The Affairs of the Falcóns
Page 25
“Texas,” someone else repeated. “The woman practically flew across the border.”
A mixture of shock and glee made its ways to Ana’s mouth.
“Don’t be too happy for her,” said Carla. “I doubt very much that her husband will ever let her see that boy.”
“Who cares what he wants,” said Ana. “I’m sure her son wants to see her and that’s what matters.”
The bell rang. The women stomped out their cigarettes and tossed their coffee cups, hustling to the elevator bank. Ana climbed the four flights of stairs, as she did every morning, Betty following close behind. When she arrived on the sewing floor, the heaviness of the weekend had settled in with no rush to leave. The floor was mostly empty and stagnant. The fans, whirring in their corners, struggled to move the air through the room. Rolls of fabric, set against each other on the wall, succumbed to the heat of the sallow overhead lights. She could not recall when she last saw the large, elongated floor. Really saw it: how cramped the stations were, how the aisles had narrowed over the years, the room’s palpable thirst for air and sunlight.
Ana settled into her station. The elevator doors opened, and the women poured into the room. “Thank God it’s warm in here,” said Carla as she sat down beside her and threw on her blue smock.
Soon, Ana forgot about her address book as the women shared stories about their weekend, hyped up the new Brazilian telenovela on Telemundo, and eventually returned to the topic of Nilda. Imagine Nilda, in her sparkly hoop earrings and lacy black top, crawling her way across the desert under that scalding Mexican sun. Nilda, back in New York, kissing her son and grinning that glossy grin of hers, right in her husband’s face. The audacity of it all.
It was during their lunch break, as the women pulled out their plastic food containers in the cafeteria, that Ana asked no one in particular, “Do you really think Nilda’s coming back?”
“Of course!” said one seamstress, “si es una descarada.”
“She’s ballsy, yes,” agreed another, “but she’s also a mother. She was going to come back for her son. You can’t keep a mother from her child!”
“I doubt George would take her back here,” said a third.
“No, she’s definitely not coming back here,” said Carla. “She’s a troublemaker, and we all know how George feels about troublemakers.”
As the women debated, Betty gestured toward the flattened sandwich in Ana’s hand. “What are you eating?”
“A ham and cheese sandwich,” she replied, suddenly aware of the rectangular, white container Betty had in her hand, stuffed with white rice and beef stew.
“Why are you not eating, Ana?”
“I am,” she said. “I’m just trying to save money.”
Betty took the lid from her container and put some of her own food on top of it. “Take some,” she said as she slid it over to her. “You look thin. You need your rice and your meat. And I know it’s cold out, but you probably should’ve put that sandwich in the fridge.”
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, ANA HURRIED TO THE BATHROOM WITH HER STOMACH cramping, cursing Betty under her breath. She checked the stalls to make sure she was alone, then went to the one at the far end. When she was finished, she splashed water on her face, and patted her skin dry with the brown paper towels she sometimes tucked inside her saddlebag and took home. She leaned onto the sink, her reflection dotted with the fingerprints that stained the cracked mirror.
She wanted him to find her address book. Maybe then he’d understand. The making and remaking of every meal; no dish was ever the same. A different seasoning, a new place to buy an ingredient, her own changing tastes. That is what kept her going: her ability to change, to evolve. To try again. That was the point of it all. She could keep trying, no matter her mistakes or the mistakes of others. There was always room for change. She could always start over.
Could they?
She loved him, with all his sullenness, his inability to make the hard choices, his nostalgic tendencies, his pride. She loved him. She accepted him for who he was, and all it implied. But she’d had enough of the silence between them. She’d wronged him, but he’d wronged her too. Could he accept her mistakes, forgive them? Could she do the same for him?
She went back to her station, determined to end the silence between them. She had to know where they stood, where they’d go from here.
Later, when she was asked about that February day, she’d recall how loudly her machine rattled beneath her fingers, how the breath of the ceiling fan, normally a whisper, seemed to bellow. She never heard the stomping that some say they remember hearing, nor the howls from the workers on the floor below. She only heard a single high-pitched scream from somewhere far, far back and then she saw the waves of black that swept the other side of the achromatic landscape.
She heard the word once, but it did not register. Then she heard it again and again, “inmigración, inmigración,” falling on her, rolling between her feet, making her dart and stumble through a maze of blue. She pushed past some women who were crying, others frozen in panic and confusion. She ran to the gray door, the very door she had cleared when Nilda got caught weeks earlier. She slipped between one island and the next and the next. She glanced back, searching for Betty, but all Ana saw were white letters on black coats leaking into the room like ink. She was at the gray door when someone yelled, “Para,” but she didn’t stop. She shoved through the human clog squeezing through the door frame. She heard a shout from below. She had no choice but to run toward it.
Madre mía, she prayed, déjame salir de aquí.
She ran.
No pares.
Others ran with her. Faceless, pungent. The air tasted like salt.
No pares.
She collided against faceless, unknown bodies. She sought her own breath, and heard the familiar sound of her heart, this time, pounding against her ear. Her tongue stuck to her palate. Another wail echoed through the staircase. She scampered down each step as if it were on fire, but everywhere she turned was someone else in blue, another face she knew but couldn’t recognize.
She hoped Carla could make it out. Carla with her green card. If she could get out, she’d tell Lucho before he’d come looking for her, before anyone could catch him. Before they could snatch the kids.
The kids. She could feel Pedro’s morning kisses still fresh on her face, and Victoria’s hair sliding through her fingers as she wove her braids. She could even smell Lucho, his constant, ever-present scent, the one that lingered on the pillow beside her own. She could hear Pedro’s words, whenever the three held each other and she stayed back to watch, always afraid they’d disappear, that they weren’t real. “Ven, Mami, ven.” Why had she never gone to them?
If she were caught, what would they do? What would Lucho say to the children? Where would he say their mother had gone?
The staircase seemed to grow narrower, and as she sought to find her breath, she stopped herself from succumbing to the pressure of the bodies that tightened around her. She couldn’t think of her family this way. She wasn’t going to reduce them to memories. They wouldn’t become her father; neither would she.
She charged through the crowd that blocked her from them, intent on crashing through any barricade of black that stood before her. No matter what she hit, she’d push through. She heard a voice call out again from behind, telling her to stop. But she could see daylight reaching in from the door only one flight below. All she had to do was get beyond it, make her way to the river. If she could make it there, she told herself, she could find a way home, and if she couldn’t, she’d make it back somehow. After all, Nilda had made it back.
Voló, the women had said. She got back so fast, she practically flew across that border.
She clung to this even as a hand gripped her arm from behind and she stumbled to the ground. Wherever they took her, wherever she might end up, she’d find her way back. Back to Victoria and Pedro. Back to Lucho. She’d run across the dirt, swim against the
river if she needed to. Fly above whatever she couldn’t force her way through. There was her mother’s voice. “You’ll have to do things for love,” she had said, all those years ago. It was the only way she’d ever learn to fly. No matter where they were or where she was, she’d make it back to them. She had to trust, finally. Trust that she could make it back to her flock. Back to los Falcón.
Acknowledgments
This book would not have been possible without the love and support of so many beautiful souls. A huge thank you to:
My agent, Julia Kardon, for your incredible insight, tenacity, and belief in my work.
My editor, Megan Lynch, who helped make this novel that much better, and the entire team at Ecco.
Lisa Ko and Sunita Dhurandhar, for all the writing dates and cassava cakes over the years. You taught me what it is to be a writer.
Ruchika Tomar, for holding my hand throughout the revision and publishing process. I’m so fortunate to have you as a friend.
Natalia Sylvester, Jenn Baker, Melissa Scholes Young, Stephanie Jimenez, and Kali Fajardo-Anstine, for all the advice and support.
Luis Alberto Urrea, Cristina Garcia, and M. Evelina Galang, for challenging me to go deeper with my work.
The Center for Fiction and my fellow Fellows, especially Nicola DeRobertis-Theye, Anu Jindal, Samantha Storey, t’ai freedom ford, Lisa Chen, and Sara Batkie.
Stacie Evans, Serena Lin, Christine H. Lee, Glendaliz Camacho, H’Rina DeTroy, Dennis Norris II, Vanessa Mártir, Grace Jahng Lee, and the entire VONA NYC community.
My daily sources of truth, strength, and inspiration: Ivonne Chaupis Phillips, Marilyn Ladewig, Lucia Travaglino, Regina Hardatt, Estefanía Vaz Ferreira, Lorena Llivichuzca, Stacy Almeyda, Jessica Baker, Irina Akulenko, Dalia Carella, Pooja Agarwal, Mary Anne Mendenhall, Emily Roberts, Megan Mann, and Bryn Haffey.
My support squad at the day job: Nitasha Mehta, Julia Blanter, Tijana Jovanovic, Ankit Patel, Betsy Brenner, Edward Fong, Marilyn Chew, Jessica Rotundi, Aaron Singer, Leah Aviram, and Jonathan J. Nasca.
The coffee shops that never kicked me out, especially Sweet Leaf Coffee Roasters in Greenpoint and Mountain Province in Williamsburg.
My family, especially those who helped inform the work: Johanna Moccetti, Judy Rocha, Ayda Luz Vasquez, Gladys Vasquez, Jimena Caballero, and my abuelita, Clotilde Isla.
My mother-in-law, Ewa Potocka, for your indomitable spirit and light.
My brothers, John J. Rivero and Sixto Elias Rivero, and my sisters-in-law, Teresa and Laura, for always cheering me on.
My incredible mother, Zadith Rivero, who taught me to never be afraid of hard work and to always love life. Es un orgullo ser tu hija.
My children, Sebastian and Gabriel, who teach and motivate me every day to be the best version of me that I can possibly be.
My husband, Bartosz Potocki, who always believed in me and understood why I had to write in the first place. Thank you for giving me the space and time I needed and for loving me just as I am.
My father, Juan G. Rivero, who was overcome with pride and emotion after reading the first poem I wrote when I was five years old. I hope that wherever you are, I’m still making you proud.
About the Author
MELISSA RIVERO was born in Lima, Peru, and raised in Brooklyn. Undocumented for most of her childhood, Rivero became a U.S. citizen in her early twenties. Her writing has taken her to the Middlebury Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, the Norman Mailer Writers Colony, and the VONA/ Voices Workshops. In 2015, she was an Emerging Writers Fellow at the Center for Fiction in New York City. Rivero is a graduate of NYU and Brooklyn Law School, and she currently works on the legal team of a start-up. She still lives in Brooklyn with her husband, their two sons, and their rescue dog.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE AFFAIRS OF THE FALCÓNS. Copyright © 2019 by Melissa Rivero. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Cover design by Allison Saltzman
Cover lettering by Boyoun Kim
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Rivero, Melissa, author.
Title: The affairs of the falcóns : a novel / by Melissa Rivero.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY : HarperCollins Publishers, [2019]
Identifiers: LCCN 2018022068 (print) | LCCN 2018023847 (ebook) | ISBN 9780062872371 ( ) | ISBN 9780062872357 | ISBN 9780062872364
Classification: LCC PS3618.I854 (ebook) | LCC PS3618.I854 A68 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018022068
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Digital Edition APRIL 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-287237-1
Version 01242019
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-287235-7
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