I'm with Stupid (26 page)

William puffs out his chest. Settle down, I tell him, everyone reminds her of her husband, may he rest in peace. When my grandmother suggests that perhaps William is the waiter my father explains that William is just a friend of mine from South Africa. She seems fascinated: “But he’s white”—she squints—“isn’t he?”

My mother leans in. “They have both black and white people in South Africa,” she says as if she has known this fact all her life.

“Why?” my grandmother asks. I do give her credit for the question. Unfortunately, people major in its answer.

“It’s a diverse country!” the South African who majored in nothing shouts. I tell him to cut it out as my grandmother asks what he said.

My father spins the lazy Susan, which makes three rotations before stopping. Pope John Paul II looks at me with knowing eyes as my father whispers to my grandmother that William doesn’t know what he’s saying: She should read his book and see his limp. I’m not surprised that my father has a cruel opinion on this matter, I’m just surprised he’s sharing it now. He is cranky today, boy. I’m going to try to stay out of his way. William taps me on the shoulder and asks what my father just said. I lie: “He said you are a nice person.” William smiles and tells me he likes my father, too. I’m glad, everyone cares.

My grandmother points to William: “Is he talking to me?”

William nods. Certainly he’s talking to her. He can’t shut up. “Where’s your husband tonight?” he shouts. “Will he be joining us later?” I squeeze his knee under the table. He looks at me for a second and then squeezes my knee in return. He thinks we are flirting.

I remove his hand as my father begins waving his arms in the air. “Finally!” he exclaims. “Here comes that waiter.” He addresses the waiter just as Libby lets out a bloodcurdling scream. My mother jumps out of her chair and asks if Libby saw a cockroach. Everyone looks at Libby, who points to something over my head. I hope there’s not a cockroach over my head. I turn around in my chair. I almost didn’t recognize him without the silk suit and tie.

“Manuel!” Max, William, and I gasp in unison. Manuel stiffens at the sound of his name. He sets down a stack of menus and tucks his order pad into his white apron. He weakly smiles at Libby: “Are my eyes playing tricks on me? It cannot be.”

I snap him out of his trance. “Manuel, what are you doing here?” I ask. Manuel puts a finger to his lips and looks behind him. He leans in and informs me that I must call him Bob from now on. Bob? Why would I want to call him Bob? I look over at Libby. She’s speechless; she’s turned into my brother. William hears this, too. He hasn’t changed; he’s himself. He’s fine with the code name, no problem. “Hi, Bob!” William says excitedly. Manuel notices him. The expression on his face resembles the one my mother had when she thought there might be a cockroach in the restaurant. William volunteers his latest and greatest news without prompting. “I live here now, Man . . . Bob,” he declares. My mother brings the fact that William is only visiting to my attention. I hope he is. And even though she’s warming up to the idea of her newly feminized daughter having a tall friend of the male persuasion, she still needs to be assured that the tall friend of the male persuasion isn’t having sex with her newly feminized daughter. I understand—it’s called morals and family values. It’s the closest thing to my heart.

Manuel bows his head in shame: “My name is Bob. I am currently a resident of Brooklyn.”

“Since when?” Libby asks. Manuel’s Adam’s apple begins bobbing up and down like a buoy. He gazes at her longingly as the theme music from
The Godfather
blares through a set of speakers over my grandmother’s head. One of us, I can’t be sure who, asks what happened to the tube socks. Manuel takes a seat at the table. “It is complicated,” he says, screening his eyes with his hand.

My father frowns. “Who is this guy?” he asks in confusion. “He’s not the waiter?”

“That’s our friend Bob,” William offers helpfully. “He’s rich.”

My grandmother points to William: Maybe he’s the waiter. I look at William. Well, he was the waiter, in South Africa. Now he’s the guest.

Manuel continues: “I will tell you my entire story,” he says. “I do not enjoy discussing private affairs but so be it. Allow me to set the scene.” I’m tempted to tell him that while he’s at it he should set the table with some food. My father needs service.

Manuel clears his throat while gazing out at an imaginary horizon. William shifts in his seat. “I was in the greenhouse on my family’s estate in Mexico City, composing my last will and testament—” he begins.

My grandmother cuts him off. “Is the boy reading the specials? What are the specials today?” she asks. Accent.

My father admits that he doesn’t know and reminds her that specials are usually rip-offs. But he asks Manuel for the specials anyway, and when he does Manuel hands him a menu as my grandmother mumbles that Manuel looks, just a little bit, like her husband. My father is temporarily appeased; he puts on his reading glasses and inspects the selections.

“Where was I?” Manuel asks the group. My captivated mother reminds him that he was telling her about his will. Manuel picks up a spoon off the table and examines his reflection. “Of course, yes. I was in the greenhouse on my family’s estate in Mexico City, composing my last will and testament. My tenth trip to South Africa left me with much to consider . . .” Manuel nods in Libby’s direction and puts down the spoon. “. . . I pondered all that I had and all that I aspired to possess. I began to tabulate all that which would one day be rightfully mine. My will and testament would be a momentous document against which so many middling lives would be measured. What of the butlers, I thought to myself, what shall I leave them, when in truth all they have ever wanted was to ensure my felicity. I thought of the valets who lay out my silk dressing gowns; I thought of my jovial cook whose nourishing breakfasts have fortified me; I thought of the faceless woman who rolls my corn tortillas late into the night; I thought of the shoeshine boy and the chauffeur. These humble, infantile people depend on my magnanimity, I thought, while pouring bordeaux into a priceless goblet, a gift from a venerable bishop who is like a second godfather to me . . .”

My father looks up from his menu and pushes down his glasses: “What is this?” he asks.

“. . . I peered through the stained-glass windows of my greenhouse while reflecting upon the critical role I was playing in all their lives. I thought of what I mean to my honorable parents, who have encouraged me . . .”

My mother nods in my direction and softly repeats the words “honorable parents.”

“. . . I contemplated how much more I would have to give upon inheriting the fortune, and how much would be left—if anything—after I was entombed in the sitting position. With that, I began to consider how I might divide my wealth among the help. There were so many names, most of which I did not know. Perhaps I will give the cobbler my preferred riding crop when I pass from this world, perhaps the stable hand shall receive my lucky rabbit’s foot. Shall I bequeath my snuffbox to the footman? My rosary to the steward? I have so many possessions and so many servants—more than there are grains of sand in front of my beach house. Such philanthropic visions of benevolence were preoccupying my mind’s eye when, in an instant, I began to smell something . . .”

“Shit?” Max asks.

“. . . What is this curious odor? I asked myself. The smell of plastic and yet . . .”

Manuel points to the ceiling. Everyone looks up except for me and my father, who stares at his menu.

“. . . I was smelling the air just as my maid burst through the greenhouse doors, nearly knocking over one of my irreplaceable orchids. ‘Behold what you almost did!’ I shouted as she steadied the clay pot with arthritic, double-jointed fingers. ‘What is the meaning of this interruption?’ I asked in dismay. ‘The tube sock factory!’ she wailed. ‘What of it?’ I said. ‘It is . . . ,’ she began. ‘What?’ I demanded. ‘Speak, I command it, you insolent rube!’ . . .”

Manuel pushes back his chair and stands up dramatically.

“. . . ‘It is, it is, it is buuuuuuuuurning!’ she howled, hot tears running down her ragged face. I stood up, letting the pen with which I was composing my last will and testament drop out of my hand. Once as light as a feather from a black swan it was now as heavy as pewter. ‘It cannot be!’ I screamed and fell to my knees with a thud . . .”

Manuel gets down on his knees. “Where’d he go?” I hear my grandmother ask.

“. . . I turned an accusatory eye onto the merciless sky and shook my fist. ‘Damn you, Lord,’ I cursed and immediately regretted it. I choked back tears and regained my composure for the sake of the maid, who is impressionable. ‘Get out of my way!’ I said, pushing her aside. ‘Get back to your potter’s wheel this instant! I must see to the factory.’ I ran across the grounds of our compound as fast as my legs would carry me . . .”

Manuel gets to his feet and begins running in place.

“. . . In the distance I saw the plumes of black smoke. It was like watching a hideous serpent unfurl itself in front of my naked eyes. ‘The tube sock factory!’ I shouted. ‘Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!’ I still had a distance to travel but fatigue was consuming my limbs. I looked around out of desperation. The thoroughbreds! I thought. I jumped on the back of one of my trusted colts, a black beauty named after an emissary of the Grimaldi family with whom my father once played billiards, and rode bareback the rest of the way . . .”

Manuel pretends he is riding a horse.

“. . . But when I arrived on the scene it was too late . . .”

Manuel drops the imaginary reins.

“. . . Everything was ruined. An arsonist is to blame, I immediately concluded, looking around at the guilty faces attempting to extinguish the fire. A jealous rival has reduced my livelihood to smoldering lumber. It was too much for one man to endure. What of the family’s gristmill, what of the distillery, what of the gunboats, and what do they all matter now without the tube sock factory? The news was unbearable. ‘You will be held accountable, you covetous slime!’ I shouted at the charwomen holding empty buckets . . .”

Manuel points a finger at my grandmother. She turns around and looks at the wall.

“. . . I abandoned my colt to the flames and returned to the greenhouse on foot. I tore my last will and testament to pieces, letting the scraps cascade around me like ash. I left the greenhouse in a daze as a light rain began to fall. I walked, a hopeless mute, across the grounds—past the marble fountains adorned with Mother’s beloved angels, past the citrus trees and the palms, past the armed guards, past the apple orchards, past the frolicking bay mares, past the man-made waterfall, past the fútbol field, past the chapels, past the servants’ quarters and the wooden outhouse they all share, past the flower beds, past the heliport, past the hammocks, past the fully stocked fishing pond, past the hummingbird baths, past the peacocks mocking me with their vibrant plumage, past the onyx columns and matching onyx panther statues that lead to the main house, past the prizewinning parrots calling my name. And then, finally . . .”

Manuel catches his breath. He sits back down.

“. . . Past the bowling alley erected in 1999 at my request, past the sweets shoppe nestled inside it, past the bulletproof steam room, the weight-lifting center and the three massage booths, past the galleria of family portraits dating back centuries, past the chandeliers, past the black-and-white surveillance photographs of my father’s adversaries that are mounted to the refinished walls like hunting trophies, past the Hall of Mirrors, past the solarium, past the terrarium, past the wreaths made of geranium . . .”

William turns to me. “Wow,” he says, “Manuel has a big house.”

“. . . past the exotic-gems room, past the drawing room and the ballroom, past the terraces, past the balconies, past the satellite TV room, past the movie theater, past the mural of Quetzalcoatl, past the bathrooms, twenty in all, not including those under construction. I walked past all of it, over the Oriental divans dappled in midafternoon sun, to my sleeping chamber. I threw open the French doors and looked upon my king-size canopy featherbed set off by velvet ropes whose color, for the first time, resembled an ominous blood-red sky . . .”

“I will have the lasagna with meat sauce,” my father announces.

“. . . This, I thought, while pulling the drapes shut, had always been my sanctuary, a place of repose, where so many dreams had been fabricated. Now all of it was dashed, like a piece of expensive crystal hurled against a stucco wall . . .”

“I changed my mind, I’ll have the spaghetti and meatballs,” my father says.

“. . . I gazed upon my nightingale. I placed a black kerchief over her gilded cage. ‘Sing no more,’ I whispered, before collapsing onto the featherbed in despair. I rested my weary head against the silk pillows and fingered the Egyptian cotton sheets whose thread count is higher than the skyscraper I own in Manila. With my tired eyes I followed the swinging pendulum of the imported grandfather clock. What will become of my decadent lifestyle? I thought as a single tear made its way down my cheek. How will I triumph over this insurrection? And then, as I struggled to outrun the barren desert of my mind, as I forged ahead through a labyrinth of horrific questions, as I began to play a hypothetical game of Russian roulette with my own indispensable life, I saw before me an oasis . . .”

Manuel looks at Libby, who, as she leans into the table, is displaying more cleavage than she probably realizes. Not good for Libby, but judging from the renewed zeal with which Manuel tells his tale, very, very good for Manuel.

“. . . An angel she was. An angel whose china-white hands deserve to be sculpted by Parisian artisans. Whose countenance gives meaning to the gay science of poetry, whose every perfumed breath inspires minstrels and troubadours, whose heaving, ample breasts, bountiful, bountiful breasts . . .”

Manuel is cupping the air when the manager walks by. He has an expertly groomed black goatee, thick black hair combed back like Elvis, a diamond earring in his left ear, and, last but not least, a nameplate that reads
MANAGER
. He does a double take when he notices Manuel sitting at our table. He stops to consider our empty plates and grimaces. “Manuel, what are you doing sitting down?” he asks.