The Affairs of the Falcóns

by Melissa Rivero

  The building itself sat on a corner beside an empty parking lot, on a block that was too quiet, too desolate even for a late December day. The houses across it leaned sideways just enough that Ana could tell they were on the downside of a hill. The bus stop and subway entrance were just four blocks away; the only downside was that a single subway line served the area. Ana could take either to work, or walk if she really wanted to save money. The walk was probably fine by daylight; walking through the area after dark, alone, was out of the question.

  When they arrived at the front door, the man who called himself Sully was waiting for them in the building’s vestibule. He peeked his owl eyes and boxer’s nose through the square glass on the door. The top of his head sprouted white strands, but the curls that fell on his shoulders were a pepper-cinnamon. Finger-shaped dirt stains caked his gray shirt. Threads frayed from the pockets and knees of his saggy jeans. Ana thought he looked odd for a man who owned four buildings. Then again, Betty had said he was cheap.

  Apartment 3R was one of two units on the floor, he told them in broken Spanish as they climbed the three flights of cracked staircases. He’d already found a tenant for 3L, but 3R still needed some work. Ana could smell the fresh coat of paint as they ascended. He’d have the apartment ready in a couple of weeks.

  It was a railroad-style unit that ran the length of the building, with doors at each end that led to the third-floor stairwell. The front door opened to the kitchen, large enough to fit a table and four chairs, but with appliances that were at least ten years older than those in Valeria’s apartment. The tub and toilet were in the center of the kitchen, in two separate, doorless rooms. He was going to install the doors tomorrow, he told them. At the far end was a window, which led to the fire escape. They were high enough that the roofs of several buildings were visible. She could even see the cars racing through the main drag. She imagined herself sitting on the fire escape in the summer, on her sleepless nights with her cup of tea, watching other drivers, other Luchos, pass by.

  A door frame separated the kitchen from an elongated room with two large windows that faced south. Blocks of waning sunlight punched through each one, bouncing off the dull walls that still needed a couple of layers of paint and the torn laminated floors. He was going to replace those, he said. The living room, she decided, might be too hot on summer days.

  They then walked through the only door inside the apartment. The bedroom had three windows, giving them a view of all four corners of the streets below. A bulbless, five-light chandelier hung in the center of the room. The ceiling itself had molding: two large squares, one inside the other. Across from the two windows was the second door that led to the stairwell. Carla had been right; the room was as big as her living room. It could accommodate their queen-size bed, the bunk bed, and even the dresser. She’d have to cover the radiator to keep the children from burning their hands. Sully said he’d install window grills. “My last tenants had no kids,” he explained.

  Lucho walked back through the living room, and Sully followed closely. He explained, loud enough so that Ana could hear, that there was a sewage plant nearby, and so if the wind picked up a certain way, it was best to keep the windows closed; that the warehouses brought a lot of truck traffic during the day, and funny characters at night, so’s probably best to get stuff done before then; and that a playground a few blocks north hadn’t really been played in for years. People mostly slept there.

  She heard Lucho say, “Carla said you had other buildings in the area.”

  “Cuatro,” said Sully. “Carla’s building. Two more further north. This right here, though, this is probably more—what’s that word I hear people say—cómodo.”

  Affordable. The amount he had quoted over the phone was indeed still within their budget, though at the higher end of the spectrum. Still, if the apartment was getting a facelift, and it was close enough to the children’s school and la factoría, it was worth considering.

  Then, as Ana joined the men in the living room, Sully told them how much he wanted upfront to secure the lease. First month’s rent, last month’s rent, and one month’s security deposit. For the kids, he said, and in case they ever left in a hurry. He had people once leave in a hurry, so he learned his lesson. Rent had to be in cash on the first of the month.

  Ana was too shocked to speak. “Hey, I’m takin’ a risk here,” he said. “Carla says you’s good people. You work hard and got those little kids. I ain’t askin’ for W-2s or doin’ background checks or nothin’ like that. I’m tryin’ to do some good is all. But I need to cover my ass too.” He paused, then decided to wait downstairs to give them time to talk.

  They hadn’t planned on giving up so much money at once. First month’s rent and a security deposit, yes, but not an additional month. “It’s too much,” Ana whispered as they heard him descend the stairs.

  “What choice do we have?” said Lucho. “Everything else we’ve seen is too expensive or too far. Or in worse shape than this.”

  “But look at how much he still needs to fix! And did you see the bolsitas by the curb? What kind of cokeros hang around here at night? And then he says we shouldn’t even be out at night? You work at night, Lucho.”

  “He probably just doesn’t want the cops around.”

  “I can see why. He looks like another tecato with all those tattoos on his arms.”

  “Be grateful they’re not on his face. Anyway, the rent’s not too bad. We’d be close to the school. The factory’s not far. And you heard what he said. He needs another couple of weeks to finish fixing the place up anyway. Maybe we can bring the rest of the money later.”

  “He won’t like that,” she said, but Lucho was already heading for the stairwell.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s find out.”

  She waited on the first-floor staircase, on a step high enough that she could see Lucho and Sully through the front door’s glass window as they spoke outside. She’d given her husband the equivalent of one month’s rent, and when she saw both men’s eyes look down and Lucho bobbing his head as he mouthed words, she knew he was counting the money.

  Sully came inside and held the door open for her. “I better get to work,” he said, smiling.

  Outside, Lucho was already by the car’s driver’s-side door. “He said yes,” was all he told her as she hopped in.

  So that was it. After all those months, all that sacrifice, this was to be their new home. She didn’t expect to find anything close to unit 4D, but she couldn’t overcome the twinge of disappointment that came with the realization that apartment 3R was the best she could do. She took comfort in one truth: it’d be just the four of them again. They could be one unit, a single marriage under one roof.

  On the drive back to Queens, Lucho talked about the setup of the rooms. The bunk bed could go against the second door in the bedroom; their bed by the window. The dresser, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it should stay in the living room. They’d have to figure out how to get the rest of the furniture they needed. A couch, a table set. They’d need another few thousand dollars. He started to chew the skin along his fingertips. He’d adjust his hours, work from 8 P.M. to 8 A.M. instead of 6 P.M. to 6 A.M. so he could drop her off at work and the kids at school. They’d save money on the fare. “No, no,” she replied, wary of losing her quiet mornings alone. “That doesn’t make sense. We lose more if you switch the hours than just paying the fare. I can take them on the bus and walk from there. It’s not too far.”

  He turned on the radio, settling for an English-language station, and humming along to the songs, even though he didn’t know any of the lyrics. He pointed out a sedan that swerved up ahead and the red traffic light that took forever to turn green. It struck her that he didn’t once mention how they’d get the rest of the money.

  It wasn’t until they exited the highway that she asked him.

  “What do you mean?” he said. “I told Sully he’ll have the rest of the money when the apartment is ready.”

  “But
where are we going to get that money?” she asked. “And the money for the table and the couch? You just said we need another thousand or so dollars.” She threw her head back, a wave of exhaustion coming over her. They had so little left. She kept every dollar they earned in a canary-colored envelope beneath their mattress. She paid the children’s school tuition, gave Valeria money for the utilities, doled out gas money, had a budget for their food, allocated a few twenty-dollar bills for what would go to his mother and Tía Ofelia, but otherwise, Ana eyed every single dollar that went out of that envelope. Any other expense was only justified if a sale or a coupon was attached to it. Rarely did she agree to a five-dollar dress down Friday at the school, and even then, it was only if Victoria had earned enough extra gold stars on her homework to deserve it.

  After what she took out that morning, there was just enough money for a couple of weeks’ worth of groceries. “I gave you almost all we have,” she said. “Or do you have money hidden somewhere that I don’t know about?”

  “I give you every dollar I make, Ana.”

  “Then how are we going to get the rest of the money?”

  “We’ve got until the end of the month,” he replied. “I’ll see if I can work the car a few more hours. You’re going to work overtime next week, aren’t you? I’m sure you can work more than that. If we really need it, I can always ask Valeria and Rubén—”

  “No,” she said firmly. “No, you cannot ask them for money.”

  “Why not? We’ve never borrowed money from them. I’d tell you to ask Señora Aguilar, but I don’t have any more deeds for you to hand out.”

  She held her tongue. He was lucky to have property with which he could barter. No one wanted his body, so his body was never something he could offer up. He had never negotiated with Mama; it was Ana. Always Ana because, he had said to her once, she’s a woman. Hablen entre mujeres. But this was not a “woman thing;” it was a money thing. There was no bank to loan them money, only Mama. Mama didn’t care about green cards or social security numbers. She cared about passports, and when Ana first asked her for a loan, she’d given the woman all four. It wasn’t until Lucho lost his job, and Ana asked to borrow more money, that Mama wanted something of actual value, something tangible that would ensure she got paid whether they were in New York, in Peru, or in a grave. Ana had already pawned their jewelry, and so she gave her the only thing they had left that was of any real value: the deed to Lucho’s house in Lima.

  When he came home that day, she told him that Mama had given her the money, that she’d gone and paid the rent, bought groceries for the week. The chuletas were frying on the pan. The rest of the money was in the canary envelope underneath the mattress. “Just like that?” he asked, surprised at how easily she’d gotten the cash. Then she told him how. “My mother’s house?” he said, going white. “You gave her my mother’s house?” He walked out, leaving her to the pork chops she still had crackling on the stove.

  When they needed more money, she had to come up with other ways to get it, other sources. In her mind, it was the only way to stay; it had to be her burden. That’s how she ended up at Don Beto’s.

  If Lucho had any more deeds, she would’ve offered them to Mama months ago. “At least Mama doesn’t nag me every day for her money,” she said. “Valeria on the other hand. I’ve got to stuff toilet paper in my purse just to shut her up when we run out of cereal.”

  “Here we go,” he groaned.

  “Are you tired of hearing this, Lucho? You don’t want to hear how she comes home from the shop and goes straight to eat the dinner that I make? Then grabs a beer or pours some vodka in her soda and spends the rest of the night in her room watching telenovelas?”

  “So what if she does?” he countered. “She can do whatever she wants. It’s her home. You should stop pretending like it’s yours.”

  “Because I cook and clean? God forbid I want to eat real food and not live in a mess.”

  “It’s not just the cooking and the cleaning, Ana. It’s you planning the holiday parties and inviting your friends over without asking her.”

  “So she complained to you about New Year’s? Am I not allowed to have my friends over to celebrate?”

  “No one’s saying they can’t come. But it’s her house. You should’ve asked her what she wanted to do or if she wanted to do anything at all.”

  “She never said no,” she cried. She leaned against the car’s door and rubbed her temple. “I don’t even know why I bother. I’m your wife, Lucho. Your wife. But you always take her side, always.”

  “Ana, listen to yourself. You complain that she eats your food and drinks too much, and that she asks about the apartment search. I would too if I had people living with me for three months.”

  “Carla let us stay with her longer than that, and she isn’t even family.”

  “Things were different back then! Carla and Ernesto were living alone. They had space. Do you think the Lazartes would even open their door to us now with three kids and Betty under their roof?”

  She didn’t want to admit that he had a point. When they first arrived in New York, Carla had offered up their home while the family settled in to the city. After all, she had known Ana since she was a child, and Ana was Betty’s closest friend. And she was a steady, hardworking woman with several mouths to feed. Lucho was a good man too. So she helped Ana get a social security number and a green card from an acquaintance in Jackson Heights, and then the job at la factoría. Ernesto’s friend found Lucho a job at the meat-packing plant. And Carla had offered to watch the children when Ana wanted to work evenings at Regina’s.

  But even the Lazartes had their limits, and after a few months of hearing Carla complain to friends over the phone about not having free weekends and the constant mess in the apartment, Ana knew it was time to go.

  She expected it to be different with Valeria because she was family. But why would it be when in so many ways, she was closer to Carla than she was to Valeria?

  “She might not be the easiest person to live with,” Lucho continued, “but if we’re still in this country it’s only because she’s helped us. And believe me, we’re only staying here because it’s what you want.”

  “What I want?” she asked. “I don’t even understand what it is you want to go back to, Lucho.”

  “You don’t?” He pounded each finger against the steering wheel as he counted off his reasons. “My mother, my house, my friends. Work. Real work, not—” he slapped his hand against the wheel, “this.”

  The work he’d found in New York had always been an issue. The jobs were menial, and his frustration was exacerbated by his broken English. His Peruvian college degree and his work as a research assistant at a university in Lima meant little in New York. Manual work, something he had little experience with, was all he could find. Cutting up meat, cleaning small office spaces, driving a cab. She suspected he preferred nocturnal work to daylight labor because no one could see what he did for a living.

  In her mind, they were fortunate just to have a way to earn a living. “There’s no work there,” she said, “not even for you.” She had never identified herself with a job. A job was a job; it was a way to keep one’s belly full and one’s head dry in a storm. There were other things, however, that she wished he’d see, things that might make him understand why it was simply impossible for her to go back. “You do realize your mother thinks the worst of me. And that house of yours? It’s falling apart, Lucho. Those friends are in prison. Is that what you want to go back to?”

  “They’re not criminals,” he said.

  “Right, they want to make a difference. Just like every other terrorist.”

  “Terrorist? You can’t possibly compare activism to terrorism.”

  “They blurred the lines, didn’t they? Why else were they arrested?”

  “Because they wanted to show the military for what it really is. Soldiers aren’t protecting anybody, you know that. They’re too busy snorting and getting all that cocaine
to these Americans.” He turned down the radio. “And that’s what I don’t get. I don’t get why you’ve bought into this idea that this country’s lo máximo. All it’s ever done is suck us dry and manipulate our people and our leaders. That’s what Marzullo, Perry, and Bautista were standing up for. La patria. That’s what I should’ve done, but instead, here I am.” He took a hard left as they turned onto a residential street. A car honked, but he cursed as he sped past it. “This country’s made it so bad that we can’t stay in Peru, but they don’t want us here either. We’re fucked no matter where we are.”

  She didn’t pretend to understand his anger. He’d read more, studied more than she, and sometimes spoke with such fervor about the pillaging of Peru and the continent as a whole that no one could argue with him. In his mind, the world had ignored how much his country had bled, whether it was gold, coca, or the blood of its very children. It never labored for its own people; others still held the whip.

  Yet in her mind, he could never understand just how much Peru hemorrhaged from within. The promise of a better future, one she’d heard about in the classroom as a child, cut its way into the country. It was a future that was only possible with the blanching of brightly colored clothes, the fading of patterns that had been worn for centuries; in the undoing of braids and the disappearance of tongues for a single, dominant one. That was Peru’s way forward. Lucho was criollo, already the harbinger of that future, with his light skin, his gray slacks, and that side part. He was already obsessed with the purity and preservation of the Spanish language. Why else would he spend hours reading the Spanish-language newspapers in New York, searching for, as he put it, the butchering of the mother tongue? That and his last name, so clearly not born of the land, could get him a job with relative ease, and therefore, he could debate the fairness of his compensation, the meddling of outsiders, and what could be done to preserve the house his father had bought.