The Best American Short Stories 2013

by Elizabeth Strout

  “I intend to.”

  “So you can be rich!”

  “That’s the idea,” I said.

  A smile flashed across Juan’s face. “And the American girls? Ehhhhh?”

  His voice rose with this last drawn-out syllable, so that it sounded like the thrum of a small revving motor.

  I told him what he wanted to hear, in exactly the sly tone required. “They’re very affectionate.”

  Juan clapped again. “Wonderful! Wonderful! These young people,” he said to my father. “The whole world is right there for them, just ripe for the taking. Tell me, are you happy, young man?”

  I had to remind myself he was addressing that version of me that lived in California, that worked with Hassan, the one who was going to be unspeakably wealthy as a result. Not the me who’d never left the country, who wanted to be an actor but was actually a part-time employee in a copy shop run by a depressive.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’m very happy.”

  Juan smiled broadly, and I knew my part in the conversation was over. He and my father got down to business. The paperwork was prepared, a long stack of forms and obtusely worded declarations, all signed in triplicate, and in a matter of minutes, my great-uncle’s house was officially no longer our problem. I stood when my father did. Juan took my hand and shook it vigorously.

  “California!” he said again, as if he didn’t quite believe it.

  Once we were free of Juan and the municipal offices, outside again and breathing the briny, life-giving sea air, I congratulated my old man. I said: “Now we don’t have to burn the house down.”

  He gave me a weary look. “Now we can’t, you mean.”

  We walked toward the plaza. It was late afternoon, still hours of light remaining, but where else could one go in this town? The regulars would be in their habitual spots, waiting for the sunset with steadfast, unflagging patience. It had been barely a day, but already I could understand why my father had fled this place the moment he had the chance. He’d gone first to the provincial capital, a nice enough place that he began to outgrow the moment he arrived. He was young; he wanted more. He moved to the capital itself, where he finished his education, won more prizes, married, and went abroad, fulfilling, if only partially, the expectations of those he’d left behind. They’d wanted him to be a judge, or a diplomat, or an engineer. To build bridges or make law. His actual job—head librarian of the antiquarian books and rare manuscripts section of the National Library—was a wholly inconceivable occupation. It sounded less like work one did for a wage, and more like an inherited title of nobility. But then it was precisely the rarefied nature of his position that gave my father such prestige in these parts.

  We hadn’t gone far when he said, “Quite the act in there.”

  I was feeling good and opted not to listen for any trace of sarcasm. Instead I thanked him.

  “An Arab?” he said. “A store? How precise!”

  “Everything’s an act, right? I was improvising. You have to say the lines like you mean them.”

  “I see your studies at the conservatory have really paid dividends. It was very convincing.”

  “Your best friend thought so.”

  “Best friend, indeed,” my old man said. “I suppose it’s obvious, but I have no memory of him.”

  I nodded. “I don’t think he noticed, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  We still hadn’t returned to the discussion of the previous night, and now there seemed no point. Instead we’d come to the plaza, with its view of the sea and its benches filling up one by one. We ducked into a tiny restaurant, hoping to have a quiet meal alone, but everyone recognized my father, and so the basic ritual of our stay in town began anew. We entered the dining room, waving, accepting greetings. A few men called my father’s name excitedly—Manuel! Manolito!—and by the way his face shifted, the way his eyes darkened, I could see this prominence beginning to weigh on him. I saw him draw a deep breath, as if preparing for a steep climb. He was bored with it all, though every instinct told him he must bury this cynicism, ignore it. There are no cynics in this town—that is something you learn when you travel. When you live in the capital and become corrupt. One cannot be rude to these people, one cannot make fun of them. They know almost nothing about you anymore, but they love you. And this was the bind my old man was in. The night demanded something, some way to shift its course; and perhaps this was why, when we approached the table that had called us, he threw an arm over my shoulder, squeezed me tightly, and introduced me as his son, Nelson, home from abroad.

  “From California,” my father said. “Just back for a visit.”

  His announcement caught me by surprise. I hadn’t intended to reprise the role debuted in Juan’s office, but now there was no choice. I scarcely had a moment to glance in my old man’s direction, to catch sight of his playful smile, before a couple of strangers wrapped me in a welcoming embrace. Everything happened quite quickly. A few narrow wooden tables were pushed together; my father and I pressed into perversely straight-backed chairs. We were surrounded. Everyone wanted to say hello; everyone wanted to get a look at me. I shook a dozen hands, grinning the entire time like a politician. I felt very grateful to my old man for this opportunity. It was—how do I explain this?—the role I’d been preparing for my entire life.

  Scene: A dim restaurant off the plaza, in a small town on the southern coast. Santos (fifteen or twenty years older than the others, whom they call Profe) and his protégé, Cochocho, do most of the talking; Erick and Jaime function as a chorus and spend most of their energy drinking. They’ve been at it all afternoon when an old friend, Manuel, arrives with his son, Nelson. It is perhaps two hours before dark. Manuel lives in the capital, and his son is visiting from the United States. The young man is charming but arrogant, just as they expect all Americans to be. As the night progresses, he begins to grate on them, something evident at first only in small gestures. Bottles of beer are brought to the table, the empties are taken away, a process as fluid and automatic as the waves along the beach. How they are drained so quickly is not entirely clear. It defies any law of physics. The waitress, Elena, is an old friend too, a heavyset woman in her late forties, dressed in sweatpants and a loose-fitting T-shirt; she observes these men with a kind of pity. Over the years, she has slept with all of them. A closely guarded secret; they are men of ordinary vanity, and each of the four locals thinks he is the only one. Elena’s brown-haired daughter, Celia, is a little younger than the American boy—he’s in his early twenties—and she lingers in the background, trying to catch a glimpse of the foreigner. Her curiosity is palpable. There are dusty soccer trophies above the bar, and a muted television, which no one watches. Occasionally the on-screen image lines up with the dialogue, but the actors are not aware of this.

  NELSON: That’s right. California. The Golden State.

  ERICK: Hollywood. Sunset Boulevard.

  COCHOCHO: Many Mexicans, no?

  ERICK: Route 66. James Dean.

  JAIME: I have a nephew in Las Vegas. Is that California?

  COCHOCHO (after opening a bottle of beer with his teeth): Don’t answer him. He’s lying. He doesn’t even know where Las Vegas is. He doesn’t know where California is. Ignore him. Ignore the both of them. That’s what we do.

  ERICK: Magic Johnson. The Olympics.

  COCHOCHO (to Erick): Are you just saying words at random? Do you ever listen to yourself? (to Nelson) Forgive him. Forgive us. It’s Friday.

  NELSON: I understand.

  JAIME: Friday is an important day.

  ERICK: The day before Saturday.

  NELSON: Of course.

  JAIME: And after Thursday.

  COCHOCHO: As I said, forgive us.

  As well as being the oldest of the group, Santos is also the most formal in speech and demeanor. Suit and tie. He’s been waiting for the right moment to speak. He imagines everyone else has been waiting for this too, for their opportunity to hear him.

  SANT
OS: I’m appalled by all this. This . . . What is the phrase? This lack of discipline. We must be kind to our guest. Make a good impression. Is it very loud in here? Perhaps you don’t notice it. I’m sure things are different where you live. Orderly. I was your father’s history teacher. That is a fact.

  Nelson looks to his father for confirmation. A nod from Manuel.

  MANUEL: He was. And I remember everything you taught me, Profe.

  SANTOS: I doubt that. But it was my class, I believe, that inculcated in your father the desire to go north, to the capital. I take responsibility for this. Each year, my best students leave. I’m retired now and I don’t miss it, but I was sad watching them go. Of course they have their reasons. If these others had been paying any attention at all to history as I taught it, they might have understood the logic of migration. It’s woven into the story of this nation. I don’t consider this something to celebrate, but they might have understood it as a legacy they’d inherited. They might have been a bit more ambitious.

  COCHOCHO: Profe, you’re being unfair.

  SANTOS (to Nelson, ignoring Cochocho): Your father was the best student I ever had.

  MANUEL (sheepishly): Not true, Profe, not true.

  SANTOS: Of course it’s true. Are you calling me a liar? Not like these clowns. I taught them all. (nodding toward Erick, who is pouring himself a glass of beer) This one could barely read. Couldn’t sit still. Even now, look at him. Doesn’t even know who the president is. (Television: generic politician, his corruption self-evident, as clear as the red sash across his chest.) The only news he cares about is the exchange rate.

  ERICK: The only news that matters. I have expenses. A son and two daughters.

  COCHOCHO (to Nelson): And you can marry either of them. Take one of the girls off his hands, please.

  SANTOS: Or the boy. That’s allowed over there, isn’t it?

  NELSON: How old are the girls?

  COCHOCHO: Old enough.

  NELSON: Pretty?

  ERICK: Very.

  COCHOCHO (eyebrows raised, skeptical): A man doesn’t look for beauty in a wife. Rather, he doesn’t look only for beauty. We can discuss the details later. Right, Erick?

  Erick nods absent-mindedly. It’s as if he’s already lost the thread of the conversation.

  SANTOS: So, young man. What do you do there in California?

  NELSON (glancing first at his father): I have my own business. I work with an Arab. Together we have a store. It’s a bit complicated, actually.

  SANTOS: Complicated. How’s that? What could be simpler than buying and selling? What sort of merchandise is it? Weapons? Metals? Orphans?

  Television: in quick succession, a handgun, a barrel with a biohazard symbol, a sad-looking child. The child remains on-screen, even after Nelson begins speaking.

  NELSON: We began with baby supplies. Milk. Formula. Diapers. That sort of thing. It was a government program. For poor people.

  JAIME: Poor Americans?

  NELSON: That’s right.

  COCHOCHO: Don’t be so ignorant. There are poor people there too. You think your idiot cousin in Las Vegas is rich?

  JAIME: He’s my nephew. He wants to be a boxer.

  COCHOCHO (to Nelson): Go on.

  NELSON: This was good for a while, but there is—you may have heard. There have been some problems in California. Budgets, the like.

  SANTOS (drily): I can assure you these gentlemen have not heard.

  NELSON: So we branched out. We rented the space next door, and then the space next door to that. We sell clothes in both. We do well. They come every first and fifteenth and spend their money all at once.

  JAIME: You said they were poor.

  NELSON: American poor is . . . different.

  SANTOS: Naturally.

  COCHOCHO: Naturally.

  NELSON: We drive down to Los Angeles every three weeks to buy the inventory. Garment district. Koreans. Jews. Filipinos. Businessmen.

  SANTOS: Very well. An entrepreneur.

  MANUEL: He didn’t learn this from me.

  SANTOS: You speak Arabic now? Korean? Hebrew? Filipino?

  NELSON: No. My partner speaks Spanish.

  COCHOCHO: And your English?

  MANUEL: My son’s English is perfect. Shakespearean.

  COCHOCHO: Two stores. And they both sell clothes.

  NELSON: We have Mexicans, and we have blacks. Unfortunately these groups don’t get along very well. The Mexicans ignore the blacks, who ignore the Mexicans. The white people ignore everyone, but they don’t shop with us and so we don’t worry about them. We have a store for each group.

  SANTOS: But they—they all live in the same district?

  Television: panning shot of an East Oakland street scene: International Boulevard. Mixed crowds in front of taco trucks, tricked-out cars rolling by very slowly, chrome rims spinning, glinting in the fierce sunlight. Latinas pushing strollers, black boys in long white T-shirts and baggy jeans, which they hold up with one hand gripping the crotch.

  NELSON: They do. And we don’t choose sides.

  COCHOCHO: Of course not. You’re there to make money. Why would you choose sides?

  JAIME: But you live there too? With the blacks? With the Mexicans?

  They look him over, a little disappointed. They’d thought he was more successful. Behind the scene, Elena prepares to bring more beer to the table, but her daughter stops her, takes the bottles, and goes herself.

  NELSON: Yes. There are white people too.

  CELIA: Excuse me, pardon me.

  Celia has inky black eyes and wears a version of her mother’s outfit—an old T-shirt, sweatpants, sandals. On her mother, this clothing represents a renunciation of sexual possibility. On Celia, they represent quite the opposite.

  NELSON (eagerly, wanting to prove himself—to the men? to Celia?): I’d like to buy a round. If I may.

  COCHOCHO: I’m afraid that’s not possible. (slips Celia a few bills) Go on, dear.

  Celia lingers for a moment, watching Nelson, until her mother shoos her away. She disappears offstage. Meanwhile the conversation continues.

  ERICK: You’re the guest. Hospitality is important.

  SANTOS: These things matter to us. You think it folkloric, or charming. We’re not offended by the way you look at us. We are accustomed to the anthropological gaze. (this last phrase accompanied by air quotes) We feel sorry for you because you don’t understand. We do things a certain way here. We have traditions. (to Manuel) How much does your boy know about us? About our town? Have you taught him our customs?

  NELSON: I learned the songs when I was a boy.

  MANUEL: But he was raised in the city, of course.

  COCHOCHO: What a shame. Last time I went was six years ago, when I ran for Congress. A detestable place. I hope you don’t mind my saying that.

  MANUEL: Certainly you aren’t the only one who holds that opinion.

  SANTOS: He wanted very badly to win. He would’ve happily moved his family there.

  JAIME: And your wife, she’s from the city?

  MANUEL: She is.

  COCHOCHO (to Nelson): You’re lucky to have left. How long have you been in California?

  NELSON: Since I was eighteen.

  JAIME: It’s a terrible place, but still, you must miss home quite a bit.

  NELSON (laughing): No, I wouldn’t say that, exactly.

  ERICK: The food?

  NELSON: Sure.

  JAIME: The family?

  NELSON: Yes, of course.

  MANUEL: I’m flattered.

  JAIME: Your friends?

  NELSON (pausing to think): Some of them.

  ERICK: Times have changed.

  SANTOS: No, Erick, times have not changed. The youth are not all that different than before. Take Manuel. Let’s ask him. Dear Manuel, pride of this poor, miserable village, tell us: how often do you wake up missing this place where you were born? How often do you think back, and wish you could do it over again, never have left, and stayed here to raise a
family?

  Manuel is caught off guard, not understanding if the question is serious or not. On the television: a shot of the plaza by night. Quickly recovering, he decides to take the question as a joke.

  MANUEL: Every day, Profe.

  Everyone but Santos laughs.

  SANTOS: I thought as much. Some people like change, they like movement, transition. A man’s life is very short and of no consequence. We have a different view of time here. A different way of placing value on things. We find everything you Americans—