“I remember you told me. It was an anón from your mother’s yard. I wish I had the guts to do something like that. Nerves of steel, that’s what you have.”
“In your panties?” I asked.
“Sure, sweetie. It was thrilling; I felt like a drug smuggler.”
“Well, lucky you,” Carmen Elvira complained. “The last time I went to Colombia, when I came back they made me take off my panties. I was furious.”
“That’s right. You wrote that marvelous column about it. It created an international uproar, Sammy. It was reprinted in two Colombian newspapers.”
“That’s the power of the press for you,” Carmen Elvira said solemnly, looking at me.
“What’s guascas”? I asked. It seemed to me that I was at least two steps behind in the conversation, but since I had never heard of this herb or spice or whatever it was, I had to ask.
Olga had returned from the kitchen, and was setting a tray with drinks on the table. “What’s what, honey?” she asked, handing me my Coke.
“Guascas,” said Carmen Elvira.
I realized that as the culinary expert of the group, it was up to Olga to explain the mystery. “Guascas,” she repeated, as she distributed the drinks. With an air of authority, she sat down and smoothed her dress. “In pre-Columbian times, the Indians used it as an aphrodisiac. It’s rare because it only grows in the páramo. I, for one, think that if we could cultivate and export it commercially, Western cuisine as we know it would be revolutionized overnight.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said.
Carmen Elvira said, “Sammy, you’re such a gentleman. Lucy is so lucky to have a son who appreciates our national dishes.” Then, making a tragic face, she confessed, “My children only eat hamburgers and pizza.”
“Mine too,” Irma said. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”
Olga said, “I cook my arepas, frijoles, and sobrebarriga, and all the things I love to eat. If they don’t like it, then they can go eat at MacDonald’s. I cook to please myself; I’m not their servant.”
“Right on,” Irma cheered, making a fist.
“The last time I was in Colombia, everyone was eating hamburgers and pizza,” I said. “Though Chinese takeout hadn’t gotten there yet,” I added.
“You were always so special,” Carmen Elvira said to me. “From the time you were a boy you were so different from all the other children. That must be your poetic nature. You know, I used to say to my husband, ‘If God had blessed me with a son, instead of five daughters, I wish he had been like Sammy.’ “
I felt my face flush. “Thank you,” I said.
“You have changed so much,” Olga reminisced. “Irma,” she said seriously, “you should have seen what huge ears he had when he was a boy.”
“His ears look fine to me,” Irma said in her curt, martinet manner.
“That’s because you didn’t know him back then. I have a picture of Sammy that now is of historic importance. Remind me to show it to you some day. His ears were not to be believed.”
I had finished my pastel and was feeling terribly uncomfortable.
“Here, honey, have another one,” Olga said.
“Thank you, very much. Not now.” Seeing how disappointed she looked, I added, “Maybe later.”
She said, “I promised Lucy I’d send her a couple of pasteles with you.”
“She’ll be so happy. She loves your pasteles. And I do too, but I had breakfast just a couple of hours ago. Maybe I’ll take mine to Manhattan and have them later in the week.”
“They taste better a few days later. Just freeze it, and when you want to eat it, warm it up in a baño de María.”
Carmen Elvira asked, “Do you cook all your meals?”
I noted that, as the gossip columnist, Carmen Elvira mainly asked questions. “Yes,” I informed her, “though not much in the summer; it gets too hot in the kitchen.”
Olga said, “He’ll make such a perfect husband for Claudia.”
The other women nodded in agreement; they had finished their pasteles.
Olga said to Irma, “Mijita, will you help me clear the table and bring dessert? Then we can discuss the details of Sammy’s induction over coffee and a cordial.”
I watched Olga and Irma clear the table and disappear in the direction of the kitchen. I’d just set down my napkin when I noticed Carmen Elvira reaching for her handbag and pulling out a small tape recorder. I lit another cigarette.
“Testing, testing. One, two, three,” she spoke into the contraption. “Sammy,” Carmen Elvira said, winking at me, crossing her legs and exposing her knees, “why don’t you come over here and sit next to me?”
Thinking she was about to make a pass at me, I said, “What? You want to interview me?”
“Yes, honey. I’m going to ask you a few questions for Colombian Queens,” she explained, smiling.
“You know, Carmen Elvira, maybe this is not such a good time. I mean,” I said, looking toward the kitchen door, “Irma and Olga will be coming back any minute.”
“No, honey. They won’t. They’re doing the dishes and getting dessert ready while I interview you.”
I realized I had been set up and that, as the guest of honor, it would be rude to decline the interview.
She interpreted my silence as acquiescence. “Here,” she said pouring another aguardiente and handing me the little glass. “This will loosen you up.”
I downed the aguardiente.
Patting the sofa, she said, “Come over here, Sammy. I’m not going to bite you. We’ll just chat like two good old friends.”
I sat next to her, feeling my forehead break into a sweat. “What kind of interview is this?”
She laughed. “You look as if you were facing a firing squad. Lighten up, honey. I’m just going to ask you a couple of questions, okay?”
“Okay.” I put out my cigarette and lit another one.
“Ready?”
I nodded.
“We’re here today with the award-winning poet Santiago Martínez Ardila, whose first book of poems Lirio del Alba (which, by the way, remains his only published title) will be remembered fondly by many poetry lovers, I’m sure. Today, however, we’ll be talking to Santiago about other matters. Santiago, who has a Ph.D. in Medieval Studies from Queens College, and is a resident of Times Square, Manhattan, has announced today his plans to marry Claudia Urrutia.”
“Wait a minute,” I protested.
“Not now, honey,” Carmen Elvira cut me off. “Claudia Urrutia, the import/export heiress of Barranquilla, Colombia; Jackson Heights, Queens; Miami, Florida; and Monte Carlo. Our Claudia, who trained in architecture at Yale, is also a great beauty and an accomplished …” Here Carmen Elvira looked lost. She motioned with her hand in front of my mouth, coaxing me to produce the word she wanted.
“Athlete,” I ventured, remembering Claudia’s fondness for motorcycles.
“Athlete. Yes. Athlete. Now, Santiago,” she went on, pushing the machine against my nose, “tell us how you and Claudia met.”
“This is preposterous. I’m not marrying Claudia Urrutia.”
Carmen Elvira turned off the machine. She glared at me for a second and then broke into a big, fake smile. Her thin scarlet lips stretched taut over her big white teeth. “You’re such a naughty boy, Sammy. It’s a well-known fact in the Colombian community that you and Claudia are tying the knot very soon. Both your mother and Claudia’s have confirmed the news. I understand how you want to protect your privacy, but honey, you’re our foremost poet in the United States and this is news to our readers.”
She must have thought that by flattering me I would simply acquiesce as I had, after all, been doing all afternoon. Making an effort not to blow up (my mother would never have forgiven me if I offended her friends), I said, “Look, Carmen Elvira, I have no plans to get married at the moment.… But when I do, your readers will be the first to know. I promise. Cross my heart. Okay?”
Ignoring my speech, Carmen Elvira said, “Okay,
Sammy. Don’t you fret about it. I will fill out the details of the wedding. I know men don’t like to talk about this sort of thing.” Then she pushed the ON button and said, “Today, Santiago Martínez Ardila has been inducted as a member of The Colombian Parnassus, thus becoming the first male member of our society. Santiago, dear, we know that for the past ten years you’ve been working on a book of poems about Christopher Columbus.”
“An epic poem, to be precise.”
“We understand that this great … masterpiece, which will add glory to our national poetry, is almost finished. Is that so?”
“Not at all.”
Totally unperturbed, she asked, “And is it in free verse or in rhyme?”
“Free verse, of course. I’m a modern poet.”
“How innovative,” Carmen Elvira said. “How avant-garde. May I ask what drew you to the subject of the Admiral of the Seven Seas?”
This was the first legitimate question she had asked. However, I had been writing the poem for such a long time that I could no longer remember why I had been drawn to Columbus originally.
“Could it have been his liaison with Queen Isabella?” Carmen Elvira (quick to dish everyone) came to my rescue.
“Certainly not.”
She looked disappointed. “What is your opinion about the recent theory that Columbus was a woman?”
My jaw must have fallen open. In any case, Carmen Elvira did not wait for an answer. “We hope this long-awaited poem will be finished by 1992, the 500th anniversary of the discovery of America. We wish you great luck, both with it and with your forthcoming marriage.” She turned off the machine and thanked me for the interview.
I was about to let her have a piece of my mind, when Olga and Irma burst into the room with dessert. Olga carried a tray with cheese, obleas, guava paste, stuffed figs and arequipe, and Irma the tinto service. While the sweets were being served on the saucers, I noticed Olga stealing glances at Carmen Elvira as if to find out how the interview had turned out. But the latter pretended to fuss with her glasses, ignoring Olga. We tasted the sweets in silence, making sounds of approval and sipping our tintos.
Olga said, “Tell us, Sammy, how does it feel to be a brand new member of The Parnassus? It’s been so many years since I became a member. But I remember how honored I felt. I envy the way you feel right now.”
“Yes,” I said politely. “And what do I have to do now?”
“It’s very simple,” Carmen Elvira informed me. “We meet on the last Saturday of every month, except during August. It is suggested that all members attend the monthly meeting. Also, there are no dues or annual fees.”
“Oh, good,” I said, relieved.
“But to become a member there is a three hundred fifty dollar fee. Considering that it covers lifetime membership, it’s a steal.”
They offered me the perfect excuse, and I jumped at it. “I’m very honored to have been invited to join The Parnassus, but the truth is, I’m not solvent at the moment and three hundred fifty bucks is a lot of money for me. So maybe next year.”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie,” Olga reassured me. “Lucy was well aware of this and she has offered to take care of it.”
“What? My mother is going to pay the fee?” I asked in disbelief, considering the many occasions she had denied me loans for small amounts.
“That’s a mother’s love for you, Sammy,” Olga said.
“Treasure your mother while she’s alive, and make her happy,” Irma said. “I didn’t know how lucky I was while my mom was alive, and I’ll never get over it now.”
“You just don’t know how much you’ll miss her when she’s gone,” Carmen Elvira prophesised.
“Let me explain a bit more in depth what is required to be a member,” Olga said, taking a dainty bite of cheese and then licking her fingers. “A new member has to do some group service to join in.”
“What kind of service?”
Carmen Elvira said, “Since you’re a translator—”
“An interpreter,” I corrected her.
“Well, it’s the same thing, honey, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely not,” I said, setting down my saucer and glaring at her.
“It’s almost the same thing,” Olga said, “so why quibble?”
“Anyway,” Carmen Elvira went on, “since you’re an interpreter, we thought you’d be perfect for this. As you know, we are all poets. Not award-winning poets like you, but nonetheless serious poets.”
“I’ve been writing poetry since I was seven,” Olga said.
Carmen Elvira stared at me, waiting for me to certify their bona fides. “I didn’t start quite that early,” I said.
“In any case, I’m sure you’ve read our poems in Colombian Queens. We all publish quite regularly.”
“Oh, yes,” I lied. I had glanced at their gibberish on occasion to please my mother.
“I especially recommend this issue’s selection,” Olga said. “Carmen Elvira wrote the loveliest poem about the volcano disaster in Manizales, you remember? It’s unbearably moving; Homeric in its ambition. If you encourage her, maybe Carmen Elvira will be gracious enough to recite it for you now.”
Carmen Elvira was smiling and fluttering her hands and eyelids, so I hastened to say, “Thank you very much, but I promise you I’ll read it tonight, in bed. That’s how I read poetry. I never go to readings; I don’t like people reading at me.”
“How peculiar,” Irma said.
“How un-Colombian,” Olga added.
“What is it that you want me to translate?” I asked.
“Sammy, we’ve decided to go legit and to publish our poems in a collection,” Olga said, clasping her hands. “And we’ve chosen you to translate them into English since you’re such a talented poet, from our own country, and perfectly bilingual.”
“What?” I croaked.
“And we’d love it if you could write an introduction. It doesn’t have to be very long. We leave it entirely up to you, as long as it’s written from the heart.”
“But I’ve never translated any poetry into English. I think you’ve got the wrong guy for this project,” I stammered.
“Your modesty is so appealing,” Olga squealed flirtatiously, like a superannuated Lolita. “You’ll do beautifully. We already have the title for you: Muses of Queens. Do you like it?”
“Can I have an aguardiente?” was my response.
“Of course, honey. You’re right; this calls for a toast.”
Once more we chugged down our drinks, toasting to poetry. It occurred to me that by joining the toast I was accepting their proposition just as I had already tacitly confirmed my engagement to Claudia. “Let me explain something,” I said. “I have to think about this. I mean, as much as I’d like to do it, I don’t know if I have the time right now.”
“We understand, don’t we, girls?” Carmen Elvira said.
“Take your time,” added Olga.
“There’s absolutely no hurry,” Irma said. “What with your wedding and everything else, we don’t want to put any extra pressure on you. When we meet again in September, we can discuss the details.”
“What’s more,” Olga intervened, “we’d really love to pay you, but we have children going to college, so we live pretty close to what we make.”
“We can’t pay you in cash, that’s true. But we have something much more valuable to offer you.”
Shuddering, I asked, “Like what?”
“Power,” she said. “That’s right, honey, power! As a new member of The Parnassus you automatically become a contributing editor to Colombian Queens. You are aware of what that means, aren’t you?”
“No. What does it mean?”
“It means you can reach one million compatriots in the greater New York area. Our magazine reaches practically every member of this community. Think of the great audience you’ll have for your poetry and your ideas.”
“Did you know that the future of the next presidential election in Colombia is in our
hands?” Olga giggled.
“No kidding!”
“We’re a political force; we’re a crucial element in the next presidential election. The candidates we endorse will receive about one hundred thousand votes, which is almost as many votes as there will be cast in all Colombia. You know our people are abstentionists, and only government employees go to the polls.”
“Gee whiz,” I said, genuinely impressed by their reasoning, though doubtful of their statistics.
Carmen Elvira said, “Your vote is of historical significance, Sammy.”
“But I’ve never voted.”
“Why not?” asked Olga, looking concerned.
“I don’t know very much about Colombian politics.”
She sighed with obvious relief. “That’s all right. I thought it was something worse. Well, sweetie, this is your chance to learn. You couldn’t ask for better teachers. We’re all seasoned political campaigners.”
“Do you always vote?” I asked stupidly.
“I can’t vote,” Carmen Elvira stated somberly.
This was interesting. “Why not?”
“She’s an American citizen,” Irma said.
“So are you,” Carmen Elvira counterattacked angrily. “And you too, Olga.”
“I don’t deny it, mijita,” a dejected Olga corroborated. “But I’m a Colombian at heart and will die Colombian.”
“Me too,” Carmen Elvira said, full of patriotic fervor. “I just did it so that my children could have a better chance in this country.”
“I was practically forced to do it,” Olga said. “In my ignorance, I thought I had to become a citizen in order to keep my federal job.”
“Save your speeches; this is not the inquisition,” Carmen Elvira said cattily. “We did it, and that’s that. Period.”
To cheer them up, I said, “My mother is an American citizen, too.”
“Don’t you ever become one,” Carmen Elvira ordered me. “It would be disgraceful, a real tragedy of the first magnitude if our leading poet in the States became an American.”
“I wonder if García Márquez is a Mexican,” Olga pondered. “I think I read somewhere that he became a Mexican citizen a few years ago.”
Latin Moon in Manhattan: A Novel Page 4
