Simone

by Eduardo Lalo

  Farther back, past the boss’s desk—I acknowledged him with a bow of my head—were more shelves where they kept dried fish, large bottles of sesame oil and soy sauce, woks and kitchen utensils of every size. I stopped for a moment to examine the rows of bottles that constituted a small pharmacy of Asian remedies. Behind a curtain an unknown number of children and adult seemed to be bustling about, and against the back wall of the store there was an enormous refrigerator, out of which emerged an older woman carrying bags full of vegetables.

  Li was nowhere to be seen. I approached the boss to ask about her. He shouted something in Chinese; the woman who had come from the refrigerator answered him and then pointed to a door I hadn’t noticed. Pushing it open, I found a staircase. The second floor led to a gallery around a tiny interior patio that marked the space between two buildings. Music or conversations could be heard coming from behind the doors. I knocked on one, which was answered by a man in a sleeveless T-shirt with a cigarette between his lips. Behind him was a narrow bed and a woman kneeling on the ground and facing a tub full of clothes and soap suds. The man made me repeat my question, then he went out onto the gallery and indicated with his hand that I should go to the end. I knocked on the last door, and when it opened, I found Li.

  We did not kiss. Without a gesture from her, I knew that we were in a situation that called for extreme decorum. Near the small window, which opened onto the side wall of the neighboring building, were two men. Li led me to them. A short and very thin old man was sitting in an easy chair covered in clear plastic. On a chair facing backward rested a young man. The old man, named Wen Da, was Li’s granduncle. Bai Bo was her cousin. I sat down on the rickety old bed. Li brought me a glass of tea before sitting down by my side. The relatives talked among themselves. Li seemed to be explaining to them who I was, but I guessed from the brevity of their exchange that this was old news and that their words constituted a sort of prologue. The two men must have been waiting for me.

  Calligraphy, landscapes, and ink drawings of birds hung from the walls. Drafting implements were on the table, and in a corner by the door were about a hundred books organized into piles. The old man spoke almost in a whisper, his voice hoarse. He was extraordinarily skinny, and his smile held only a couple of teeth. Through Li, he asked whether I liked the tea. Again, I raised the glass to my lips, tasted the harsh, earthy infusion, and nodded. Then he said that I would have health and long life if I drank several cups a day.

  I noted that Bai, Li’s cousin whom I had seen fleetingly around the restaurant, was glaring at me without ever directing a word my way. I played with my glass of tea, looked at the worn linoleum on the floor or out the window at the wall of the building next door, having no intention of getting involved in the conversation. After Li laughed with Wen, Bai said something that made her lower her gaze and answer with a short phrase that sounded harsh. Then he finished his tea and left without saying good-bye. From the doorway, he responded to his cousin. When he was gone we sat in silence.

  — What happened? I asked.

  — Forgive Bai, Li said after the sound of his sandals disappeared down the staircase. He’s always been like that.

  — It doesn’t matter, I said, not understanding.

  — Wen was an attorney in China, she said, changing the subject. But he also studied art. All the drawings are his.

  I looked around the walls. The images were traditional: rivers, mountains, birds among bamboo shoots, examples of calligraphy that were probably the names of people or quotes from texts, all done with a skilled hand.

  To say something, I asked him if he still worked at it.

  — He says it is strenuous work, and he can’t see well and is too tired.

  — What do you read? I asked, pointing to the piles of books.

  — Old books, Li translated.

  We drank a second cup of tea in the old man’s room. Wen Da was kind enough to show me his brushes, the rolls of rice paper, the inksticks. He searched through his books and handed me yellowing editions of Huanchu Daoren, Huang Po, and Chuang Tzu in the original language. Recognizing their names, I mentioned the Tao. Wen seemed happy that I knew something about the topic and spoke with enthusiasm. Li’s translation was exceedingly laconic:

  — He is talking about the Taoist practices he has followed.

  — Why is he here? I asked.

  — He came with our group, Li explained. He actually isn’t my granduncle, but it makes no difference, I love him just as much. He worked in the restaurants with us, as a cook for many years, but he was different from the rest. As you see, he has books, and he’s a painter.

  — Do you come visit him often?

  — Whenever I can. He’s the only one I consider family.

  — And Bai, your cousin?

  — He doesn’t count, like the rest.

  — Why did he leave?

  — He can’t stand the sight of you.

  — Seriously? It bothers him that you’re with someone who isn’t Chinese.

  — It’s more than that, and it isn’t worth talking about. Bai, like all of us, has spent his whole life surround by woks or watching kung fu movies. He doesn’t know anything else, and he’s a pig.

  — Did something happen?

  — Lots of things happened, but it doesn’t matter anymore, said Li.

  The couple from the room next door was arguing in the corridor. Wen looked at Li with resignation. He took a five and several one-dollar bills from the nightstand and handed them to my girlfriend, who despite all her efforts could not give them back to him.

  The old man told me to come back whenever I wished and to take good care of his “niece.” We went downstairs to the store, Li held on to the invoice that the boss gave her, and, blinded by the midday sun, we went out into the street.

  We spent the day wandering around old San Juan, eating sushi and ice cream in El Condado, visiting every bookstore we found along our way. There were few days when we had so many hours to spend together. Besides, I had the incentive of having met Wen Da and Bai Bo. Li had allowed me to come into contact with meaningful parts of her past, and I interpreted that gesture as a demonstration of closeness and commitment.

  That night, we took a long drive, and I ended up, once more, asking her out to dinner. We were contented, Li had bought books and some clothes, and we had also confirmed that some of our graffiti pieces and interventions were still posing questions for the people who passed by. In the booth at the pizzeria, Li sat next to me, and I felt her body snuggling close, seeking my body’s warmth. That night she would stay at my place, and she wouldn’t have to be back at the restaurant until noon on Sunday.

  The night was memorable. Something moved Li, who took more initiative than ever in bed. Her hands and legs, her whole body, pounded on me with a desire that set me aflame. It was a priceless gift. I lay face up while she slowly explored every inch of my skin, carefully gauging her movements to bring me again and again to the verge of blissful delight. She devoted herself to my pleasure, keeping my hands from working on her, as if she were determined to focus on my ecstasy that night. It wasn’t enough for me to spill out profoundly and at length between her lips; she continued watching me without blinking, letting the sperm slip from her mouth to her breasts, letting me know by this that nothing separated us, that she was the only woman who could so enrich my flesh.

  I woke from a reverie, a delicious prolongation of what I had just experienced, when I felt her once more between my legs, striving to revive my member, with a yearning that filled me and pervaded my body from head to toe. I didn’t understand what she was doing, why she so wished for me to give myself to her, or why she insisted on possessing me.

  I woke with no notion of how much time had passed, and I found her in my arms, asleep, curled into a ball, part of me. In the distance, the siren of an ambulance or police car wailed. Within me the terror that something might come between us was awakening. Lying still, listening to the nearly imperceptible rhythm of her breathin
g, I struggled to get rid of that fear, endeavoring to hold onto a little certainty. As I watched the nocturnal shadows of the trees dancing against the ceiling, I knew that my mind was trying to give birth to a thought that was taking forever to come. This was what had woken me from my sleep. I didn’t know exactly what the thought was, and I realized at that moment that I didn’t want to find out. It would be there, endlessly announcing its presence, in a mind poised at the edge of the precipice.

  For weeks, we were deep currents traveling far in search of each other. We each possessed an elemental energy that flowed toward the other without seeking explanations. For once, during this brief period, neither past nor future counted for me.

  I came to know the uprooted lives of the Chinese in Puerto Rico, the deeply introspective nature of their sadness, which they stifled in work days of ceaseless hustle. They were resigned to their lot and so exhausted that they had no strength left to desire any life but that of working in kitchens. This explained their endogamy, their slack efforts to learn a language or to go out and become acquainted, during their limited free time, with the society in which they had lived for years. In such a setting, Li stood out prominently, but it constrained her as much as it did them. She could only conceive of a different life if there were a clean break, if she left one day and moved as far as possible from the clan of which she had formed part.

  I saw Wen Da a few more times, and I made friends with a group of taciturn and terrifying cooks who could be generous and loving when they thought about the wives and children they had left behind on a continent to which they would never return. Only Bai made no effort to approach me. He was a rough man, with acne scars and a premature bald spot, a few years older than Li. The other workers kept a bit of a distance from him. He was on the lowest rung of the kitchen hierarchy. After the restaurant closed, when they ate at the large table in the back, he sat in a corner concentrating on his bowl, almost indifferent to conversations. He hurriedly bolted down everything put in the bowl, as prisoners and some animals do. Whenever he could, he bet his day’s wages on cards, played dominoes, or entertained himself watching martial arts movies. He spent his free day sleeping off the hangover from the night before. He and Li spoke rarely and with a curtness that was all too obvious. Only the boss’s mother, who was his aunt, was well disposed toward him, to Li’s displeasure.

  We led a life that seemed much like any other couple’s. My relative acceptance by the Chinese at the restaurant had made it possible for Li to spend almost every night at my place. I had to get used to going without much sleep, for it was after the night shift ended that Li arrived. We would eat and talk, and then I’d spend a while reading by her side. I would sense her toiling away at her ink and paper. Sometimes, deep in thought, she would silently move her lips as if she were speaking or humming. I would lift my eyes from my book when I heard her heave a long, deep sigh. She would then stretch her arms over her head, her breasts would stand out, and the cloth of her blouse would lift to reveal part of her belly and her hips. I would go to her, and we’d start to undress.

  Other times, the scratching of the pen on paper was so violent that I knew the time wasn’t right for amorous trances. I had to wait until her hands couldn’t bear it anymore, which might take two or three hours. When she lay down the pen, she would be exhausted, but she would enjoy a peacefulness that she only experienced after her struggles with the ink.

  The next morning, I would get up without waking her and get ready for work. By the bed, lying on the floor, would be the bag where she carried her clothes, books, and drawing materials. Li would get out of bed later and spend the morning reading. Later she would make something to eat and head off to the restaurant on foot.

  We’d spend working days waiting impatiently for her days off. We’d get an entire day, and the morning of the following day, just for us. Our routine of walks, restaurants, and bookstores was set; we already knew we’d come back home to talk, read, and make love. The time we spent at night after dinner was a gift, hours that made us believe in redemption.

  Encouraged, relieved by this normality, it was inevitable that one morning I would venture to bring up the subject. Afterward, I often regretted it, thinking my tactlessness had been unforgivable. Today, I know it was impossible, and therefore unfair, to demand that I act any other way. Since the night she had asked me not to penetrate her, I had sought an answer.

  — You’re never going to let me? I asked.

  — Let you what?

  In the tone of her voice, there was a sudden onset of panic, but by then, I couldn’t stop. Just like me, Li must have been long expecting the moment when I would ask this question.

  — Make love completely, I explained.

  — I don’t know.

  — I love you, Li. It’s natural to desire it, and for me, it’s important.

  — I guess so.

  — So why not? We do everything else, and we enjoy it. I’m pretty sure you like it. Why not go that far?

  — There are some things that are hard.

  — Why don’t you try to explain them? You shield yourself too much. You saw how close you got to me with the messages. You could have stopped the game at any point.

  — But I didn’t.

  — I didn’t, either. You hardly ever talk about yourself. I’ve learned who you are through what you do, almost never through what you say.

  — I’m not accustomed to talking about myself. They say it’s a Chinese thing.

  — But now, you’re with me, and it could be different.

  — I know.

  — It doesn’t have to be today, think about it and trust me. What could happen?

  — Everything.

  We sat in silence. During the conversation, Li hadn’t looked at me. Her hair hid her profile. I couldn’t accept that she refused to clarify anything for me.

  — Do you prefer women? Is that it?

  — Sometimes I’d prefer a woman, but since I’ve gotten to know you, I’m not so sure.

  — What is it that I don’t know about you?

  — Lots of things.

  — What? I asked.

  — What I can’t tell you.

  — And that is what? I asked bitterly, surprised by the emotion that overcame me.

  — What I can’t tell you, repeated Li.

  The next day she let me know she was sick. When the telephone rang, after eleven thirty, neither the illness nor the distrust came as a surprise. She said we’d see each other the following night, when she’d be feeling better, but I was sure she wouldn’t come then, either. Twenty-four hours later she didn’t even answer my calls.

  I thought it was unfair. What I had brought up wasn’t a minor detail and couldn’t be ignored indefinitely. I could even, at least I guessed I could, accept her ban, but she would have to show me why. What I couldn’t take was a wall that constantly made me question myself. I had a pressing need to know why a woman who supposedly kept herself away from men had taken over my life.

  Dark days followed when, as an ineffective antidote to her absence, I wandered the city aimlessly. At night, I would sit and write the story of how we met, as she had once made her drawings: it was the tale of an obsessive line flowing out into an illegible geometry.

  It was difficult to accept my failure in this way, with no explanation, no contact. I could no longer go through life assuming that nothing would happen, that my years in this city would be nothing but what I already knew so well that I was sick of it. Just wandering around streets and avenues with nowhere to go, in the vague hope I’d someday find a way out, a way to imagine for an instant she’d moved away and I might have another life or be in a situation that would really seem like another world.

  The hope was vain and fruitless, but it was drilled into my mind and the minds of so many others, as if history hadn’t allowed this society to come up with any other idea. This was one of the country’s identifying signs; it was our obsession with salvation and escape.

  I often reme
mbered that I had to live in uncertainty. Li was shielding herself, but she would come back. It was hard to put up with at that moment, but I preferred the emptiness I now felt in my breast to the worthless time I’d led before meeting her. I waited. I suffered, knowing I had to keep waiting. I spent nights writing, expecting at any moment for the phone to ring and stop me, to tell me enough already. But Li never called, and I started to prefer her absence, the certainty that, once again, I had lost someone. Knowing that nothing would remain, that, for who knew how long, my life would once more go back to being a whisper, a blotch of slovenliness and forgetting, was strangely enough a sort of consolation.

  I knew that Li was surfacing from the depths when on coming home one afternoon I found a black rectangle in my mailbox. She had pasted one of her drawings to it. It seemed to be from a new series, since the pen’s fine line left many small blank spaces, and the impression that the blotch produced, a sort of cloud floating in space, had probably been created by writing and rewriting a phrase or a word. It was pretty good, and I was curious to see how this process would look in a larger format. On the back of the paper were the accustomed leaning block letters that hadn’t been addressed to me since I had discovered the author of the messages. There were five short lines: “I have more opportunities to save myself through inferno than through paradise. Go to the Cine Paradise tonight and look for me at the image generator.”