Near the shore a boy from the group of children floats on his back, toes pointed up, eyes closed. His face is as calm as the sky it mirrors, and Saladin copies him and the sea easily holds him up, and for a time he feels nothing, not pain or worry or confusion or the small sorrow that sobbed in him on the walk home last night when the wounds pierced with such intensity he could not even cry. The boy rights himself in the water and swims over.
I’ll race you in.
His eyes are the color of water close to the shore. Saladin nods.
Yeah? Ready? Set! One. Two. Three.
The boy’s body splashes away and Saladin follows behind as quickly as he can, and where the waves start, he treads water and watches the boy lay his body as flat and stiff as a board and glide in on the crest of a wave. Saladin copies him, and like that the ocean pushes him gently to shore. He takes it as an omen, on this fourth day. He dresses in a way that doesn’t hurt and checks to make sure the rug seller’s few dollars are still in his pocket.
There is also a note, in formal script, and Saladin reads it and remembers how the rug seller read it to him twice and then explained once more.
Listen carefully, just in case you get lost. You catch the bus here. This number. The bus driver will go a long way, and then he will call Westwood. Just like that. Westwood! And then you get off.
Saladin waits at a sign for the bus that matches the numbers on his note. When the door opens, he puts all his change in a small box beside the steering wheel and waits for the driver to give him permission to board, to say, That is enough, please, come along. But the driver does not move and the bus does not move and behind Saladin a Chinese woman pushes his hip with her tiny hand. Saladin takes his place in a long row of seats at the back, near the window where more than anything else he would like to look out at the Los Angeles that he moves through by motor for the first time, but is continually distracted by a man in black glasses and a fur hat who speaks without stop.
Every time Saladin turns to look out the window, the man pokes him in the arm with a stiff finger and demands.
Hey, man. Heeeey, maaaan. I am talking to you.
At the contact Saladin cannot help but tense and think of the men from the bar. He moves his body as close to the window as he can, and the fur hat, a creature unto itself, leans toward him like a hungry animal.
Brother, what are you afraid of? I’m not gonna hurt you.
His clothes are appropriate for the snow, and the soles of his shoes flap at great distance from his toes.
Now you see, the Constitution says that we are all allowed this and that. But that is not equal, is it? What we really need to chew on is the Declaration of Independence, right, brother? Now, let me tell you this. It tells us. All. Men. Are. Created. Equal. You believe that, brother? I tell you, some days … some days …
The man takes a feather buried deep inside his shirt and waves it slowly in front of his nose as if to hypnotize himself.
Now you. Are you equal to me?
Saladin watches him and thinks how he will answer a question he does not understand.
I am Saladin. Nice to meet you.
The man offers his hand and the two engage in an awkward side-to-side handshake. In front of them a younger man wears a thin white mask over his mouth and, with eyes closed, touches everything around him as if he were blind. When he has felt the bus, the window, his shins and hair, he pretends to play a piano that rests invisibly atop his bare knees. After a time the bus fills with mothers and grandmothers and men in blue and white work shirts, and everyone but the children are tired through the eyes and the face. Saladin catches the gaze of a toddler, who smiles at him instantly and without reluctance. Every now and again the tan-skinned man stabs Saladin’s shoulder and he no longer flinches at the touch but wonders how it is that all these people, not bound by history or tribe or even appearance, do not kill each other a little bit every day.
The ride is long. The city is enormous and does not seem to end in any direction. He remembers the vista from the tall building and knows as long as the bus is moving toward the mountains, it is the right direction. At some point the fur-hat man leans down to gather his bags and prepares to disembark. He stands before Saladin with all of his belongings and necklaces, and as the bus stops, he embraces Saladin’s head into his crotch in a furious hug that smells like semen and shit.
That’s it, brother. We got to keep the love alive. Remember. Forget everything I told you. God be with you, my brother. We all need him.
The man laughs loud and wide and the rest of the bus stares as if he were an affliction on them all. Without him the bus is empty and dull and Saladin looks out the window at the thin crowds that spot the streets and sidewalks and imagines that he sees himself walking down this boulevard: a man on the way to work, behind him a warm bed and blue-eyed woman still asleep. His street self has the same dark hair, but it is combed and washed and smells of cologne. He wears a gray suit and his briefcase and sunglasses and leather wallet are all top-of-the-line. From the window Saladin watches this imagined self walk hurriedly from one good fortune to the next, so busy and glad he does not stop for one second to look up and consider the unwieldy bus or the passenger he once was.
When he arrives, the rug seller insists on tea and stares at the wounds on Saladin’s face and hands, but mentions nothing. When they have dissolved two sugar cubes each and emptied the samovar, they go to a small warehouse behind the store, and the merchant instructs Saladin in a tone more conversational than commanding.
Sometimes you might want to vacuum the rugs. If you do, please put them over there.
He points to a pile in the middle of the room.
And maybe sometimes you want to hit them with the end of a broom like your maman did. Then it would be good if you laid them out and stacked them flat over there.
He points to a corner of the warehouse.
Sometimes you want to ship them, and those go over there. And then there are some for display and … just try and keep things jam o jour back here.
Jam o jour. Together and ordered. His mother used that expression to describe how she liked the pantry, her closet and drawers, the children’s school supplies. It is the mark of an order Saladin has long lost in his life, and he lets the memory of it, the possibility of it, resonate a moment. The rug seller looks at him.
Yes. Of course. Jam o jour. Of course.
The rugs are dusty, of varied ages and in various conditions, but all of them are sold as new. Saladin knows better, and in the day spent cleaning and rolling and stacking, he thinks about the years of their making. The years the ewe had to live before its first wool could be shorn or the length of the worm’s life before it would unspin its silk. There are the years it took the plant to grow the flower that makes the dye, and the years of the girls and boys who knotted and knotted and knotted as years passed, and even the years of the patternmaker, who might have spent a lifetime receiving designs from the divine so that here in America the rugs can be sold as if they were pressed out from a machine just yesterday. Saladin tries to remember to ask the rug seller why this is, why he must lie, but forgets to mention it until it becomes normal, the way of things.
At the end of the day the rug seller hands him a small stack of bills and another piece of notebook paper.
Please forgive me if I intrude. I don’t know your situation, but if your family is not here yet … and you have no place … you can take a room at the house of this man. He is a good man. Mexiki, but clean, and his price is not bad. He sells clothes too, razors, soap and things. Ask for Agha Calderon. Tell him Farhang from Westwood sent you.
The rug seller returns to his ledgers. Saladin pretends that it is unnecessary but takes the note and the money, even though he knows a conversation like this between men is shameful. It is shameful not to have a family that takes care of you, shameful not to have a home, to be in a situation, to have a swollen face you cannot, will not, explain. It does not matter now. The note, the first day’s pa
y, the possibility of a bed, in Los Angeles, California, America, this matters now. Saladin offers his one hand, and the rug seller takes it between the both of his and holds on.
It is my pleasure, my son. We will find our way. Truly.
Calderon cooks and talks and cooks and moves about the kitchen with an ease Saladin has only ever seen in women. An apron hangs to his ankles, and for no evident reason he wears soccer cleats. An old Tabriz carpet is in the kitchen, and from the oven and off the stove smells burst forth that make the kitchen a strange place, intoxicating and chaotic, and Saladin sits and listens patiently to some long story that might, or might not, end in food.
Me? I came eleven years ago in the backseat of a car full of soldiers. I paid American army boys one hundred dollars to take me across the border. First they put me in the trunk, but it didn’t work. I couldn’t do it, like a criminal or a dead person, and I hit the door of the trunk until they let me out. I was sure they were going to leave me on the side of the highway, but one of them, a black, took off his army jacket and put it on my shoulders. Say nothing, he told me. That’s how I left Tijuana, and that is how I came to California. Smelling like pussy and sweat and cheap beer. Heh. I had some money. I had a gold cross from my mother and a note, like the note your jefe gave you, from my brother, who came first.
Meat sizzles in a pan, and the oil reaches back down to the burner and makes for a bigger flame. Saladin does not even think about a fire, so controlled is the man in his actions and intentions.
I had a note too, just like yours. My brother told me, he said, go to this address, if the fence is open, walk around to the back and take the steps all the way up. When there are no more steps, you will see a ladder to the roof. Tell whoever is there that you are my brother, and then sleep, hermano, sleep, and I will come find you.
I remember it just like it was yesterday. You will remember these days too. For some reason they stay fresh in the mind. There were five of us up there. It was no more than a chicken coop with walls made of tin, and the ceiling was made of a wavy sheet of green plastic, and when the light came in, it made all of us look sick. The floor had mattresses all over it, and I can still remember some of them had sheets with cartoon characters on them that I watched as a boy, in Mexico. Mickey Mouse. Donald Duck. The redheaded woodpecker.
It was hot all the time. There were a few things, a camping stove, dishes, an orange cooler we tried to keep full of water. Sometimes, if it was early in the month, we kept some groceries—tortillas, cheese, beans—nothing fancy, nothing like this, nothing cooked. I think there was a TV too, maybe it was broken … We used to tape the plug of our radio down the side wall of the building all the way into old Garciela’s window. That viejita. She lived alone with her candles and saints and other Cristo garbage and charged us five cents every time we wanted to use her bathroom, ten cents for a shower and twenty if we wanted hot water. Her door was always open, but I can’t say I ever said a nice thing to her. She liked me too. Always called me hijo and turned on the heat without saying anything. I was good-looking too. Like you. Skinny too, like you. But still my life was hard and I lived on that rooftop for two years.
But you know. Time passes. You will see how fast as soon as you make your way. Now eleven years. I bought this house as soon as I could, saved every penny from the job I had planting and sweeping and mowing at the Beverly Hills golf club. You ever played golf, hermano? Such a boring game. Every cent I kept for this place, and when I got it, my brother and I tore down those walls and put up these, and now it sleeps fifteen when it’s full. I made the bunks myself. Who is to say just because you are new to this country you have to live in a shitty basement, or on a hot roof? Not me, hombre. Come. Stay here. You have a room this week, my food is good, your jefe is good, America is okay, maybe it will get better. You can do whatever you want with it.
The smell of pork fills the kitchen, and Saladin’s stomach turns in hunger at the scent of this novel meat. He cannot believe how much the man has talked and realizes it has been a long time since he has been in a home where men are comfortable, relaxed enough to tell a story. Calderon looks at him, and whatever it is he sees in Saladin makes him put his spatula down and take off the overlong apron.
Vamanos. Let me show you your bed. All the men feel better when they see the place they will sleep.
The room is small and full of beds stacked in pairs on tall wooden frames. Out one window there is a cracked cement yard with a few overturned milk crates and an empty cooler. In a nearby yard Saladin can hear a dog bark, whimper and then bark again, and though the sound is near, the dog is nowhere to be seen. Saladin does not move about the room, does not take his hands out of his pockets. Calderon hits a mattress on a bottom bunk and a cloud of dust fills the air.
For you. Warm. Comfortable. Clean. Seven other men sleep here.
Calderon laughs.
Well, my friend, what were you expecting? Pink champagne on ice? I have only ever seen pink champagne in the movies. Here we have only the most delicious beer.
Calderon extends his hand. Saladin pushes forth his own hand for a series of firm shakes that speak a gratitude he does not, at the moment, feel.
Thank you. Yes. It is very nice. Very very beautiful. Thank you.
And Calderon nods and nods again and smiles and is glad with himself and his new guest and repeats over and over.
You will be fine here. You have made it this far, rest before we eat, take a rest before the other men come …
In a habit he will keep for most of his life, Saladin takes off his shoes and places them beside the door. Sand leaks out and he leaves behind small prints of dirt and sweat as he moves from bed to bed to look at the shirts and hats and carefully folded pants. On the walls beside pillows are magazine pullouts of women, photographs of children, drawings and small maps of countries he has never heard of: Guatemala, Honduras, Mexico. In the largest space of wall there is a map of Colombia, all of the main cities burned through with perfect holes. Saladin tucks himself into the bottom bunk, and without his trying his muscles relax and his bones sink. The plywood of the bunk above him is close, but not as close as the wood slats of the pier, and he closes his eyes and hears the dog in the near yard whimper and bark, whimper and bark. When he wakes, the boarding room is full of men in various stages of undress. They come and go from the shower, the bathroom, the telephone that rings and slams against the hallway wall. Now the smell of fried meat is everywhere, and when Saladin sits up, he knocks his head on the bottom of the bunk, and one of the men smiles at him warmly and repeats words in a language that make no sense.
Cuidate, hermano, cuidate.
How to Make a Home
Lay the body down on the bed.
Sleep through darkness into day.
At first this will be enough.
If you have belongings, personal effects, unpack them, but do not put them away in drawers or cabinets or closets with any immediacy. Let them sit out for an hour, a few days, so they can greet you when you enter a room and you can catch sight of that sweater your grandmother knit and you can relax, remember, remind yourself, Yes. This is where I live. This is my room. Look! There are my socks!
Relax on the toilet, take longer than necessary. Relax in the shower. Stand naked in the bathroom with the door closed until you are dry. If you have the house to yourself for some time, stand naked in as many rooms as you can. Let the house, which is getting to know you as well as you are getting to know it, see you as you are. Walk down the hallways, sit on the cold floors and pose precariously close to the windows. Dress when you are comfortable with yourself.
Notice the threshold every time you step over it.
Lie down on the kitchen floor.
Let things find their places. The shampoo and the soap, the small pile of shoes at the door, the butter, the spoons, the trash and the hook for the keys. Study the views from the windows. See the street, the small palm, the neighbor’s grill, wait for the cat that sometimes comes and goes from the gr
assy patch just outside the bedroom that you can’t get to. Study the views that have nothing to do with windows, the sights you will, without wanting or trying, see every day: the ceiling above your pillow, your face in the bathroom mirror, the mark on the wall of the living room that looks like a letter in a language you are still learning.
Decorate.
Sew curtains or buy elaborate blinds. Draw them down, darken a room, keep out the world you don’t yet understand. When you can, stay inside, gather yourself, hold still for as long as it takes for the calm to cover you.
Buy a thick comforter that will keep you warm regardless of the temperature. Hang pictures. If you can bear it, hang photographs of so-and-so and so-and-so. If you can’t bear it, leave the wall empty until new photographs are made of you smiling in the new here and the new there.
Cook a rich meal, richer than necessary, of meat stew and a side of fresh greens—onions, basil, mint and radish—eat the living and the dead in your new home. Relish.
Take a long midday nap.
Buy a plant. Cut a limb from it and replant it in another pot. Let the severed bit grow.
Yes, you will complain there is no garden and there is no fountain and no grandfather’s smoking bench and no grandfather. The balcony will have to suffice. Turn it into a paradise of jasmine and honeysuckle and impatiens, a lifted Eden of seeds you planted and watered; a collection of life that exists because of and for you alone.
And, no. No uncle and no aunt and no favorite cousin will eat at your table or grace your living room with their old silly jokes, take tea with you and nod as you worry and explain this or that passing trouble. Stay still. This is your home now. They will come.
The Walking Page 14
