The Prince of los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood (28 page)

“
Feliz cumpleaños,
Nene,” I told Victor first thing Saturday morning at El Cocuyito. “
Gracias,
Papo,” he said. “Where’s my cake,
cabrón
?” he joked, then asked me to help him out so that he could get through all his work and leave an hour earlier. He had to get home to “prepare,” he told me. At four o’clock, with a six-pack of Muñequitas in each hand, he headed to his apartment, which was three blocks down the street from El Cocuyito. After he left, I got
tía
Gloria’s permission to take a bottle of sparkling cava—the poor man’s champagne, as she called it—to bring to Victor’s. In the bathroom at El Cocuyito, I washed up, changed into my favorite long-sleeve polo shirt, which I had brought from home, and splashed some of my father’s orange-blossom cologne over my neck and chest. As I combed my hair, I couldn’t meet my eyes in the mirror. I felt guilty about being so excited by the thought of spending a night alone with Victor. I had never been to his place, but he had given me directions. I arrived at a detached garage turned into an efficiency, with exterior walls he had painted sage green, just as he had described to me. The contrasting magenta blooms of his bougainvillea vines transformed the otherwise plain façade into a work of art. You could tell an artist lived there.

I heard opera—the mermaids singing—through the door before he opened it. “Papo!” he greeted me, seeming as surprised to see me all gussied up as I was to see him wearing a long-sleeve linen guayabera—freshly ironed—and shiny penny loafers. “Here, Nene—
felicidades,
” I said, handing him the bottle of cava and the other gifts. “
Pero
why all this?
Gracias, coño,
I haven’t had a birthday present since I left Cuba,” he said as he ushered me to the dinette; it was a bit shabby, but adorned with a vase of colored daisies. He set the presents down on the table and asked me to take a seat, then stepped into the kitchenette. The efficiency was one open room: in one corner a twin mattress rested on the floor, neatly made up with an embroidered bedspread. Lit candles adorned every flat surface, it seemed. On one of the walls he had drawn a mural like the one he had drawn in the loft—a collage of distorted figures and shapes.

He returned from the kitchenette with a bowl of mixed nuts, sliced chorizo, and two ice-cold Muñequitas. He handed me one, and then sat on his bed across from me. “
Bueno,
here’s to my
Quinces,
” he said, lifting his beer up in a toast. “If you’re fifteen, I’m not even born yet,” I quipped. We laughed, but there was something different about our laughter—we weren’t at work anymore, no longer employees, but two men alone in a room by ourselves. Even so, our evening began with a bit of the usual small talk: how hot and unbearable August had become, the size of Sonia’s butt, Don Gustavo’s senility and his goof-ups at the bodega. After a second round of Muñequitas, I began to loosen up, and asked him to tell me about the mural he’d drawn on the wall. “It’s called
Los Cocuyitos,
” he explained. “Here are all the women that flirt your
tío
Pipo—he’s wrapping them in butcher paper; that’s your
tía
Gloria dressed as a beauty queen to represent all the beauty inside her; all these people are the customers tossing flowers at her; this is me, finding my way through a maze of boxes; and that’s you with a halo of fireflies, floating above everything, on your way to see your friend Julio in the other world.”

It was beautiful—like the poem, like the mermaids, like imaginary numbers—and yet I couldn’t explain to him what I felt exactly. All I could say was, “Is this the surprise you had for me?” “No, no. Not yet, Papo,” he said, and brought us another round of Muñequitas. “Well, open your presents, then,” I said, and handed them to him. One by one he opened the gifts somewhat bashfully, but making a fuss. “
Gracias,
Papo, you’re
tremendo
! I can sure use these. And this is perfect for what I had in mind,” he said. I wasn’t sure what he meant. But then he sat on the floor, opened up the sketchbook, and fingered through the pencils I had just given him. He picked one up and said: “Hold still, Papo. I’m going to draw a portrait of you—that’s my surprise.” “Make sure I come out good,” I joked, speaking like a ventriloquist, trying not to move my lips. “You could never come out ugly, even if I tried, Papo,” he said and winked at me. The silence as he drew was awkward, yet gorgeous. Victor and I had never had such a moment without words—a moment of pure being in each other’s company.

After about fifteen minutes, he got up off the floor and showed me his sketch. “
Mira
. It’s not done yet, but I’ll finish it.
¿Te gusta?
” he asked. “Yes, yes, Nene.
Coño,
it looks just like me. I wish I could draw like that,” I said. The portrait was lifelike, not abstract like most of his drawings that I’d seen; I could see myself—the long line of my nose, my bushy eyebrows. We gazed at the sketch, then looked at each other. He leaned into me and gave me a tender kiss on my cheek. “
Te adoro
—I adore you,” he said. I could see my reflection in his eyes:
Do I dare disturb the universe? Dare to kiss him, feel his stubble against my palm, the fine hairs of his chest through my fingers? Feel his strong hands on my body?

“Me too—I adore you too,” I blurted out nervously, then changed the subject. “Let’s open the bottle of cava I brought.” I expected him to become peeved or even angry with me, but he didn’t. Instead he said, “
Está bien,
Papo,
te quiero
anyway. One day you’ll be ready.” I didn’t respond, pretending I didn’t know what he was talking about, even though I did—and he knew I did. He knew I was petrified—incapable—of acknowledging the truth that I had always known: I was a gay man,
un maricón
, just as Abuela had feared. But I couldn’t disturb the universe—not yet, anyway.

Victor stepped to the kitchenette and returned with cava served in two mugs; we clinked them, but toasted to nothing. Without my asking, he began sharing details about his life: “I knew I was different since I was
un niño,
but I was too scared most of my life to admit who I really was. I even got married, but she felt more like a friend.
Al fin,
I met someone very special—Omar, the man I drew in the mural. I fell in love with him and I couldn’t deny who I was anymore. So I got divorced, and went on about my life with him.” I had never heard a man speak about another man that way. I avoided his eyes, yet his honesty made me feel closer to him. Though I couldn’t be honest with him in the same way, I felt I should say something: “So everything’s okay now?” I asked.

Victor paused, took in what I had said, but didn’t answer my question. Instead he offered me some advice: “You know who you are, Papo—that’s never going to change—
nunca
. I know it isn’t easy, but one day you’ll know when the time is right and everything will be okay. Until then, you just need to be yourself as much as you can. You’ll lose your fear
poquito a poco
. Now, you better get home before you get in trouble. And anyway, I have to work tomorrow—I don’t get Sundays off like you,
Señor Jefe
.”

We slowly made our way to the front door. Our
adiós
turned into an awkward but genuine hug. I felt his heartbeats, smelled the musk of his neck, heard his breaths, then let go of him and walked away. On the drive back home, I thought about all I hadn’t dared to say to Victor: my shame over wanting Francisco Hernandez, how Anita felt like a friend, just like his ex-wife felt to him, what a terrible fake I was around Julio, and how much my
abuela
had ridiculed and hurt me.

On Monday I returned to El Cocuyito, hoping Victor and I could fall back into our same routine and rituals, and our friendship would continue just as before, despite all he had shared with me. But when I arrived that morning, Victor was not there. I asked
tía
Gloria for him. “He called. He’s got a fever. You’re on your own today, Riqui,” she said. I didn’t think anything of it until I went up to the loft to fetch some boxes of paper towels. There, pinned to one of the boxes, was the finished portrait of me, but less realistic than the one he’d started on Saturday: a halo over my head—the same one he had drawn on the mural; one of my eyes shut, the other wide open; half my face blurred; my shirt made of fish scales. I knew it was his way of saying good-bye. I thought about going to his house to talk things over, but knew things would never be the same. His friendship—his love for me—would challenge me to face myself and admit what I wasn’t ready to admit. It was easier, though painful, to let him go and be alone again: my own face staring back at me from the portrait in my hands, and the words he had written on the back: Adiós,
Papo. Keep listening to the mermaids. You’ll know when you know
.

T
hat seafood paella
tía
Susana made last Sunday was the best I’ve tasted since Cuba.
¡Qué rico!
” Papá dared to say that Friday at the dinner table. “It was good . . .” Mamá conceded, “but
un poquito
salty. Don’t you think?” she asked Papá, clearing his plate before he had finished or could answer her loaded question. They were talking about the big family picnic last Sunday at El Farito, the state beach park at the end of Key Biscayne. The Sunday picnic had become a tradition that summer, and the responsibility of preparing the feast every week rotated from woman to woman. The coming Sunday was Mamá’s turn—and she wasn’t about to be outdone or out-cooked by
tía
Susana. “
Bueno,
I think you’ll love what I going to make better than any paella,” she announced. “I spoke to Ariel yesterday. He’s going to bring me
un lechón
from his friend who has a farm in Homestead. We’re going to have a real pig roast, just like Nochebuena.”
“Qué bien,”
Abuela said, uninterested, not offering to help; her turn had already passed and she had proven herself with a delicious pot of
ropa vieja
. “Ariel?” I asked. “
Sí,
Ariel Jimenez, Margarita’s son.
¿No te acuerdas?
They came on the same boat with your
tía
Nena,” Mamá said, refreshing my memory.

Ariel and his parents were refugees who fled Cuba as part of the Mariel boatlift. I’d first met them at an
almuerzo
at our house just days after they had arrived. Ariel must have been about twelve years old, the same age as I had been, and just as fat—or
hoosky,
as Mamá would say. She had asked me to be friendly and make Ariel feel welcomed. I tried, but he was weird: couldn’t speak a word of English, didn’t know how to play Monopoly, had never seen any of the
Star Wars
movies. With nothing to talk about, we politely ignored each other the rest of the afternoon. I hadn’t seen Ariel or his family since. They weren’t blood relatives, and besides, Cubans who had been in Miami since the sixties didn’t typically socialize with refugees from
El Mariel
. Miami Cubans had adopted a “we were here first” attitude toward the Marielitos, whom they generally regarded as bumpkins and riffraff tainted by exposure to Castro’s socialist regime.

Though I had always thought of Mamá as the
comandante
in our family, as I grew older, I began noticing she also had a fairy godmother side—a soft spot for those in need. She had kept in touch with Ariel’s family over the years, helping them fill out job applications and collecting hand-me-downs for them sometimes. I imagined Ariel must’ve been more than eager to help Mamá when she called on him to find her a pig.

Certainly more than I was that Saturday morning, when she handed me a list of items to bring home from El Cocuyito: ten bags of ice, fourteen heads of garlic, a two-liter bottle of Coke, eight bitter oranges, and six limes. She phoned me at the store midafternoon to remind me, and asked me to be home by six to help her and Ariel, who would be dropping off the pig.
“Ay,
I hope it’s gutted,” she said, nervous with excitement. “I forgot to ask him. Tell your
tío
Pipo to lend you his big butcher knives,
por si las moscas
.” I arrived home with Mamá’s groceries, the cleaver, and an assortment of carving knives I had stowed under the driver’s seat of Papá’s
Malibú,
which was still in mint condition, he claimed. Parked in our driveway was a late-model Honda Civic halfway through a new metallic-gold paint job, and pimped out with chrome mags and a cracked rear spoiler.
What a bro car,
I thought.
That’s gotta be Ariel’s Cuban Cadillac
. Topping it all off: a Cuban flag ornament hanging from the rearview mirror.

I opened the door on Mamá and Ariel chatting at the kitchen table over
un cafecito
. I hardly recognized him as she reintroduced us: “Riqui, you remember Ariel,
¿verdad? ¡Mira qué grande y flaco!
He’s six inches taller than you. When are you going to catch up?” she teased me. Indeed, he was over six feet tall, nearly hitting the lamp above the dining table as he stood to greet me. “Hey,” I said, uninterested as I put out my hand, which he took, pulling me toward him into a bear hug.
“¡Coño, el primo gringo!”
he greeted me, calling me his cousin, though I wasn’t; calling me a gringo, though I wasn’t. “
¿Qué pasa consorte?
How you been, bro?” he asked.
“Bien, bien,”
I answered in Spanish, thinking he still couldn’t speak English, which of course he could, much better than my parents in fact, though intermingled with Spanish and some Spanglish, just like them.

“You looking good,
compai
. Lost all that baby fat, just like me,” he said, smacking his rock-hard stomach. Indeed, his T-shirt fit loosely around his waistline, but tight across his chest, the short sleeves hugging his massive biceps. He certainly wasn’t the
hoosky
boy I remembered. “
¿Bueno y qué?
I hear you’re a genius, man—
y un tremendo
playboy,” he continued, dishing out compliment after compliment, surely gleaned from Mamá’s bragging. “
Bueno,
I don’t know about that,
pero si eso es lo que dice la gente
—so be it,” I said, mimicking (or mocking) his mix of English and Spanish. He was loud. He was fresh. He was
very
Cuban. But he had sea-green eyes fringed with thick, dark eyelashes that seemed to slow down time with every blink. “
Vamos,
gringo, let’s get
el lechón
out of the trunk—wait till you see it,” he said. “No—first
el hielo,
” Mamá intervened, ordering us to fetch the ten bags of ice and empty them into
my
bathtub. “For what?” I asked—a dumb question.
“Ay, niño, para el lechón
—what else? You think I can fit a whole pig
en el frigeraide? Qué bobo,
” Mamá quipped.