The Empanada Brotherhood (11 page)

We halted. Roldán, Alfonso, and Luigi lit cheap cigars to honor El Coco, exhaling clouds of stinky smoke that evaporated among the snowflakes.

“Who's next?” the cocinero asked.

“Not me,” Luigi and I answered simultaneously.

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,” Alfonso joked in English.

Aurelio Porta told me that Cathy Escudero had duende. “It's not something you can teach a person,” he whispered into my ear at the dance studio. “You have to be born with it. And this girl is brimming over with duende. She's not conscious of it herself, she is so busy concentrating on the technical aspects of her craft. But the way she moves is like a gitana from Spain a thousand years old in her gypsy culture. She is like a ravishing murderess who loves to lick the blood off the knife afterwards. That is the magic of her art.”

Aurelio had to lean very close to me when he said these things because Cathy's heels were battering the floorboards and Jorge was attacking the guitar in a controlled frenzy. They were electrifying. The dancer grabbed her skirt and swished it back and forth; she frowned and glowered and bit her tongue and grimaced. Her T-shirt was drenched under the armpits. Sometimes she yanked her dress up and down and we caught a flash of her cotton panties.

Aurelio never changed his tone of voice: “A champion race-horse has duende,” he continued. “And Pelé possesses it, of course. Fangio had duende, and Manolete, too. And especially Gardel. Carlos Gardel had so much duende it caused his plane to hit another plane on the runway when he was only forty-eight. Gardel makes Frank Sinatra look like an amateur choirboy.”

Jorge's fingers were a blur and Cathy was fast-stamping at the end of her alegrías. I was riveted by her performance, but Aurelio Porta never quit talking.

“Certain Americans have duende,” he said. “Marlon Brando has it, and the late James Dean. Duende is an aberration in
the soul. It is like a fire out of control. You don't see many old folks with duende—the force kills you early and you can't even stop yourself. You're not supposed to. All great artists are doomed. This chica is going to burn brightly for a short time and then the lightning inside will electrocute her. She will burst apart in flames. I hope I have a ticket to the performance because it will be horrible but exciting to watch. Duende is tragic, and when you see somebody who has it you must make the sign of the cross and spit in your palm. Duende is a curse. It makes people sacrifice themselves to give us pleasure. Duende is an enchanted living death for the person who has it.”

He whispered these things loudly into my ear like a stockbroker giving quotations over the phone while Jorge and Cathy practiced to become famous and doomed. Outside on a gray afternoon random raindrops fell from the moody sky.

The studio was filled with thrilling music and frantic dancing. I fixated on Cathy's feet, then on Jorge's fingers. How could those two be so coordinated and exuberant?

“She has good footwork, but not great,” Aurelio Porta said. “And technically she is competent but not too far above average. Yet that other thing, that fever, that instinct for presentation, that totally self-absorbed and self-destructive euphoria—that is special, that's duende. One in a million. She doesn't even know where it came from or how to control it. Like an erection in men. I can sell her, I know, even though she's not Spanish. I absolutely guarantee that she's going to be famous.”

Jorge and Cathy stopped in unison with a bold and emotional flourish. Cathy held the pose for eight seconds until Aurelio Porta clapped, saying, “Bravo. Estupendo.”

When Cathy knew she had been wonderful she became grumpy. “I stink,” she muttered, panting, trying to catch her breath. “I dance like a wooden puppet. I have arthritis already and I'm not even twenty. Shit.”

She went to her purse and extricated two cigarettes, handing one to Jorge. She rustled further seeking matches until Aurelio flipped over a book that skidded across the shiny floor, stopping at her feet. Kicking off her shoes, Cathy bent to retrieve the matches then leaned against the wall with her eyes closed, smiling. Jorge set the guitar flat on his lap and inhaled smoke luxuriously.

We savored the quiet. I was sweating as if I'd been dancing right along with Cathy Escudero.

“I'm going to retire when I'm twenty-five,” she said. “By then I'll be a millionaire and a cripple.”

Cathy slid down the mirror to a sitting position on the floor, hiking her dress up into her lap which gave us a glimpse of the white panties. Eyes closed, she seemed unaware of this fact.

Nobody said anything. Embarrassed, I averted my eyes, looking out a window. In the twilight most city lights had come on, but I could still see large foreboding clouds high above the Hudson River.

Eduardo, Alfonso, and I attended a movie at the Waverly:
Il Bell'Antonio.
In Italian with English subtitles, it starred Marcello Mastroianni and Claudia Cardinale. It had been written by Pier Paolo Pasolini, one of Alfonso's heroes and the director of
Accatone!
Marcello played a handsome Sicilian rogue who fell in love with Claudia, the beautiful, virginal daughter of a town big shot. Despite his reputation as a womanizer, Marcello could not consummate the marriage. He had become impotent. This caused an enormous scandal. Marcello had failed Claudia, her parents, his own family, the church, the politicians, and all the rich businessmen of the city. Qué Vergüenza! Marcello's mother and father grew frantic. Claudia's parents demanded an annulment. Everyone was horrified that Marcello could not “be a man.” Finally, Mastroianni admitted to his best friend that all his life he could easily screw prostitutes, shop girls, and casual affairs, but if he truly loved a woman he couldn't muster an erection.

When we left the theater, Eduardo said, “Fuck that movie. I hated that stupid film. Those Italians have their heads up their own rectums.”

As we crossed Sixth Avenue, aiming for the empanada stand, Alfonso said, “Wait. Consider the dilemma. Pasolini was pointing out all the hypocrisy. It's an interesting story about how social mores, and especially religion, corrupt the nature of true love.”

“Qué va!” Eduardo flung up his hands. “Marcello was a jerk. And why didn't Claudia help him out with a blowjob? That icy girl reminded me of Adriana.”

“What do you think, blondie?” Alfonso asked.

“I felt sorry for Marcello,” I answered. Truth is, the movie had terrified me.

At the empanada stand Roldán was talking sign language to the blue-haired amazon who knew Popeye—toothless Martha.

“Just my luck,” she crowed. “The three most attractive studs in New York City.”

Alfonso ordered coffee; Eduardo demanded a mate; I asked for a Coke. Martha sidled over to Eduardo, casting her arm around his shoulders.

“Whattayou say, big boy?”

Eduardo shook her off, rolling his eyes around. “No hablo inglés,” he grumbled.

“He doesn't speak English,” I lied.

She laughed. “Who cares what he doesn't speak? Language is not at issue here.”

In Spanish Roldán asked, “How was the movie?”

Alfonso said, “Eduardo didn't like it.”

“Why not?” The cook began washing stuff in his tiny sink.

“Because Claudia wouldn't give Marcello a blowjob.”

“What are they talking about?” Martha asked me.

“It's all slang,” I said.
Hello, déjà vu.
“I really don't understand a word.”

I was prowling around the neighborhood at three
A.M.
when I bumped into Roldán and Santiago Chávez heading north past St. Anthony's Church on Sullivan Street. Inside the two cardboard boxes they carried were nestled tomorrow's empanadas. A tall, melancholy man, Santiago never visited the stand during commercial hours. But every night he helped the fat man cart the next day's product up to the kiosk.

Santiago ran a bakery hidden in his basement on Sullivan Street. You would never know it existed except for the wonderful odors seeping onto the sidewalk between midnight and five
A.M.
Roldán set his alarm for three each night so he could get up, walk south, and fetch his empanadas. Then he went back to sleep until noon.

Santiago made the pastelitos also. He didn't have a business license because it was cheaper to pay off the cops and the city inspectors.

I joined the two older men, relieving Roldán of his burden. With the cast on his arm it was harder for him to carry things.

“You came along just in time,” he gasped. “I was getting tired. What are you doing up at this hour, blondie?”

“I'm always up at this hour,” I said. “I'm a night owl, a murciélago, a vampire.”

The cook laughed. “When I was young I used to stay up all night with my pals playing billiards or chasing women at the milongas. Believe it or not, I didn't used to be such a hippo.”

Santiago never said a word. For a baker he sure was morose … and skinny.

We crossed West Houston which did not have a moving car visible in either direction. It always amazed me that Roldán could locomote at all. He walked sort of spread-legged and waddling like a penguin, puffing loudly, though he seemed pretty strong except when climbing stairs.

At the kiosk he removed a padlock and opened the door, squeezed into the alley, flipped a light switch, lifted the gate on the counter, and accepted one box from me and stashed it in the refrigerator. He took the other box from Santiago, who spun right around and retreated down the block to West Houston, returning to work.

Roldán handed me his portable TV so he could lock up. He'd forgotten it earlier. “I need television to sleep.” I followed behind him on the stairs; we took a while to reach his apartment. His Christmas tree was still up, decorated by tinsel and a string of little lights. Half the needles had fallen off and been swept clean, but the lights were still blinking. I set the TV down on the kitchen table.

Roldán opened his refrigerator. “Do you need food, nene? What can I offer? Eggs? A carton of milk?”

I said, “No, no, I have plenty.”

“Well, you should have a girl,” the cocinero advised. “I worry about you. Late on a night like this they keep you warm in bed.”

“Oh, I'll find one someday,” I said.

“All you have to do is start talking to them.” He closed the refrigerator door. “They don't care if it's nonsense. Every girl wants you to fuck her, I promise. It's biology.”

I nodded and smiled brightly, embarrassed, trying to back away without being impolite. “I know,” I said.

“No you don't. When a woman offers to buy you an empanada, you should accept and be grateful. She's making a play for you. It's an opportunity. Comprendés?”

“Sí. Comprendo.”

Roldán must have felt that this was a rare moment alone and thus very important. He came over and grasped the door handle. “Listen,” he said. “You're young and good-looking, blondie. There's a million fish in the ocean. It's easy if you just relax. Don't cripple yourself with fear or unreasonable expectations, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, backing away some more, looking at my watch. “But I have to go now,” I explained. “I'll see you later, alligator,” I said in English, stepping over his threshold onto the landing.

Roldán began a fatherly gesture toward me but arrested it, searching my eyes, apologetic.

“After a while, crocodile,” he replied, also in English—another expression that I had taught him.

Then he closed the door and I scampered downstairs to freedom.

Aurelio Porta owned an expensive little camera and a tripod. He set up the tripod in the studio and took pictures of Cathy Escudero dancing. Sometimes he told Jorge to quit playing and ordered Cathy to freeze in a position so that he could expose it perfectly. The photographs would be used for publicity purposes. Cathy wore the blue flamenco dress she'd had on when I first met her last Halloween. It was robin's-egg blue with splashes of yellow flowers, and with lacy white hems of almost snowflake design at the sleeves, at the neckline, and at the bottom of the skirt. The dress transformed Cathy into an ethereal critter. She loved the effect of it and of the attention being paid to her by the camera.

After a while Aurelio told Jorge to cease playing altogether. It was better for Cathy to hold still in various poses even though that might sacrifice authenticity.

“There's nothing authentic about publicity pictures,” he said. “You can't sell anything with the real deal.”

“I
am
the real deal,” Cathy said, holding her skirt out in a wide fan shape with one toe pointed down at the floor.

Aurelio scoffed, “That and a nickel will get you on the Staten Island Ferry.”

“Jorge should be in the pictures.” Cathy went and stood beside her guitarist with one arm around his shoulders. “Che, put out your cigarette. Assume the position. Look like a genius. And remove that hat, please.”

She lifted the porkpie off Jorge's head but he grabbed it back. I had never seen his hair before. It was very dark,
parted down the middle, and slicked flat against his head. He covered it up instantly with the hat.

Aurelio said, “We don't need any shots of the guitarist. This is about you, querida. You're the star. Guitarists are interchangeable.”

Cathy reared up. “Jorge is
not
interchangeable. Without him I am nobody. We
belong
together.”

Aurelio straightened behind the camera. He was a little miffed, but smiled.

“That's not the way it's done,” he explained gently. “In a publicity photograph all attention must be placed on the central attraction. You never see a shot of Frank Sinatra with his pianist. You never see a picture of José Greco with his band. The band is great but anonymous because it's the dancer that our public has paid to see. The principal artist is everything.”