by Achy Obejas
My mother-in-law watched the scene, then shook the dirt off her shoes. “They had to sell the car,” she said. “It’s a miracle they didn’t kill her too.” As she walked by me, she muttered, “Degenerate.”
Translation by Achy Obejas
PART III
SUDDEN RAGE
THE ORCHID
BY MARIELA VARONA ROQUE
Santos Suárez
The man takes the orchid down from the balcony wall. He breathes, as always; his breaths seem like sighs. He considers the poor orchid, tied unjustly to this fake branch, and he imagines the size, number, and thickness of the petals if, instead of this fourth-floor apartment, he had a house with a yard. The yard would be filled with ancient trees, worthy of this orchid.
The excited, almost hysterical voices of his wife and a neighbor come to him from the kitchen. Oh my God, only seven years old, and Marta had told him to come straight up here, that Alfonso was going to babysit him, but Alfonso says that when the boy didn’t show up, he went down to his house to get him and found the house locked; that’s when he figured Marta must have decided to leave him with his grandmother…Alfonso? Just imagine, he’s been struck dumb by this terrible thing, like me, that boy was like a son, or a grandson, to us, you know that. I imagine the police will want to question us now…
The man has taken the orchid to the bathroom. He poses it delicately on the rim of the pan in the shower stall and pours water from a bucket, filling the pan to the exact brim so that it is perfectly balanced. The voices can still be heard in the bathroom, though they’re deadened by the thickness of two concrete walls. Yes, of course, she’s under psychiatric care, they have her on pills. She came home at 2 in the morning, and since her son has stayed here so many nights before, she didn’t want to wake him up at that hour, believing the whole time, poor thing, that her little angel was fast asleep, when by then he was…
The orchid has two withered petals the man tries to remove from the stem. One falls into his hand but the other still has some sap and refuses to fall. The fleshy, bright texture of the petals remind him of animal skin rather than plant leaves. The man sits on the toilet lid, sighing constantly, and he takes the little jug that his wife has used for the last twenty years to wash herself and dips it in the bucket. He surprises himself when he tries to remember the last time his wife washed herself before going to bed.
It’s her voice he hears, rising in tone, becoming more dramatic. Whoever did it should be castrated, should be left to bleed until his mouth overflows with ants…He was an innocent creature who couldn’t defend himself. It must have been a mentally ill person, one of those drunks who spend all day on the corner, over there at San Benigno and Zapotes, with their bottles in hand. One of them is an ex-convict, he has tattoos. You can see it in his face that he’s capable of all kinds of savagery. It was probably him—he saw the boy walking all by himself and sweet-talked him; kids go along with whoever shows them anything of the slightest beauty, the poor things…Alfonso is devastated. I could never have kids, and ever since we got to know Marta, that boy has spent more time here than with his real grandmother…
The man brings up the little jug, full now, and begins to water the orchid, which shines its venomous color in the shadows. He asks himself why this thing with the boy had to happen now, this weekend, when all signs had pointed to calm. We have to buy groceries, Alfonso. Groceries bought. And we need to get money to pay the light bill because what you gave me for household expenses has been spent. Lights paid. And please do me the damn favor of fixing the oven, because it’s leaking oil. Oven fixed. And make sure that all your messy tools and parts are put away by the time I get back. Tools and parts picked up and put away. And go by Mirna’s and return the blender, since I have to live my life borrowing blenders because it’s never occurred to you to buy me a blender. Blender returned. And remember that Marta wants you to watch the boy this Saturday, that she’s going out.
He turns the light on and closes the door to keep the voices out. Isolated phrases still come through. Seven years old, goddamn it, and no pity…Nude, smeared with blood and left in the mud, the little angel…The doctor on call at the clinic found out everything from the morgue. Yes, in the mud, in a ditch on the way to the river, behind the brickworks…It was the old man who gives massages who found him, he was looking for herbs for one of his teas…It had to be the ex-convict: Who else could it be but him? The only person who’s sick in the head around here is that guy…
The man aims the flow from the little jug to water the fake branch to which the orchid is pinned. He knows that the water will soak into the organic matter in its thick layers, and that the orchid will suck it out later like a vampire. He sees the petals shining; they seem as alive as he is, but incapable of blossoming. He remembers Marta’s boy touching the plump petals with his fingertips whenever he accompanied him on his ritual of watering the plants.
There was no need to water the boy’s cheeks to see them shine. One time, in this very bathroom, Alfonso had emptied the little jug of warm water over the boy, and his color had not been venomous at all; on the contrary, it was the healthy color of a beautiful boy, with bright eyes and red lips, splashing water everywhere, never still like an orchid. His skin reflected all the colors of a rose, including a morbid mauve under his brow. They were the colors the man imagined on the flower to come, after watering that mute plant for so many years.
But now it is the same as always: The petals are dry and hard, like a fistful of indigenous, maybe obsidian blades. Not a single bud coming up anywhere. He sees himself, as he did so many times at sunset, sharing his secret hiding place between the trees by the river with the boy. They sit in an old abandoned truck covered with vines and flanked by piles of old bricks, and he listens to the boy’s chatter while he gazes out at the trees that don’t belong to him and imagines them covered with orchids.
He lifts the fake branch and waits for the water to drip off the stem and the petals, then scurry down the shower drain. Later, he holds it with one hand, keeping the other hand under it to catch the water that continues to leak through as he takes the plant out of the shower, with his flip-flops dragging, and back to its nail on the wall in the balcony. When he returns, he hears his wife’s voice saying goodbye to the neighbor, tearing into him right away. There you go again with your hang-up with that orchid, instead of getting dressed to go help Marta, that poor woman, and then to the wake. I don’t know how you can concern yourself with that idiotic thing with the boy’s disgrace still so fresh, and knowing that it happened while he was walking over here…
The man doesn’t say anything. He goes back to the bathroom and carefully closes the door so his wife doesn’t hear him lock it. He puts the bucket and the little jug back where they belong; he uses the bathroom rug to wipe off the water that dripped on the floor, then stands before the mirror hanging above the bathroom sink. He looks at his faded eyes and hears the boy’s voice pounding in his ears, telling him not to go to his house, that it’s better to meet by the hideout near the river, the only really safe place. And he remembers his sudden rage, the childish eyes growing wider from shock, and that sensation of power once everything was finished. He pulls from his pocket the blade with the golden handle, a gift from his father, and checks the sharpness with the same spare discipline with which he performed the ritual of watering the plants.
Translation by Achy Obejas
WHAT FOR, THIS BURDEN
BY MICHEL ENCINOSA FÚ
Vibora
Daniela killed herself.
She fried her brains, that’s what I mean.
They said it happened in the theater’s restroom. During the blackout. She broke open an electrical outlet, pulled the wires out, and scraped them down with a nail cutter. Then she stabbed herself in the head with a pair of scissors, two times, and tied the wires to them. Right into her brain. They said that doesn’t hurt, that you can’t feel pain in your brain even if it gets bitten. Then she sat herself down on the toilet, t
hey said. And when the electricity came back on, the volts and amps blew through her at will. They said you just had to see what was left after that. You could peer inside her skull through the holes. Can you believe it? And her panties were wet. But her makeup was intact. Daniela wasn’t one of those lezzies who cries, they said.
Though apparently she was one of those who pees herself, they added.
Nobody actually saw anything, but that’s what they said, that’s what they’re still talking about.
And I believe them.
I say thanks and take off down the shaded sidewalk because the red and blue riot of lights from the squad cars is driving me crazy.
It’s a pretty day. There’s a bit of sunshine, little clouds, an incredible clarity.
“Hey, is it true some crazy woman killed herself in there?” La Gloria asks, coming up to me with that perennial smell of garbage that’s always about her. “Were you there? What happened? Hey, what the fuck are you laughing about?”
“It’s a beautiful day,” I tell her, avoiding the hand that’s trying to grab my arm.
“That’s because somebody wanted it to be that way and pushed some buttons in his office.”
That’s true.
It’s horrible.
It’s as if I had to be reminded that the contentment in my belly was owed to a calf that had been dismembered just a few days before.
Or worse: owed to the person who did the dismembering.
La Gloria insists: “What happened? Was it because of trouble with her lovers? Or did somebody tell her she had AIDS? C’mon, you fag, tell me.”
“It’s none of your business,” I say. “Zip it, shove it up your ass.”
She spits at my feet and walks back to the mountain of garbage covering the dumpsters.
I watch for a few seconds as she starts to dive, dig, salvage.
I’m tired of watching her. Every day, the same corners, the same dumpsters. This is La Gloria, from our neighborhood. The one who eats what you shit. The one who dresses in everybody else’s clothes. The one who picks up cigarette butts at bars. The one who scours the whole city as if it were some free supermarket. You know, that one…barbaric, and so damn young.
Her Lycra’s ripped at the butt. Her dark skin is cellulitefree. Thin and straight, her body. Curly and ash-colored, her hair. So young.
I turn my back on her and continue down 10 de Octubre Boulevard. It doesn’t matter, up or down, but down’s easier. Until the intersection with Vía Blanca. Then left, until the Lacret junction. Then down again to the boulevard. Triangles are always worse than circles. I walk along, contemplating my shadow, which moves ahead of me, until I realize I have no shadow at all to contemplate anymore. I don’t know when but at some point the sky clouded over. I’m afraid I can be slow to notice things like that.
They always told me: “Don’t go around breaking girls’ hearts. Especially the young ones. The younger they are, the worse it is.”
Ten years ago, Daniela was seven years old and I was seventeen. Ten years ago, we were both hungry. Like so many siblings in the tenements, we slept in the same bed; it was her fault I didn’t find out for the longest time about nighttime masturbation, serene and alone. But I never held it against her. I never held anything against her. Not even the way she slapped and kicked at me when she had nightmares. Instead, I’d talk to her.
“Just imagine it, Dani, my little dove. A Harley Davidson. Do you know what a Harley Davidson is? It’s a motorcycle like Uncle Patricio’s. That big, like a couch. You and me on one, on the highway. Can you imagine it? A highway, like in the movies. You know: Kansas, Arizona, Omaha, Salt Lake City, sun, big sky, straight ahead, just straight ahead, right up to the clouded horizon. There’s always lightning on that horizon, you know. Can you imagine it, my little dove? You see the light cut through the sky but the Harley’s engine won’t let you hear the thunder, so you go ahead and it never rains because the clouds run away when they see us, and there’s almost no grass, and everything’s quiet except the Harley’s engine; you’re laughing, and I just go faster and faster. Can you imagine it?”
“Yes,” she’d answer. “We’re gonna do that someday?”
“Just like I’m telling you, my little dove, someday, someday we’re gonna do all that.”
Yuri would come over and listen for a while, then leave. Yuri was a very boring older brother because he was never hungry. He’d dropped out of college to sell marijuana and PC components.
It was Yuri who pressured my mother to let me go on scholarship. “We’re too crowded here,” he said. “My clients come over, they see so many people and get nervous.” Later, he found a lover for my mother so that she left the house too. Some guy from Miramar, high up, you know. “And don’t worry; I’ll take care of Dani. She’s gonna be better fed and looked after with me than you anyway.”
Mamá let herself be talked into it. I can’t blame her.
I let myself be talked into it. Daniela never forgave me.
Seven years old. Daniela was just seven years old when I broke her heart.
She never sent it off for repairs. She learned to like the dripping of her fractured baby bottle. It lulled her at night; it gave her life a different beat.
When I came home from school, I’d lie down next to her, just like before, and I’d talk to her about festivals up at Dunlop Square, and about Mardi Gras and San Francisco.
“Stop talking shit,” she’d say, and turn her back to me.
Yuri would sometimes come by and take a look at us, and it seemed like he felt sorry for us.
Yuri is sitting alone at the table. Standing next to the wall, the sergeant is smoking. But he doesn’t count. Yuri builds a wall with dominoes. Then he knocks it down with his finger.
“I already know.”
I sit down facing him, pick up a few of the dominoes, and build half a Stonehenge. Daniela was always intrigued by that sort of thing. Dolmens, menhirs, that stuff; neolithic drunken sprees, all that bullshit.
“We hafta keep going. Do you hear me, Omaha? We hafta let go, let go of old baggage,” he says, raising his head to see beyond me. “What you got there?”
The man coming in is pushing a little boy in front of him.
“You can keep him overnight. But I need him back early tomorrow. You can pay me the usual.”
“What’s your hurry?” Yuri takes stock of the boy, who smiles at him.
“He’s my sister-in-law’s nephew. That’s the hurry. Like I said, the usual.”
The man leaves.
Yuri gets up. “Come here,” he says to the boy.
I follow them.
In the back bedroom, Yuri sits the boy on the bed and offers him a cold ham-and-cheese snack and a TuKola from a little table. He watches for a while as the boy eats and drinks, then he gives him a Nintendo DS.
“I can’t stand it when they bring them to me like that,” he says. “They don’t last the night.”
I shrug and go back to the living room.
The sergeant’s at the table, pawing a domino. He blinks like a kid who’s been caught in the act, drops the domino, and returns his three hundred pounds of fat and muscle to their post.
I stick the first DVD I find into the player and throw myself on the couch.
Wesley Snipes with glasses and a sword. Just what I need.
It starts to rain outside.
That night two weeks ago it was also raining out on Santa Catalina.
Héctor. Héctor and I shared a desk in primary school. He’d lend me his pencil. He’d let me play with the toy soldiers that he brought to school behind his mother’s back. His hair was very blond, practically white, dry, curly.
He hadn’t changed much.
“Omaha,” Héctor said, “decide. We’re not gonna be here all night.”
Daniela looked scared. The other girl, her friend, did too.
When he was a kid, Héctor had been a loner. He only played with me. Now he’d switched playmates. And multiplied them—by a lot.
Those five guys looked very capable of waiting all night. But maybe they weren’t.
They’d certainly seemed impatient when they stepped in our path and dragged us to that garage in Heredia.
I am not your rolling wheels, I am the highway, I am not your carpet ride, I am the sky… screamed Chris Cornell from the Panasonic on the Chevrolet’s hood.
It seemed possible.
“Your brother’s gone too far, Omaha,” Héctor told me. “He’s stepping on my territory. Gourmet meat is his thing, and that’s fine, but selling weed is my business, and given how tight it’s been, the last thing I’m looking for is competition. I hafta send him a message, okay? It’s not that I wanna do you harm but I’ve got my buddies and the neighborhood watching me. That’s all it is, so relax, nothing’s gonna happen to you. Just decide already. Which of these two?”
Both girls stopped looking my way.
“C’mon, your sister or her little friend. You decide.”
“All so that I turn around and let my brother know that you threatened us with a switchblade and—”
“What switchblade? Do you see a switchblade? Any kind of knife? Do you think we need that?”
I looked at them.
Héctor had really grown up. Quite a bit. The others too. I remembered them vaguely from primary school too. No. They didn’t need any of that.
Daniela’s little friend was still holding one of the sunflowers the actors had given out to the audience. The play had been fun. There were a lot of kids in the audience. There were a lot of laughs.
“Get my sister outta here,” I finally told Héctor. “I don’t want her to see anything.”
The guy shakes his umbrella at the door and comes in.
“Got anything?” he asks.
Yuri nods. The guy takes out his wallet.
“And the other thing?”
Yuri nods.
“Thank God.” The man puts two bills down in front of him, on the table. “I had a fight today with the union guys, because of last week’s payroll. I told you about it…so I’m short. And when I get home my wife is going to want me to take her to the movies, and my daughter’s fighting with her husband so she comes over now and then just to talk crap and…”
