“I wanted to be free again,” I say. “I wanted to escape the home where I was living and start a new life.”
“You took a girl with you?”
“Yes,” I say. “Frances, my future wife. She was coming with me.”
“The policeman said you were abducting her.”
“The policeman is lying,” I say. “He’s just repeating what he heard from Mr. Curbelo, the owner of the home. That woman and I love each other.”
“Love love?” Dr. Paredes asks.
“Love,” I say. “Maybe it wasn’t a great love yet. But it was blossoming.”
“Do you hear voices, William?”
“I used to,” I say. “I don’t hear them anymore.” “Do you have visions?”
“I used to. I don’t see them anymore.”
“What cured you?”
“Frances,” I say. “Having her by my side made me a new man.”
“If what you’re saying is true, I’ll help you.” Dr. Paredes says. “You’ll spend a few days here and I will personally try to fix this problem. I’ll talk to Curbelo.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of him?”
“He’s a businessman. Nothing more than a businessman.”
“Exactly,” I say. “And a son of a bitch, besides.”
“Okay,” Dr. Paredes says to me, “now you can go. We’ll speak again tomorrow.”
“Do you have a cigarette?”
“Yes,” he says. “Keep the pack.”
He hands me a full pack of Winstons. I pocket it. I leave the office. I go back to the room with the other nuts. I arrive at the exact moment that the man who was reciting Zarathustra has trapped a black woman in a corner and has begun to lift her dress forcefully. The woman tries to slap him away. The Zarathustra guy throws the woman to the floor and starts to touch her thighs and her sex. While he’s doing it, he says with a voice from beyond the grave:
I have walked through valleys and mountains.
And I have had the world at my feet.
O man who atoneth: suffer!
O man believeth: have faith!
O rebellious man: attack and kill!
I leave and head toward the room with the iron beds. I get to one of these beds and let myself fall on it. I think of Frances. I remember her next to me, in the entryway of that Baptist church, her shoulder pressing into my ribs.
“My angel … were you ever a communist?”
"Yes."
“Me too. In the beginning. In the beginning. In the beginning …”
I fall asleep. I dream that Frances and I run away at full speed through a field of vegetables. All of a sudden, we see headlights in the distance. It’s Curbelo’s car. We drop to the ground so he won’t see us. Curbelo drives the car through the sown vegetables. He stops next to us. He pretends not to see us. Frances and I are holding hands, almost melting into the earth. Curbelo gets out of the car with his large speargun. He stands over me with his frog legs.
“Two sturgeons!” he yells loudly. “Two huge sturgeons! This time I’ll definitely win first place! The gold cup will be mine! Mine!”
Frances and I bite the dirt beneath his feet.
I spent seven days at the state hospital. I called the halfway house one more time, but Arsenio answered again with the news that Frances remained unconscious in her bed. I couldn’t call anymore. I ran out of change. I also ran out of cigarettes.
On the seventh day, Dr. Paredes called me into his office again.
“I have something,” he says.
He takes out a poster of Hemingway and gives it to me.
“Is it a gift?”
“Yes, so you have a little faith in life.”
“Okay,” I say. “What wall will I hang it on?”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “Maybe you can hang it in that clean, well-lighted room where you wanted to move.”
“Will Frances come too?”
“We’ll have to see about that,” he says. “Now you and I are going to talk to Mr. Curbelo. If the girl wants to go with you, no one can prevent her.”
“I’m glad,” I say.
“This is a free country,” Paredes says.
“I believe you,” I say.
I look at the Hemingway poster. It’s a sad Hemingway. I tell Paredes this.
“He was already a sick man,” he says. “That was one of the last photos they took of him before he died.”
“He wanted to be a god,” I say.
“And he almost got there,” says Paredes.
He stands up. He goes over to the office door and opens it.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Let’s go to the halfway house.”
I walk out after him. We walk together down the long hallway. Paredes stops in front of the large entry door and opens it with his key.
“Let’s go,” he says.
We go out to the lobby, cross it, and walk toward the hospital parking lot.
“I’m doing this for you,” Paredes says. “I don’t think I’ve ever done this for anyone.”
“Oh, let’s go!” I say. “Have you read The Short Happy Life of Frances McComber?”
“Yes. It’s very good. Have you read The Mother of an Ace?”
“I don’t like it as much. I prefer The Revolutionary.”
“I’m doing this for you,” Paredes laughs. “Because in this damned city, I don’t think anyone has read Hemingway the way you have.”
We get to a small car. Paredes opens the passenger door. I get in.
“I wanted to be a writer,” Paredes says, turning on the car. “I’d still like to be one!”
We head toward the boarding home. On the way, Paredes takes a typed sheet of paper out of the glove compartment and hands it to me.
“I wrote this yesterday,” he says. “Let’s see what you think of it.”
It’s a vignette. It’s about an old butler who has spent fifty years in a man’s service. When the man dies, the butler goes up to the cadaver, contemplates it silently for a long time and spits in its face. Then he cleans the spit, covers the dead man’s face with a sheet again, and leaves, dragging his feet.
“It’s very good,” I say.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says.
We cross the city, heading west. We get to Flagler Street again and turn left, toward downtown. A few more blocks and we’re there.
“Does Curbelo know we’re coming?” I ask the doctor.
“Yes. He’s waiting for us.”
We get out of the car. Right away, all of the nuts who were sitting on the porch’s wooden chairs descend upon us, asking for cigarettes. Paredes takes out a pack of Winstons and gives it to them. We go inside. Curbelo is seated at his desk.
“Oh, my!” Curbelo says to Dr. Paredes: “Long time, no see!”
They shake hands. Paredes and I sit in front of Curbelo’s desk.
“How are those fishing competitions going?” Paredes asks.
“Well!” Curbelo says. “Yesterday, I won first place. The first time in twenty years that I win first place!”
“Congratulations!” Paredes says. Then he turns to me and asks, “William … can you leave us alone for a minute?”
I get up and leave. I go to my room. The crazy guy who works at the pizza place jumps up from his bed when he sees me.
“Mister William!” he exclaims happily. “We thought you were in prison!”
Ida, Pepe, René, Eddy, all of the nuts have come to my room and start to greet me effusively.
“Are you here to stay, Mister William?”
“No,” I say. “I’m leaving with Frances to go to our own house.”
Then Ida, the grande dame come to ruin, comes up to me and puts her hands on my shoulders.
“Take it easy,” she says.
“What?”
“About Frances,” she says. “Take it easy!” “What happened?”
“Frances isn’t here anymore,” Ida says. “Yesterday, her m
other came from New Jersey and took her.”
I don’t listen to anything else. I push Ida on the bed and run to the women’s room. I open the door violently. Instead of Frances, I see a fat, old black woman lying on her bed.
“I arrived yesterday,” the woman says. “The one who was here before left.”
“Did she leave a note?” I ask, anxiously.
“No,” says the woman. “She only left this.”
And she shows me Frances’ drawings. There we all are. There’s Caridad, the mulata cook. There’s one-eyed Reyes; there’s Eddy, the nut who is well-versed in international politics; there’s Arsenio, with his devilish eyes; and there I am, with my face that is hardened and sad at the same time.
I go up to Mr. Curbelo’s desk. Paredes looks at me questioningly.
“You know everything already?”
“I already know,” I respond. “Don’t bother yourself about me anymore. Nothing can be done.”
“I’m sorry,” Paredes says.
“Kid … ,” Mr. Curbelo says. “You can stay here if you want. Take your pills. Rest. There are enough women in this world.”
From the dining room comes the mulata Caridad’s voice announcing dinner. The nuts pile out in droves. Curbelo stands up and pushes me gently by the shoulders.
“Go,” he says. “Eat. You won’t do better anywhere else in the world than here.”
I hang my head. I go toward the dining room, behind all the nuts.
Boarding home! Boarding home! I’ve been living in this halfway house for three years already. Castaño, the old centenarian who always wants to die, is still screaming and reeking of urine. Ida, the grande dame come to ruin, is still dreaming that her kids in Massachusetts will come to her rescue one day. Eddy, the nut who is well-versed in international politics, still follows the TV news avidly and screams for a third world war. Old one-eyed Reyes is still oozing pus from his glass eye. Arsenio is still bossing everyone around. Curbelo goes on living his bourgeois life with the money he takes from us.
Boarding home! Boarding home!
I open the book of English poets and read a poem by Blake called “Proverbs of Hell”:
Drive your cart and plow over the bones of the dead.
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.
The hours of folly are measur’d by the clock
I stand up. In a corner of the living room, one-eyed Reyes is taking a long piss. Arsenio goes over to him and takes off his belt. With the buckle, he whips the old one-eyed man’s back violently. I go over to Arsenio and take the belt out of his hands. I lift it up over my head and let it fall down with all my might on the old one-eyed man’s frail body.
Outside, Caridad the mulata calls us to eat. There’s cold fish, white rice and raw lentils.
Copyright © by The Heirs of Guillermo Rosales
Introduction copyright © 2009 by José Manuel Prieto
Translation copyright © 2009 by Anna Kushner
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
First published as a New Directions Paperbook (NDP1144) in 2008.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rosales, Guillermo.
[Casa de los náufragos. English]
The halfway house / Guillermo Rosales ; introduction by José Manuel Prieto ; translated by Anna Kushner.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-811-22326-3 (e-book)
1. Halfway houses—Florida—Fiction. 2. Exiles—Florida—Fiction. 3. Cubans—Florida—Fiction. 4. Psychological fiction. I. Kushner, Anna. II. Title.
PQ7390.R665C3713 2009
863'.64—dc22
New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin
by New Directions Publishing Corporation,
80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011
The Halfway House (New Directions Paperbook) Page 9
