The Empanada Brotherhood

  The heart has its reasons which even reason does not understand. I thought about Alfonso’s two novias, Renata and Sofía. I thought about La Petisa with Gino, then with Luigi, then with Popeye. And then she had flirted with me—why me? I thought about Eduardo and Adriana, and I also thought about all of the girlfriends Luigi had before his face got burned. I thought of Chuy’s book of girls and his attitude toward women, and I wondered why girls were attracted to cripples. I didn’t forget Roldán and Teresa Mono, the girl who broke his heart and exiled him from Argentina. Nor did I forget Popeye and Martha, or Gino’s surprise that I didn’t have a girlfriend: Che, blondie, all you need is this.

  In the movie, Jules said, “All these hearts reaching out toward each other, my God what pain they cause.” Jeanne Moreau was also like Alfonso’s girl Renata—mercurial. Above all she wanted her way and her freedom. Jules was like me, and also like Alfonso’s other girl, Sofía, who resembled Jim’s patient long-suffering lover, Gilberte. How could Cathy Escudero be attracted to a man like Aurelio Porta?

  I sat through the next showing of the movie. There was a moment in Paris, seconds before Catherine jumped into the Seine, where Jim and Jules quoted Baudelaire on the subject of women. Baudelaire said they were “abominable,” “monsters,” “assassins of art,” “little fools,” “little sluts,” “imbecilic,” and “depraved.” He added, “I have always been astonished that women are allowed in churches. What can they have to say to God?”

  When Jim and Catherine finally made love, Jim became emotionally enslaved to her and all other women ceased to exist for him. Jules accepted the loss of his wife and remained friends with Jim in order to stay as close as possible to Catherine. Soon Catherine became jealous of Jim, they parted, then they got back together, but parted again, and Jim was finally planning to marry Gilberte when Catherine reappeared and lured Jim back to her, and their story ended in tragedy.

  At another crucial point of the film Jules explained Catherine to Jim. “She is a force of nature,” he said. “She describes herself in cataclysms.”

  I left the theater all tuckered out and wanting to describe myself in cataclysms.

  41. A Brand-New Hand

  Chuy’s arm had been fitted with a new hand and he swung by the kiosk to show it off. Alfonso, Luigi, myself, and the fat man were his audience. The friendly weather had us feeling peppy. Maybe spring had turned the corner? Luigi had won $230 betting on the trotters last night. He was overjoyed to hear that La Petisa had already dropped that scoundrel Popeye. Alfonso had just showed us a German mathematics magazine in which he had published two articles. He said the math was boring but pointed out several hilarious puns he’d inserted into the text. Roldán held up his cast, stating that he would never remove it because so many people had inscribed the white plaster of Paris with poetry and drawings. It was a work of art.

  Chuy had a black glove over his new hand and the prosthetic looked almost real.

  “I’ll learn how to caress women with it. I expect to double my volume of dates. I’ve already started taking vitamins. Watch how I can choose which finger to wiggle.”

  “It’s a dead hand,” Alfonso said. “You can’t really feel with it.”

  Chuy disagreed. “No, it’s a miracle of modern medicine. The best hand money can buy.”

  “But all the same a dead hand,” Alfonso reiterated. “Some people could invest that hand with feeling, but for you it will only be a pornographic crab claw that scuttles and grabs and grasps.”

  Chuy warned him to stop casting aspersions. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Luigi said, “Profe is right. What woman wants to be touched by your wooden fingers?”

  Chuy, astonished, couldn’t believe who was talking. “Shut your mouth you perverted disciple of Onan.”

  Roldán tactfully shifted the focus. “Hey, manco, will you take off the hand when you go swimming?”

  “I don’t know.” Chuy seemed puzzled. “I hadn’t thought of that. And you, profe, and you, quemado: When was the last time you guys did it to a piba, ten years ago?”

  Alfonso ignored him but delivered a brief dissertation to the rest of us. “The feeling in a hand comes from the heart. Some men and women, even if they lost their hands, would have wooden prosthetics capable of touching with as much sensitivity as most flesh appendages. But not Chuy. That new hand is a piece of wood full of Novocain.”

  “You’re joking,” Chuy said.

  “No. I am dead serious.”

  “You’re jealous because even with two hands you can’t get a woman. You’re a shriveled-up pipsqueak with no virility or charisma, old before your time.”

  “Oh shut up,” Luigi said. “You are a miserable pimp.”

  “For creeps like you desperate for my services.”

  “Your funeral services.” Alfonso extended his coffee cup for a free refill. “I can’t stand morbid sex freaks.”

  “Okay.” Chuy put up his dukes. “You went too far that time, profe.”

  Luigi cried, “Mirá, che! Don’t break your new hand. Think of the money involved.”

  Chuy stopped. “Oops, I hadn’t thought of that. This thing cost me an arm and a leg.” Then he checked his watch. “Hah. In fifteen minutes I’ll be getting the old do-si-do from a chick who has a pair of thirty-eight-inch pechugas. Gentlemen, synchronize your watches. And think of me then.”

  Briskly he strode away, heading west.

  Fifteen minutes later Roldán looked at his watch and said, “Another round of coffee gratis to honor that jackal.” He dropped two pies into the grease bin for a Jersey tourist.

  As we sipped the steaming liquid Alfonso said, “Someday he’ll catch a disease and we can all kiss him good-bye.”

  Luigi said, “I hate that wooden hand more than I hate my own face.”

  I said, “He’s not all bad. He paid for El Coco’s cremation.”

  The boss glanced at his watch again. “He is probably through now, my friends.”

  “He’s making notations in his book,” Alfonso grumbled.

  Luigi said, “Now she’s putting on fresh lipstick so he can take a picture for his God damn portfolio.”

  They fell silent. Nobody said a word. The empanadas sizzled.

  Finally, Roldán laughed. He said, “You boys look like camel shit in the zoo.”

  42. Epiphany

  Cathy couldn’t get into it. Jorge kept stopping when he made a mistake and starting over. He made a lot of mistakes. He couldn’t concentrate. Then Cathy made a mistake and stopped and clenched her fists and stamped her foot angrily.

  Aurelio Porta said, “Hey, hey, relax, nenes. You accomplish nothing with undisciplined anger. Perfection is all about the control of emotional chaos.”

  He was standing against the wall beside another of his pals, a diminutive gangster wearing a hairpiece and a double-breasted suit who removed his smokes from a slim, sterling silver box.

  Jorge lit a cigarette and faced out the window in the other direction. Cathy threw up her hands but said nothing. She circled around, frowning and counting under her breath, trying to remember the tricky sequence of beats and visualize in her head all her body moves and the footwork also. Aurelio Porta folded his arms, watching her.

  Jorge smoked the cigarette down to a short butt and flicked it through the open window, still lit.

  The Uruguayan chuckled and said to me, “Temperamental artists.” He shrugged. What can you do?

  Cathy asked Jorge, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nada.”

  “Okay, let’s try again. Okay?”

  “De acuerdo.”

  Jorge formed the fingers of his left hand into an A chord, tapped his right toe three times, and began playing. Aurelio began doing his palmas, clapping softly in rhythm. And Cathy danced her little heart out but they continued goofing up and having to start over. It wasn’t pretty. Aurelio Porta tried to spur them on by clapping louder. He also grimaced and glanced at his watch a couple of times. Once again he looked over at
me and said, “These things happen.” Another shrug. What the hell.

  The double-breasted toupee beside him never said a word.

  I wanted to leave early but didn’t. Cathy appeared clumsy and Jorge was out of his element. I did not understand the problem.

  At one point Cathy stood still in the middle of the studio with her head tilted back and her arms hanging limply. She inhaled a deep breath and exhaled. Jorge slumped over his guitar and lit another cigarette. I stood up and stretched. Nobody said anything.

  When Cathy lowered her head and stared at me I realized her face wasn’t just sweaty, she had been crying. She bit her lip. She seemed befuddled.

  Then she turned to Jorge and said, “All right, you son of a bitch, this time let’s do it.”

  And suddenly they created an epiphany together. They entered another realm that was sublime and diabolical. They soared, never making an error, and their flawless execution even made Aurelio Porta shut up.

  All art yearns for bliss. Aurelio quit doing his palmas. I resisted the urge to blink as the rapture intensified between the guitarist and his dancer. I wanted to avert my eyes from their vehemence.

  How can it be explained? Jorge abandoned his reserve completely to become a ferocious man. And Cathy kowtowed to his staccato melodies like an erotic slave girl precisely obedient to her musician. What a shocking reversal of power—the peon as brutal master. Jorge drove Cathy relentlessly. It was raw and beautiful.

  Aurelio Porta didn’t like it. I was startled. The performance was more than wonderful, it was scary. When they abruptly stopped I let out a small cry. Jorge shut his eyes triumphantly and Cathy held her dramatic finishing pose as if pinioned by a sharp dagger against the wall.

  Aurelio broke the hush. “That wasn’t bad,” he said in English.

  To Jorge, in Spanish, Cathy reiterated, “He says that wasn’t bad.”

  Aurelio added in Spanish, “But you were both too shrill, without any nuance at all. You kill all the emotion when you stay at fever pitch straight through.”

  Jorge opened his eyes. They were dark, drugged and threatening, like a murderer’s. Then he wilted, becoming a stupid boy again, casual and impervious.

  43. Six Roses

  Presto!

  Finally the weather had changed for good. Roldán set a blossoming daffodil in a pot on the window ledge of the empanada stand. The flower declared: Relax. Winter is over. You could feel enthusiasm and germination on the air. Across the street Dante’s Café had put two little tables and four chairs on the sidewalk.

  Popeye said, “I heard you had a crush on that flamenco dancer from Buenos Aires who thinks she’s a Spaniard from Andalucía. Is it true, blondie?”

  I shook my head. “Not true. You heard incorrectly.”

  Gino was running the empanada stand because Roldán had retired early after selling a hundred pies and ten gallons of coffee. Tourists had been by in droves celebrating spring, but now they were tapering off.

  Popeye offered me a bite of his chicken empanada, which I accepted.

  He said, “If you’re interested in a piba, you have to pay her a lot of attention. Women don’t simply fall into your arms out of the sky. They want to be appreciated before they’ll give you a peek at the beaver. The best way to start is with flowers.”

  He produced his wallet, removing two one-dollar bills that he placed on the counter beside my coffee cup.

  “Here you go, kid. There’s a flower shop up on Eighth Street next to Sam Kramer’s jewelry store. You should buy six roses. They will be your ticket to the Promised Land.”

  I shook my head and smiled. “Thank you, but I can’t take the money. I don’t need six roses.”

  “Every man needs six roses,” Popeye said. “Even a guy like me once in a while. I gave La Petisa twelve roses but she dropped me anyway because she wanted orchids instead. Pussy is more fickle than a prince with a glass slipper.”

  Then he snatched back his money before I could change my mind.

  Poof! Eduardo’s ex-wife, Adriana, materialized just like a rabbit produced from a hat. She had on a yellow shirtwaist dress that seemed cheerful and way out of character.

  “Where’s Luigi?” she asked. “Have any of you boys seen him?”

  Popeye pointed east: “He’s at Roosevelt Raceway betting on the trotters.”

  “Why? Who wants to know?” Gino said.

  But Adriana had already dematerialized with another magical whoosh.

  A minute later Alfonso arrived at the stand fit to be tied. He had a typed, four-page letter from Renata. Holding up the scented epistle in one fist, he slapped it with his other hand.

  “Look at this!” he cried. “Listen to what I have to put up with!”

  He started reading out loud. “‘What is the matter with you, my darling? You crave me, I crave you, you are wonderful, I am wonderful, why do you refuse to admit it? The United States is destroying your brain, honey, blasting it apart with gringo tonterías. You’re a genius and genius needs the support of a woman like me. Do you have another novia in New York? I hope she gives you syphilis and a brain tumor. Sweetheart, think of my lips playing your little flute. Don’t you miss my beautiful tits? Are you eating properly? How can you be so cruel to the woman you love?’”

  He stopped. “It goes on and on. She badgers, she cajoles, she quotes poetry by Shakespeare and Lord Byron. She keeps threatening to kiss the jerk she’s dating but I think Renata just invented him to torment me. Y mirá, she even puts her red lipstick print across all the margins.”

  He thrust the pages toward us so we could see.

  Gino said, “Tell her to fuck off. I wouldn’t put up with that.”

  He untied his apron because it had a grease spot and took a clean apron from a pile under the counter. Gino was fastidious about protecting his custom shirts, his pleated trousers, his perforated wingtips.

  “But she’s so beautiful,” Alfonso said. “She has strawberry blonde hair and large hazel eyes. Her voice is husky and seductive. She looks like Rita Hayworth.”

  Gino was not impressed. “It doesn’t matter what she looks like. She’s breaking your balls.”

  I said, “And your other girl, Sofía, is such a good person. She’s so gentle and considerate.”

  Alfonso groaned, “Who cares? Sofía is not radiant. She’s not like Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca.”

  A bouncy blonde wearing a navy pea jacket showed up at the window obviously enamored of Gino, who told us later that Simone was a French au pair from Marseilles living with a rich family on Fifth Avenue. She spoke rudimentary Spanish enhanced by an adorable French accent and only stayed long enough to make a date with Gino. Then she dashed off tickled pink by her own audacity.

  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.

  44. Cherry Pie

  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 wa
lked 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?”