urgency. He got a good job, he made friends in the city, he met Elizabeth. He fell in love.
He remembered the walk to the flower shop, icy gusts running through his flimsy clothes like needles.
“I don’t know,” he said, “sometimes. I miss a lot of things about Puerto Rico; the language, old San Juan, my family. Adjuntas, up in the mountains where my grandparents lived. I miss the sea, I guess, water warm like from a bathtub. Not like here, verdad? Anyway, my fiancée and I talked once about moving down, but you know, Elizabeth has her career, she doesn’t speak any Spanish, she’s real close to her family –”
Agustín seemed taken aback for a moment. “Elizabeth?” he said like it was a mouthful. “You mean she’s a gringa?”
“She’s Anglo,” Francisco said, annoyed by the man’s reaction. He’d gotten the same words, the same expression from a number of Latino acquaintances. In his mind Francisco dusted off a long list of arguments to explain his decision.
“I’m sorry,” Agustín said, quickly regaining his composure, “I didn’t mean to –”
“I understand,” Francisco said, and was immediately brought back to his argument with Elizabeth. The thought made something twist uncomfortably in his chest. It was time to go home, he’d been away long enough, almost an hour. Though he wasn’t looking forward to facing his fiancée, Francisco realized that gift or not he had little choice. There were, after all, matters left unresolved.
“Listen,” he said as he pushed away from the desk, “I really should go back to my prometida. Thanks for your hospitality –”
“Espérese un momentito,” Agustín said quickly, “are you sure that’s what you want to take to your fiancée?” He pointed at the bouquet on Francisco’s lap. “The way you looked at it,” he continued, “you know, when I handed it to you, it was like you didn’t care for it at all.”
“Well, it’s beautiful,” Francisco said, gently stroking the rose petals, “but I don’t know, maybe I should get her something that’s going to last. I thought of getting a plant, but that just wouldn’t have the same effect as the flowers. I mean, I already got her a Christmas present, a really nice bracelet in fact, but this, this has to be different….”
Francisco paused, then looked down to the coffee cup. “We really went at it tonight,” he said. “Jesus, you should have heard us! And, well, I have a feeling that when I get home tonight, I think there’s a chance she’s going to tell me that it’s over. So you see, what I want, it has to be something special….“
Excited, almost laughing, Agustín stood up and walked to Francisco’s side. “I think I have exactly what you need,” he said.
With quick steps (considering the man’s prominent limp) Agustín led Francisco down a dusty stairwell, past heating ducts and clanking water pipes, then through an iron gate and into the tiny basement. Right across from the entrance, standing slightly askew against the cracked wall, stood a smaller version of the refrigerator upstairs; this one could have actually been a soda dispenser. On the middle shelf there was a delicate ceramic vase decorated with jaguar paws and proud quetzal birds. Within it lay a sole cut orchid, unlike any Francisco had ever seen. Huge silver-colored petals
reflected the fluorescent glare like distorted mirrors.
“It’s an Ixchel’s tear, a moon orchid,” Agustín explained, “it came from El Petén, near my home in Guatemala.”
“I’ve never…,” Francisco began, but let his voice trail off as he approached the refrigerator door.
“Most people haven’t. Only a few of them grow in the entire Yucatán peninsula.”
Francisco opened the door and knelt down in front of the flower. From up close the orchid’s reddish center seemed to glow, as if it contained a dying ember. Had it not been for the way the petals quivered under his breath, he would have sworn they were made of steel.
“This is,” he said, stumbling with the words, “this is unbelievable. Why, I mean, why would you keep it down here, hidden away?”
“Because it’s not for sale,” Agustín said, looking at the floor. “Eriberto, he doesn’t know what to do with it, he doesn’t even have a price for it yet.”
“If you’re not selling it, then why are you showing it to me?”
Agustín paused and stroked his cheek and walked closer to Francisco. He put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Because I’m giving it to you, that’s what I’m doing.”
“I don’t understand,” Francisco said.
“It’s Christmas,” Agustín said with a forced grin, “and that’s what you do for Christmas, right?”
“But won’t your boss –”
“What is he going to do, fire me? I’m his cousin and I work for nothing, just room and board. Besides, that orchid didn’t cost him a cent. It was me who got it, you see, I brought it with me when I came from Guatemala.” For a moment Agustín seemed angry, but at what Francisco could not tell.
The thought of receiving such a gift seemed unreal to Francisco. It was as if a stranger had offered to buy him a house or a car; it just didn’t happen. He stepped away from the flower and pursed his lips, then slowly shook his head.
Mister October Page 22
