The Affairs of the Falcóns

by Melissa Rivero

  She looked into her mirror and watched him undress. She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen him take his clothes off in the light. The skin on his arms was still taut and smooth; the hair on his chest still black. His stomach fell but did not frown. It occurred to her that he looked as though he had not aged, as if the years here—years they’ve spent raising children in a land not theirs, hiding behind numbers and addresses not their own, cutting out animal innards and sewing fabric together for a dollar—had done nothing to him. He didn’t care for this place. Maybe that was why he didn’t wear their struggles. Was that her burden? To wear these years, to pile them on because she was the one who wanted to come in the first place, the one who insisted on staying?

  He blew onto the tops of the shoes and rubbed them with his sleeve. “The Lazartes are already downstairs. Rubén went to have a look at their car.”

  She quickly sprayed her wrists and neck with the eau de toilette he’d given her for Christmas. “The chicken is done,” she said, “but the pernil needs more time. I still have to put out the chips and the fruit. Rubén’s coming back with the soda bottles. Then I need to get the champagne glasses—”

  “Ana,” he said as she gave herself a final look in the mirror.

  “I told Victoria to take them out, but she was playing on that thing Michael got for Christmas.”

  “Ana,” he repeated, louder this time. “We spoke about this. This is Valeria’s home.”

  “And I made dinner. I’m not taking over, Lucho. I just need to set the table, and our guests are already here.” She rushed to the door, but he tugged on her arm gently.

  “This is Valeria’s home,” he repeated. “Let her greet the Lazartes. Let her bring out the food and set the table. That’s her place, not yours.”

  “Right. I’m just the cook.”

  “No, you’re not. But we’ll be out of here soon. After all she’s done for us, making New Year’s Eve dinner is the least you could do.”

  “The least I could do?” She held back from saying all it was that she’d done ever since they moved in with Valeria; ever since he’d lost his job. She had never once reproached him for all the things he didn’t do. She wondered if that had been her mistake; if he’d been willfully blind to it all. “I’ve done more than my part,” she said as she walked out.

  In the hallway, the air tasted like rosemary and cinnamon. From the living room, she could hear Joe Arroyo’s voice pleading over a cacophony of trumpets and drums as he sung a salsa that reverberated from the stereo system. The glow from the Christmas tree stretched from its corner in the living room through the hallway. The place was primed for a celebration.

  She didn’t want to start the new year arguing with Lucho. She had avoided Valeria ever since the night she saw her and Rubén talking over tea in the kitchen. She didn’t expect her to answer, but Ana knocked on Valeria’s bedroom door anyway. She could at least tell Lucho she tried.

  To her surprise, Valeria opened it. Her hair was in a ponytail; her makeup only half-applied.

  “The Lazartes are downstairs,” said Ana.

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “I’m almost done.” She opened the door wider, and scanned Ana from tip to tip. “You look nice. I have something that might work with that.” She disappeared into her room. Ana waited by the door, craning her neck as Valeria shuffled through a drawer.

  She jumped when she heard Michael wail, “Mooom!” behind her. “I’m hungry,” he groaned as he walked past her and plopped onto his mother’s bed.

  “You have to wait,” replied Valeria in an accented English as she approached the door. “We have to wait for everyone to get here.” She stretched out her hand. In it was a bracelet, gold and woven, with wide chains that undulated like crisscrossing rivers. “It’s too big for my wrist,” she said, going back to Spanish. “I bought it when I was pregnant and blew up like a whale. It’ll look great with that dress.”

  Ana blushed as she took the bracelet in her palm, tracing its smooth curves with her thumb. It was heavy and bright, even against the glitter of the hallway. She felt a sudden pang of gratitude that anyone, especially Valeria, could think she could wear such a fine piece of jewelry. She cleared her throat, but couldn’t find a ‘thank you.’

  “But I’m hungry now,” shouted Michael, and Ana promised the boy food if he’d go with her to the kitchen so that his mother could get ready. He bolted from the bed. She mustered a smile, but Valeria had already turned away, shutting the door behind them.

  As they headed down the hallway, Ana peeked into Michael’s bedroom to make sure Channel 21 was on the television screen. Victoria got off the bed and rubbed the edge of Ana’s dress between her fingertips. “You look so pretty, Mami,” she said. “I like your lipstick.”

  Pedro grimaced. “I don’t. I like your lips better when they’re clean.”

  “Then you’re not going to like this,” she said, as she planted kisses on his face and neck. He fell back on the bed, giggling even as he wiped the lipstick off his cheek.

  As she walked past the living room, she flicked on the light. The furniture, including the kitchen table, were pushed against the wall, creating a dance floor in the center of the room. Stacks of cardboard plates, napkins, and plastic utensils filled one corner of the table. The white Christmas tree lingered beside it, draped in alternating lights of red, blue, and green, with a rosy-faced baby Jesus at its foot, reaching up to touch its glass spikes. Cumbia now blared from the stereo. She had left a large pot of purple corn, swimming in pineapple bits, cinnamon sticks, and cloves, simmering on the stove, and the sweet smell of the Chicha Morada had filled the room. Unit 4D was aglow.

  The dining room chairs were still in the kitchen, and Michael waited patiently on a seat by the refrigerator. She scooped cilantro rice into a bowl and told him he could eat as much as he wanted so long as he ate there or in his bedroom. She didn’t want to risk having any stains in the living room before the party even started. He jammed a spoonful of rice in his mouth as he hurried back to his room. She leaned against the counter and clipped the bracelet around her wrist. She twisted her arm this way and that, and it swung against her fleshy palms, nipping at her wrist. She poured herself a cup of Chicha Morada, then pulled Valeria’s bottle of rum out from underneath the counter. She hesitated, then reminded herself of her promise to forget. She poured the rum into her cup. She sipped as the bracelet danced around her skin beneath the fluorescent light.

  * * *

  THE FRONT DOOR OPENED, AND RUBÉN’S VOICE BOOMED THROUGH THE hallway. “Come to the shop tomorrow,” he said, almost burying the sound of the footsteps that followed him inside. Carla and Ernesto had already taken off their coats while Betty helped the children remove theirs. “You look exhausted,” said Carla as Ana kissed her cheek. Her bronze skin, typically bare and shiny, was covered with a pinkish foundation, so thick that it resembled clay. “Don’t tell me you’ve been cooking all night?” she whispered.

  “Two nights,” said Ana. “You dyed your hair?”

  Carla flicked a lock back. “A fresh start for a new year.”

  Ana then greeted Hugo, the eldest Lazarte child, with a peck on the cheek. “Your first New Year’s in New York,” she said. “Are you excited?”

  “It’s the same as every New Year’s everywhere,” he replied with a crackle of adulthood in his voice. He plopped into the recliner as his younger siblings scattered.

  “Don’t bother talking to that one,” said Ernesto, handing Ana his peacoat. He smoothed out his pastel pink button-down shirt. “Kids these days. They don’t appreciate anything their parents do for them. Malcriados.”

  “He’s not being rude,” said Betty. “He’s just being a teenager.” She wore a royal blue dress with geometric cutouts above the chest, sheer black pantyhose, and heels she was clearly uncomfortable walking in. Carla threw her a look, but Betty adjusted one of her false eye lashes, purposely avoiding her sister’s gaze. “It smells great, Ana,” she said as she blinked her lashes
into place. “You look nice.” She kissed Ana, but her embrace was stiff. “That’s a beautiful bracelet.” She grabbed Ana’s wrist to inspect the piece before letting go and saying, “I really need a drink.”

  “There’s Chicha,” said Ana, pointing to the glass jar on the table filled with the purple liquid. “You can mix it with pisco or rum, but in your cup. The kids are drinking it too.”

  “Don’t worry, Betty,” said Rubén, lowering his voice as he talked into her ear. “Anita put me in charge of the drinks. Let me put these sodas away and then I’ll make you a pisco sour that will keep you moving all night!”

  Betty blushed. Rubén had a way of making her do that, even though Ana couldn’t quite see why. She preferred not to know if there was an attraction there. It would only complicate matters with Valeria.

  “Come,” she told her friend, “help me with the coats.” She gestured toward the hallway closet, but spun her head when she heard Ernesto shout, “¡Compadre!”

  Lucho strode into the living room, smiling broadly. She’d been right about the sweater and the pants. He managed to light up an already illuminated room. He greeted Ernesto, and then, as Betty made her way to him, he extended his arms like he was Jesucristo himself. For a moment, Ana thought he might actually take Betty in those arms, but he only gave her a quick embrace and dotted her cheek with a kiss. He offered to take the coats they were carrying, but they refused, and as he and Betty chatted, he placed his hand on the small of Ana’s back. Her neck flushed when he touched her.

  Then Valeria stepped outside her bedroom door. “I see the sisters are here,” she said when she saw Betty. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, highlighting the precision of the divine hand that had cut her cheekbones, and the mortal one at the hair salon that had tattooed her eyebrows. Her lips were a bright rose, a contrast to the flared black dress she wore. The sleeves hit just above her elbows, revealing the marble skin on the back of her forearms. A white band accentuated her flat waist. Ana searched, in vain, for an outline of a wide strap or a row of hook-and-eye closures, any sign that, beneath it all, Valeria was being held together by a faja.

  “I don’t want to stain your cheek,” she said as she gave Betty an air-kiss. She looked at the coats in Betty’s arms. “So the whole tribe is here. You can put those in Ana’s room. They’re not all going to fit in the closet.” She slid her arm on the hook of Lucho’s elbow. “Come, Primo. Let’s go say hello to the chusma.” She snickered, but no one else laughed. “It’s a joke. America is the great equalizer. Rich or poor, black, white, cholo, chino. We’re all the same here.”

  Once the coats were set aside, Ana filled the table with the food she’d prepared: a tray of cilantro rice with corn kernels and carrots; bowls of velvet gold sauce and inch-thick cuts of boiled yellow potatoes topped with quartered hard-boiled eggs; and an oven-roasted chicken whose skin she’d kneaded amber with her palillo. She brought the pork shoulder out last, just as Valeria asked the Sandoval sisters if they could take care of business now.

  “Better to get it out of the way before we forget,” she said as Rubén handed her a pisco sour. They went into Valeria’s bedroom to discuss their arrangement in private. Once they returned to the living room, Ana invited everyone to eat, but only the women approached the table. Carla filled a plate of food for her husband, while Betty filled them for the children. Valeria served herself, and when she sat down, Betty asked Rubén if he wanted a little bit of everything.

  “I want a lot of everything.” He smiled, but it quickly disappeared as he caught Valeria’s face. “Don’t worry, Betty, I’ll get it myself.”

  Ana ate last. She sat beside Betty on the love seat, keeping her cup of Chicha at her feet. It was only her second, but she already felt lighter. She thought of Nilda, how right she’d been. Drinking was very much like sex.

  They danced, first the married couples, then the women among themselves. Ernesto was the first to ask someone other than his wife to the floor. He took Ana’s hand, led her to the center of the room, and as Tito Rojas belted on the radio, the two showed off with S-turns and one-eighty spins that made Ana forget, for those few minutes, the heaviness of the last several months.

  At the end of the hour, when everyone was on their second helping of food, Rubén recounted a story of a customer who brought his car into the shop earlier that week. The car’s seats were freckled with cigarette burns. The man’s wife, he told them, had found him in the back seat with another woman. It was a story only he and Ernesto seemed to find amusing.

  “He’s lucky she didn’t burn the thing with the two of them in it,” said Valeria.

  “Be glad she didn’t,” said Rubén. “That antic is going to pay for that little trip to Peru.”

  “Pay for my trip?” said Valeria. “Do I need to remind you that the body shop is my business?”

  “It’s ours,” he said, but everyone in the room knew that wasn’t true.

  Ana looked around, hoping someone might interrupt. “Would you like some more pernil?” she stammered as she went to take Rubén’s plate.

  “I think you’ve had enough,” said Valeria, looking at his belly, but Rubén headed to the table and filled a new plate.

  Ernesto then cleared his throat. “I’m surprised you’re not working today,” he said to Lucho.

  “That’s because that thief Gil wanted the car tonight,” said Valeria. “I don’t understand, Primo. On the one hand, it’s good you’re not out on a crazy night like tonight. But he has the day shift, you have the night shift. That’s the arrangement. He can’t just pick and choose which nights he wants to work and which he doesn’t.” She then turned to Rubén, who was still at the table, picking at the food, and said, “You realize your friend is taking advantage of our family.”

  “It’s between Lucho and Gil,” he replied. “I’m not getting involved.”

  “You should get involved!” she said. “Lucho’s already paid for the month and now that ratero isn’t letting him work.”

  “He’s not a crook,” said Rubén. “He charges less than the bases to rent that car.”

  “There’ll be other nights,” said Ernesto. “I used to drive a cab myself when I first got to this country. I know how it is. Yes, you could probably make a decent amount of money tonight, but do you want to ride around with drunks in the back seat? It can take days for the smell of vomit to go away. So maybe you’re out some money, but at least you get to stay home and enjoy good company and your wife’s food. Maybe even enjoy her later.”

  “Ernesto, don’t be vulgar,” said Carla.

  Lucho looked into his empty cup, as if he were reading tea leaves. “I could help you again,” he said to Valeria, “at the shop.”

  Rubén chuckled. “No, no, Primo. We tried that once. You’re not made for mufflers and engines. You’re much better off driving cars than fixing them.”

  “I can help manage the place,” he said.

  “What can I say,” replied Valeria after an awkward pause. “I prefer to run my business myself.” She fanned herself with an empty plate, beads of sweat trickling down the side of her neck.

  Lucho straightened, as if shielding himself from the rebuff, then disappeared into Michael’s bedroom. Ana fought the urge to follow him. Months earlier, when Lucho lost his job at the meat-packing plant, she believed he could find another one quickly. There was no shortage of odd jobs: men who needed help installing floors, moving furniture, or gutting apartments. But by their nature, the jobs were inconsistent and so was the pay. Sometimes, he was paid in full on the day he did the work. Other times, he had to wait a week or two, or never got paid at all. There was less work as the summer came to a close. Then he began to retreat.

  He spent hours reading the same newspapers, pointing out every spelling and grammatical error he found and redoing word search puzzles in his notebook. He’d read the same weekly Peruvian newspaper well into the night, as he waited for the next one, more for what he didn’t read in them than for what he did. What had happe
ned to the medical students that were arrested that autumn during a military raid? Who were the people Sendero had executed in this pueblo or the other? By then, the Túpac Amaru Revolutionary Movement MRTA had also done its fair share of killings, invading remote towns in the jungle and shooting whatever threatened the decency of Peru’s youth. Was it even MRTA or Sendero that was terrorizing the country, or was it the soldiers? He’d pace the length of the one-bedroom apartment they could barely afford, his feet sticking to and unsticking from the laminate floors each night. It was as though he’d gone back to the days after the military raided the university. When Rubén said his friend, Gil, needed someone to drive his car at night, Ana urged him to do it. She’d find a way to get the money to lease the cab, and in the end, she made the necessary concessions to make it happen.

  “It must be hard for mi Compadrito,” said Ernesto when Lucho was out of the room. “All those years at the university to come here and cut pig limbs and drive a cab for a living.”

  Ana’s head spun. “And what’s the alternative? To stay in Lima and hope the bombings end? Or that a job would somehow fall from the sky? Or should he have left his family in Peru like you did yours?”

  “We’re here now,” said Carla, flushing.

  “He should at least make an effort to learn English,” said Valeria.

  “Right,” said Ana, “because we have so much time and money for that.”

  “Muchachas, muchachas,” said Rubén. “It’s almost midnight. Let’s not start the New Year like this. We’re family. We’re together. We’re here! We should thank God every day that we’re here.”

  As the final minute of the year descended, Ana poured champagne into glasses while Betty handed them out with cups of green grapes, a dozen in each. Lucho returned to the living room with the children, and the group counted down the seconds to the New Year. He let out an exaggerated grunt as he picked up Pedro. “You’re getting too big for me,” he said. He wrapped his free arm around Victoria. She leaned into him, barely able to keep sleep at bay. “We’ll call your grandmother after this,” he said, and Ana knew better than to walk into the kitchen after the clock struck midnight.