The Empanada Brotherhood (14 page)

Gino remarked casually that behind closed doors Simone was “a
very
sexy girl.”

I went home and wrote a short story about a guy who was half Gino, half Aurelio Porta. In the story my protagonist conquered innumerable beauties from several continents, including a dead ringer for Cathy Escudero.

Then he caught syphilis and died of a brain tumor.

My fourth-choice publisher rejected the college romance without comment.
Damn.
I picked up the manuscript and walked it south to the next guys on my list. Then I headed for the dance studio feeling uncomfortable and constrained. I entered the building and went up in the elevator and walked down the corridor to the studio. The door was slightly ajar and I could hear the guitar and Cathy's heels banging out rhythms. I hesitated, not even peeking inside, and took a stance against the wall on the hinged side of the door, listening.

I could imagine every step and every gesture. I could see the stern expression on Jorge's face and the way he held the guitar rigidly and high, his features indifferent as his fingers did all the work. I also knew that Aurelio Porta was in attendance watching and keeping score.

I stood in the corridor with my arms folded for about five minutes listening to their practice session. When they took a breather I walked away quickly, using the stairs instead of the elevator. I hurried east on Fourteenth Street to the Downtown Café. The green-eyed waitress came to my booth saying, “Hi, where are your buddies?” She whisked a pencil from her hair above the ear and poised the tip against an order pad.

“It's early. They're still at practice.”

The waitress glanced around, then slipped onto the padded bench across the table from me and lit a cigarette. She had a few freckles and her lips were shaped in an attractive little pout.

“I'm bushed,” she said. “My feet are killing me. I wish I could inherit a million dollars and move to Las Vegas and live in a mansion with a swimming pool.”

After three quick puffs she stubbed out the cigarette but kept on talking.

“My boyfriend got arrested yesterday. He has the brains of a Lincoln Log. He works in a gas station and stole two tires and sold them to another guy for half price. The boss found out because Bobby left his cap on the rack he took the tires off of. So now he's on Rikers Island and I'm supposed to pay the rent with tips I get in this joint? Good luck. What's your story?”

I said, “I don't know. I don't have a story.”

“Everybody has a story.” She smiled sympathetically. “I see you in here how many times over the last few months—maybe a dozen? First you're only with that spiffy little girl and the skinny guy in the weird hat with the guitar case. I bet she's a dancer; I bet you're in love with her; and I bet she won't give you the time of day. Am I close?”

“I don't know. Maybe a little bit.”

“The kid with the guitar, he's her brother?”

“No. He's from Spain. She's from Buenos Aires.”

“Where is Baynose Iris?”

“In Argentina. At the bottom of the world. Near Antarctica.”

“You mean in South America?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. The kid from Spain is in love with her also. You guys are a triangle.”

I laughed. “I don't think so. She's older than him by a lot. She never flirts with him. He's very quiet.”

“Quiet waters run deep,” she said. “But anyway, one day you all appear with an older guy, the Latin playboy with
Liberace hair. At first I think he could be the father, but he's all over her like a rug while you two guys sit there twiddling your thumbs. The plot thickens, am I correct?”

I was surprised. I said, “You sure notice a lot, don't you?”

She chuckled. “I'm a trained professional.” Then she flinched. “Oops. The wicked witch just shot me an eyeball, I better take your order.” She popped up and took out her pad. “So what'll it be?”

“I guess I want a coffee,” I said. “No cream or sugar.”

“How about with a slice of cherry pie on the side? Live it up.”

“I don't have the plata,” I admitted.

“The what?”

“The money.”

“It's on me,” she said, scribbling down the order. “I'll steal it for you.”

Before I could protest she was gone. After a minute she returned with the coffee and the pie.

“Here you go, sir, one slice of pie and a cup of coffee just like God created it, black, no frills. Ain't it beautiful?”

She set them down and tore the check off her pad and placed it facedown beside the pie plate. Then off she went to clear another table.

When I turned over the check I saw that she had only charged me for the coffee and had written
Cheer up!
on top.

Was she making a play for me?

I filched a newspaper from a Washington Square trash basket and sat on a bench to read it. Everybody was nervous about confrontations between the East and the West. A long article explained how to evacuate New York in case of attack. I folded the paper and put it back in the wastebasket.

Then I sat quietly on the bench wondering if I would be drafted. I didn't want to invade the Soviet Union or wear a radiation suit for cleanup duty after a bomb blast. I simply wanted to publish my college novel and marry Cathy Escudero.

The park was filled with people having a good time on a warm day. Kids and young adults splashed through the fountain. A Good Humor cart was back. Up in the trees two squirrels leaped from branch to branch, chasing each other. I felt burdened by anxiety.

Alfonso sat down beside me, clapping his hand on my shoulder. “Hello, blondie, why so glum? On a day like this you should be joyful.”

“I don't want to be drafted and die before I publish a novel,” I said. Immediately I wished I hadn't said that.

Alfonso placed his arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “You won't die, nene. I promise.”

“How do you know?”

He said, “Humanity is crazy, but not that crazy. No species that created Shakespeare, Mozart, Picasso, and Marilyn Monroe could ever destroy itself. I promise.”

I replied, “But the same species created Hitler, Mussolini, and Jack the Ripper.”

He scoffed, “Those jerks were canceled out long ago by Gina Lollobrigida and Sophia Loren.”

“What about Stalin and Tojo?” I asked.

He retorted while cleaning his glasses on a filthy handkerchief: “They are easily trumped by Tolstoy, Borges, Dickens, and Neruda.”

“Okay. You win, profe. I give up. Let's go to a movie.”

“There's a Jacques Tati film at the New School, blondie.”

So that's where we went. And the movie was zany and delightful and it really cheered me up.

Tennis racket in hand, I went to the playground on Thompson Street between Prince and Spring. I had on Bermuda shorts and a torn old polo shirt. Ah, sweet primavera: The sun was bright as a bulb. For an hour I hit a ball against the high wall designed for handball games. Nearby stood two basketball hoops and a bocce court where old men from Palermo and Bari were joking with one another. A high chain-link fence surrounded the area.

I was exercising all alone when Carlos the Artist walked past nursing a coffee-to-go he'd purchased at Miguel's All-Nite Puerto Rican Deli on Spring Street. Surprised to see me, he stopped and peered through the fence.

“Look, if it isn't Rod Laver in person. Cómo estás, blondie?”

I grabbed the tennis ball and waved. “I'm great. Thanks.”

“Che, vení.” Carlos motioned me over. “I want to speak with you.”

I walked closer and we talked through the fence. He had on black motorcycle boots, black chinos, a Snoopy T-shirt, and a red baseball cap that said CCCP. He had dyed his mustache purple.

“You look like a pro, blondie, whacking that pelota. Where did you learn, in school?”

I told him yes. He said he had always wanted to play tennis, but the only sport he'd ever excelled at was fucking. Speaking of which, now that fate had thrust us together, he had another favor to ask of me.

“Sure. You can use my apartment anytime, amigo. Tell me when and I'll leave the key with Roldán.”

“No, I don't want your apartment. It's about my wife.”

“Your wife?”

“I want you to screw her, blondie. You can even kiss her if you want.”

“
What?
”

“Oíme.” He took another sip of coffee, then leaned closer to the fence. “It would be a favor to both of us. She's bored, I'm bored, we both need a little boost to get the adrenaline going. You know what I mean?”

No I didn't. “Talk slower, por favor.”

“Don't be an ignoramus, friend. You understand very well. You're a man. Aren't you a man?”

I nodded yes, I was a man.

“So it's simple,” he said. “I know where you live. We'll make a date and I'll bring her by. You two will have fun, she's very affectionate. When it's over just grab her a cab on West Broadway. I'll make sure she has the guita.”

I stalled. “I'm sorry. What are you talking about?”

Carlos looked exasperated. After glancing both ways, he leaned closer to the fence and fixed his big eyes on me.

“Listen carefully, friend. I've got a deeper problem with my wife. She's pissed off at me. This country makes them goofy. Sure I play around, I screw the minas when I want, it's my right. Back home nobody gives a damn. It's normal behavior. But up here it's called ‘cheating,' and the wives get in a twit about it. And even if you're a foreigner the local culture rubs off eventually. So now my wife is not only bored but she wants revenge. And who would be more perfect for her revenge than you? Then maybe she'll quit bugging me.”

I squinted my eyes, grimacing, and said, “But I don't even know your wife's name.”

“It's Esther. She was born in Chile. Her screwball mom admired that North American movie actress who always wore a bathing suit.”

“But she's your
wife,
” I said.

Carlos rolled his eyes, then tried to hide his exasperation by speaking very slowly and very clearly, as if to a child.

“Hey. Just for now suspend your prejudices. I'm giving you a college education on the psychology of sex. I told you my wife is bored. I'm bored too. You can't just bang the same person forever and keep it interesting. So this will stir things up, killing a couple of birds with one stone. For starters, it'll make me jealous, blondie. It will give her an illicit thrill and more sexual confidence as well as revenge. I'll be angry at her for ‘cheating' on me. She'll get enraged at me for forcing her to ‘cheat' with you. Sounds bad, but ultimately anger and jealousy mixed together are a fabulous aphrodisiac. Do you see what I'm driving at? You may think it's complicated, but it's really very simple.”

I said, “You should ask Chuy. He'll know what to do in this situation.”

“Chuy? Are you
kidding
me? If Chuy ever even
looks
at my wife I'll hire Gino to break all his bones.”

“Well, maybe Gino is your guy, then. He really understands the pibas.”

Carlos drained his coffee, crumpled the cup, and tossed it on the sidewalk.

“What am I,
crazy
? Gino is handsome, he has no principles, he's a varón. I want to
stimulate
my wife, I don't want to
lose
her.”

I blurted, “
But I don't want to fuck your wife!
”

Carlos eyed me with suspicion, then he realized I was sincere and shrugged wistfully in defeat. “Bueno. So be it. I knew it was a long shot, but no harm done, correct? Don't ever tell anybody about this, okay?”

“Okay,” I promised.

Carlos laughed, pointing his finger at me like a little pistol. Then he said, “Pop!” and proceeded along the sidewalk in an easterly direction.

When I opened the dance studio door Jorge was sitting in his chair smoking a cigarette with the guitar on his lap, awaiting Cathy. The windows were open; the air smelled fresh and tangy. When Jorge exhaled, breezes blew the smoke in various directions.

“Where is Cathy?” I asked him.

Jorge shrugged. “No sé.”

I didn't see her dance bag or sneakers lying nearby. Jorge was alone and had been that way for a while. I checked my watch; I was late. They already should have been practicing for twenty minutes. Jorge wore his porkpie hat, a white T-shirt, and baggy pleated brown slacks without cuffs from Spain. Though old and cracked, his shoes were polished spic-and-span. His cigarette pack and book of matches lay on the sooty window ledge.

I claimed my usual spot, asking him, “Did she say she would be late?”

He shrugged again and sucked on his cigarette. Something was wrong. Aurelio Porta wasn't there, nor were any of his cronies. Jorge seemed calm and unconcerned.

“Has she ever been late like this?”

Jorge shook his head. “Nunca.”

“I wonder what happened?”

He shrugged once more, then leaned down and snuffed the cigarette with his shoe, then picked up the butt and snapped it out the window.

“There's a telephone downstairs on the sidewalk.” I searched my pockets for a dime. “We could call her and see what's up.”

He waggled his finger back and forth. “No tiene teléfono.”

Jorge lit another cigarette, politely gesturing the pack toward me so I could raise my hand to decline his invitation. He appeared to be really skinny in the T-shirt and baggy trousers. I wondered if he had enough money to eat okay and if smoking had damaged his lungs. His skin was pallid. He didn't look so tough.

Jorge tapped his wrist asking silently,
Qué hora es?
I told him. He nodded and blew a smoke ring. Way crosstown, police sirens whooped. Below us cars and buses accelerated, honking impatiently. One of Jorge's fingers touched a chord by mistake, releasing a clear little twang.