The Empanada Brotherhood (9 page)

Alfonso said, “You couldn't give away that stuff to a starving Armenian.”

“Screw you.” Popeye pleaded: “Oíme, patrón. I'm so broke my balls are falling off. And my partner here hasn't sold a painting in eight months. One day he'll be more famous than Picasso. But right now we're both in deep shit.”

“How many cartons do you have in that truck?” the boss asked.

“One hundred.”

“Don't do it,” Luigi warned. “They'll arrest you for poisoning the public.”

Roldán studied Popeye and Carlos for a few seconds. Then he said, “I'll take eight boxes for starters.”

Popeye jumped for joy and ran over to fetch them. Carlos admitted, “To be honest, maestro, even a pig couldn't eat this swill.”

The cook replied, “I know. But you misfits are friends of mine.”

I said, “James Dean was only twenty-four when he died in a car crash.”

They looked at me, puzzled.

I asked Alfonso to come see Cathy Escudero and Jorge with me. “They're so talented you will be amazed.” Sporadic snowflakes dogged us on the way over. A few old Christmas trees with shreds of tinsel were lying beside garbage cans. I felt glum because two more short-story rejection slips had arrived in the mail.

Adding insult to injury, Alfonso complained, “Flamenco is crude and brutal. It's abrupt and nerve-shattering. Like bullfighting, full of blood and pretentious acrobatics. It doesn't belong in Argentina. I prefer what is melancholy and beautiful—for example the tango, which doesn't bash you to smithereens with obnoxious flamboyance.”

We ascended in the Fourteenth Street elevator and walked down the hallway. I placed my hand on the doorknob: “Are you finished, profe, or is there anything else you want to get off your chest?” Through the door we could hear Jorge's guitar and Cathy's noisy stomping.

Alfonso said, “I'll spare you, blondie. I'm feeling compassionate.”

I opened the door and we tip-toed inside, taking a seat at my customary spot against the east wall of the studio. Cathy had chopsticks through her bun and a yellow fringed scarf around her shoulders. She was practicing with the scarf, suddenly grabbing it and twisting underneath, flashing the thing quickly like a bullfighting cape and then landing it magically against her shoulders and neck again. To me the routine seemed graceful and I was sure Alfonso would be impressed.

But he grew fidgety. Of course the studio was cold. Yet our warmth, or at least Cathy's heat, had put condensation on the windows. Nevertheless, you could see every breath on the frigid air.

Alfonso was not enthralled by the dancing or by the music, and his lips turned blue. After ten minutes as a spectator he leaned close to whisper: “My balls are totally shrunk. Yo ya me voy.”

My pal stood up and marched out.

Cathy quit dancing. “Who the hell was that?”

“A friend,” I explained nervously. “He got cold. That sarape he wears is stupid for a New York winter. It couldn't keep him warm in the Amazon. But he's a mathematician and too poor to buy a proper jacket.”

“Where's he from?” she asked. “The Soviet Union? He looks like a communist. I don't like him.”

“Actually, he lives in Buenos Aires. He's on scholarship here studying at NYU.”

“He was rude to me.”

“Not deliberately. His manner seems abrupt because he's timid. But his heart is as big as China.”

Cathy said, “Who are you, his fucking agent?”

“Excuse me?”

The dancer barked an order at Jorge, who started playing again. Cathy walked around impatiently waiting for the proper moment to hop back into the dance like a schoolgirl planning to reenter a sidewalk game of jump rope.

When next I met Alfonso at the empanada stand I asked, “What happened at the dance studio? Why were you so impolite?”

“I know that girl, blondie. She waited on me at El Parrillón on Forty-seventh Street.”

“What were you doing up there?”

“I wanted to eat a lot of barbecued meat and be constipated for three days.”

“How could you afford it? You never have any money.”

“That's right, but you forget I'm a gaucho at heart. So at times price is no object.”

“Well, what happened?”

“Nothing. I ate a lot of barbecued meat and was constipated for three days.”

“I mean with Cathy Escudero.”

“She was rude. She acted like a prima donna, not a waitress. With her nose stuck up in the air. She's got an Anna Magnani complex. And she never cracked a smile.”

“Maybe she hates her job,” I said.

“Everybody hates their job, kid. That's no reason to be a sourpuss.”

“Don't you think she's beautiful?” I asked.

“Of course, but so what?”

Alfonso stuck an index finger into his hot chocolate mug, scooping out a sugary brown film near the bottom. He licked it off carefully. All the destitute boys who visited the empanada stand were like that. Food was precious and they devoured every last bit of it.

“She's also a good dancer,” I said.

“In Buenos Aires? Maybe.”

“What does that mean?”

“In Spain they'd throw tomatoes.”

That put a damper on our conversation.

Alfonso draped a conciliatory arm around my shoulders. “No te preocupés,” he said. “Women are like cats. Either you cotton to them or you don't. My Renata is worse than that ersatz flamenco dancer. She loves to argue for argument's sake, and nothing is worse than a female sophist enamored of specious altercation. It's exhausting. She throws away money like a millionaire even if she only has twenty pesos. My other girlfriend, Sofía, is frugal and never confrontational. She's pregnant with common sense and compassionate spirituality, a regular Teresa of Ávila. She also wants children, as I do. Renata thinks kids are a filthy mucus that should be flushed down the toilet. She's more like Hedda Gabler.”

He paused, reflecting on his two women.

“But it's Renata I'm crazy about even though she drives me crazy.”

I entered the Mexican Village restaurant on Thompson Street chased by a gust of frigid wind. I had extra cash from running errands for the messenger service on Sixth Avenue near Charlton. I sat down next to La Petisa and Popeye who were halfway through a meal of enchiladas, refried beans, and red wine. They were in high spirits. The waiter brought me a wineglass.

Popeye filled it as he said, “We are celebrating our noviada. I've inherited the five languages from Luigi.”

“I told Luigi good-bye,” La Petisa said. “One more day of the festering place he calls his pad and I would have gone bonkers. El Coco walked in on me when I was taking a shower and didn't even apologize. Of course, I have exchanged Luigi for a man who rolls his underwear into tiny bundles. I press them with an iron to make them pretty, but he immediately scrunches them up into balls. He claims he learned this from the navy and it keeps his clothing neat. Neat? Caramba! I also make him wear a shirt in bed because those tattoos are disgusting. And when is he going to buy some
teeth
?”

I said, “Hey, don't be so mean. It isn't po—”

“Don't worry, kid,” Popeye interrupted. “She's not even firing BBs. These teeth were knocked out by a Singapore hooker. An Italian puta once stole my wallet, my bell-bottoms,
and
my seaman's card. An Egyptian slut stabbed me in the buttocks with a hat pin. I am used to the abuse of women. In fact, I like it as long as they give me the Little Clamshell in return.”

I summoned the courage to address La Petisa: “Well, you go with a lot of guys. Don't you ever want to stay with one person?”

“I do the same thing with countries,” she said. “That's how I like it. Every nation I visit has the most fabulous geography … hasta me encuentro podrida de aburrimiento. Then I move on. But always I learn a lot. I've had an incredible education.”

I asked, “But are you happy?”

“Am I
happy
? Sometimes yes, sometimes no, but that isn't the important part.”

“You're always in motion,” I said. “Maybe you never stay long enough to understand the place you are in or the person you are with.”

La Petisa laughed. “Aren't
you
loquacious today, my friend.” Then she bent close to me. “I understand
motion,
blondie. My soul wants to keep
moving.
Like a bee collecting pollen. I'm storing up memories now so that later when I am an old bag with arthritis I can nibble on the honeycombs composed of all my adventures. Capeesh?”

I said, “Of course,” just as a cardboard box hurled by the wind hit a nearby window. We all jumped.

Popeye said, “It's simple, nene. God gave us genitals for a reason. I got laid for the first time when I was eleven years old. My grandpa paid for it. The last thing I'll do on my deathbed is make some bumptious amazon happy. Meanwhile, I have La Petisa and she has me, a collaboration made in heaven.”

La Petisa winked at me, reaching under the table as she leaned forward to kiss Popeye: “This man is such a child, blondie. His brains are the size of a fingernail.”

Popeye grinned. “So what? The last time I checked, my prick didn't have a cerebellum.”

When next I visited the dance studio, Cathy asked, “Where's your communist novio from the Soviet Union?” She grabbed a small towel from her tote bag and wiped her forehead. I had just taken my spot against the wall to watch them practice. Jorge was replacing a broken guitar string.

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe in class at NYU. Or grading student papers.”

“He's a jackass,” she said. “Mr. Superior. A xenophobe. I bet he hates anything Spanish.”

I smiled and tipped my head a little, noncommittal.

Cathy told Jorge, “Hurry up, maestro, I'm getting cold. I'm all wet. I don't want to freeze to death.”

Jorge took nail clippers from his guitar case and cut off the end of the new nylon string. He tightened the wooden tuning peg while Cathy walked around impatiently, swinging her arms back and forth to keep them limber. She had put on her overcoat as soon as they stopped.

“I don't like intellectuals, blondie. They read too many books. They're afraid of life. They live vicariously.”

“I know what you mean,” I said.

Cathy put her hands on her hips and regarded me. Something changed. Her eyes brightened and her cheeks suddenly glowed; her demeanor was altered completely. She filled up with light, her skin gleaming, fevered in a way that was almost celestial. I was startled and began to get aroused. After a moment she said, “You're a very patient person. I like your blue eyes.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“But you're too polite with women, blondie. You act like a scaredy-cat. I want to kick you to wake you up.”

I said, “I'm awake.”

Jorge said, “Listo,” and played an arpeggio to prove it.

“Okay, back to work.” Cathy took off her overcoat and dropped it on top of the tote bag. She told Jorge, “Start playing. I'll come in on the llamada.”

He began to play while Cathy listened, tapping her toe in compás until suddenly he paused and then hit the llamada with six fast downward strokes and Cathy erupted, shouting, “Watch this, blondie!” as she swirled into the dance with a great lust to be perfect.

I got fired at the Night Owl Café because they were closing for renovations. I also received another short-story rejection slip and a rejection postcard from publisher number two. When I showed up at the empanada stand only Luigi, El Coco, and Roldán were there listening to a melancholy Carlos Gardel record on the Victrola. Greenwich Village was deserted and Roldán had sold only six empanadas, a pastelito, and two Cokes all evening.

Luigi was hunched way down with his bomber jacket collar turned up. He was smoking a cigarette like Jean-Paul Belmondo.

El Coco had on his filthy hooded parka and his gloves with the fingers chopped off. His unruly black beard probably harbored bedbugs and silverfish. He could have been a refugee from the trenches at Verdun during World War I.

“I'm tired,” Luigi said. “I hate my job at the library. Why do I bet on the horses? I got drunk again last night and had another fight with a stranger. I always win because they're afraid to beat me up. And whenever I look in the mirror I see Bela Lugosi playing a vampire or Frankenstein.”

Gardel sang:

When you're not with me,
I can't smell the flowers,
I can't hear birds singing,
And the night is so cold.

Roldán lifted the coffeepot. “Want me to hit you again?”

“Yeah.” Luigi nudged his cup forward two inches and the fat man refilled it. “Gracias.”

I asked, “How come you're in such a good mood?”

“Because La Petisa dumped me. You know
why
she dumped me? Because she couldn't stand my friend El Coco. You know why else? Because I am gorgeous like Clark Gable and she wanted a more ordinary-looking man, like that toothless loser Popeye. Of course, I wouldn't be so jealous if she had screwed me at least a few times.”

He wrinkled his lip and ventured a sip of coffee.

Then he said, “Dale, blondie, let's take a stroll. I need more smokes.”

We said good-bye to the fat man and headed north on MacDougal. El Coco followed along behind us like a hunch-back from Notre Dame. Snow had melted away completely yet the city felt clammy and cold. All the buildings seemed old and shabby and garbage littered the sidewalks. Luigi had only one cigarette left, but Johnny had closed the Italian Newsstand early.

Luigi grumbled, “See how my luck is going? We'll probably have to walk a mile for a Camel.”

While we marched along the burnt man talked about his life.