Latin Moon in Manhattan: A Novel

by Jaime Manrique

  “Let’s take O’Donnell, too.” He lifted the cat off the bed and started kissing his face.

  “Put him down; he doesn’t like to be mauled. It’s not a good idea; forget it.” As I said this, it occurred to me that the mafiosi might return, break in, and Mr. O’Donnell could escape. “Okay, we’ll take him to the park,” I said. “Let me get his box.”

  As soon as I said “box,” Mr. O’Donnell torpedoed off Gene’s arms and hid under the bed.

  “What’s come over him?” Gene asked, puzzled by the cat’s bewildering reaction.

  “He thinks I’m taking him to the ASPCA. He only sees the box when he has to go to the vet.”

  We tried to coax Mr. O’Donnell from under the bed—but to no avail.

  “Wait,” I said. “I know what will do it. Kal Kan,” I cried out like a fool and started walking toward the kitchen. “Kal Kan, Kal Kan,” I sang.

  I opened the refrigerator and pretended to fetch the Kal Kan. As Mr. O’Donnell started rubbing against me, I grabbed him. Gene brought out the box and between the two of us we managed to put him inside it. Now I was afraid that the trauma of the skirmish might give him a heart attack. I was so exhausted by the ordeal that I didn’t feel like going out anymore. But I knew Gene would be disappointed if I changed my mind.

  In a duffle bag we packed blankets, cushions, paper dishes, insect repellent, suntan lotion, etc., and left the apartment as though we were going on a safari. In the street, Mr. O’Donnell started to bleat pathetically. We strolled up Eighth Avenue and stopped at a Korean grocery store to buy food for the picnic.

  “It’s been days since I ate anything that stuck to my ribs,” Gene said. Living at my mother’s house as he did, I wondered how that could be possible.

  I reassured him. “Don’t worry, we’ll buy lots of food.”

  “I don’t want to eat peaches and carrot sticks,” Gene remonstrated. “You buy whatever you want to eat and I’ll buy whatever I want.”

  That sounded fair enough. We marched up different aisles—I, carrying the cat box, he, the duffle bag. I bought a six-pack of beer, oranges, pears, rice cakes, and yogurt, and walked to the cash register to pay for my items. Gene had disappeared behind the aisles, so I waited, setting the box on the floor. Mr. O’Donnell was making blood-curdling sounds, as if he were possessed by the same demon that had gotten hold of Linda Blair in The Exorcist. The people in the store began to eye the box with alarm. I was getting uptight and restless when Gene appeared carrying three Hershey bars, a large Coke, a box of buttered popcorn, a bag of Chee-tohs, and two large containers of Pringle’s Potato Chips. I was going to reprimand him on the junk he ate, but I decided it was wrong to begin arguing before the picnic started.

  It was a cool, dry, golden afternoon crowned with an aquamarine sky. We dawdled all the way to Columbus Circle, where, in front of the statue at the edge of the park, a black trumpet player blasted to a large but hushed audience the melancholy notes of The Beatles’ “Yesterday.” The piercing notes of the melody felt like slivers stuck under my skin. I motioned Gene to move on. It was past noon and the park was alive with joggers and people having their lunches and smoking joints. We trekked away from the crowds until we reached a field where a baseball game was in progress. The teams wore uniforms and the players were young but serious. We chose a spot under a tree that was far enough from the action, but close enough that we could enjoy the game. We spread out our blanket and pulled out the cushions and emptied the shopping bags. Mr. O’Donnell had grown so strangely quiet that I wondered if he was all right. He was sitting up when I opened the box, and jumped out before I could reach in to pull him out. His eyes, like open yellow tulips, took in the scene, shining with the excitement of finding that he was someplace other than the Humane Society. He was ready to start exploring the surroundings.

  “Oh, no,” I said, “I’m afraid this is not going to work out. I forgot to bring some kind of leash. He could run away.”

  But, as if to purposefully contradict me, Mr. O’Donnell stretched out languidly and then collapsed on his side, facing the baseball field.

  “Check that out,” Gene exclaimed. “He likes baseball.”

  “No, no. He likes opera.”

  “He likes baseball, too. Don’t you, O’Donnell?”

  Mr. O’Donnell twitched his tail to indicate that he was both watching the game and listening to our conversation.

  Gene opened one of the beers and took a long swig; with his teeth, he tore open one of the bags and stuffed his mouth, making loud, crunchy noises as he chewed. “Isn’t this the ultimate?” he said with the fake sincerity of a budding thespian. “Nature,” he expostulated, “summer, baseball, beer, everything. If I could choose one way to spend the rest of my life, I would choose this. Wouldn’t you?” He finished as if he had just recited an immortal Shakespearean soliloquy. His face looked so enraptured that I wondered if he was already drunk from the beer. “Wouldn’t you, too?” he insisted. Obviously I was not going to be allowed to brush off the silly question. I knew he was serious. I remembered how at fifteen I had been obsessed with the meaning of life, love, God, existence, the universe.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so,” although I couldn’t think of anything better. Perhaps the mountains, I thought; maybe the ocean. Life at a marina, sailing the pellucid sea. But I realized that “the ultimate”—Gene and I in harmony; Mr. O’Donnell happy, serene; the cool beer, the radiant afternoon; the guys hitting the ball—was very nice indeed, and despite my messy life, for the moment I could afford to be happy.

  Gene and I became engrossed in the game. Mr. O’Donnell fell asleep, his snoring sounding like a pigeon cooing. After a while we got to know the names of the players, and when their teammates cheered them on, we’d join them. This was better than professional baseball, where I always rooted for the Mets. Here, I just wanted to see brilliant pitches, great hits, dazzling catches, no matter from whom. Whenever we’d scream too loud, Mr. O’Donnell would jerk awake, turn around and cast reproachful glances at us before going back to sleep.

  We watched the game and drank and munched throughout the afternoon. At one point, Mr. O’Donnell woke up and begged for food. He ate an entire container of blueberry yogurt and a couple of Gene’s Chee-tohs before he resumed his nap. By the time the game was over, maybe owing to the beers I’d had, maybe owing to the languid afternoon we were having, I felt relaxed and drowsy.

  “Gene,” I said, “I’m going to take a nap. Is that okay?”

  “Go right ahead, man. Whatever makes you happy.”

  “I wonder if I should put Mr. O’Donnell in his box.”

  “Sammy, don’t do that to the poor cat. He’s so happy where he is.”

  “But I’m afraid he could run away.”

  “Not to worry. I’ll watch over him. Just go to sleep, all right?”

  “Thanks, Gene. I appreciate it. But don’t let me sleep too long. Wake me up before dark, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I stretched out, my head on a cushion, and closed my eyes. In the darkness, I could hear the many sounds of the park; the twittering of different birds, traffic noises so far away that they almost sounded pleasant, bits and pieces of conversations of the people who walked near us. I began to dream of myself in Barranquilla when I was thirteen or fourteen years old.

  In the afternoons, during vacation time or on weekends, I’d go for long walks in the best neighborhoods in town. I would pass all the great mansions, wishing I lived in one of them. I’d sit on a street curb, and then I’d proceed to create an entire fantasy about my life inside that particular house, complete with parents, pets, brothers and sisters I liked. Around the time I was Gene’s age, I longed to escape my life. I wanted to go far away from everything that surrounded me, although the thought of leaving behind my dog, Spartacus, and my sister saddened me. Then my dream took on a different turn; it was nighttime. The moon was out and the sky was a rich, enamelled blue. I was on a farm with my mother, and we
were strolling in a hilly, rolling landscape bereft of vegetation except for the grass we walked on. Spartacus appeared at the top of a hill, looking like a wolf. He stood erect, tough, vigilant, like a warrior. With his black and white markings, he looked as if he were dressed for a ball. I called him by his nickname, Pita, and he plunged down the hill to meet me. I patted his head and said to my mother, “Spartacus doesn’t bark anymore,” to which she replied, “It’s because he’s so fat, like you.” Then a lovely and pure tenor’s voice sang, “Ay, luna que brillas; Ay, luna.”

  When I woke up the afternoon was quite advanced; it was six-thirty but still very light. Another baseball game with different teams was in progress. I opened Mr. O’Donnell’s box, thinking Gene had put him inside before going off by himself. The box was empty; my heart stopped. I refused to believe that the worst had happened, that Mr. O’Donnell had run away and now Gene was desperately roaming the park trying to find him. I was about to get up to start looking for them, when I saw Gene approaching. He carried a shopping bag but no cat.

  “Where’s Mr. O’Donnell?” I screamed.

  “He’s in the bag. I took him for a ride; we had a great time. He’s so kickass bad. You should have seen him in the woods trying to get those birds and the squirrels and …”

  “Asshole,” I interrupted him. “You could have given me a fucking heart attack.”

  “Didn’t you see my note?”

  “What note?” I grumbled.

  “Next to your pillow. See it?”

  Indeed, next to my pillow there was a piece of paper bag with something scribbled on it. “Sorry, Gene,” I apologized, feeling ashamed of myself. “I guess I woke up in a state.”

  Gene dumped Mr. O’Donnell out of the bag. As if to cheer me up, O’Donnell sat on my lap and began to purr. Gene sat next to me.

  “Where you having a nightmare?”

  “Not really. I was dreaming about when I was your age,” I said, scratching the cat under his chin. “Lately I’ve been dreaming a lot about my childhood. I wonder what it means. All I know is that I had an unhappy childhood and adolescence.”

  “Sammy, you didn’t have a bad childhood, just a long one,” Gene said.

  “In the past couple of weeks, though, I’ve felt as if my life were going from monochrome into color.”

  “Sure. Your best friend died, you got engaged …”

  “I’m not getting married to Claudia, is that clear?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m gay. And because … it’s none of your business.” I lit a cigarette and took several quick, furious drags like Bette Davis in Dark Victory. I looked up; the sun had traveled three-quarters of its way from sunrise, and now it hovered above the gothic, malignant structure of the Dakota, where God knew what Satanic ritual was taking place. The sun’s rays fell obliquely; they felt warm and gentle. The treetops swayed in the tranquil breeze, and a flock of noisy geese flew northward. The sky was still immaculately blue, but the light was golden, like twilight in a luminist painting. The nippy air promised a crisp evening.

  “You wanna go home now or you wanna stay a bit longer?” Gene asked.

  “What do you want to do? Want to stay? I don’t mind catching some of this game,” I said, nodding in the direction of the players. “Those guys look really good.”

  “That’s cool with me,” Gene said.

  I construed this to mean we were staying. I looked toward the baseball field and began to space out again. This time of day made me think of my grandparents’ town. The air became charged with the acrid smell of cow manure. It was my favorite time of day. If I didn’t go by the quay to watch the sunset, I’d sit on a rocking chair outside the house and watch the young girls carrying baskets loaded with fresh fish, returning to their homes before nightfall. Then, as the sun sank, vapors rose from the muddy river bed, where litters of squealing pigs rolled and vultures searched for carrion. Later, as dusk set in, the smell of ripe ciruelas, mangoes, nísperos, and cashew fruit turned the evening into an aphrodisiac. My grandfathers and uncles approached the house, riding their horses after an afternoon at the farm. They rode up the mossy street, which was decorated with huge white boulders set in the middle of the road like fossilized dinosaur eggs. Barefoot, almost naked, children led their family burros back into their corrals. The African-looking palenqueras, advertising their coconut sweets, sashayed their way up the street singing in their soprano voices, “Alegría, alegría con coco y maní” As night fell, the mosquitoes arrived, myriads of bats took over the sky, fireflies glowed on the patios, and the sweet smell of honeysuckle spread all over town, like an elixir, mixing with the dinners being prepared in the open-air kitchens.

  “Want a hit of this?” Gene asked, waking me up from my reverie; he was smoking a fat joint.

  “No, it makes me paranoid.” I took the opportunity to scold him. “You should quit drugs; they’re not good for you,” I said sternly, aware that I sounded like the detestable Nancy Reagan.

  “I’m gonna quit soon. I promise you.”

  “The trick is to quit while you’re alive.”

  “I know you want to have a hit of this. This is the best pot in Queens, man.”

  I took a long drag and felt the marijuana resin singe the insides of my lungs; I also felt pleasantly stoned.

  “What did you do in Colombia all those years after college—besides being a garbage head?” Gene asked.

  “I can’t remember a lot of it.”

  “It sounds to me like you were fucking vegged out on drugs,” Gene said.

  “It was like being in a spiritual coma, if you know what I mean. I’m only beginning to wake up from it now,” I said.

  “I think you should still get hammered once in a while, before you’re too old.”

  “Gene, when I was your age, cigarettes were the strongest stuff I did.”

  “Mr. O’Donnell looks so happy on your lap,” Gene said, changing the subject. “What do you think he’s dreaming about? Look, he’s smiling.”

  “Whatever cats dream about: a fat mouse, perhaps. A saucer heaped with Kal Kan, pigeons, juicy flies. Maybe he’s dreaming of Monserrat Caballe singing Violeta.”

  “He really likes opera? That’s like so fucking bizarre, man.”

  “He likes Monserrat Caballe singing La Traviata. I don’t know that he likes anything else.”

  “You shouldda seen him in the woods; he was awesome. He was one happy cat. Sammy, do you think cats have like a last wish? You know, like prisoners before they die?”

  I thought about it. “It’s different, I think. Prisoners know they’re going to die; I don’t think cats know.”

  “How do you now? You’re not a cat.” Gene paused. “I think I know what his last wish is.”

  “What?”

  “To be free.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To be free in the park. To be loose. To go wild killing pigeons and squirrels and birds. I’d bet you anything that’s what he wants. Before you got him, wasn’t he an alley cat, anyway?”

  “Just because all you think about is guns and killing doesn’t mean my cat wants to decimate the endangered fauna of Central Park.”

  “I’d bet you anything he’d rather have his last heart attack while munching on a pigeon or something.”

  This vision made me shudder. I lifted up Mr. O’Donnell in my arms and kissed his cold nose.

  “When is he supposed to croak, anyway?”

  “Any minute,” I said, “but I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sammy, if you really loved him, you’d rather let him go. You’d let him die a free cat.”

  “Hell, no,” I boomed, nettled by his insistence. “When you have your own cat you can do that, if you want. I could never forgive myself if I did anything that stupid.”

  “You should have been in the woods with me. You shouldda seen how his eyes shone when he spotted the wild animals, especially the squirrels. He’d die a happy cat, that’s all I�
�m saying to you.”

  Maybe there was something to what he was saying, although it sounded suspiciously like pseudo-hippy new age talk. “Mr. O’Donnell,” I said, poking him gently to wake him up. “Is that what you’d prefer? Do you want to be set loose in the park?”

  “Sure, man,” Gene answered for the cat. “If you were dying wouldn’t you rather die in nature than in Times Square or in a hospital?”

  “Let him speak for himself,” I said, setting Mr. O’Donnell on the blanket. I got up. “Let’s go,” I said. “Help me pack.” I began to pick up the garbage without looking at Mr. O’Donnell. When we finished packing, Mr. O’Donnell’s box remained open. He sat next to it, looking up into the trees.

  “Okay, Mr. O’Donnell,” I said. “This is good-bye, old man. You are a free cat; you can go.”

  Mr. O’Donnell turned around to look at me. He stared me in the eyes, sprang to his feet and jumped into his box, without any coaxing on my part.

  I slapped Gene on his back. “You see? He prefers me to squirrels and rabbits. He loves me as I love him.”

  Gene’s jaw fell open. There was a look of total perplexity on his face. “Man, what a cat! That’s so fucking unbelievable.”

  I scratched Mr. O’Donnell between his ears and closed his box. It was the perfect way to end the day. It almost made up for the horrible morning I had had. Shadows were taking over the park. A couple of stars and a planet gleamed in the cobalt sky.

  11 This Island, This Kingdom

  The alarm woke me at eight. I had to be at the U.N. at noon but I wanted to have plenty of time to get ready. Gene was sleeping on the couch in the living room. In his underwear, he looked gigantic, fleshy and amorphous like a pale sea lion. The sheets were on the floor, and he had fallen asleep reading Rolling Stone. Mr. O’Donnell, who was sleeping on a pillow, leaped out of bed when he saw me enter the kitchen. I fed him, put on the water for coffee, and went into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth.

  Around ten o’clock I got dressed. Since Gene was still asleep and I had to tiptoe around the apartment, I decided to leave early. For some months now, I had been thinking about taking my typewriter to be cleaned. I put the machine in its case and left. I walked to a repair shop on Fortieth Street, between Seventh and Eighth avenues. The store was empty, except for the clerk behind the counter.