Chango's Fire (28 page)

I walk toward Helen's gallery, passing by a Blockbuster Video, a couple of Duane Reades, a couple of Rite Aids, a couple of McDonald's, a KFC, a Starbucks, a Gap, and an Old Navy. I ask myself, “Whose streets are these?” There are a lot of Mexican
taquerias,
but they are offset by these chain stores that form an inner-city minimall. The only thing that hasn't changed are the churches. Some are above shops, others are in basements. Many don't even look like churches but more like sweatshops or warehouses. Churches don't go out of fashion in Spanish Harlem. If you have nothing to hope for, you are always going to be poor. And that's where Jesus comes in. He consoles you by stroking your hair. Whispering that every day is a gift, a miracle, your dreams are gold, and you are God's story. And many thrive on that, they believe it as if those words came straight from their parents.

I turn the corner and I see a crowd.

The protesters are at Helen's.

There is a large crowd of homesteaders and housing activists across the street from her gallery. The protesters are Latinos and they are chanting, “Renovate the buildings, not the people!” They carry signs that at night are a bit hard to read. I get closer, and make some of the words out. A man waves a banner that says
RICANSTRUCTION.
One woman is lifting a board above her head, which reads CLINTON, I LOVE YOU. BUT GET OUT OF HARLEM.

One of the protesters is the skinny man with the mustache who had arrived at my house when Trompo Loco got kicked out. He recognizes me and hands me a flyer.

The real crime is taking away the peoples art…
I stop reading it right there. And cross the street.

“Hey,” I hear him yell behind my back, “you're not going in there! Are you!”

“Damn right,” I yell back, “it's not a picket line.”

Across the street, it's a totally different story. Helen's gallery is jam-packed. The crowd overflows outside, near the entrance, where guests are ignoring the protesters and drinking wine and talking. There are a lot of kids who have come out of curiosity and for the free food. I walk inside, and the artist whose work is being displayed has let himself be tied like Christ, left arm to one beam, right arm to another. He looks Native American, with his hair long and lush, and his paintings are full of Southwestern colors. He never looks at anyone, just stands there tied with a blank expression on his face. He doesn't talk to anyone, either, and some people stare at him as if he is a painting and not a real person.

Helen's opening is a success, at least attendance-wise. Other artists from Spanish Harlem have come to support her. James de la Vega is here. “They didn't protest the Starbucks,” I hear James de la Vega say, “Shit, now that's evil to the core.” He has his big, blond, afro-looking wig on his head and is wearing a shirt that reads BECOME
YOUR DREAM.
Tanya Torres and her husband, Jose, who own the Mixta Gallery on 107th and Lexington, are here, too. Eliana Godoy, the owner of Carlito's Cafe, is here, so is Efrain Suarez of the Salsa Museum. Poets Prisionera, Yarisa Colon, and the Ecuadorian poet Veronica “de nadie” are in a corner talking with Professor Robert Waddle. Under better circumstances, I'd love to be part of all of this, just not now.

There are a lot of white people as well. I'm looking for Helen among the crowd.

Greg spots me and waves me to come over.

Events like these, where people are drinking wine and looking at art, force you to be somewhat prissy, even if you are here as the bearer of bad news.

I go over only out of politeness.

“This is Julio,” he introduces me to an older white woman. “This is Ruby.”

I say, “Nice meeting you” to Ruby, who's a bit on the heavy side, like a big baby seal.

“Ruby was just telling me how she doesn't understand why some people would want this place to remain only Latino, doesn't exposure change people, Julio?”

“Yeah, it does,” I say, looking to see if I spot Helen.

“See, Julio agrees,” Greg says.

“I didn't say I agree with you,” I add.

“Well, regardless,” Ruby says, “I've read that Alfred Stieglitz said he had seen at least,” she says with emphasis, “at least, at least seven New York Cities from his window in ten years. Change is the nature of this city. These people—”

I walk away.

I keep looking for Helen, and it's hard finding her with so many people here. It's a sea of elbows and backs, bumps and swerving to avoid knocking drinks down. When I do see Helen, she has a glass of wine in her hand and is talking with a middle-aged man with white hair that's been shaved down to only tiny, white flare-ups. He is thin and good-looking. Next to him, I can tell, is his wife. A woman with wholly white hair and the presence of a Southern belle. And just by their small frames, I can tell they're Helen's parents.

Helen spots me, a big smile arises all of a sudden. She elbows her way through the crowd and comes over to grab me. She kisses me with no embarrassment at all.

“Isn't this awesome?” she says, tipsy, “look at all these people.”

“Have you sold a picture?” I don't know what else to say.

“Only the ropes that Russell has tied himself with.”

“The ropes are for sale?”

“Yes, isn't that clever.” She is really having a good time. “Come.” Helen takes me by the hand and steers me toward her parents.

“This is Julio,” she says. “My father, Vic, and mother, Emily.”

They are very nice people, standing like peacocks, proud of their daughter.

“Helen,” I say, getting close to her ear, “can I talk to you in that little office of yours?”

“Sure,” she says and excuses herself.

The office isn't that far away, yet we have to fight to get there, and people are always coming up to congratulate Helen. When we do reach the tiny office, it brings me back to the first time I made love to her.

“Helen I have something—”

Somebody walks in.

“Helen, the Armstrongs are asking about the mountain piece?”

“Julio,” she says, “I'm busy, can this wait?”

I stare at her and want to tell her it can. But I know better. My expression must be one of desperation, because Helen senses something.

“Helen,” the guy says, “the piece?”

Without taking her eyes off me, Helen answers, “Tell them I'll be right there.”

The guy walks back out.

“What's wrong, Julio?” She puts her glass down and tenderly holds my face. Her hands are warm and smell of wine and almonds.

With all this chaos, why not just tell her?

So, I do. “Helen,” I say, “I'm going to burn the building down.”

“Great idea,” she says, sipping some wine, “make sure the protesters are inside.”

“No,” I say, “I'm serious, I came here to tell you I'm burning the building.”

“What building?”

“The building where we live, that building.”

Helen drops her hands away from my face like they weigh a ton.

“Wait, did I hear that right?” she says, forcing a little smile.

“Tomorrow night, I'm burning it down.”

“You're crazy,” she says in total disbelief.

“Promise me you won't be there.”

“You're crazy.”

“Promise me on your parents,” I say urgently, “promise me on Vic and Emily you won't be there.”

“No this can't be you. This can't be right?” she says, focusing her eyes at something else, as if she's solving a mathematical equation. “No,” she says to herself more than to me, “no that can't be right.”

“You can call the police and have me arrested, but that will just delay it. If I don't burn it, someone else will. I know Eddie.”

“Eddie? Who the fuck is Eddie?” I've never heard her curse. “Tell me if you're in trouble Julio? Just tell me, tell me.”

“I tried telling you the other night,” I say, raising my voice. The crowd outside murmurs louder, like more people have come. “I told you I set fire—”

“I thought you were kidding or were into some other stuff—”

“No, I set fires—”

“No, you don't. You do construction. I see you leave every morning—”

“No, I set fires.” I hear the people laughing outside the office. They're having a good time out there. “Listen, keep your mouth shut, Helen, and I can promise you, seriously promise you fire insurance kickbacks. You can even have half of my share. Maritza will get the other—” I stop talking when Helen's eyes start to shine. The moisture in them is about to spill.

“I will not believe you.” A heavy drop rolls down her cheek, “You can't be serious.”

“I'm serious.”

“I'm going to call the police,” she says trancelike, as if she is one of the people in Papelito's ceremony. “I'm going to call the police.”

“Weren't you listening to me?” Why do I expect Helen to believe me? This is something that only happens to other people, like getting struck by lightning or dying in a plane crash. You never think it can happen to you or to someone close to you, and so, when it does, it's like living in a dream world, and you have no idea what to make of it. “The police won't help us, Helen. The police will just make it worse, because then there'll be no warning and people will die—”

“I'm going to call the police,” she says again and goes for the phone.

I grab the phone.

The murmuring outside the office is really loud, it feels like Yankee Stadium.

“Listen, Helen. Listen to me, were the police there that day when all those women humiliated that man? No, right? Were the police there when he molested his daughter? Are the police here tonight with all those protesters? No, right? There's a new set of rules here. You rely on your friends—”

“Friends!” she yells. “You're talking about burning my house! Your house. A church? It's crazy. This sounds like you're crazy!”

It takes a while for betrayal to register. At first you deny it. Tell yourself, it's just too much. It's not possible. Then there's the dead zone, a silence, a processing of data and memories. After you've examined all the evidence against that terrible idea, you come to the realization that you've just been lied to. Helen was going through that.

“Just don't be there, okay? I'm sorry,” I say silently, because it's all my fault.

I stop talking.

Then there's a gradual silence. As if some bad news had been announced on the radio and everyone has quieted down so they can hear. It's that kind of silence. Something has happened outside that has made this party quieter than a funeral.

I open the office door to find the crowd in horror. Trompo Loco is bloodied, black-faced, his clothes charred. He is standing in the middle of the floor space. Everyone has made way for him and he sees me and starts to cry.

“He's got to talk to me now, Julio,” Trompo says and starts to spin. “He's got to talk to me.” Trompo Loco spins with his arms outstretched. Trompo Loco spins, repeating the same words over and over. Some people try to stop his twirling, but his skinny, tall body makes it difficult to get a good hold of him. Trompo Loco's outstretched arms also inadvertently slap some people who try to get out of his way. He spins and knocks paintings down. Some men try to stop him and wrestle Trompo Loco down to the ground. Bad idea. When he hits the ground, he just tightens his arms close together and spins on the ground like Curly from
The Three Stooges.
Trompo Loco is on the floor, spinning like a crazy top, crying out loud, “Talk to me!” A few people don't get out of Trompo Loco's way and his spinning body on the floor hits their feet, forcing them to tumble to the ground, too.

“Just leave him alone!” I yell, because I know if you try to stop him, you can hurt yourself or him.

Helen hides her face in her hands.

The paintings are ruined and on the floor.

The artist, who had tied himself near the wine table to make sure all could see him, is drenched, and someone is untying him.

Many people start to leave.

Trompo Loco is losing speed. Trompo is ready to pass out. When he does, his face is peaceful, like he is sleeping or dead. I get down on my knees to pick him up and take him home. Then his blank face makes me realize what he's angry about. He wants Eddie to talk to him. He wants his father to talk to him.

I run out of the gallery to my house.

Fire engines rush by me in the same direction. A block away from my building, neon lights of all colors shed light on everything around them. Red engines and police squad cars, ambulances and the news reporters fill the streets. A large crowd has gathered, watching in amazement at how a fire can pick up so much speed that even before the firemen's hoses can start denting it, it's pretty much a mouth of flames, eating everything up. I run, taking stock of the scene. When I make out that yes, that is my mother holding in her arms what looks like a baby, I know it's Kesil, and my heart's pounding lessens. Closer, I see my father is barefoot, holding a single album cover. I slow down after being assured that they are all right. I reach the scene to find my mother in tears. From across the street, where I used to admire my house, where I thought myself so smart and on my way, I now watch it burn. See the roof cave in. It all happens so fast.

A three-story building fire doesn't last very long. It gets consumed pretty quickly. The firemen put out what's left of the flames. Nothing but a shell of bricks and towering clouds of smoke snake up from the rubble, like a recently stubbed-out cigarette. Soon, the smell of burned wood, ash mostly, plastic, and paint will envelope the air.

I hold my father and mother. Kesil is afraid. He has seen this before.

“The man was a saint,” my mother cries. “He saved me and my cat's life,” she wails. Kesil digs his claws into the fabric of her blouse without hurting her flesh. He's so afraid of being homeless that he doesn't want to let loose from Mom ever again.