Latin Moon in Manhattan: A Novel

by Jaime Manrique

  Arriving at the hospital, the size of the building surprised me—it seemed like a real hospital, not a toy one like the Humane Society. The woman at the reception desk took down my name, address, a brief medical history of the pet, and then gave me directions to the elevators. I went to the fifth floor where I stepped into the waiting room. A man with manic eyes approached me and told me his cat had jumped from the living room into the street seven floors below and broken two legs. Two hospital vets in white uniforms came rushing from behind glass walls and asked me to turn Mr. O’Donnell over to them so they could place him inside an oxygen tent. The man opened the box and pulled him out. My hands reached out, as if to wrestle Mr. O’Donnell away from the doctor. Mr. O’Donnell’s eyes and mine met, and he gave me a look I had never seen before. He was saying at the same time, “I love you; I’m scared; don’t leave me alone; good-bye.” His eyes were very yellow, like lighted lanterns, and they expressed horror. I thought of Bobby, of the last look he had given me, and at that moment I understood one of the differences between man and cat: man knows he’s going to die, so he can get ready and be willing, even eager, to go. A cat knows the end is near, but that’s all. He can’t accept death: he can’t trust in it; cats are perhaps too metaphysical an entity to need to believe in the idea of a beyond; a cat is his own god and man his creation.

  I sat there, numb, staring at my hands, listening to the crazy man tell me stories about his cat, the many times he had jumped before. I was grateful when the nurse came out and told me that Mr. O’Donnell was on a respirator and to call the hospital tomorrow to inquire about his condition. She was sympathetic, I thought, but it sounded like a mere formality. Downstairs, before I left the hospital, I had to finish filling out the forms. Outside I lit a cigarette and walked to the nearest subway station. It was 10:00 P.M. and the station was almost deserted. I waited, leaning against the wall of the station. As the train rumbled in, I moved forward and stared at the tracks which, as the train neared me, became conduits for rushing gold rills that were almost an invitation to jump in front of the oncoming car. I had known all along that Mr. O’Donnell’s days were numbered, but now that the moment had come the notion of joining him in death was appealing.

  I got off the train at Times Square, and was about to turn west on Forty-third when loud music coming from the island on Broadway between Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh streets reached my ears. I really didn’t want to go home to be alone with my feelings. Welcoming any distraction, I headed for the little island where a big crowd had gathered. As I approached it, the music got louder and brassier along this stretch of Broadway. It was hard to find an inch of cement to stand on on the island. The band had stationed itself in the middle of it, between the statues of George M. Cohan and Father Duffy. Six players blew on huge instruments. It was crazy, happy honky-tonk music that could have resurrected the dead. As the players puffed their shiny cheeks and stomped their feet, swaying with their tubas and trombones, the crowd rocked sideways. Most of the spectators looked like summer tourists and suburban theatergoers, but there were also many regulars of Times Square, including myself. Black kids climbed on the large cement pots where scraggly trees grew. Everybody was smiling, and many people were clapping, surrendering to the rambunctious sounds.

  Behind the band rose the red Coca Cola sign displaying geometric combinations of lines and colors; and the blazing lights of Broadway, the legendary White Way that was anything but white, had never seemed so beautiful, so glittering, so inviting, so dazzling. It was one of those rare moments when a mass of people surrender to the city, embracing everything that gets pressured out of us as we grow up and become responsible citizens and assume obligations and conform. I turned to look behind me and, to the east, a full ivory moon was poised on top of the red tip of the antenna of the Empire State Building. I stood with my back to the crowd, feeling the music surge through my veins, and rush to my head, and I thought about this island, this city, where the homeless and the rich, the powerful and the powerless, the radiant and the sick, the lovely and the hideous, the arrogant and the humble, and the crazed and the hopeful, where Blacks, Asiatics, Hispanics, WASPs, Europeans, their descendants, refugees, exiles, where people from all over the world came to, as if this were their Mecca, a Byzantium throbbing with thieves, and hookers and hustlers and murderers and suicides, and cops and tourists and stockbrokers, and the rootless and great stars and beggars, all commingling, coming together for a slice of the elusive dream these neon signs promised, for moments like this one, when the night was like red wine and it was summertime and for a moment we could forget all our wounds, all our pains.

  I looked up and saw the Times Square zipper going round and round, flashing news about the weather, bankruptcies, murders, and catastrophes from all over the globe, and then, at the tail end of it, just for me, to show me that I, too, belonged here, in gold letters, against a black velvety background, through the tears that clouded my vision, I read: MR. O’DONNELL, THE MOST WONDERFUL CAT OF FORTY-SECOND STREET, DIED TONIGHT, AUGUST 2, 1990.

  12 Everyone Happy in Manhattan and Mr. O’Donnell Enters Heaven

  I didn’t set the alarm clock for the next morning because I didn’t have to work that day. I thought I would sleep at least until noon, but I awoke by ten o’clock. I realized things were different as soon as I opened my eyes; for the past two years I had gotten used to seeing Mr. O’Donnell upon waking up.

  I went to the kitchen to make coffee, and the saucers on the floor, the steel comb hanging on a nail, the bag of dry food, and the cans of Kal Kan in the cupboard reminded me of him. Although I knew Mr. O’Donnell was dead, I called the hospital to make it official. The woman who gave me the news was nice and gentle; she informed me that Mr. O’Donnell had passed away last night, shortly after I had brought him in. I thanked her and hung up. I was about to return to the kitchen when the phone rang. It was Rebecca; I gave her the news.

  “Actually,” I said calmly, but feeling a big hole open up inside my chest, “would you like to come upstairs for a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d love to.”

  I opened the door and waited for Rebecca to come up the stairs. She was dressed to go to work. We embraced, patting each other’s backs. As the person who had found Mr. O’Donnell in the alley, she had taken the role of adoptive mother and she too had grown to love him.

  We sat on the couch sipping our coffees. She was giving me such a look of commiseration that just to break up the silence, I said, “Aren’t you late for work?”

  “I start at noon today, but I’m going to call in sick.”

  “I’m okay. Really,” I said, assuming she was doing this for my sake.

  “I’m just sick and tired of that place. Thank God I’m going to Caracas next week.” She paused. “Santiago, I have an idea. I think we should have a memorial service for Mr. O’Donnell tonight.”

  “Rebecca, you’ve got to be kidding!”

  “Not at all. We owe it to him. We ought to celebrate the fact that he’s gone to kitty heaven. Because I have no doubts whatsoever that that’s where he is. Any old how, his friends should all get together to reminisce.”

  “You mean, we should have a wake?” I asked, totally astonished and wondering if Rebecca’s elevator was ever going to make it to the top floor. “Anyway, what friends are you talking about?”

  “Mr. O’Donnell had legions of adoring fans. He was absolutely beloved by everyone who ever came into contact with him. He was the most perfect bundle of joy that ever drew breath.”

  “We could invite Harry Hagin,” I said, remembering the drawing he had made of Mr. O’Donnell when he had run away in the spring.

  “And Francisco would come too if he were in New York,” Rebecca said, not missing the opportunity to bring in her paramour. “He always said hello to the kitty in his letters, didn’t he? But there are lots of other people,” she prattled on. “It’ll be a lovely gathering. A wake for Mr. O’Donnell as well as my bon voyage soirée. After all, I may not see yo
u all for a long, long, long time.”

  “For goodness sake, Rebecca, you make it sound like you’re going to Jupiter. But anyway, maybe a party is not a bad idea. It’s very Colombian to celebrate someone’s passing.”

  “Leave the details to me. I once organized the loveliest fête champêtre for Aunt Annabel back in Jackson. Is seven o’clock okay with you?”

  I shrugged.

  “You poor darling, you’ve been through so much lately. You don’t have to lift a finger; I’ll take care of everything. All you have to do is straighten up the place a little bit.”

  “I’ll be here all day, if you need anything,” I offered just in case.

  She finished her coffee. “Thank you, doll face. Now I’ve got to run. There are a million pressing details that need to be attended to.”

  We embraced again. As soon as she left the room, I felt the full weight of my aloneness. When Mr. O’Donnell was alive, I’d always felt as if I shared the apartment with a roommate. I became aware of an uncanny silence creeping all over the house. Feeling spooked, I decided to get busy tidying up the place. I got the broom and duster out of the kitchen, but realizing how much I would have to work before the place looked decent, I was overwhelmed by the task ahead of me. I headed back for the security of the bedroom and threw myself on the bed where I tossed around despondently. I found myself staring at the spot where Mr. O’Donnell had collapsed the night before. To my horror, the image of him contorting and gasping for breath replayed in my mind’s eye. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I noticed one of his whiskers on the floor. I picked it up. It wasn’t a particularly long or beautiful whisker, but I decided to put it in the box where I kept all the whiskers I had saved in the past couple of years. I ran the end of it up and down my cheeks and then I pressed it between my lips. I took all the whiskers out and spread them on my open palm, fingering them. I realized that unless I found another whisker lying around somewhere, this was the end of the collection; these were all the mortal reminders I had of my cat. I closed my fist, clutching the white, prickly things, and I broke down crying.

  I spent the rest of the day tidying up the apartment, which was no small chore. I was mopping the floors when Mr. O’Donnell’s loss hit me again; he loved to see the mop in action, and always attacked it as if it were a wild animal to be conquered.

  Around six o’clock I was so exhausted all I wanted to do was take a nap, but Rebecca asked me to come downstairs. I could barely walk around her living room; she had bought many large arrangements of assorted flowers, a baked ham, two cases of white wine, half gallons of vodka, scotch, gin, rum, hundreds of candles, huge breads, three or four kinds of olives, what looked like an entire farmers’ market of vegetables and fruits, dips, club soda, Coca Cola, diet drinks, juices, Perrier. …

  “Have you gone crazy?” I said. “You must have spent a fortune.”

  “I may never get another chance to give a party in New York, so I’m gonna go hog-wild.”

  “I’d say. You could feed all the homeless people of New York with that spread. I thought you were just going to invite Harry Hagin.”

  “Wherever did you get that notion, sweetie? It’s going to be a bacchanal, an authentic, honest-to-goodness hoedown. Everybody accepted, of course. And I asked everyone to bring something. I’m so excited I can barely breathe.”

  I was too astonished to say anything.

  “Honey, are you okay? You must start taking everything upstairs,” she said. “We have not a minute to waste. I have to attend to my toilette. I want to look lovelier than a catalpa tree in May.”

  “Who’s coming besides Harry?” I managed to ask with great apprehension.

  “Lucy is coming, and she’s bringing some friends. And I invited Tim, and Ben, and he’s bringing his new girlfriend and lots of other people are coming. The list of guests is too long to mention them all.”

  “My mother is coming! She hated Mr. O’Donnell, Rebecca.”

  “No one hated Mr. O’Donnell, Santiago. Your mother is just partial to Simón Bolívar. Besides, this is the time to let bygones be bygones.”

  “And what friends is she talking about?” I asked, horrified, thinking of what my mother and the matrons of Queens would make of Hot Sauce. Boy, was I ever ready to get on my high horse and fly away from Times Square! I felt so dizzy I had to sit down.

  Rebecca crossed her arms and stared at me. “Santiago, honey, please don’t be a party pooper and spoil my bon voyage revelry. Oh, before I forget. Let me go get it,” she said leaving the room.

  Now what, I thought. My life sentence?

  Rebecca came back with a large plastic frame. “This is for that superb drawing Harry Hagin did of Mr. O’Donnell. Later we’ll have to frame it right, but for tonight this will do, I’m afraid,” she said, handing it to me. “We must have it prominently displayed in a place of honor. Now be an angel and start taking the goodies upstairs. As your cohostess I have to be ready when the first guest arrives. I wonder who will be the first person to arrive?” she said aloud, but it was obvious she was talking to herself.

  My mother, of course, arrived first. And she didn’t arrive with friends but with a wrapped cage that contained Simón Bolívar.

  “Ay, Dios mio, virgen santísima,” Mother said as we met her at the door. “Those stairs are murderous. I have to sit down before I get chest pains. Rebecca, you look divine.”

  Using all the Spanish at her command, Rebecca said, “Muchas gracias, Lucy.”

  “Santiago, mijito, I left two bags downstairs. Please get them before the junkies steal them. I don’t know how you can live in this neighborhood.” Realizing that Rebecca too lived in the building, she added, “It does have its advantages, of course. It’s so central and so close to Broadway.”

  Downstairs I found two large bags which I carried up the stairs. I found Rebecca and mother lounging on the couch.

  “Sammy, the place looks wonderful; the flowers make a big difference,” Mother commented.

  Setting the bags down, I said, “Rebecca purchased everything.”

  “Thank you so much, Rebecca. You’re too nice to Sammy. He needs a wife soon, now that you’re going to be married.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed. He hasn’t proposed yet.”

  “He will, he will, trust me. If I know everything about man, this trip means wedding,” she said in her highly peculiar English.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I never mistaken about such things, my dear. Never. Always I’m right. Plus Francisco is so nice: nobody did my hair better than he did. And we are devouts to the same saints. You make good choice, Rebecca. Now you learn Spanish. Tell you this,” she added, getting carried away, “to celebrate you wedding, Sammy and I will fly to Caracas for the church ceremony. And I can visit my sister Aurora that I had not seen in many years. I will kill two birds with one rock.”

  “I would be so honored if you came down for my wedding. If you do, you have to promise me right now you’ll be my maid of honor.”

  “Of course, I will be the maid of honor! Thank you for asking, my dear.” Mother turned to me. “Well, Sammy, what are you doing standing there? Take the bags to the kitchen and start unpacking. And make me an aguardiente. Stiff. And one for Rebecca. And one for you if you want,” she added grandly, as if I were her maid.

  As I unpacked the victuals, I heard Mother and Rebecca giggling in the other room. Mother had brought half a gallon of Aguardiente Cristal, two pineapple flans, a large plastic container full of fríjoles antioqueños with pork, a large jamón, a five pound moist white Colombian cheese, guava paste, arequipe, stuffed figs, many odds and ends, and tapes of cumbias, vallenatos, and folkloric music of the Atlantic coast of Colombia.

  I poured three generous shots of aguardiente and distributed them.

  “I propose a toast to Mr. O’Donnell,” Rebecca said.

  Giving me a small smile, Mother said, “And not to forget your future marriage.”

  “Who’s there?” a third vo
ice said.

  “Dios mio, mi pobrecito, Simón Bolívar,” Mother said, setting down her drink to unwrap the cage, while Rebecca and I stood with our glasses raised.

  With his nasty little eyes, Simón Bolívar glanced at me, then at Rebecca, and then he started looking around the room.

  “You better, cuchi cuchi?” Mother asked.

  “Lorito real, lorito real,” the hideous parrot cheered.

  “Now we can finish our toasts,” Mother said.

  “To Mr. O’Donnell,” I repeated.

  We had finished downing our drinks when the bell rang.

  “I can’t stand the excitement,” Rebecca said. “I haven’t had so much fun in years. Who could it be?”

  It was the entire Colombian Parnassus, the muses of Queens. Olga, the shortest, carried the flowers; Carmen Elvira, the tallest, carried two boxes—one containing a cake, the other one full of cookies; and Irma, the stockiest, carried two large Balducci’s bags.

  “Welcome,” I said at the door. “What a nice surprise to see you.”

  I had to bend to receive Olga’s kiss. “Please, Sammy,” she said, handing me the flowers. “Put them in water before they wilt.”

  “I’ll take care of the flowers,” Rebecca offered. I handed her the bunches of roses and relieved Carmen Elvira of the boxes. None of the ladies had ever met Rebecca, but Carmen Elvira, in particular, couldn’t hide her curiosity.

  “This is Rebecca Allevant, my neighbor,” I added, so there would be no misunderstandings.

  Carmen Elvira, who undoubtedly had assumed Rebecca was a secret romantic attachment of mine, immediately lost interest. The women exchanged names and pleasantries as we wandered into the living room. Mother rushed to kiss her friends. Then they settled down on the couch.

  “Sammy, where are your manners?” Mother said. “Aren’t you going to offer your friends a drink?”

  “Yes, of course, Mother,” I said, irritated at her bossy manner. “There is aguardiente, and Coca—”