The Halfway House (New Directions Paperbook) (9 page)

“Pedro,” I say to him. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes,” he says.

I give him a quarter.

“Thank you,” he says, smiling. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Pedro smile.

“I’m Peruvian,” he says. “From the country of the condor.”

I go in. I go to the women’s room and gently push the door. Frances is on her bed, drawing. I sit next to her and kiss her face. She stops drawing and takes me by the arm.

“Let’s look for a house,” I say.

I glance at the front page of the paper.

PEKING REJECTS MARX’S IDEAS AS ANTIQUATED.
AIR PIRATES ARE GOING TO KILL MORE HOSTAGES.
WOMAN WHO KILLED HER HUSBAND EXONERATED.

That’s enough for me. I quickly search for the classifieds and read: “Furnished apartment. Two bedrooms. Terrace. Carpeted. Pool. Free hot water. Four hundred dollars.”

“That one, my angel!” says Frances.

“No. It’s very expensive.”

I keep searching. I read the whole list of rentals, and, finally, point at one with my finger. “This one.”

It’s on Flagler and 16th Avenue. It costs two hundred dollars. You have to go and speak with the owner in person. A woman named Haidee will see people from nine to six. It’s three in the afternoon.

“I’m going there right now,” I tell Frances.

“Oh my God!” she says, pressing herself against me.

“Do I look okay?” I ask her, smoothing my hair with my hands.

“I think you look okay,” she says.

“Then I’m going to talk to that woman,” I say. I stand up.

“My angel,” says Frances, looking for something in her drawer. “Take this and put it under your tongue when you go talk to that woman. It never fails.”

“What is it?”

“A cinnamon twig,” she says. “It brings good luck.”

I take it and put it in my pocket.

“I’ll do it,” I say. I take one of her hands and kiss it. I go out to the street. As I pass by Pepe, the older of the two retards, I take his bald head in my hands and kiss it. He takes my hand.

“Do you love me, little boy?” he says.

“Of course!”

He takes one of my hands and kisses it.

“Thank you, little boy,” he says, moved.

“And me? And me?” René, the other retard, asks from his chair.

“You, too,” I say.

He stands up and comes over to me, dragging his feet. He hugs me tightly. Then he laughs boisterously.

“And me, William?” asks Napoleon, the Colombian midget. “Do you love me? Am I worthy of your affection?”

“Yes,” I say. “You, too.”

Then he comes over to me and hugs me around the waist.

“Thank you, William,” he says, also moved. “Thank you for loving me, too, a sinner.”

I burst out laughing. I loosen myself from his embrace. I go out to Flagler Street.

Upon arriving at Flagler and 8th Avenue, an old American in a wheelchair asks me for a cigarette. He has a blond dirty beard and is wearing rags. He’s missing a leg.

I give him the cigarette.

“Sit down here, just a minute,” he says, taking me by the hand.

I sit on a bench, by his side.

“Have a drink,” he says, taking a bottle of plum wine out of his middle.

“No,” I say. “I have to go.”

“Have a drink!” he orders energetically. He takes a long swig and then passes me the bottle. I drink. I like it. I drink again.

“Are you a veteran of the Vietnam war?” I ask. “No,” he says. “I’m a veteran of the shit war.”

I burst out laughing.

“Okay,” I say. “But maybe you fought in the Second World War. Did you?”

“Oh, yes!” he says. “I fought in Madison Square Garden and in Disneyland, too.”

All of a sudden, he becomes angry.

“Why is it you Cubans always want to see how brave I am? Go and fight your fucking mother.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“Don’t worry,” he says, calmer. “Have a drink,” he takes another swig and passes me the bottle. I take three long swigs.

His face gets excited.

“You are a nice fellow,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say, standing up. “I have to go.” I take one of his filthy hands and squeeze tightly. A truck passes with a black American driver and a huge sign in red paint that says: “THANK YOU, BUDDY.”

I let go of the American vagrant’s hand and continue on my way to 16th Avenue. When I reach 12th Avenue, someone yells my name. I turn around. I barely recognize Máximo, an old friend who, like me, has been through various psychiatric clinics. He has lost a lot of weight and is wearing dirty, rag-like clothes. He’s barefoot.

“Máximo!” I say, shaking his hand. “What happened to you?”

“I chose to flee,” he says. “I was in a home, like you, and chose to flee. To the streets! Anywhere!”

“Máximo,” I say, “go back, damn it. You look awful.”

“Don’t tell me to go back!” he says, looking me in the eye, enraged. “I’ll think that you’re also in on the conspiracy to ruin my life.”

“What conspiracy, Máximo?”

“This conspiracy!” he announces, making a sweeping gesture with his hands. “Whores and faggots!” he says. “Everyone, whore or faggot.”

“Máximo … ,” but I don’t know what else to say to him. He has chosen the street. He would rather defend what is left of his freedom than live in a home with another Curbelo, another Arsenio, another Reyes, Pepe or René.

“It’s better if you don’t say anything at all to me,” he says. “Do you have money for coffee?”

I take a quarter out of my pocket and give it to him.

“Even with all this crap,” Máximo says. “Even with all this crap, I wouldn’t ever want to return to Cuba.”

I look at him. I realize that he’s defending his freedom—his freedom to wander and destroy himself slowly. Freedom, nonetheless. I hug him. I turn on my heels and continue on my way.

I walk several blocks until I stop, at 16th Avenue, in front of a yellow two-story house. The number on it corresponds to the one in the newspaper ad. The front door is open. I go in. I look for apartment number six, where Ms. Haidee lives. Everything smells like fresh paint. It’s pleasant. I go to door number six and ring the bell. I wait. Inside, a dog barks. Then the door opens and a fat woman, about fifty years old, appears.

“Haidee?” I say. “I’ve come about the newspaper ad.”

“Come in,” she says pleasantly.

I go in. I sit on a sofa. She sits in front of me in a wicker chair. She examines my face.

“Aren’t you from Havana?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t your family live on San Rafael street, near the Rex Cinema?”

“Yes,” I say, surprised.

“Aren’t you the son of Dr. Figueras, the lawyer whose office was near the Capitol building?”

“That’s right.”

“Isn’t your mom’s name Carmela?”

“Yes,” I exclaim, laughing.

“Kid!” she says happily. “I was your mother’s friend for many years. We used to sell Avon products together.”

“How amazing!” I say.

“Are you here about the apartment?” “Yes,” I say. “There are two of us. My wife and me.”

“Do you want to see it?”

“Yes.”

She gets up from her chair and goes over to a sideboard. She opens a drawer and takes out a bunch of keys. She smiles the whole time.

“How lucky that you were the one to come!” she says. “I don’t like renting to strangers.”

We leave. We walk down a dark hallway and stop in front of a door marked with a number two. Haidee opens the door. We go in.

“It’s magnificent!” I think upon entering.

The apartment is freshly painted. Roomy and well-lit. The kitchen is new. So is the refrigerator. There’s a full-size bed, three armchairs and a sideboard.

“Closet … ,” she says, opening a large closet.

“I like it,” I say, excited. “I’ll take it.”

“Right now?” Haidee asks.

“No, tomorrow. Can you hold it for me until tomorrow?”

She smiles.

“I can,” she says. “I don’t normally do that, but for you, I’ll hold it.”

“Thank you, Haidee …”

“Your mother and I were great friends,” she says: “Great!”

She takes me by the arm.

“You won’t have any troubles here,” she says. “Everyone is very peaceful. The market is close by. And besides, I’ll be here.”

“Is electricity free, Haidee?”

“Electricity and gas,” she says. “You get everything for two hundred. But this month you have to pay one hundred dollars extra. The owner’s request,” she explains. “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t have to pay anything.”

“I know,” I say.

We talk a little while longer. About Havana, about friends in common, about her plan to travel to Cuba in the coming months. We talk about Madrid, a place where we both spent time before arriving in the United States. At last, I shake her hand.

“Okay, Haidee, expect me tomorrow afternoon,” I tell her.

She brings me close to her and kisses my cheek.

“I’m so glad to have you as a neighbor!” she says. “You’ll be fine here.”

I kiss her face.

“Goodbye, Haidee,” I say, backing away toward the front door.

“See you tomorrow,” she says, waving from the door.

I go back out onto the street. The sun is setting. I stop on the sidewalk for a few moments and take a deep breath. I smile. I’d like to have Frances with me right now and hug her tightly. Slowly, leisurely. I go back to the halfway house.

I get to the halfway house around six in the evening. Mr. Curbelo has left and at his desk sits Arsenio, who’s in charge, with his ever-present can of Budweiser in hand.

“Hey, Mafia,” he says when he sees me come in. “Sit down a while here. Let’s talk.”

I sit in a chair by him. I look at his face. Although I find him intensely repulsive, I feel a little pity. He’s only thirty-two-years old and the only thing he knows how to do is drink beer and play numbers. His dream is to win a thousand dollars all at once and then …

“If I win, Mafia, if number 38 comes out tonight, I’ll buy a truck and start a business picking up old boxes. Do you know how much they pay for a ton of cardboard? Seventy dollars! Do you want to work with me on that truck?”

“First, number 38 has to win,” I say. “Then, I’m sure you’ll drink the thousand dollars in one day.”

He bursts out laughing.

“I would stop drinking,” he says. “I swear I would stop drinking.”

“You’re already lost,” I say. “You’re an animal, my dear friend.”

“Why?” he says. “Why don’t you respect me, Mafia? Why doesn’t anyone love me?”

“Your life is a mess,” I say. “You’ve settled in here, in this filthy house. If you need two bucks, you steal from the nuts. If you feel like being with a woman, you screw Hilda, that decrepit old hag. Curbelo exploits you, but you’re happy. You beat the nuts up. You give orders like a drill sergeant. You lack creativity.”

He laughs again.

“One day I’ll crown!” he says.

“What do you mean by ‘crown’?” I say.

“Crown means, in old criminal speak, you make a major hit. Steal something big. One hundred thousand. Two hundred thousand. Here, as you look at me, I’m planning a big hit. And I’ll crown. I’ll crown! And then I’ll say to you, ‘Here, Mafia, have two hundred dollars. Do you need more? Take three hundred!’”

“You’re a dreamer,” I say. “Drink. It’s the best you can do.”

“You’ll see!” he says. “You’ll see me around Miami—twenty gold chains around my neck with a hot blonde at my side! You’ll see me in a Cadillac Dorado! You’ll see me with a three-thousand-dollar watch and a six-hundred-dollar suit. You’ll see me, Mafia!”

“I hope you crown!” I say.

“You’ll see me.”

I stand up, I make a half turn and walk toward the women’s room. When I get there, I softly nudge the door and go inside. Frances is on her bed, putting her clothes in two paper bags. I go over to her and hug her gently around the waist. I kiss her neck.

“My angel!” she says. “Did you see that woman? Did you get the house?”

“Yes,” I say. “Tomorrow at this time, we’ll be sleeping in a clean delicious bed.”

“Oh, my God!” she says, looking up at the ceiling. “Oh, my God!”

“A dining room.” I say. “One bedroom. A kitchen. A bathroom. All of it clean, pretty, freshly painted. All for us.”

“My angel, my angel!” she says. “Kiss me!”

I kiss her on the mouth. I squeeze one of her breasts through her dress. She smells good. If she weighed a few more pounds and took better care of herself, she’d be pretty. I lay her down gently on the bed. I remove her shoes. I go to the door and lock it. She takes her own clothes off this time.

“Tomorrow … ,” I say as I enter her slowly. “Tomorrow we’ll be doing this in our own house.”

“My angel … ,” she says.

I dreamt that I was in Havana again, in a funeral parlor on Calle 23. I was surrounded by numerous friends. We were drinking coffee. All of a sudden, a white door opened and in came a casket on the shoulders of a dozen wailing women. One of my friends elbowed me in the ribs and said, “They’re bringing in Fidel Castro.”

We turned around. The old ladies placed the coffin in the middle of the room and left, weeping hysterically. Then the coffin opened. Fidel stuck a hand out first. Then the top half of his body. Finally all of him emerged. He smoothed his full-dress uniform and approached us, a smile on his face.

“Isn’t there any coffee for me?” he asked. Somebody gave him a cup.

“Well, we’re already dead,” Fidel said. “Now you’ll see that doesn’t solve anything, either.”

I wake up. It’s morning already. It’s the big day. In three hours the social security checks will arrive and Frances and I will leave the halfway house. I jump out of bed. I grab the filthy towel and a sliver of soap and head for the bathroom. I wash up. I urinate. I leave the towel and the soap in the bathroom knowing that I won’t need them anymore. I head for the living room. The nuts are having breakfast, but Frances is there, sitting in a corner next to the TV.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says. “Let’s leave now!”

“We have to wait,” I say. “The checks are coming at ten.”

“I’m scared,” she says. “Let’s leave now!”

“Calm down,” I say. “Calm down. Did you already get your things together?”

“Yes.”

“Then calm down,” I say, kissing the top of her head.

I look at her. Just thinking that this afternoon I will be making love to her in a clean soft bed makes me hard.