“Hola,” he said.
“Hola,” I answered, continuing my walk.
“Americano?”
“Sí.”
“You like?” he asked with quiet seduction, touching the bulge in his pants.
“No, gracias,” I answered with a polite smile, and kept on walking.
I returned to House of John around nine-thirty, just as the parlor was filling up with bugarrones. That guy named Edgar saw me as I headed up the stairs to my room. He rushed out of the parlor and called after me just as I reached the second-floor landing.
“Hola,” he said.
“Hola.”
He started up the stairs toward me.
“Yo tengo una pinga grande,” he said when he reached the second-floor landing. I almost laughed, but contained myself. I knew enough dirty Spanish to know “I have a big dick” when I hear it. I respectfully declined and headed toward my room.
I was anxious to turn in early, anxious to meet Étie at church tomorrow, and anxious to give him his present. Despite the music in the parlor downstairs and the sounds of sex in adjacent rooms, I fell asleep quickly. I was anxious to dream.
Chapter Sixteen
I rose early Sunday morning, grateful that I ignored Will’s packing advice and brought along a suit and tie, something an old travel veteran like me does automatically, no matter how casual the trip. After all, you never know. Back in Los Angeles, nice casual was what most of my fellow parishioners at Agape Church donned on Sunday morning, but I had never been to a Catholic service before, and I didn’t want to take a disrespectful chance.
The light gray suit hung nicely on me and the matching tie was humble enough for a church service of any denomination.
I arrived at the plaza outside the cathedral at seven-thirty. I was amazed at how what I saw so mirrored the picture in my mind. So many beautiful people—seniors, children, families, and couples—greeted each other in the plaza, ascended the four steps of the cathedral, and entered the sanctuary. It was a sea of raven-haired Dominicans of every shade of brown, dressed mostly in white; white dresses and veils, white shirts and slacks, white patent leather shoes and bucks.
“Hola, my gorgeous man,” he said, easing up behind me. I smiled as I slowly turned to him, took in his innocent beauty, dressed in his white shirt and white pants, a silk beige tie neatly knotted at his neck. My Étie was a vision.
“Hi, baby,” I said, doing everything I could to keep from kissing him. “You look beautiful.”
“Gracias.” He blushed. “You too.”
“Muchas gracias.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out the small gift-wrapped box. “This is for you.”
“Oh?” His eyes widened as I placed it in his hand.
“Open it.”
“Okay.”
It was amazing how delicately he opened the gift-wrap, so careful not to tear it. He then neatly folded it and put it in his pocket. He looked at the small felt box that was inside, curiously. He slowly opened it. Then he gasped. A ray of sun tapped the gold crucifix and chain and the reflection bounced onto his awe-struck face.
“Oh baby…” He could barely get the words out. I eased the jewelry from the case and draped the chain around his neck. I stepped back proudly. The gold crucifix sparkled brightly against his silk beige tie. He looked into my eyes. The cathedral bells sent out their call. He moved in close to me. I felt his arms go around me. I felt him lean into me. I felt him kiss me on the cheek.
“I love you, baby,” he whispered in my ear. “I love you so much.” I had just been given my present, too.
It is hard to put into words the beauty of a Catholic Mass. I have seen many ceremonies related to the Catholic faith in movies and documentaries. I remember being glued to the television during Pope John Paul II’s funeral, and being mesmerized by the sheer beauty of the pageantry.
But being in the middle of it, even in its modesty compared to the papal funeral, was quite another kind of humbling experience. The heavenly sound of the boys choir, the lighting of the candles, the priest in his finely detailed robe, kneeling at the altar, an altar boy kneeling on either side.
And the people in the pews, their heads bowed, their devotion deep, their prayers, though silent, trumpeted manifestations of faith in and love for a Higher Power I completely understood and felt devoted to as well.
I cannot describe the feeling of kneeling with, praying with Étie. I suddenly realized the spiritual power of our love and, like him, I found myself thanking our Heavenly Father for giving us to each other.
I opened my eyes and looked around this holy place again. I imagined Étie and I one day being married in such a romantically spiritual place as this. I closed my eyes and began to pray anew. I asked the Lord to please, please make it so.
After the service, I walked Étie across the plaza to Bodega Colonial, which the Trujillos had already opened. We greeted each other like family, and I had to compliment them on how lovely they looked in their Sunday finery. They looked like parents of a bride on their way to the wedding.
It turned out that they would be attending the second Mass at the cathedral while Étie minded the store. It was a wonderful arrangement that allowed them all to receive their spiritual nourishment.
Étie and I waved good-bye to the Trujillos as they left and started across the plaza. I then turned to Étie, and kissed him gently on the lips.
“See you after work?” I whispered.
“You better,” he joked, kissing me back.
I left, so full that I thought I would burst. There were so many things running through my mind, things that I had to figure out. The one thing I didn’t have to figure out, the one thing I was sure of, was that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Étie. And I knew he felt the same. Would he come to America? Would I move here? There was so much we had to talk about, to think about. When he got off work, I would suggest that we go to our little sidewalk café in the Malecón, and discuss our future.
I headed back to the hotel. I needed to get on my computer and research immigration procedures. I picked up my pace as I walked the short distance. I greeted Carlos, who was washing the shuttle bus out front, as I entered House of John.
The foyer and parlor were rather sparse when I got there. Cedric was at his usual spot behind the front desk and Emilio was coming down the stairs with bags of dirty linen and towels. They both greeted me with warm smiles and holas as I returned their greetings, bounced past Emilio, and headed toward my room.
I got on my computer and was directed to the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, which began overseeing the Immigration Department after 9/11.
The information was voluminous, complicated, and discouraging. Although it would be very easy for me to emigrate here, it would take forever for Étie, a single young man in a poor Caribbean country, with no real family ties, to immigrate to the United States.
The surest way would be for him to become a sponsored relative of an American citizen, a spouse. Unfortunately, U.S. federal law did not recognize same-sex marriages, and so the chances of bringing him home were slim. If only all America could be like Massachusetts.
I spent hours on the research, until my eyes blurred. There had to be a way.
There was a knock on my door. I got up and answered it.
“Martin. Hey.”
“Hey, Jesse. How you doin’?”
“I’m good.”
“Really?”
“Yeah…yeah.”
“Just don’t pay any attention to those fools.”
“The guys? They all right. They don’t mean anything.”
“And they don’t know anything. All they thinking about is today. They don’t have a clue about tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Come walk with me. Let’s go have a drink.”
“Well, I’m kinda in the middle of something right now, Martin.”
He noticed the computer open on the table, and the screen full of immigration data.
“Boy, c
lose that thing down and come have a drink with me.”
I smiled. I did need a break, and I hadn’t spent as much time with Martin as I wanted to. “Okay, Father,” I said.
We ended up at the La Capella restaurant over on the Malecón and sat at the bar, which offered beautiful views of the beach and sea below.
“You know I turned sixty last June,” he sighed into his third Cuba Libre.
“Really?” I said. I was still nursing my first drink. I knew I would be meeting Étie later on and I wanted to be alert for the discussion of our future. “Congratulations.”
“Please.” Martin threw up a hand in protest. “No back pats. I’m not sure I’m all together with it just yet.”
“Sixty is fine, Martin.”
“How would you know?”
“Well, I don’t,” I conceded, “but I’m sure when I get there I’ll be fine with it. I mean, sixty is not that old.”
“Spoken like a true—how old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“—Thirty-eight-year-old.” Then he chuckled, as if to some private joke to which only he got the punch line. Down on the small beach below us, three young boys, in ragged, cut-off pants, their makeshift swimwear, bony torsos, blackened and bronzed by too many carefree days in sun and sand and tumbling sea, played as only young boys could. I watched Martin watch them, admiringly, envious, a vintage memory made melancholy by the clarity of the recollection.
“My God, was I ever that young?” he quietly asked himself, letting the question linger in the air. “You know in the movies, sixty-year-old guys still get the girl,” he finally continued, “but in our world, sixty-year-old guys don’t always have the same kinda luck. Well, now of course, unless you’re free with the cash. But I’m old-fashioned. I still want them to like me for me.”
“So why are you down here?” I dared to ask.
“Because I like sex a lot more than sex likes me.”
“Okay.”
“I’m old, Jesse. Older. Way older than I was at thirty. I’m sixty. And sixty’s not what’s moving in the marketplace. As real as love is supposed to be, it still needs something sweet and young and fresh to look at; something muscled and hard and firm to the touch. Look at this.”
“What?”
He grabbed a handful of his backside. “When did this happen? When did my ass get so soft? You know, there comes a time in every gay man’s life when the physical can no longer compete with the wit and the wisdom. Wit and wisdom get pushed up to the front lines when looks go on life support. When cute can’t make no money no more, you better have wit and wisdom. For the old queens, that combination is always a cash cow. When you get old, if you don’t have love, you better damn well have cash, and the wit and wisdom to make it. Aging. All the gym time in the world can’t stop it.
“Don’t ever disrespect love, my young friend. Get it now. Cherish it. Take care of it. ’Cause when you get old, you don’t wanna make a fool of yourself, running down here, paying a bunch of pretty young things who don’t give a shit about you to stick some dick up your flabby ass.
“See, you may get too old to attract something young and cute, you may get too old to get it up. Hell, you may get too old to just sit up. But you’ll never get too old to be in love.
“If you love that boy, then good for you. If he loves you, even better. No matter what happens to the two of you over the years, it’ll be all right if it’s really love. ’Cause love’s a keeper.”
I know a lot of what Father Martin was saying was ramblings from his cups, but I think I understood what he was trying to say to me.
When I told him I had to go and meet Étie, he shooed me away with his blessings.
I arrived at Bodega Colonial at four o’clock on the dot. Étie was waiting for me with smiles and kisses.
We went to our little café in the Condistre and were seated at our favorite outdoor table.
You know that feeling that you have when you realize you’re sitting across from the best thing to ever happen in your life? That’s where I was. That’s where I was floating.
“You know how much I love you, Étie?”
“Sí, like I love you.”
“Sí. I want us, you and me, to be together forever.”
“That be nice, baby.”
“I’ve been checking on the computer…”
“Jesse?” I knew the voice without ever having to look up. I was too busy staring into my baby’s eyes.
“Hey, Syl, what’s up?”
“No mucho,” he crooned in sloppy Spanish. I finally looked up at him, watched him lock on to my baby.
“My God, the pictures don’t do you justice,” he said to Étie. “I can certainly understand Jesse keeping you hidden away from us.” This time Étie did not blush.
“Étie, this is Sylvester,” I began the introduction, “Sylvester, Étie.”
“Hello,” Sylvester said with too much suggestion in his voice. He extended his hand.
“Hola,” Étie answered, shaking Sylvester’s hand.
“Oh, and you remember Edgar, Jessie.”
I hadn’t seen Edgar come out of the little shop next door to the restaurant until he joined Sylvester.
“Yes,” I said. “Hola.”
But Edgar was staring at Étie. Étie was staring at him.
“And this is Jesse’s amigo. Étie.”
“Yo le conozco,” Edgar said coolly. “Él es mi ex-novio.”
“Huh?” Sylvester asked. “What did he say, Jesse?”
I could barely get the words out. “He said Étie is his ex-boyfriend.”
“Oh,” Sylvester crooned, “well, isn’t this a small world?”
I could see that Étie was steaming silently. He finally got up without ever looking at Edgar again. “We go, Jesse,” he said to me.
I got up and put some money on the table.
“Étie, you should have Jesse bring you by our hotel so you can meet the rest of our American friends,” Sylvester said slyly, then he turned to me. “You will bring him by Casa de Mita, won’t you, Jesse?”
“Let me talk to you later, Sylvester,” I said. “Come on, Étie, let’s go.”
But Étie had already hit the pavement of the Condistre. I had to hasten my pace to catch up with him. “Étie!” I called, “Étie!” But he wouldn’t stop.
I finally caught up with him, and took his hand. He snatched it from me, and kept walking away.
“Baby?” I pleaded, trying my best to keep up with him. Finally he stopped, turned around, and faced me.
“You lie to me!” he screamed at me, vicious tears slinging from his eyes.
“What are you talking about, Étie?”
“You lie!”
“About what?”
“You no live at Hilton!”
“Huh?”
“You no live at Hilton.”
“I never said I was staying at the Hilton.”
“You live at House of John! You live at House of Whore!” He started rushing away from me again.
“Wait a second, Étie,” I said desperately, chasing after him. I caught up with him, held my pace with him, but he kept on moving. “Let me explain,” I pleaded.
“That is place you americanos come to exploit our people, to be with bugarrones. That is all you think we good for. Well, I am NOT bugarrón! If that is what you look for, then go back to your whore hotel, pull down your pants, and pull out your wallet for somebody else!”
He began running, running away from me. I couldn’t keep up. I stopped in my tracks. I was the plague. And now I was crying, too.
Chapter Seventeen
I returned to Casa de Mita and went directly to my room. I didn’t want to talk to anyone or see anyone, only Étie. I stood out on the balcony. The sun was setting behind the mountains. I hated myself for being the center of Étie’s pain, for feeling the pain that I was feeling, for possibly dissolving the one great dream of my life. When the pulse of your heart runs away from you, you’re just a fucking dead
man walking. And that’s what I was.
I stood out on the balcony feeling sorry for myself. And then the cathedral bells rang out in the distance, the same bells that had brought me to Étienne Saldano. I smiled even as tears streamed down my face.
Suddenly I began to wipe the tears away, defiantly, as the bells tolled on, telling me, giving me the determination to fight the self-pity, fight the surrender, to fight for my man. In three days I would be leaving Santo Domingo, and I was not about to leave without a fight.
I grabbed my phone and pulled the phone directory from the nightstand drawer. I looked up Hoteles. There it was, the Santo Domingo Hilton. I called; made my reservations, then packed up all my things.
Carlos was preparing dinner in the kitchen and Tomás was putting on a show for Dr. Mo and the Hicks twins in the parlor. In the foyer Cedric and Martin were reminiscing about the early days of the gay revolution and the drag queen riots of Stonewall, when I came down the stairs with my bags.
“Well, what have we here?” Cedric smiled with surprise.
“Listen, Cedric, it’s been great, but there are some things I need to do, that I can’t do here at Casa de Mita.”
“Oh?”
“I know I have three more nights here, and they’re already paid for, so don’t worry about it.”
“You also paid for shuttle service back to the airport on Wednesday. Where will you be staying? I’ll have Carlos pick you up.”
“Thanks, Cedric. I’ll be staying at the Hilton over on the Malecón.”
“Is that where you’re headed now?”
“Yes.”
“And how will you get there?”
“A taxi. It’s not that far.”
“Nonsense, Jesse. Casa de Mita has not forgotten about hospitality. Carlos is preparing dinner now but I’ll have Emilio drop you off.”
“Thanks, Cedric.”
“Is it your young man?”
“Yes.”
“So, it really is love.”
“Yes.”
Visible Lives Page 27
