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Authors: E. L. Doctorow

Tags: #Short Stories (Single Author), #Fiction, #Literary, #Fantasy, #Short stories; American, #Short Stories

All the Time in the World (8 page)

BOOK: All the Time in the World
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ON SUNDAY MORNING
, Ramon took the bus upstate to see Leon. They talked through the phones. I don’t know why he wants to see my certificate, Ramon said.

What certificate?

Of my birth.

He wants to make sure you’re an American, Leon said.

So I can?

Why not? Figure they’re illegals—maybe not the owner, because he has a business that requires a license—but a lot of them. Born here is a commodity, it has a value, so see what the deal is.

WHEN RAMON PRESENTED
his birth certificate, they sat down with him in the back after the restaurant was closed for the night—Borislav, the owner, his wife, she of the squinting eyes, and another man, who was fat, like Borislav, but older and with a briefcase in his lap. He was the one who asked the questions. After Ramon gave his answers, they talked among themselves. He heard harsh mouthfuls of words with deep notes—it was not a mellifluous language like the bright bubbling of water over rocks of his language.

And then, with a flourish, the owner placed on the table a photograph. Look, my friend, he said. The photograph was of a girl, a blonde with sunglasses propped in her hair. Her hand gripping the strap of her shoulder bag was closed like a fist. She wore jeans. She wore a blouse revealing the shoulders. Behind her was a narrow street with an array of motorcycles and mopeds parked front wheels to the curb. She was half sitting sideways on a motorcycle seat, her legs straight out and her feet in their sandals planted on the paving stones. She was smiling.

HOW MUCH? LEON SAID
.

A thousand. Plus air and hotel expenses.

They are messing with you. This is good for three thousand, minimum.

And then?

Why not? It will pay for filmmaker’s school. Isn’t that what you want?

I don’t know. It’s selling yourself. And it’s a defilement of sacred matters.

You still have it for Edita?

No,
eso es cuento viejo
.

Then what’s the problem? You sell yourself washing dishes, little bro. This is the country of selling yourself. And what sacred matter do you mean, which this scam bears no resemblance to, if you think about it?

WHEN THE PLANE LANDED
, Ramon crossed himself. He took the bus to the city. It was already late afternoon and the city was under the heavy dark clouds he had flown through. Packs of motorcycles and mopeds kept pace with the bus and then shot past. Linked streetcars ground around corners and disappeared as if swallowed. It was an old European city of unlighted streets and stone buildings with shuttered windows.

He had the address of the tourist hotel on a piece of paper. There was just time to change into the suit and they were calling from downstairs.

The girl from the picture gave him a quick glance of appraisal and nodded. No smile this time. And her hair was different—pulled tight and bound at the neck. She was dressed for the occasion in a white suit jacket with a matching short skirt and white shoes with heels that made her taller than Ramon. She seemed fearful. A bearded heavyset fellow held her elbow.

They all rode in a taxi to a photographer’s studio. The photographer stood Ramon and the girl in an alcove with potted palms on either side of them and a plastic stained-glass window lit from behind by a floodlamp. They faced a lectern. When Ramon’s shoulder accidentally brushed hers, the girl jumped as if from an electric shock.

Some sort of city functionary married them. He mumbled and his eyes widened as if he were having trouble focusing. He was drunk. When the photographer’s flash went off behind him he lost
his place in his book and had to start again. He swayed, and nearly knocked over the lectern. He clearly didn’t understand the situation because when he pronounced them man and wife he urged them to kiss. The girl laughed as she turned away and ran to the heavyset fellow and kissed him.

The photographer placed a bouquet of flowers in the girl’s arms and posed her with Ramon for the formal wedding picture. And that was that. Ramon was dropped off at the hotel and the next day he flew home.

HE LEARNED THE GIRL’S
name when the lawyer with the briefcase put in front of him the petition to bring her to the States: Jelena. It attests that she is your lawful spouse and you are in hardship without her presence beside you, the lawyer said.

Jelena, Ramon said, to hear the sound of it. He had not heard it properly, as uttered by the drunken fool who married them. Jelena.

Yes. This is all here, everything, marriage certificate, copy of birth certificate, passport, and here is the wedding picture. It couldn’t hurt for you and bride to smile but okay.

The lawyer slapped a pen down on the table. The John Hancock, he said.

Ramon folded his arms across his chest. The figure was three thousand, he said. I have seen only one thousand.

Don’t worry, that is to come.

Ramon nodded. Okay, when it comes, then I will sign.

The lawyer pressed his hand to his forehead. Borislav, he called to the owner. Borislav!

And then for an hour the owner and the lawyer threatened and appealed and threatened again. The owner’s wife came over. She said to Ramon, Who are you to have three thousands of dollars!
She turned to her husband. I told you he was no good, the mestizo, I warned you.

Borislav raised his hand. Please, Anya, he said, you are not helping.

Ramon, he said. This is family, the daughter of my late uncle. I have entrusted you. We are trying to give her a life here where there is hope. Jelena is to pay you the remainder from her wages.

You did not tell me that when I agreed, Ramon said.

I promise you. She will work beside you as a waitress. And I am raising you to full-time waiter. You hear me? Wages and tips, wages and tips, equal to all the staff. You will see, so do this.

And while Ramon sat thinking the lawyer said to him, This is a fraud which you have committed, you know that? There is a law—to marry only so that the girl can have a legal residency is to break that law. She is over there, so they cannot touch her. But you! I have just to call them. You know what you get for bringing someone here by pretending love? Five years, my friend. Five years and monetary penalties of an amount you cannot dream. And all I have to do is tell them.

So tell them, Ramon said. And I will tell them that you wrote the letter for me to sign. And I will tell them that Jelena is of the family of Borislav, the man who employs me. So let’s all tell them.

You are not to call me Borislav, the owner muttered. That is for friends and family, not for one who works for my wages.

I CHECKED IT OUT
, Leon said through the glass. It’s bullshit. The C.I.S. can’t keep up with the traffic. The risk is small, Ramon. If they do call you in, you say you love the girl. They know you’re lying—but she will back you up, naturally, since it is in her interest. But just to have some insurance you should learn a few things about her.

What things?

You know, she watches what TV shows, if she has a birthmark, where it is located. Things.

She brought her boyfriend to the wedding, Ramon said.

Of course.

I didn’t like that. It was unnecessary.

In two years, once she has her green card without conditions, she will divorce you and bring him here in turn. And they will marry and be Americans.

Maybe. Maybe the lovers will not be able to wait that long. He will come for a visit and I will kill him.

Yes, of course, Leon said smiling. Listen, Ramon, she is just a dumb Hunky. No class, from the sound of it.

She is still my wife, Ramon said.

I say split the difference with them. Sign the paper and you’re good for two years. You wait tables and make some decent money. She gets the card with no strings, and you go on to be a famous movie director.

HE DID KNOW
a thing about her, that she had English as a schoolgirl because she spoke it well enough. And that she wore a navel ring, a silver bar with three teardrop crystals hanging from it. But, of course, everyone knew about her navel because Jelena made sure that they did. She was the one waitress at Borislav’s and so her red jacket was cut for the female figure and between it and the short black skirt a flat band of flesh was visible, the teardrops dangling from her navel and sometimes catching the light as she walked with the tray held high and balanced on her palm.

Of course the patrons ogled her and the regulars asked for her tables, but that was all right—her tips went into the pool.

Ramon himself had picked up the waiter’s craft quite easily,
after all his time busing, and he discovered that his formality and careful, quiet demeanor and efficient service had the effect sometimes of raising the manners and lowering the voices of the boors he served.

Jelena smoked. She would take a drag in the kitchen and leave the cigarette burning in a dish as she went out through the doors, and it would be there smoldering until she came back in for another order and another hit.

She did not match the photograph of the smiling blonde with the sunglasses in her hair. She was, instead, an ordinary working girl with a life of serious plans and no time to pose for a picture, with her long legs in the sun and a European city behind her.

He wanted to learn everything about her, maybe for insurance as Leon advised, but more because he felt he had rights as her legal husband. It was Jelena’s habit, when she had a moment, to step into the alley to use her cell phone. He saw her cast in a red glow from Borislav’s electric sign. He listened at the slightly opened door, hearing her voice despite the kitchen shouts and the clatter rushing past his ears. She spoke loudly as if to cover the great distance to her boyfriend in Europe. Of course it was her boyfriend, that heavy fellow with the sloping shoulders who had been at the wedding. Who else in Europe would she be calling at night? With the time difference, she had to have awakened him, or maybe he had not yet been to sleep. Perhaps she was making sure that he was not with someone else, because sometimes she seemed about to cry—this could be inferred from the tone of voice, never mind the language.

Jelena lived in Borislav’s house, a few blocks from the restaurant. I’ll walk you home, Ramon would say at the end of a night’s work. Good night, Ramon, Jelena would say, but made no further effort to stop him as he walked beside her. On these occasions, he would ask her about her family, if her parents were alive, what her
father did, did she have brothers and sisters, where she went to school. She would not answer.

It is not wise for you to keep things from your husband, Jelena.

Ramon, you are a pestilence, you know that?

Not a pestilence, Jelena, you mean a pest. Nevertheless, the time may come in front of the authorities when I need to know these things, for your sake, not for mine.

And when that time is here I will tell you.

He would wait in the street while she climbed the steps and entered the house and wait some more until the light went on in her room on the top floor. Then he would continue on to his own room, several blocks away. He thought in the moonlight of the things he knew about her: the jewelled navel, the thin face and high cheekbones, the gray eyes that slanted upward at the corners, and her long stride for a girl.

IN THE FALL
, Leon was sprung and called Ramon to invite him to a party. It was to be on a Monday night. Borislav’s was closed on Mondays, so Ramon could go. He insisted that Jelena go with him. She needs to know about me, he said to Borislav, just as I need to know about her. She will meet my family and have some idea in the event that we are ever questioned by the authorities. Borislav nodded and informed Jelena. She was furious. Don’t talk to me of government, Uncle! Why did I come here and risk losing everything if not to have an end to government in my life?

What is the everything you risk losing? Ramon said.

Oh, shut up, you—going to Borislav like a child.

When Monday came, Ramon picked her up in a car supplied by Leon. She was clearly taken aback by this luxury—a town car with a driver in a black suit—but she pretended to be unimpressed, just
as he’d expected she would. It was a warm night and she wore her white jacket from the wedding, but with pale olive slacks and a flower-patterned blouse, with an Orthodox cross hanging in her cleavage. Ramon supposed that the cross and the pendant on her navel were in a direct line. She saw him looking and grabbed his tie and pulled him toward her. Listen, Mister Ramon pest, you can wrap Borislav around your finger, but I know what is in that mind of yours and I’m telling you it will never happen, you understand? Never! Is that clear to you, my husband? Never! And she let go and sat back in the car.

Ramon adjusted his tie. He said, I don’t like you, either, Jelena, but if you required me to perform the conjugal duties of a husband I would comply, if only to honor our sacred bond.

THE PARTY WAS
in Leon’s loft and it was filled with glamorous people, sinuous and of high fashion, all of them dancing intensely. A DJ was running the show. Music throbbed up from the floor and colored lights rotated slowly over the dancers, as if examining them. Jelena shook her head and he got her to say something. She said that the lights reminded her of her childhood, when searchlights had moved over the rooftops at night.

BOOK: All the Time in the World
12.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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