“Aguardiente,” they all cried out at once.
“Sammy, I have to go downstairs to get the vases for the flowers. I don’t know if I have anything appropriate for such lovely flowers. I’ll be right back,” Rebecca said.
I went into the kitchen with the bags. While I was unpacking the viands, I heard Mother say, “If I had known you were going to arrive so early, I would have waited for you. I had to take a taxi all the way from Jackson Heights. There was no way I could carry the food and Simón Bolívar in the subway. We could have split the ride.”
In her practical banker’s style Irma commented, “It’s called poor planning. How typically Colombian.”
“Sí, mijita, but you forget we are professional women and housewives, too,” I recognized Olga babbling. “I had to go home straight from work so I could take the pizza out of the fridge. Pizza and Coca Cola, that’s what they’ll have for dinner; the cook is on strike today.”
I was surprised by the contents of the bag; I had expected pasteles, arepas, buñuelos. But the Balducci’s bags actually contained Balducci’s staples: pickled salmon, black caviar, soft French cheeses, quail eggs, artichoke hearts.
“If we hadn’t just been invited this morning,” Irma said, “we could have chipped in to cook a terrific Colombian meal. There’s nothing like our own food.”
“Well, cariño,” Mother said. “The cat just died last night, so we cannot to plan it in advance.”
I poured the aguardiente in the cups and brought them out on the tray.
Crossing her legs and exposing her knees, and showing both rows of teeth, Olga said, “Thank you, handsome.”
“Thanks, hon,” Irma said in her laconic Wall Street manner.
Always the fake, Carmen Elvira said, “Thank you so much, Sammy. You’re an adoration.”
Rebecca arrived with four empty bottles that would serve as vases.
“Well, Sammy,” Mother said. “Don’t just stand there. Show my friends you know how to be a good host. Bring out the Colombian cheese. Nothing goes better with aguardiente than nice white cheese.”
“I’m so hungry I could eat an entire suckling pig,” Irma said.
“Ay, mujer, all you can think about is eating. That’s what comes from having such a high pressure job,” Olga said. “Look at me; I keep my doll figure because I eat poquito, poquito and I’m happy just being a secretary. While you look positively like a Botero,” Olga finished cattily.
The phone rang. I asked Rebecca, who was emerging out of the kitchen with the flower arrangements, to get it. “I have to get the cheese,” I told her.
I was in the kitchen cutting the cheese into tiny pieces (Colombian style), when Rebecca arrived at a run. “Santiago, it’s for you,” she said, flinging her hands, her eyes dancing with excitement. “It’s the New York Post.”
Carmen Elvira, who obviously had been eavesdropping, exclaimed from the other room, “The New York Post! Is it Suzy? Is it Page Six?”
“I don’t know,” I said, coming out of the kitchen and setting the cheese down. “Please, excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
“Hello,” I said, sure that they were calling to sell me a subscription or that this was a mistake.
“Mr. Santiago Martínez?”
I noticed that Carmen Elvira had wandered into the room and was practically breathing in my ears. “This is he.”
“We’d like to send a photographer to take your picture. Tomorrow we’re running the story of how you helped the police to break into the ring of Colombian drug smugglers.”
I was speechless.
“We’re running a story about it and we’d like to illustrate it with your picture.”
“Why?”
“You’re a hero, Mr. Martinez. Is it okay if we send a photographer?”
“When?”
“Now. We need the picture tonight before the paper goes to press.”
Carmen Elvira’s nosiness was so intense that I was afraid she’d wrestle the receiver from me if I didn’t hang up. “Okay,” I said. I gave the man my address and hung up.
Carmen Elvira and I locked gazes. I lit a cigarette and walked back to the living room where the guests were as silent as if they were in church. Never in my life had there been so many people eagerly waiting to hear the next words out of my mouth. Relishing my moment of triumph, I cleared my throat. “The New York Post is sending a photographer to take my picture. Tonight,” I added for more effect.
“Yes, but why?” Carmen Elvira demanded to know.
“The New York Post!” exclaimed Irma.
I chose my words carefully. “Well, yesterday, two men broke into the apartment. Gene and I were here and we caught them. It turns out the police had been after these criminals for a long time.”
“I declare, Santiago,” Rebecca said peevishly. “This all happened yesterday, under my very own roof, and I just find out about it by a mere fluke. Some friend you are.”
“Sammy was saving surprise for us to celebrate,” Mother interjected. “But I know about it. Gene tells everything to his grandma last night. Of course, I didn’t believe him quite completely. That boy has such imaginative head.”
“We’ll have to run a big article about it in Colombian Queens,” Irma said. “It will have to be the lead article in the upcoming issue.”
“But, mijita, the material has already gone to the printers,” Olga reminded her.
“We’ll just have to can something, cariño. Maybe the poetry,” Irma said.
“Not my ‘Ode to My Mother’!” Olga said. “I promised mami her birthday poem would be coming out in the next issue.”
Carmen Elvira pulled out her tape recorder. “Sammy, buttercup, a journalist’s work is never done. You must answer a few questions for me before the guests arrive.”
The bell rang.
“The New York Post is here,” Rebecca screamed.
“Oh, virgen santísima,” Mother said, “is my hair all right?”
Trying to establish some semblance of order in the proceedings, I said, “It can’t be the Post; it’s too soon.”
I was right. Ben Ami and Hot Sauce made their entrance. Ben leaned against the wall, heaving like a beached whale. He carried a large tray wrapped in aluminum foil.
“Here, Santiago, I brought a leg of wild boar,” he said by way of greeting me.
I took the leg and moved aside to let him in—he was so wide he had to enter sideways. Hot Sauce walked in behind him, carrying two bottles of champagne. She wore a cotton skirt and blouse instead of her regular uniform, and her makeup was subdued, but she still looked like a Times Square hooker. I took a low bow to receive a peck on my cheek.
“Chico, I had forgotten about those stairs. Now I remember why I moved from here,” Ben said inching forward into the living room. “Doña Lucy, qué alegría,” he shouted to my mother. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“Ben, querido,” Mother said, getting up and rushing over. They exchanged kisses.
“Ben brought a leg of wild boar and champagne,” I said.
“That’s class for you,” Mother editorialized to the other guests. Then she spotted Hot Sauce.
“Allow me to make the introductions,” I said, standing with the leg of wild boar in my arms, “my old friend Ben Ami Burztyn and his … girlfriend Rosita Levine.”
“I hate Rosita. I told her she could keep Hot Sauce,” Ben corrected me.
“Salsa picante,” translated Olga, and mother and the Parnassus ladies started giggling. Hot Sauce looked nonplussed.
“Hi, Rebecca,” Ben said, as she came out of the kitchen with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
“Hi, Ben. I’ll be in Caracas next week,” she said, offering him a morsel.
“She’s getting married,” Mother informed him.
“Felicitaciones, Rebecca,” Ben said, hugging her and the tray against his belly. “Hot Sauce,” he said, letting go of Rebecca, “hand me those bottles. This calls for a toast. Champagne for everyone. This is,” he shouted the name
in French, “and it costs one thousand dollars per bottle,” he boasted in typical nouveau riche Venezuelan manner.
Always the southern belle, Rebecca said to me, “But we don’t have champagne glasses.”
Hot Sauce came to my rescue. “Paper cups will do.”
I set the leg of wild boar on the table and went into the kitchen to get the cups. The corks were popped, the champagne poured and all glasses were raised. “To Rebecca’s happiness,” Ben proposed.
“To Rebecca’s happiness,” we all chimed in.
“And I have an announcement to make,” Ben said, passing the bottles around once more. “Hot Sauce and I got engaged tonight. Show them the ring, Hot Sauce.”
Extending her arm, Hot Sauce flashed a diamond ring the size of a sugar cube.
“Oh, oh, ah, my, oh, ah,” shrieked the ladies like excited teenyboppers.
We toasted their engagement.
The toasts finished, Ben asked me to carve the leg of wild boar. I was on my way to the kitchen when Carmen Elvira approached Ben.
“Your engagement is big news to the readers of Colombian Queens,” she said. “I wonder if you’d be so kind as to answer a few questions for me.”
When I came out of the kitchen, mother, Rebecca, Olga, Irma, and Hot Sauce were all snuggled on the couch in animated conversation. Ben and Carmen Elvira were seated at the table. As I began to serve the wild boar, Carmen Elvira, talking to her tape recorder, said, “Ben Ami Burztyn, the peripatetic scion of our sister Republic of Venezuela, has announced his engagement tonight at a reception given by his great pal, Colombia’s poet laureate, Santiago Martinez Ardila.”
The bell rang and, much to my disappointment, I had to stop eavesdropping to go meet the arriving guests.
“Yeah, I haven’t been up these stairs since I was a young girl.” I recognized the familiar basso voice of Mrs. O’Donnell coming up the stairs. And she was not alone! Mrs. O’Donnell’s medusa head appeared at the landing of the third floor. I took two steps back. My God, I thought, she’s coming with her sons and the cops to evict me.
I was about to run back into the apartment and shut the door, when I heard her boom, “Santiago, come down here and give me a hand.”
I lurched forward. Mrs. O’Donnell was carrying a heavy tray. Behind her, I spotted Tim Colby. I felt my legs shake as I went down the stairs to meet them.
“Here,” Mrs. O’Donnell said, handing me a heavy, warm tray. “It’s chili con carne; I made it this afternoon. Sorry to hear about the cat.”
It occurred to me that she had been the first person to offer her condolences. “Thank you,” I mumbled, feeling my face blush. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Well, yeah. I know if Lucy hadn’t called me about the wake, you’d never have invited me. Is she here?”
“Oh, yes. She’ll be so glad to see you. Hi, Tim,” I said to my agent.
Mrs. O’Donnell added, “I had to ask this nice gentleman to help me bring up the beer. Now move aside so I can get upstairs.”
I smiled at Tim. Slowly, Mrs. O’Donnell made her way to the top of the landing. I waited until she had gone through the door before I let out a loud sigh.
“Tim, she gave me the scare of my life. I thought she was coming upstairs with eviction papers.”
“Nah,” Tim said. “She likes you. By the way, sorry to hear about,” he whispered Mr. O’Donnell’s name. “But cheer up. I have great news for you.”
“What?” I said as I started walking up the stairs with the hot chili.
“The editor I told you about is crazy about the idea.”
“What idea?”
“Writing a thriller about Christopher Columbus. She pointed out that 1992 is around the corner, so there’ll be a big hoopla about it. We’re talking big bucks, my friend.”
We had arrived at the landing. “Well, I hope so,” I said. “I’m tired of Eighth Avenue.”
“You’ll never have a better landlady,” Tim said. “When I ran into her at the door she asked me if I was coming to the wake and then she asked me who I was. When I told her I was your agent she asked me if I could pay your back rent. I said, ‘Don’t worry. He’s going to be rich soon.’ And I told her the story of García Márquez and his landlady in Paris. She said, ‘García who?’ And I said, ‘You know, the guy who wrote One Hundred Years of Solitude.’ And she says to me, get a load of this Santiago, she says, ‘If it hasn’t been made into a miniseries, I don’t know it. I’m too busy to read books.’ “ Tim broke up laughing. “Oh, man, that’s a story for an anthology.”
It was a mildly amusing story, I thought. But I wondered if he would have found it so funny if she had been his landlady. “I need an aguardiente,” I said to Tim.
As I walked into the apartment, the phone rang. “Tim, please take the beer to the kitchen and make yourself at home. I have to answer the phone.”
I set down the chili and picked up the receiver. “Hello,” I said.
“Is this Santiago Martínez?” the unmistakable voice of the overseas operator asked.
“Speaking.”
“A call from Caracas.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
“Santiago, es Francisco.”
“Hola, Francisco.”
“I’m sorry to hear about Mr. O’Donnell.”
Between the long distance static and the raucous noises coming from the living room, I was having a lot of trouble hearing him. “It’s very sweet of you to call,” I screamed.
“I lit a candle for him,” Francisco said.
“Thanks, Francisco,” I said, sincerely touched.
“I loved that cat; he was so special. Qué gato, chico. Qué gato.”
This conversation was making me sad. “Rebecca is here. Would you like to talk to her?”
“Yes, please. If you don’t mind.”
I placed my hand on the receiver. “Rebecca,” I shouted, “long distance from Caracas.”
Like a drive-in waitress on roller skates, Rebecca sailed into the room with a tray heaped with delicacies. “Is it Francisco? Is it?” she asked.
“Do you know anybody else in Caracas, silly?”
“Francisco, Francisco, mi amor,” she cooed, dropping the tray on the desk and yanking the phone from me.
I grabbed Rebecca by the hand and led her into my bedroom, where I closed the door. I picked up the extension phone and we sat on the bed.
“Palomita adorada,” Francisco said. “I have great news,” I interpreted. “My client has been elected Miss Venezuela.”
“Felicitaciones,” I said, overstepping my boundaries as interpreter. I interpreted for Rebecca.
“I’m going to be very, very successful,” Francisco said. “Now I can offer you the life you deserve, mi reina. Will you marry me?”
“I’m faint,” Rebecca exclaimed, placing the receiver on her breasts and closing her eyes.
“Rebecca, qué pasa?” asked Francisco.
“I think she’s fainting,” I said. “But I’m sure that means yes,” I interpreted.
“Sí, sí, sí, mi amor,” Rebecca gushed, opening her eyes. Then she threw herself at me and started kissing me.
“She’s kissing me,” I informed Francisco.
“Oh, I’m not jealous, Santiago. Will you be our best man? Chico,” he added, “you can move to Caracas and live with us.”
The idea of being an interpreter indefinitely to the lovey-doves was not very enticing. “That’s very kind of you,” I said. “But I think you should learn a language in common first.”
“Rebecca,” Francisco said, ignoring my suggestion, “I’m counting the minutes till you arrive.”
“Okay, I’d better go now,” Francisco said. “Adiós, Santiago. Sorry to hear about Mr. O’Donnell. Bye, Rebecca my love.”
“Adiós,” she sighed.
“Ciao,” I threw in to break the linguistic monotony.
Rebecca leaped off her feet, took the tray and rushed in the direction of the living room. I trotted after her.
; “He proposed,” Rebecca screamed upon entering the room.
“See, I know everything about man,” Mother screamed back, running over to kiss Rebecca.
The guests cheered and clapped and toasted. I noticed Carmen Elvira was still interviewing Ben, but had lost interest in him and was now eyeing Tim. “One last question,” she said. “Are you still on friendly terms with Bianca Jagger?”
I was dying to hear Ben’s answer, when Mother shouted, “Santiago, bring out the aguardiente bottle.”
As I came out of the kitchen with the booze, Carmen Elvira approached me.
“Sammy, darling,” she said in her most ingratiating manner. “I want you to know that everything is just hunky-dory.” Now that she had flattered me she came out with what was really on her mind. “Will you please introduce me to your agent?” Seeing my resistance, she added, “I want to interview him for the magazine. Besides,” she argued further, “now that we’re about to publish our book of poems(with your translations, of course), we need representation. I hear it’s very difficult to crack the American market without an agent.”
“Sammy, the aguardiente,” Mother called.
“Sure,” I said, and walked over to where Ben and Tim were chatting. Ben made a face as he saw Carmen Elvira approach, but nonetheless I made the introduction and refreshed their drinks. I walked over to where Mother and Hot Sauce were merrily gabbing away. “Here, Mother,” I said, handing her the aguardiente bottle. “You can keep the bottle by your side, okay?”
“Okeydokey,” she said, and I could see she was completely sauced.
The bell rang. I went to the door to receive my guests. I heard Gene’s thunderous steps coming up the stairs. Good, I thought, I have quite a few questions to ask him. Looking down, I saw Gene and behind him Wilbrajan and Stick Luster’s golden curls. Behind Stick trudged Harry Hagin, carrying a wrapped package.
“Hi, Sammy,” Gene greeted me. Giving me a crushing hug, he whispered in my ear, “I washed the coke down the drain. So be cool.” Then he went through the living room door.
Much to my surprise, Wilbrajan looked radiant and happy. She offered me her cheek to kiss, though reticently, as if I had the flu, or worse.
Latin Moon in Manhattan: A Novel Page 21
