“I taught five peasants how to read,” she confesses.
“Oh yeah? Where?”
“In the Sierra Maestra,” she says. “In a place called El Roble.”
“I was around there,” I say. “I was teaching some other peasants in La Plata. Three mountains from there.”
“How long ago was that, my angel?”
I close my eyes.
“Twenty-two … twenty-three years ago,” I say. “Nobody understands that,” she says. “I tell my psychiatrist and he just gives me strong Etrafon pills. Twenty-three years, my angel?”
She looks at me with tired eyes.
“I think I’m dead inside,” she says.
“Me too.”
I take her by the hands and we stand up. A black convertible goes by in front of us. A Miami teenager sticks his head out and yells at us, “Trash!”
I flash him the longest finger on my hand. Then I squeeze Frances’ hand and we start walking back to the halfway house. I’m hungry. I’d like to eat, at the very least, a meat empanada. But I don’t have a single cent.
“I have two dimes,” says Frances, untying a handkerchief.
“They’re no good. Everything in this country costs more than twenty-five cents.”
Nonetheless, we stop in front of a coffee shop called La Libertaria.
“How much is that empanada?” Frances asks an old server who looks bored behind the counter.
“Fifty cents.”
“Oh!”
We turn around. When we’ve gone a few steps, the man calls out to us.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Are you Cuban?”
“Yes.”
“Man and wife?”
“Yes.”
“Come in, I’ll give you something to eat.”
We go in.
“My name is Montoya,” the man says as he cuts two big slices of bread and starts to put ham and cheese on them. “I’ve also had rough times in this country. Don’t tell anyone I said so, but this country will eat you alive. I’m Montoya!” He says again, adding two large pickle slices between the bread slices. “I’m an old revolutionary. I’ve been imprisoned under every one of the tyrannies Cuba has suffered. In 1933, in 1952 and most recently, under the hammer and sickle.”
“Anarchist?” I ask.
“Anarchist,” he confesses. “My whole life. Fighting the Americans and the Russians. Now I’m very peaceful.”
He puts the open-faced sandwiches, all ready, on the counter and invites us to eat. Then he takes out two Coca-Colas and sets them in front of us.
“In 1961,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows over the counter, “Rafael Porto Penas, lame Estrada, the now-deceased Manolito Ruvalcaba, and I were all together in the same car with Fidel Castro. I was at the wheel. Fidel was without his bodyguards. Lame Estrada looked him right in the eye and asked, ‘Fidel … are you a communist?’ And Fidel replied, ‘Caballeros, I swear to you by my mother that I am not a communist nor will I ever be one!’ See what kind of guy he is!”
We burst out laughing.
“Cuban history isn’t written yet,” Montoya says. “The day I write it, the world will end!”
He goes over to two customers who just walked in and Frances and I take the opportunity to eat our sandwiches. We eat and drink in silence for a few minutes. When we’re done, Montoya is in front of us again.
“Thank you,” I say.
He stretches his hand out to me. Then he extends it to Frances.
“Go to Homestead!” he then says. “They need people there to pick avocadoes and tomatoes.”
“Thank you,” I say again. “Maybe we’ll do that.”
We leave. We walk toward First Street. While we walk, a great idea pops into my head.
“Frances,” I say, stopping at Sixth Avenue. “Tell me, my angel."
"Frances … Frances … ,” I say, leaning up against a wall and bringing her gently to me. “I’ve just had a magnificent idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Let’s leave the halfway house!” I say, bringing her to my chest. “With what we both receive from social security, we could live in a small house, and we could even earn a little more if we did some menial work here and there.”
She looks at me, surprised by my idea. Her mouth and chin start trembling slightly.
“My angel!” she says, moved. “And can I bring my little boy from New Jersey?”
“Of course!”
“And you would help me raise him?”
“Yes!”
She squeezes my hands tightly. She looks at me with her trembling smile. She’s so moved that for a few seconds, she doesn’t know what to say. Then all the color drains from her face. Her eyes roll back and she faints in my arms.
“Frances… Frances!” I say, helping her up from the sidewalk. “What’s wrong?”
I pat her face a few times. Slowly, she comes to. “It’s hope, my angel …,” she says. “Hope!” She hugs me tightly. I look at her. Her lips, her cheeks, her face, all of it is trembling intensely. She starts to cry.
“It’s not going to work out,” she says. “It’s not going to work out.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m crazy. I need to take four pills of strong Etrafon daily.”
“I’ll give them to you.”
“I hear voices,” she says. “It seems like everyone is talking about me.”
“Me too,” I say. “But to hell with the voices!”
I grab her by the waist. Slowly, we begin to walk back to the halfway house. A new car passes next to us. A guy with a thin beard and tinted glasses sticks his head out the window and yells at me, “Dump that bitch!”
We walk on. While we walk, I’m planning the steps we’ll take. Tomorrow, the first of the month, our social security checks arrive. I’ll talk to Curbelo and ask him for mine and Frances’. Then we’ll pack our bags, I’ll call a taxi and we’ll go house hunting. For the first time in years, a small ray of hope shines into the deep dark well of my empty chest. Without realizing it, I smile.
We enter the halfway house through the back porch, cocooned by dark metallic fabric. The nuts have finished eating and are digesting there, sitting on the wooden chairs. Upon entering the house, Frances and I separate. She goes to her room; I go on to mine. I’m singing an old Beatles song:
He’s a real nowhere man
Sitting in his nowhere land
Hilda, the decrepit old hag, steps in front of me and asks for a cigarette. I give it to her. Then I grab her head and give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you!” she says, surprised. “That’s the first kiss I’ve gotten in mannnnny years.”
“Do you want another one?”
“Okay.”
I kiss her again, on the other cheek.
“Why, thank you,” she says to me.
I continue on my way, singing Nowhere Man. I get to my room. The crazy guy who works at the pizza place is on his bed, counting his money.
“Hey,” I say to him: “I need you to give me a dollar.”
“A dollar, Mister William? You’re crazy!”
I pry his wallet from his hands. I look for a dollar. I take it.
“Give me my wallet,” the crazy guy groans.
I give it to him, then throw my arm around him affectionately.
“A dollar, man. Just a lousy dollar.” I say to him.
He looks at me. I smile at him. I kiss his face. He ends up laughing himself.
“Okay, Mister William,” he says.
“I’ll pay you back tomorrow,” I say.
I go outside, toward the corner. I’m going to buy today’s paper to look through the ads for a good apartment for Frances and me. A simple apartment, no more than two hundred dollars. I’m happy. Oh, damn it! I think I’m happy. Let me say “think.” Let me not tempt the devil and bring fury and fatality onto myself. I get to the corner bodega. I grab a paper from the rack. I pay with the dolla
r.
“You have a pending debt,” the bodega owner says. “Fifty cents.”
“Me? From when?”
“A month ago. Don’t you remember? A Coca-Cola.”
“Oh, please! A woman as pretty as you is going to tell me that? Surely it’s a mistake.”
When I call her pretty, she smiles.
“I must be confused,” she then says.
“That’s alright.”
I smile at her. I can still play a woman. It’s easy. You just have to spend some time on it.
“Why don’t you dye your hair blond?” I ask, still keeping up the act. “If you dyed your hair blond, you’d look so much better.”
“You think so?” she says, running her fingers through her hair.
“Sure.”
She opens the cash register. She puts the dollar in. She gives me back seventy-five cents.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says. “The thing about the Coca-Cola must have been a mistake.”
“That’s alright.”
I leave with the newspaper under my arm, singing Nowhere Man softly. A black man looks at me from the doorway of his house with sinister eyes. As I walk past, I say, “Hi, paisano!”
He smiles. “Damn, Slim. How are you? Who are you?”
“Slim,” I reply. “Just Slim.”
“Damn, well I’m glad to have one more friend. I’m Clean Dough. I arrived on a boat five years ago. I’m here for you. You’ve got a home here.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you, Clean Dough.”
“Now you know!” Clean Dough says, waving his fist in the air good-bye.
I continue toward the home. As I pass a house surrounded by a tall fence, an enormous black dog jumps up and starts to bark angrily. I stop. Carefully, I reach my hand over the fence and stroke his head. The dog barks one more time, confused. He sits on his hind legs and starts to lick my hand. In command of the situation, I lean over the fence and give him a kiss on the snout. I continue on my way. Upon arriving at the boarding home, I see Pedro, the silent Indian who never talks to anyone. He’s sitting in the doorway of the house.
“Pedro,” I say to him. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes,” he says.
I give him a quarter.
“Thank you,” he says, smiling. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Pedro smile.
“I’m Peruvian,” he says. “From the country of the condor.”
I go in. I go to the women’s room and gently push the door. Frances is on her bed, drawing. I sit next to her and kiss her face. She stops drawing and takes me by the arm.
“Let’s look for a house,” I say.
I glance at the front page of the paper.
PEKING REJECTS MARX’S IDEAS AS ANTIQUATED.
AIR PIRATES ARE GOING TO KILL MORE HOSTAGES.
WOMAN WHO KILLED HER HUSBAND EXONERATED.
That’s enough for me. I quickly search for the classifieds and read: “Furnished apartment. Two bedrooms. Terrace. Carpeted. Pool. Free hot water. Four hundred dollars.”
“That one, my angel!” says Frances.
“No. It’s very expensive.”
I keep searching. I read the whole list of rentals, and, finally, point at one with my finger. “This one.”
It’s on Flagler and 16th Avenue. It costs two hundred dollars. You have to go and speak with the owner in person. A woman named Haidee will see people from nine to six. It’s three in the afternoon.
“I’m going there right now,” I tell Frances.
“Oh my God!” she says, pressing herself against me.
“Do I look okay?” I ask her, smoothing my hair with my hands.
“I think you look okay,” she says.
“Then I’m going to talk to that woman,” I say. I stand up.
“My angel,” says Frances, looking for something in her drawer. “Take this and put it under your tongue when you go talk to that woman. It never fails.”
“What is it?”
“A cinnamon twig,” she says. “It brings good luck.”
I take it and put it in my pocket.
“I’ll do it,” I say. I take one of her hands and kiss it. I go out to the street. As I pass by Pepe, the older of the two retards, I take his bald head in my hands and kiss it. He takes my hand.
“Do you love me, little boy?” he says.
“Of course!”
He takes one of my hands and kisses it.
“Thank you, little boy,” he says, moved.
“And me? And me?” René, the other retard, asks from his chair.
“You, too,” I say.
He stands up and comes over to me, dragging his feet. He hugs me tightly. Then he laughs boisterously.
“And me, William?” asks Napoleon, the Colombian midget. “Do you love me? Am I worthy of your affection?”
“Yes,” I say. “You, too.”
Then he comes over to me and hugs me around the waist.
“Thank you, William,” he says, also moved. “Thank you for loving me, too, a sinner.”
I burst out laughing. I loosen myself from his embrace. I go out to Flagler Street.
Upon arriving at Flagler and 8th Avenue, an old American in a wheelchair asks me for a cigarette. He has a blond dirty beard and is wearing rags. He’s missing a leg.
I give him the cigarette.
“Sit down here, just a minute,” he says, taking me by the hand.
I sit on a bench, by his side.
“Have a drink,” he says, taking a bottle of plum wine out of his middle.
“No,” I say. “I have to go.”
“Have a drink!” he orders energetically. He takes a long swig and then passes me the bottle. I drink. I like it. I drink again.
“Are you a veteran of the Vietnam war?” I ask. “No,” he says. “I’m a veteran of the shit war.”
I burst out laughing.
“Okay,” I say. “But maybe you fought in the Second World War. Did you?”
“Oh, yes!” he says. “I fought in Madison Square Garden and in Disneyland, too.”
All of a sudden, he becomes angry.
“Why is it you Cubans always want to see how brave I am? Go and fight your fucking mother.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” he says, calmer. “Have a drink,” he takes another swig and passes me the bottle. I take three long swigs.
His face gets excited.
“You are a nice fellow,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, standing up. “I have to go.” I take one of his filthy hands and squeeze tightly. A truck passes with a black American driver and a huge sign in red paint that says: “THANK YOU, BUDDY.”
I let go of the American vagrant’s hand and continue on my way to 16th Avenue. When I reach 12th Avenue, someone yells my name. I turn around. I barely recognize Máximo, an old friend who, like me, has been through various psychiatric clinics. He has lost a lot of weight and is wearing dirty, rag-like clothes. He’s barefoot.
“Máximo!” I say, shaking his hand. “What happened to you?”
“I chose to flee,” he says. “I was in a home, like you, and chose to flee. To the streets! Anywhere!”
“Máximo,” I say, “go back, damn it. You look awful.”
“Don’t tell me to go back!” he says, looking me in the eye, enraged. “I’ll think that you’re also in on the conspiracy to ruin my life.”
“What conspiracy, Máximo?”
“This conspiracy!” he announces, making a sweeping gesture with his hands. “Whores and faggots!” he says. “Everyone, whore or faggot.”
“Máximo … ,” but I don’t know what else to say to him. He has chosen the street. He would rather defend what is left of his freedom than live in a home with another Curbelo, another Arsenio, another Reyes, Pepe or René.
“It’s better if you don’t say anything at all to me,” he says. “Do you have money for coffee?”
I take a quarter out of my
pocket and give it to him.
“Even with all this crap,” Máximo says. “Even with all this crap, I wouldn’t ever want to return to Cuba.”
I look at him. I realize that he’s defending his freedom—his freedom to wander and destroy himself slowly. Freedom, nonetheless. I hug him. I turn on my heels and continue on my way.
I walk several blocks until I stop, at 16th Avenue, in front of a yellow two-story house. The number on it corresponds to the one in the newspaper ad. The front door is open. I go in. I look for apartment number six, where Ms. Haidee lives. Everything smells like fresh paint. It’s pleasant. I go to door number six and ring the bell. I wait. Inside, a dog barks. Then the door opens and a fat woman, about fifty years old, appears.
“Haidee?” I say. “I’ve come about the newspaper ad.”
“Come in,” she says pleasantly.
I go in. I sit on a sofa. She sits in front of me in a wicker chair. She examines my face.
“Aren’t you from Havana?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t your family live on San Rafael street, near the Rex Cinema?”
“Yes,” I say, surprised.
“Aren’t you the son of Dr. Figueras, the lawyer whose office was near the Capitol building?”
“That’s right.”
“Isn’t your mom’s name Carmela?”
“Yes,” I exclaim, laughing.
“Kid!” she says happily. “I was your mother’s friend for many years. We used to sell Avon products together.”
“How amazing!” I say.
“Are you here about the apartment?” “Yes,” I say. “There are two of us. My wife and me.”
“Do you want to see it?”
“Yes.”
She gets up from her chair and goes over to a sideboard. She opens a drawer and takes out a bunch of keys. She smiles the whole time.
“How lucky that you were the one to come!” she says. “I don’t like renting to strangers.”
We leave. We walk down a dark hallway and stop in front of a door marked with a number two. Haidee opens the door. We go in.
“It’s magnificent!” I think upon entering.
The apartment is freshly painted. Roomy and well-lit. The kitchen is new. So is the refrigerator. There’s a full-size bed, three armchairs and a sideboard.
“Closet … ,” she says, opening a large closet.
“I like it,” I say, excited. “I’ll take it.”
The Halfway House (New Directions Paperbook) Page 7
