by Peter Selgin
Nine forty-five.
And you, you just keep looking at me with those eyelike eyes. I get so nervous I spill half my tea.
It was a summer night, the temperature just about ninety. Your place had no air conditioner, not even a fan. So I was sweating, wiping the stuff off my forehead, looking around. You were there, in front of me. I’m not sure if I noticed them before, I guess I did, but your breasts … they’re … how do I say? Impressive. Pillowlike. The kind of breasts that make you want to put your head down between them and go to sleep for about a hundred years.
Your cat was in your lap; you were stroking it. Archimedes, you said its name was. It kept purring and rubbing its whiskers against the black and blue marks on your forearms. Something hit me then: it stuck there inside my brain. Then it broke loose and came to me. You lived a cripple’s life, with a cripple’s wheelchair and a cripple’s cat and a cripple’s smells, in a building full of cripples. And I’m sitting there, staring at your breasts, getting all excited and thinking, I’m about to get it on with a cripple.
“Well,” I say. “This is nice.”
“Yes,” you say. Your voice is soft, whispery, like a feather duster. “It is.”
Suddenly the cat jumps off your lap. You bend down and start massaging your leg, going up and down with both hands; you say it helps the circulation. I can see that the muscles in your legs are gone, melted away. All the same, they don’t look so bad. “Here,” I say. “Let me do that for you.”
“Oh, would you please?”
Sure, why not. Sure.
So there I am massaging your legs, you making tiny little moany-groany sounds with your eyes closed; it’s all so very quiet except for the moany-groany sounds. Before I know it I can’t smell the colors, I can’t feel the light, I can’t see the sounds, I don’t taste a thing. It’s all happening in my hands, at the tips of my fingers, there in the dark with our eyes closed, both of us falling down all over the place, into softer and softer layers, with the sheets falling off the bed and me holding onto your bony legs for dear life, your face, your lips, under your arms, everything wet, drying the sweat off my forehead in the sheets, kissing you there, there, all over, all over our faces, all over each other, me prying, trying to get your legs undone, not thinking anymore, not even knowing what’s what, which way is up, unable to stop. God. We just went at it, like wild. Like two animals. Slipping and sliding, back and forth, in and out, hearts smacking together, sweat oozing down our cheeks, tongues like whips, hands like grappling hooks, clothes and arms all over the place, rolling down a hill ten miles long and covered with moss, then lying there, dead.
Jeez, are all cripples that good?
(I’m waiting five more minutes. Then I swear I’m getting up and leaving.)
We were frozen there then, perfectly still, afraid to even breathe, me looking into your eyes, beautiful. God, you were beautiful then. Really.
Then it hits me, the sadness. Shit, I thought. She must feel really good right now. I mean, I could tell we both felt really good. But then I thought; I can get up now. I can get up and walk away on my own two feet, no crutches, no wheelchair, no nothing. She’ll never get up, not completely. She’ll never be free, like me. This is her life; I’m just a visitor. Sure, she can write a few books. That’s about it. The rest is daydreaming.
Man, did I feel sad then — for your sake. And guilty as hell, you know, for taking advantage. I mean, I could see it meant a lot to you. I mean, I’m sure you didn’t take it lightly. I mean, I couldn’t just leave it at that, could I?
That’s when I decided: Dominick, you’ve got to follow this thing through. At least see her a few more times. At least get to know the kid a little. (The kid: that’s what I called you to myself.) Nothing permanent. Taper it off little by little. Beyond that, you can’t be responsible. I mean, no contract signed, right?
I said, “I better go now.”
You didn’t say anything. You just kept stroking the back of my head, smiling. At the door I said, “How about the bagel shop? I could meet you there — sometime?”
You said that would be nice.
“Fine,” I said. “How about Wednesday? I’ll meet you for breakfast.”
“Sounds good,” you said.
“Fine,” I said. “9:00 a.m.?”
“Sounds good.”
“Fine.”
And that’s how we left it. As a matter of fact, I left feeling pretty good about myself. Like, you know, I’d done a good deed. Something like that.
So here it is. Wednesday. The bagel shop. Nine … fifty-seven … Nine … fifty-eight. So why aren’t you here? I mean, there’s got to be some explanation. I mean, you wouldn’t stand me up, right? I mean, no way would you stand me up, right?
Right?
Why would you stand me up?
I’ll give it another five minutes.
Another five minutes.
Only.
EL MALECÓN:
malecón: an embankment, levy, dike,
seawall, cliff, or coastal highway.
THE CAR VIVA COLÓN “borrowed” was a late-model Cadillac convertible, the paint of which had faded to a blue paler than that of the sky. He had been walking to his brother-in-law’s yuga de cana stand where he worked, when, stopping to rest against the trunk of a date palm, he noticed the car parked in its shade, and the set of keys gleaming on its red-leather-upholstered driver’s seat. The car was parked about a mile from the bank of the river where Viva lived in a rusty tin shack. His brother-in-law’s red and yellow sugar-cane-juice stand was another two miles away.
He had been walking slowly, using a piece of dried-out sugar cane as his walking stick. Though Viva prided himself on his fitness, lately his legs had been giving him trouble. Most of the pain was in his ankles, but today the knees were starting to hurt as well, and he found himself walking more and more slowly and stopping to rest more often, leaning against things whenever he could.
Viva was in his seventies — where exactly in his seventies no one knew, including Viva. Most of his teeth were gone. It was the sugar cane that had done it, all the years of gnawing on raw cane. Viva’s missing teeth were — more than the soreness in his ankles and the stiffness in his knees (and the stomachaches and hemorrhoids and hearing loss in one ear) — to him signifiers of old age. The realization that he was old had come to him one day not long ago when, after a long, unprofitable day of selling peanuts to motorists, he boarded a crowded bus on its way back from the public beach. The bus had been filled with rowdy young people, and Viva had been forced to stand, squeezed in among them on his tired legs, his bags of unsold peanuts suspended from wire clothes hangers, as they pointed and laughed at him.
“Where are your teeth, old man?” one of the youths jeered.
“Yes, old man, tell us all: where have you hidden them?”
They all laughed, and Viva, having little choice, laughed with them, showing his full set of missing teeth.
He had to smile now, remembering their laughter and how it had exhausted them and made them hungry so that, by the time the bus reached its destination, every one of the little plastic bags of peanuts that had hung from the wire coat hangers was gone, and Viva’s shirt pocket exploded with pesos. And so it was Viva who had had the last, silent laugh as he walked home in the dark.
It’s not so bad to be old, he had thought then, and realized it was the first time he had ever thought of himself that way.
Now, leaning against the date palm, sucking a piece of sugar cane, Viva noticed several things about the Cadillac, including two large dents, both as big as mangoes, one on the driver’s-side door and one on the right side of the trunk. The car was, Viva concluded, most likely not the car of an extremely wealthy person. Still, its owner must have been well-to-do, since a car, any car, was expensive to import, let alone a convertible with so much chrome. All that chrome alone, Viva hypothesized, had to be worth its weight in gold.
Cruising along the malecón, Viva rested his left elbow on the
door and sank back into the red upholstery. While driving, he made several other observations regarding the car. He noticed, for example, the fair quantities of blue white smoke that billowed from its exhaust and deduced that the car was in need of a tune-up, if not engine work. Still, this did not undermine Viva’s faith in its owner, who was perhaps not mechanically inclined or too busy to attend to such matters. Perhaps the car belonged to a well-to-do woman, or to the son or daughter of a rich man, a tycoon who could buy and sell all the sugar cane and peanuts in the world. At the very least its owner was the proprietor of a fine restaurant, or a travel agency, or one of those big, fine stores along El Condé, with huge plastic signs lit up from within.
Whoever it was enjoyed the elements: the sun, the wind, the spindrift that blew into Viva’s face from the surf dashing against the seaside cliffs. That the car was a convertible pleased Viva more than anything. He shifted into cruise and adjusted the rearview mirror, so he could see not only what was behind him but also a good portion of his own face, which looked suddenly young and strong to him, with the midday sun carving a bold shadow under the brim of his straw hat.
It had been many years since Viva had driven a car. Only now, after driving a distance of several kilometers, did he gain a feel for its various controls, while becoming familiar with the effects of motion on its mass and shedding his fear of becoming a little white cross at the side of the road. He looked at the dashboard clock. According to his calculations, he would reach his destination, a coastal village forty kilometers to the north, just before sundown.
Something occurred to Viva then, and he pulled over. Opening the car’s hood, he checked the oil and water; he even checked the water in the battery compartments and the level of windshieldwashing solution. For a man who had never owned a car, Viva knew a great deal about them, and he was proud of his knowledge. He had known others with cars, mostly old Fords and Japanese makes, most of them so rusted through one could see the passing roadway between one’s feet. Viva had helped many a friend change a tire or a spark plug, do tune-ups, adjust carburetors, replace windshield wipers and shock absorbers, install radios and antennas. He had even replaced one fuel pump and one generator. All these things he had done without the aid of a manual, working by sheer instinct, consulting, if he had to consult anything, a book for boys called (in translation) The Lore of the Motor Car, containing many colorful and detailed illustrations.
Yet in spite of being as at home with a screwdriver as with a machete, Viva’s hands were most comfortable with natural things. He preferred to make his living by way of God’s creations: peanuts, coconuts, and sugar cane.
As he sped along the coastal highway again, with the white-sand beach in plain view through the palm trees to his right, Viva’s imagination expanded, as did his fantasies. He fantasized about all the places, wonderful places, that this fine car could take him to, countries and cities, some oceans away, others on no map at all aside from the one in Viva’s head. The endless possibilities, combined with the brightness of the sun striking him square on the cheek, had a dizzying effect upon him, such that at the next curve there came a squeal of rubber against pavement. Viva’s body leaned hard to the left before bolting upright. Having made several swift adjustments, Viva wrested control back from the car again and proceeded a little more slowly, with both hands gripping the steering wheel.
His destination, the only real one, was the village of his childhood and most of his young manhood, when he had worked the sugar-cane fields. His plan, once he arrived there, was simple: he would drive twice up and down the village’s main street, past those walking and standing in front of their brightly colored shacks. At each end of the strip he would honk the horn, and then they would turn their heads and see just who it was who had come down the street in such a marvelous vehicle. At which point Viva would smile (with his mouth closed, so as not to display his nonexistent teeth) and wave. If they failed to turn their heads in time, he could always blow the horn again. But unless absolutely necessary he would resist doing so.
Then he would drive off, leaving this image of himself — a proud, smiling, youthful elderly man in a straw hat waving from the red seat of a sky blue Cadillac — etched permanently in their memories.
Then he thought: perhaps someone in the tiny village would recognize him. But the odds were against it. Years had passed since he had spoken to any of what remained of his family there. They were second and third cousins and nephews once removed, most of whose faces he would not have recognized, let alone their names. Why would they remember his name or his face? How would they remember it? The years had changed him. He had grown older, lost most of his hair and all of his teeth. No, to them he would appear to be a well-off, mysterious stranger. A friendly, mysterious stranger.
Still, there was always the slim chance that someone would recognize him, and this someone would report to others, who would in turn report to others, until eventually all the onceremoved nephews and second and third cousins would learn that their uncle or distant cousin had been observed smiling and waving from the driver’s seat of a sky blue Cadillac convertible.
But there was no point dwelling further on all of this. For now Viva’s main concern was to arrive safely. The highway opened up and dipped down. Soon he was gliding past the long beach at Boca Chica. It was a Saturday, and though late in the day the crowds were still thick. In an hour they would be packing themselves into buses for the tiresome ride back to the city. Toward sundown, with traffic clogged by those returning from the beach, business at his brother-in-law’s stand normally peaked. Cars and buses full of thirsty people — all craving something cold, sweet, and wet and more than willing to part with twenty-five centavos — would pull up to the traffic light near the stand. Viva imagined the look on his brother-in-law’s face when he arrived during what might have been the stand’s busiest hour, only to find no one attending it. Viva smiled. Of course, he would be let go. So be it. He could always go back to working the beach, parading up and down its length with a wheelbarrow full of green coconuts and a machete. Three chops and he could prepare a coconut: two chops to split the nut in two and a third to slice away a wedge with which the soft, gooey inside could be scraped and eaten. True, it had been a long time since he had worked the beach with his machete. Perhaps he would not be up to it. Perhaps his legs were too far gone. The dry stalk of sugar cane sitting in the passenger seat beside him was a bitter reminder. Perhaps he would have to go back to selling peanuts. Perhaps he would beg his brother-in-law to let him keep his job. Perhaps he would get down on his knees and cry and beg.
But what was he thinking? He would not have to beg for anything! He would complete his mission and arrive safely home, give the car a good, quick hosing down, look it over to see that it was in good condition, then walk, with the keys in his pocket, to the police station, where he would explain to the officer in charge that he had (the truth!) discovered the car with its keys on the seat and — being a good and honest citizen — had taken it upon himself to remove the car temporarily from the proximity of thieves. Having done so and having spent the greater part of the day searching for its owner (not quite the truth, but close enough), he was now turning the matter over to the city’s capable and dedicated police.
Of course, they would question him. Why had he not notified the police immediately? The answer was simple enough. He saw no reason to burden the police with a matter that might very easily resolve itself without their intervention. Why had he taken the car for a ride? Well, gentle officer, the answer to that is again quite simple. I am an old and defenseless man. Had I merely stood guard at the car’s side, I would have left myself open to attack, and for the car’s sake, you see (and for it’s owner’s sake!), it was better for me to … Also, I have bad legs. True, but then why had he not —
But they would not ask so many questions! On the contrary; they would see him clearly and immediately for what he was: an honest citizen doing a good deed. The car’s owner would be contacted; he (or sh
e?) having claimed his/her keys, would then inquire as to the identity of the noble citizen who had performed the good deed. In the next day’s paper there would be an advertisement informing Viva of his reward. The amount of cash would be considerable. Viva would never have to work again. He would buy an apartment in the heart of Santo Domingo, with a ceiling fan and an air conditioner. Once and for all he would tell his brother-in-law to go to hell.
He drove on.
But he did not wish to think of any of this for the present. For the present he wished to think of nothing but the sun and the wind on his face and the vibrating power of the engine in front of him. His entire past, along with the polluted river and the rusted shack on its western bank, faded in puffs of bluish white smoke behind him. To his right he saw squat wooden huts and grasslands, to his left the sugar-cane fields in which he’d toiled in his youth, with the railroad running alongside them. This part of the malecón he knew by heart, every shack and tree, having walked it so many times and having once, long, long ago, ridden it by burro all the way from his home village to Santo Domingo, with his father in front of him, a journey that had taken nearly a whole day.
Still, watching the scenery pass from the driver’s side of the convertible, Viva could not get over how different it now looked, how the sky seemed to stretch further out to sea and the ground appeared closer to his eyes. He looked at the gas gauge again, then at the speedometer. One by one he examined all of the instruments with needles pointed in different directions, instruments that now seemed more familiar to him than the landscape itself. The Cadillac — this conveyance of leather and steel — was suddenly more a part of him than the soil that he had worked as a youth and that had nourished him all these years. He felt his body merging with its parts, his foot melting into the accelerator, his hands blending with the steering wheel, his flesh merging with its steel. He felt powerful. Perhaps his teeth were missing; perhaps he was old. But his mind was as clear and sharp as ever, and the wind racing by made it feel even more so. Even his eyesight and his hearing seemed to have improved. The tires hummed along the pavement. He turned the radio on — he had been saving it until now — turned its volume high, and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the salsa music that played. With each tenth of a mile added to the odometer, he felt more of his past being left behind, until nostalgia, sweet and brown as the smoke bubbling up from the stacks of the sugar mill, bubbled up in him as well, filling him with happy sadness, and his heart did a little fluttering dance in the wind. All who had ever laughed at him, all who had ever ignored or not spoken to him for years except to insult or poke fun at him, all would see his photograph in the newspaper and read about his good deed, and their already small hearts would shrivel with regret and remorse. Here, they would have to admit, was a man of virtue, a man who, having been neglected by so many for so long, was owed a lifetime of admiration and respect. Now, now was the —
