Chango's Fire (30 page)

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he said to me, and I was a bit surprised at a holy man with a potty mouth. “Why should I fucking teach you the ways of the saints? What have you done that proves you are worthy of knowing their stories?” I liked him right away.

He was real.

“I don't know, I just want to learn,” I said.

“Well, Ocha is not like Christianity, we don't shove it down people's throats or give it away like government cheese to anyone who comes in here asking for it.”

Now I really wanted him to be my
padrino.
I saw Papelito in his eyes. Only Papelito's delicateness, his feline moves, the way Papelito filled his space, were missing.

“I can pay,” I said.

I insulted him. “Money? Who gives a shit about your money? In the East, there are temples that make you wait years before they let you in their fucking doors!”

He was a big man with huge hands. So big that I felt he could tear phone books in half.

“I just want to learn,” I repeated.

“Oh, yeah. You want to learn. Well what have you done to prove you are worthy of the saints?”

I told him I have done nothing.

“Then you fucking see me when you have figured it out, and maybe I'll teach you the ways. Now get the fuck out of my botanica.”

L
ater that night, Trompo Loco was playing with his coin collection that my father had brought him and me, and my parents and me were playing Spanglish Scrabble. The rules were it had to be a word that didn't exist in either language. Not bullshit Spanglish of a bad pronunciation because of accent, like
grincar,
which is really “green card,” or
soway,
which is “subway.” Or code switching between English and Spanish. No, our rules are the Spanglish word had to be like words that my father continuously made up.

“Tripiando!
” He spelled it proudly, placing his square letters down, “like tripping, you know, getting high?” Something he once knew a lot about.

“Sounds like eating
tripas,
” Mom said to Kesil, who sat on her lap. Kesil always sits on her lap. “Like eating the intestines in your stomach.
Tripiando?”

Our words were words that didn't exist altogether. They were hybrid sandwiches made of Spanish suffixes and prefixes while maintaining the healthy meat of the English word in between them.

Mom accepted the word, when a knock was heard at the door. I left the game to answer it and it was the
santero
from Brooklyn. He grabbed my neck and hugged me. “Why didn't you fucking tell me Felix Camillo was your
ex-padrino?”
he said, grinning. I don't know how he got my address, but it doesn't take long for things to travel in SpaHa. “Papelito was my teacher, too,” he said, and when my mother heard Papelito's name, she got up from the table.

“You're
a santero?”
my mother asked him that night, and when he said yes, she invited him in. “Papelito,” my mother said, about to pay Papelito her highest compliment, “was a true Christian.” She said this to the
santero
from Brooklyn, whose name was Manny—his name in Ocha was Kimbuki—and he agreed.

“A friend of Papelito,” my mother said, “is always welcome in my house.”

Manny joined us at the kitchen table, and we explained the rules to him—and started the game from scratch.

It wasn't really that late, but my parents were getting ready to turn in. They said good night to the
santero,
who was getting ready to leave. I walked out with him and we talked by the hallway.

“Papelito once mentioned you to me,” Manny said outside, as I waited with him till the elevator arrived. “Let me tell you Julio, that motherfucker was never wrong.”

“Me? What he say about me?”

“That you, Julio Santana, was going to do great things. That he had seen a fire in you like no one he had ever met. That you were definitely a son of Chango. Do you know how fucking rare that shit is?”

“I did not know that.”

“Well it's also fucking expensive, okay?” he said. Just like Papelito, Manny didn't deny that there was money involved. “He also mentioned another one. A woman.”

“Maritza?”

“Yeah, that was it. If she wants to be my pupil I'll take her in.”

“She's gone,” I said.

“So, it's just you and me then. How far in the teachings did you get with
my padrino?
To the
collares?”

“Nowhere near the necklaces,” I said. “Not very far. I still have trouble remembering what color is attributed to what Orisha—”

“Shit, you're not even close to taking Lukumi 101. You're like in Remedial Lukumi.”

I felt like I let him down. But he reassured me it was okay.

“Come see me in Brooklyn, and we'll talk about starting you on your way to saintliness.” He hugged me. Told me he would lead me until I was ready for the ultimate ceremony of the
Asiento,
when, hopefully, if Papelito was right, I would become Chango. And, like in all intimate relationships, Chango would reveal to me the meaning of his stories, but only if I'd work in loving the Orisha. If I performed the rituals correctly, Chango would lead me to know the ways of a god. Chango would teach me how to love myself and all living things. My new
padrino
told me it would be a slow and painstaking process. But I would get there, and when I did, Chango's fire would no longer have to be lit, because the Orisha's candles would be inside me. His bata drums would be my heartbeats. Then I, too, would share a duality, like the one Chango shares with the Catholic saint Santa Barbara. Like her, I would be forever linked, become one and the same, with the African black god of natural forces—of lightning, thunder and fire.

The elevator arrived.

Helen shyly stepped out.

Manny hugged me one last time, got in and left.

Helen didn't kiss me or shake my hand. She was wearing a light blue overcoat, so I couldn't see what she was wearing underneath it, but her shoes were the same clunky ones she always wore. Seeing her appear like that made me feel like spring was just around the corner, when in fact it was still January.

Helen apologized for just dropping in like this and asked how I was doing. I said fine. She asked if I got her letter. I thanked her for it. Told her, her letters always reminded me of her hands. Delicate and beautiful, kinda mysterious, too.

“I can only see you in public places,” she blurted out.

“Like this hallway?” I said, joking.

“Yes, like this hallway.” She smiled just a bit. “I don't trust you, Julio. You or myself. So, can we only meet in public places?”

“Sure.” It was no inconvenience to me.

“Okay,” she said, punching the elevator button. “The Dalai Lama's in town. Are you interested?”

“Am I interested?” I said happily. “I can go stare at a wall with you.”

“Right,” she said, looking down, not sure if she had made the correct call by coming to see me. “Right, okay. I'll write you,” she said, and the elevator arrived.

Helen said good-night. Then she got in and left.

B
rother Malcolm ended his story by giving all the glory and credit to his God while pinning all the mistakes on himself. I'm nowhere near as noble as he was. But after all that's happened to me I feel… blessed.

So what? I got knocked back down a few notches. I've been in the projects before and I got out. And I'll get out again. This time, I'll do it right. This time, I'll do it for good. I thought of Helen's letter, the last line. It was authentic, genuine and true.

Papelito once told me that sometimes you play the right number and it never hits. Sometimes you play the wrong number by mistake, and that's the number that wins. When I think of Helen, I finally know what he meant.

And so, full of hope and light, I went back inside my apartment and closed the door behind me.

Legend
has it that one day, as he sat in front of a Midtown man-made waterfall, Rene Alegria had a vision, and this imprint, Rayo, was born. With that same uncanny ability to see beyond what's there my editor guided me toward the completion of this book. His assistant, Andrea Montejo, has been a doll in taking care of all the important little things. I'd be lost without my agent, Gloria Loomis, who was more than supportive during the many false starts I encountered before this novel began talking to me. I thank Katherine “Triple Threat” Fausett (Brains, Beauty, Benevolence); her encouragement was just as invaluable. Justin Allen always kept me up to date. I also thank my father, Silvio, my mother, Leonor, my sisters Frinee and Haydee, my brother James, and my cousin Rafael—their love is always comforting. As is Kendra Hurley's friendship and sound advice and Stefanie Schumacher's company. Cesar Rosado is the best “wing man” a guy could have (those days are over but the adventure continues). His mother, Juanita Lorenzo, is evidence that fictional kinship is possible. Silvana Paternostro practically gave me a chapter, her kind voice was always welcomed. Russell Contrera's humanity, Mat Stafford's nobility, Will Ross's intelligence, Susan D'Aloin's attitude, and Jeanne Flavin's brilliance all continue to contribute to my growth. And lastly, thanks to Brian Flannagan, proprietor of the Night Cafe; his Sunday-night trivia made a boring day just a tad more interesting.

You must concede that this Bronx slum and others
in Brooklyn and Manhattan are unrepairable.

They are beyond rebuilding, tinkering and restoring.
They must be leveled to the ground.

R
OBERT
M
OSES
, N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY MASTER BUILDER
, 1974