Caramelo (31 page)

They were ugly, all right. It hurt to even look at one another. Bruised and shivering like dogs left out in the rain. They’d been hauled in for fighting, for pissing, for cussing, for shoving sharp edges into flesh, for sneezing, for spitting, for cracking skulls or cracking knuckles, for picking pockets or picking fights, running when they should’ve walked, walking when they should’ve run. For having the misfortune of calling attention to themselves at the wrong place at the right time. Whether guilty or innocent, they all whimpered, —I didn’t do nothing, I didn’t do nothing. Wherever they came from, they sure as hell didn’t want to belong here.

Inocencio Reyes felt like crying and puffed on his last Lucky trying not to. He’d never felt worse. He had a big yellow swelling on his left eyebrow, one eye sealed shut like Popeye, and a lip split an octopus color. His face felt oily, and he could smell himself on himself, a sharp metallic scent to his flesh. There was a film over his good eye that made him keep blinking, and a bitter taste on his tongue and teeth. His nostrils and mustache were crusted with blood. And though he’d hardly eaten anything, he kept belching up bile and couldn’t control his farting. Each time he thought about how he got here he felt his stomach cringe like a dog being kicked. His kidneys throbbed. And he couldn’t sit down without his back hurting. Everything hurt, every bone and muscle, even his dirty, stiff hair.

The only one who didn’t appear to belong to this
inframundo
was an older fellow dressed in a dapper tuxedo and tails. To make matters even more comic, he was wearing a top hat. He looked like an aging Fred Astaire.

Maybe because of the cold, or the fear in his throat, or all the things he’d been holding in since they dragged him in, Inocencio started to cough and couldn’t stop coughing. The man in the top hat whacked him on the back until he could breathe again.

—Zaw-rright
, my friend?

—Zaw-rright
, Inocencio answered. —Thank yous. Many thanks.

—You are most welcome, the tuxedo man said with a curious accent, like a broom sweeping across a stone floor.

—Spic Spanish?
Inocencio ventured.

—Finally! Someone who speaks the language of God! Wenceslao Moreno
^*
to serve you, the tuxedo man said proudly and tipped his top hat, flashing for a moment a bald head.

—Inocencio Reyes at your orders, Inocencio replied, relieved to find himself in the company of someone who was his equal. —I regret this is my last cigarette, but, please, take half.

—No, no, I would not even think of it.

—I insist. Don’t offend me, Inocencio said.

—As you wish. Many thanks.

—There is no cause for it. It’s a pleasure to find someone who speaks Castilian in this dog pit. Are you Spanish? Inocencio asked.

—Yes. I think it’s not an exaggeration to say there are more Spaniards living in other countries than back in Spain.

—I understand you. I am a Mexican national by birth, but my father’s father was from Seville.

—Is that so? Wenceslao said, studying Inocencio’s face.

—That’s how it is. Look at my nose.

—But it’s obvious, man. You have the profile of a Moor. And the same ill fortune. What brought you here, my friend?

—Honor, said Inocencio. —They mistook me for a drunk and an irresponsible and hauled me in with a carload of criminals. And you?

—The same, Wenceslao Moreno said, sighing. —So what’s your story?

—Well, look, Inocencio said, pausing for effect. —I don’t want to bore you with a lot of talk, but since you ask. It all began rather innocently. You won’t believe it! At a soccer match.

—A soccer match? Wenceslao said. —I believe it.

—Well, let me tell you, how it happened was like this. I often frequent Grant Park to watch the Mexican team, and, as Destiny would have it, our team was playing against a local team of Mexicans from over here, American Mexicans, I mean. People think because we carry the same blood we’re all brothers, but it’s impossible for us to get along, you have no idea. They always look down on us nationals, understand? And so whenever we scored, some
pocho
would shout an insult, “Sons of the fucked whore,” or something or other, terrible things.

Worse was their lack of respect during the Mexican national anthem. They started tossing a lady’s stocking filled with piss and sand. They swung it over their heads like this, like David and Goliath, and let it go flying over to our side, where that filth rained all over us. You can imagine what a bunch of animals I’m talking about, right?

The last straw was when some monkey started insulting Mexico. That’s even worse than someone insulting your mother. That this thing, and this, and that. Well … some of the things he said are true. But it hurts to have them said all the same! Especially because they
are
true, understand? And then they started with, “We didn’t come to this country because we were starving to death,” that’s what they said. “No,” I said. “You came because your fathers were a bunch of cowards and deserted their
patria
during its time of need.” That’s when they answered with their fists, even the players joined in. An entire field of tangled arms and bodies, and the next thing I know the police are rounding us up and clubbing us both, Mexican Mexicans and American Mexicans, herding us like cattle into their wagons, I’m not lying. And that made us all mad as hell, you can imagine. And the Mexicans from over here more American than anything, and us Mexicans from over there even more Mexican than Zapata. And, well, what more can I tell you? Here I am.

—But you were only doing your patriotic duty, Wenceslao added.

—Correct.

—You wouldn’t be a true patriot if you didn’t defend your country. These
norteamericanos
don’t understand about honor.

—That’s how it is, my friend, Inocencio sighed. —
Qué suave
your clothes. Very elegant. I’ve always wanted a tuxedo with tails. And the white tie and cummerbund. Sharp.

—Thank you, but I’m afraid these aren’t mine. Borrowed from a colleague. Though I really think they suit me.

—Fíjese nomás
. It looks as if it was tailored for you, Inocencio said.

—You don’t think the hat makes me look too foolish?

—Not at all, a true gentleman is what you look like. It gives you class, if you ask me, and class, in my experience, always opens doors. With your permission, may I ask what is your profession?

—Better I show you, Wenceslao said, —if you will permit me.

—But of course.

Wenceslao Moreno looked inside the latrine door, called inside the toilet, and shouted, —
Zaw-rright?
And a voice from deep inside the toilet bowl gurgled back, —
Zaw-rright!
He walked about, found a match on the floor, and drew a pair of eyes with dark eyebrows on his fist.

The fist said in a high wobbly voice, —
Señor Wences, tengo miedo
.

—Are you afraid, Johnny, my friend?

—Sí, señor. Y la verdad, tengo muchas ganas de llorar. Llorar y orinar
.

—There’s nothing to be afraid about, Johnny. Don’t worry. I know exactly how you feel. Would you like a little entertainment? Perhaps a song to cheer us up, then? I know just the thing. How about a nice Mexican
bolero
for our Mexican guest here? He pulled his pocket inside out a bit and had his pocket sing, “Piensa en mí,” a sad song guaranteed to make you cry, even when you’re happy.

—Si tienes un hondo penar, piensa en mí
.
   
Si tienes ganas de llorar, piensa en mí
.

Inocencio swallowed back his own grief, but just then Wenceslao’s bologna sandwich began to complain about the singer. And the cockroaches scurrying across the ceiling hurled funny insults as well. Laughing, Inocencio forgot he was waiting in a miserable cell. He was fed with laughter, and this nourished him a little. When Wenceslao stopped, Inocencio broke into furious applause.

—Maestro
, you’re a genius!

—Not so much a genius, just an artist. And these days that’s genius enough. I work in the theater. Traveling. Maybe it’s Chicago today, tomorrow it might be Nashville. This tuxedo is my magician friend’s. I borrowed it for a wedding. But at the reception some fellows got too drunk, and before you know it, a fight broke out. Isn’t that how it always goes? I was out the door and down the block before the police even got there. Then I remembered I’d left my puppets at the hall, because I was supposed to perform at the reception. That was my gift to the bride and groom. Of course, I was obliged to return, they’re my livelihood. And that’s when the police mistook me for one of the troublemakers and pounced on me. So there we were, understand? I had my puppets under each arm and was making my way out when
whoosh!
One big gorilla tried to yank them from me. I wouldn’t let them go, of course. Next thing I know he had me by the neck like this, and another gorilla bends my arms behind my back like so, as if I was a puppet, and then to add insult to it all, they banged my puppets into chalk dust right before my eyes. You have no idea. It was like seeing my own children being murdered. I can’t tell you how it breaks my heart. I’m still sick when I think of it.

Wenceslao paused to blow his nose. —You must think I’m a big fool. But that’s my wonderful life for you. I’d do anything for just a little luck.
I’ve been on the stage for twenty, more than twenty years and have nothing to show for it yet. Look at me. I’m not young anymore.

—Nonsense! You’re well conserved,
maestro
.

—Well conserved or not, if something doesn’t happen soon … I just don’t know. Of course, going back to Spain is out of the question. The war.

—Well, of course.

Wenceslao sighed. And then, as if to fight off sadness, he made the fist-puppet talk:

—And you, Señor Inocencio, what about you? What do you wish for?

—Me? Well, right now two things. One, to get out of here. The other, to fix my papers. There’s sure to be trouble for me after this arrest. It’s that I’m not here legally, see. I’ll be deported for certain. And, like you, I can’t go home either because … well, because of my father. He and I …

—Don’t see eye to eye? Wenceslao finished the sentence for him.

—That’s how it is.

—I understand. So. You wish only for two things? To get out of here and to fix your papers?

—You can’t imagine how much.

—I think I can, I think I can. Well, leave it to me. I’m a bit of a magician myself. Watch.

They waited until the next officer walked past and then a little voice erupted from out of Inocencio without his even moving his lips. It said this:

—Officer! Pardon the trouble, but I do not have the English.

—What did you say, wise guy?

—Excuse, Wenceslao interrupted. —My friend here says he wishes to enlist.

—Oh, is that so?

—Yes, sir, Wenceslao continued. —I beg you to be so kind. Let me present my friend Inocencio …

—Reyes, Inocencio said.

—Yes. Inocencio Reyes here, who desires very much to become an enlisted man.

—!!! Yes, Inocencio stammered. —With all my heart, officer my friend. Please please.

—Oh, yeah? So, you want to join up, eh? Seems to me the whole bunch of yous should be sent to the front line. Uncle Sam ain’t picky these days. I’ll ask someone up front to personally escort you to the nearest enlistment station, buddy. Hold on.

After he’d left, Inocencio said, —What, are you crazy? I don’t want to enlist.

—You said you wanted to get out of here and fix your papers, right? And unless you have money, my friend, this is the easiest way, believe me.

—Well, my father
was
a military man. Maybe he’d be proud of me finally if …

—Of course. Don’t worry. You’re young. You’ve got nine lives. You can do anything. But look at me. Here I am at midlife going nowhere. I’m tired. How many times can a man reinvent himself? I’ve got absolutely nothing, no energy, no money, no family, not even my puppets. I’m finished, I tell you, I’m dead.

—But,
maestro
. Don’t exaggerate. As long as God keeps loaning you life, you’ll do well. I’m certain. You’re a genius. You make everything come to life. In my opinion you don’t need toys. It seems to me you’re excellent with what God gave you, your imagination and your wit.

—Think so?

—Absolutely. Trust me.

—Well … they may have destroyed my instruments, but not my music!

—That’s it!

Just as Wenceslao Moreno was expounding on the nature of art, a police officer unlocked the door and shouted:

—Moreno! Out!

—How?

—You’re free. Some clown just paid your bail. Says he’s a magician.

—Ah! My friend the escape artist, of course! The greatest since Houdini, in my opinion. An excellent man! But look what time it is! If I hurry I can just make it to the theater. No time to change. I’ll have to go just as I am. No harm in that, is there? I’ll make do without my puppets. Improvise, as they say. After all, the show must go on!

—¡Bravo, maestro!

—Inocencio, my friend, it’s been a true pleasure. I’m off. So long. Wish me shit.

—¡Mierda!
said a voice from inside the toilet bowl.

Inocencio laughed, and his spirit squeezed between the bars of his jail cell, somersaulted in a shaft of sunlight, floated past the armed policemen, ascended into the starry heavens, and escaped on the wings called hope.

^*
Spanish ventriloquist Wenceslao Moreno, Señor Wences, became a big success in the fifties and sixties, appearing many times on
The Ed Sullivan Show.
Like Desi Arnaz and Gilbert Roland, he was one of the first Latinos we ever saw on television. Then, as now, there were hardly any Latinos on TV who were actually Latino and not some
payaso
pretending to be Latino. In his elegant tux and with his elegant accent, Señor Wences thrilled us and made us feel proud of who we were. I wonder if he ever realized this gift he gave us. He died April 20, 1999, in New York City at the age of 103
.