“What can I do for you?” the man greeted me.
I told him several of the typewriter’s keys were stuck and I wanted to give the machine a complete overhaul. The man asked me to open the case. I hadn’t finished removing the top when he diagnosed, “We can’t help you.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t carry parts for that kind of machine anymore.”
Ha, I thought. He’s trying to sell me a machine; I know this trick.
“Well, do you know of another place where they might repair it, since I can’t afford to buy a new machine?”
“There’s a store up the block, on the other side of the street. You can try them, but I doubt it. The manufacturer doesn’t make parts for that model anymore.”
“What do you mean?” I asked in disbelief. “It’s almost a new machine.”
“It’s about ten years old, right?”
I nodded.
“You can see for yourself,” he said, making a sweep with his arm around the store, “we don’t carry typewriters that old.”
I glanced at the different models on display, and I observed that all the machines for sale had a high-tech look unrelated to my primitive-looking electric typewriter. I thanked the man and headed for the other store. It was a replay of the same story. What’s more, the salesman told me I should throw the machine in the garbage. Something told me these men were right. At the corner of Broadway and Fortieth, as I lowered my machine slowly into a trash receptacle, I also felt as if I were unburdening myself of a different kind of weight—my Rip van Winkling of the past decade. Where had I been all these years? How had I gotten so out of touch with everything? Was it possible that the typewriter was a symbol of everything I had to get rid of? By what process had I become an anachronism at age thirty-three? Was it in any way related to all the memories that I had been having in the past few weeks about my childhood and adolescence? I shook my head. I knew this was not the most cheerful line of thinking to be engaged in before starting my interpreting career at the U.N. I would concentrate on the sunny morning. We were having a spell of gorgeous days, which for New York City, in August, amounted to a miracle. As I walked in the direction of the East River, it dawned on me that I had lived half of my life in New York and I had never passed, much less gone inside, the U.N. building. Instead of getting depressed over this fact, I told myself I should look at the positive side of it; today was a new beginning. Feeling much better, I strode to Forty-third and Lexington, where the Language Workshop was located and I had to get my admission pass to the U.N.
I had seen the U.N. building in the movies, so that in a way it was déjà vu. I flashed the blue pass on my lapel to the guards at the main entrance. I was an hour early, so I decided to take a stroll in the expansive, well-kept grounds. Hundreds of colorful flags made snapping sounds high in the wind. Variegated groups of tourists headed excitedly in all directions. I walked east down a series of steps that cut through rows of what looked like cherry trees, leading to a promenade above the East River. The industrial, ugly carcasses of buildings on the other side of the river contrasted unfavorably with the gleaming structures of the U.N. The only sign of beauty across the river was provided by the pink, white, and blue neon Pepsi Cola sign, which was lit even though it was nearly noon. The chartreuse waters of the East River teemed with sailing vessels, small motor boats, yachts, and even a monumental tugboat. To the north loomed the imposing structure of the Queensboro Bridge. All this was very scenic, but I was nervous; the palms of my hands were clammy and I felt an uncomfortable tightness in the pit of my stomach.
I could have stayed on the promenade another twenty minutes, but I decided the sooner I stepped inside the building and reached my destination the less there was to fear. I took several deep breaths, taking in the seemingly fresh but undoubtedly polluted air. After wending my way through a maze and further scrutiny and frisking, I walked into the cathedral-sized lobby. This is what being inside the Tower of Babel must have felt like, I thought, as I overheard the well-dressed herds of tourists speaking in exotic languages, darting excitedly from display to display, led by the tour guides. At the Language Workshop I had been given the details of where I had to report to; I was going to interpret for the annual luncheon of the meeting of Parliamentarians for Global Disarmament. As I moved deeper into the inner chambers of the U.N., the security outposts became more thorough, the crowds thinned, and only diplomats and U.N. employees were visible. I felt more and more like a character in a Hitchcock thriller—The Man Who Knew Too Much or something like that. I took an elevator to the second floor. It dropped me off inside a small reception room. A security guard in a blue blazer promptly demanded to know my business. He gave me brief and precise instructions where to go. I stepped into a spacious dining room. It was barely noon, but there were people having lunch already. All the tables had arrangements of orange and yellow flowers and through the twelve-foot glass windows streamed the silvery noon light. Heavenly smells hit my nostrils and I felt envious of the elegantly dressed people sipping aromatic wines and conversing in hushed tones. I turned left down a corridor that led into a small dining room. The tables were arranged in a U shape, the bottom of the U against the south wall. The people catering the affair gave me inquiring glances. I informed them I was the interpreter, which was acknowledged by blank stares. Since none of the world parliamentarians or the U.N. officials had arrived, I stood by the huge windows watching the multifarious crafts going up and down the East River.
The waiters were putting the finishing touches on the luncheon; more flowers were brought in, French rolls were distributed around the table, a shrimp and lobster salad on a bed of wonderfully fresh Romaine lettuce was served, wines were uncorked. I had forgotten to eat anything for breakfast and the smells perfuming the room made me feel faint with hunger. I decided to concentrate on matters other than food; I had to get a new typewriter. Because of the expense, a word processor was out of the question. I needed a machine if I was going to finish my Columbus poem, or start my thriller. This purchase would severely deplete my nest egg. Perhaps my mother would give me a loan—although I was aware how hard it was to squeeze a penny out of her CDs.
Suddenly, a rising murmur of voices approached and the delegates entered the room. I had been instructed to introduce myself to Mr. McClanahan, who had contracted my services from the Language Workshop. I approached a thin man in his early thirties, quintessentially the executive type: clean-cut, efficient-looking and impeccably and conservatively dressed. McClanahan gave me the tiniest smile possible and absentmindedly shook my hand and told me to hang around until all the delegates had taken their places. When everyone had sat down in a hurry—they all looked as hungry as I was—I saw there was no seat left for me. McClanahan motioned to a waiter to produce a chair, and a place was made for me near the window, at the tip of the upside-down U. Quickly, plates, bread, salad, and wine appeared. A pink-looking man in his midfifties sat to my right. He nodded, smiling, and asked me where I was from. I told him. Then he introduced himself as the delegate from Botswana. I wasn’t sure where Botswana was, so I was speechless.
Mistaking me for a delegate, the man said, “I didn’t see you this morning at the sessions. Did you just get here? Have you met the other members of the Latin delegation?”
I told him I was the interpreter.
“Oh,” the man said frowning, and immediately turned to talk to the woman on his right.
Racist creep, I thought to myself, bunching together Botswanians and South Africans. I imitated the people buttering their rolls and sipping their wines and was about to take my first bite when a very Ivy Leaguey, lean man, stood up and introduced himself as the vice prime minister of New Zealand or something like that.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, beginning the session. “Welcome to the annual luncheon of the Third International Congress of the Security Commission of the Parliamentarians for Global Disarmament,” and he extended his open palm in my direction
to indicate I should start interpreting his introductory remarks. Much to my dismay I had to put down my roll and begin to interpret. “The U.N. has provided us with the services of an excellent interpreter for the members of the Latin delegation who do not speak English,” he said. Everyone stared at me; I tried to smile the best I could.
The vice prime minister launched on a long and convoluted explanation of what the Parliamentarians for Global Disarmament stood for. I realized I wasn’t being paid to have lunch; nonetheless the man’s explanation struck me as an utter waste of time designed to prevent me from enjoying my lunch. The vice prime minister then went on to talk about the recent origins of the organization, the main resolutions of the past congresses, and the goals of the current summit. While the man pontificated, and I interpreted, the delegates gobbled their salads, bread, and wine. The vice prime minister was still talking about the importance of the organization, how necessary it was in order to keep the world from self-destructing with nuclear weapons, when the salad plates were removed and replaced by large, juicy salmon steaks and done-to-perfection steamed vegetables. The aromas of the fish, broiled in a light butter and lime sauce, and the vegetables made me dizzy. The vice prime minister concluded his peroration hyperbolically, though in a dispassionate tone: “World Parliamentarians for Global Disarmament, remember that the future of mankind is in your hands.”
The delegates stopped chewing in order to clap. I reached for a glass of wine and took a long sip. I was perspiring; I had been interpreting nonstop for twenty minutes and my throat was dry. I was about to cut into my salmon steak when the vice prime minister stood up again and said, “If there are any questions, I would be delighted to answer them.” I put the chunk of salmon in my mouth, praying that there’d be no questions and I could have my lunch in peace. I washed it down with a little more wine. To my enormous displeasure, the Malaysian delegate raised his hand.
“Mr. Frost,” he addressed the New Zealander, “the Malaysian delegation was wondering who funds the Security Commission of the Parliamentarians for Global Disarmament.”
Disgusted, I put my fork down and averted my gaze from the scrumptious lunch. Something told me that to justify their having been flown to New York for the session, some of the members felt compelled to ask all sorts of inane questions.
Looking poleaxed, Frost fidgeted before answering. “Our main backers are the Rockefeller family and the Mac Arthur Foundation.”
“Los Rockefellers,” exclaimed a delegate in Spanish.
“The Rockefellers,” I echoed in English, forgetting my lunch and becoming interested in the proceedings. It was the Peruvian delegate who had extrapolated thus. Who’s this nut? I wondered. A member of the Shining Path?
“Had we known the imperialist Rockefeller family funded this congress, Peru would have abstained from attending,” I interpreted for him, both amused and embarrassed at what I was saying. I noticed the Colombian delegate next to him. He was dressed in an English three-piece gray suit and a red tie and he looked like an Andean cousin of Peter Lorre. The man reminded me of one of my mother’s Colombian “businessmen” friends in Jackson Heights.
“The Rockefeller family,” I caught Mr. Frost saying, “is very interested in nuclear disarmament, yes, sir.”
The Latin delegates turned to me for an interpretation. I interpreted the last words I had heard. Then, in Spanish, I said to the delegates, “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying; he was talking too softly.”
A Central American delegate raised her hand. Oh, my God, I thought, she’s going to complain about me.
“Sir,” she said, “will you please speak up so that the interpreter can hear you?”
I wanted to die right then and there. My incipient career as a U.N. interpreter was certainly over.
“Mr. Interpreter,” Frost said.
“What?” I cried, jumping from my seat.
“Please, sit down, sir,” Frost ordered me in his even, computer manner. “If you have trouble hearing me, please let me know.”
I sat down as the marvelous salmon was being removed from my field of vision.
“What the Latin delegates want to know,” said the Peruvian representative, “is what the Parliamentarians for Global Disarmament plan to do about the difficult situation in Central America.”
Luscious strawberries and aromatic coffee made their appearance at the table.
“The Parliamentarians for Global Disarmament deals exclusively with the subject of nuclear disarmament. There are many other committees at the U.N. where you can bring up the concerns of Central America for discussion.”
“But Mr. Chairman,” the testy delegate went on, “none of the nations here present have nuclear weapons. In Latin America the threat of nuclear war is not perceived as one of our more pressing problems.”
Good question, I thought, realizing that none of the nations present had the economic might to create or purchase nuclear weapons. So what were they doing here?
“Perhaps I should stress to all delegates the fact that the Parliamentarians for Global Disarmament is a nonpartisan organization. Our only concern is how to contain the spread of nuclear weapons and the threat it represents to all of mankind, not just the industrial nations. This afternoon,” he said by way of concluding, “there will be many interesting sessions that all of you will find enlightening. On behalf of the United Nations, once more I extend my welcome to the third congress and I wish you all a pleasant and fruitful stay in the Big Apple.”
He smiled, sat down, and attacked his dessert. Frost was obviously as hungry as I was. Although he did not live on my starvation budget, I was sure he, too, mourned the sumptuous lunch.
I ate my dessert slowly and relished the marvelously brewed Colombian coffee, second only to my mother’s coffee in Queens. An hour later, after many cordials of which I did not partake, the delegates rose to leave the room. I got up to follow them and was about to exit when Frost approached me, smiling.
“Mr. Interpreter,” he said in the oily, insincere manner of all politicians, “thank you very much for doing a difficult job so well.”
I must have blushed, I’m sure. “Oh, thank you, sir,” I said politely, thinking I should be nice to this cold fish, who in a few years would undoubtedly be ruling over a big chunk of the world.
“I will certainly recommend you to your superiors,” he finished and shook my hand. Then he turned to greet a bunch of delegates from faraway countries.
As I walked back home thoughts tossed in my head like wet clothes in a tumble dryer: Had I done well? Would I be hired by the United Nations? Did I want to spend the rest of my life interpreting for those people? Interpreting at all? Being an interpreter for the rest of my life, in every aspect of my life?
In this unserene frame of mind, I arrived at the east corner of Forty-third Street and Eighth Avenue. As I looked up I shuddered, remembering the man who had killed himself yesterday. On the spot where he had landed there was still a moist black stain. As I waited for the light to change, all I could see on the other side of the street were scores of crack heads panhandling outside Paradise Alley. I felt incredible anger rise up in my throat; I was thankful at that moment I did not own a machine gun, because otherwise I would have sprayed thousands of bullets on these vermin. Maybe I should burn the porno place one night, I thought as I crossed the street. Late at night, I would douse the premises with gasoline and light it up. Thinking these incendiary thoughts I reached my front door. I was about to go in when something pulled at the sleeve of my jacket. I swung around ready to strike whoever it was.
“Santiago, what’s the matter? Are you okay?” Hot Sauce said.
“Hot Sauce,” I exclaimed, breaking out of my mood and smiling. “You don’t know how glad I’m to see you. If you only knew the kind of days I’ve been having lately.”
“Man, you tell me. I’m gonna have to move my business; this block has gone to hell. Anyway,” she chortled, “thanks for introducing me to Ben Ami.”
“Did you hit it off? I haven’t talked to him since that night.”
“He’s in Paris. He wanted me to go with him. He’ll be back tonight, I think. Yeah, he’s nice. Thanks, Santiago.”
“Don’t mention it. Anyway, I’d love to chat more with you but I’m anxious to get upstairs. Maybe we can get together soon, all of us.”
“Wait. I don’t know if I should mention this to you. But a couple of minutes ago I saw some real sleazeballs go in.”
All kinds of alarms went off. To reassure myself I said, “Maybe they were George’s customers.”
“They didn’t look Pakistani to me, if you know what I mean.”
“Were they crack heads?”
“No. They looked like … like … like …”
“Colombians,” I offered.
“Yeah, man. No offense.”
“Jesus, I gotta go! This could be serious.”
“If you need help, just yell.”
“Thanks.” I raced up the stairs; the partition door at the second floor was ajar. I went in and left it open in case I had to leave my apartment in a hurry. I sprinted up the remaining sets of steps. As I put the key in, the door caved in. “Gene, Mr. O’Donnell,” I screamed, bursting into the living room.
A not-too-distant relative of the apes stood a few feet away, pointing a nasty-looking gun at me.
“Entra, pues,” he said in what I recognized as a Medellín accent. “Close the door,” he ordered me. Extending my arm behind my back, I slammed the door.
Jerking the gun, the man motioned me to go into the next room where I found Gene sitting at the table, still in his underwear, puffing frantically at a Marlboro, and looking scared shitless. Next to him, also armed with another revolver, sat another paisa, as people from Medellín are called.
Latin Moon in Manhattan: A Novel Page 18
