The Empanada Brotherhood

  Alfonso finished off the raisins. “When you’re really in love you’re helpless,” he explained. “When you are obsessed—when your heart is hog-tied by a woman—you go crazy. It’s a dangerous situation. You know that my Renata is like that. She laughs and is full of fire and has terrible moods and drinks too much. She is either too happy or too sad or too angry. She writes poetry and knows how to ice-skate. Her beautiful long hair makes my chest ache. With her I am a yo-yo, up and down, perpetually off balance and confused. Of course I would die for her and I would kill for her, too. After a while this condition can be fatal. I just want to escape.”

  “But you love her?”

  “Love.” He sighed. “Who knows about that? Cervantes said war and love are the same thing.”

  “Hey, shuttup,” said a guy behind us. “We’re trying to watch the movie.”

  Alfonso turned around, speaking English. “You shut up, buddy. A man just died for love and we’re talking about him.”

  Another moviegoer said, “Pipe down you assholes.”

  “Fuck you,” Alfonso said. “And your mother and your little sister, too.”

  “Take off your glasses,” said the first person, “and I’ll teach you to be rude.”

  Alfonso stood up. “Come on, blondie, let’s get out of here.”

  People booed and hissed as we squeezed clear of the row. One fellow slapped at my leg. Out on the sidewalk Alfonso removed his glasses and wiped his eyes and cheeks on his scarf. We walked up to Washington Square where some old men were playing chess under the streetlamps. After kibitzing for a minute we headed diagonally through the park to the corner of University Place. Turning left, we traveled west to MacDougal Street, then south to the bottom of the square, then east again. I kept visualizing Jorge falling among the garbage cans but I couldn’t say a word. Feelings of guilt and confusion made me tongue-tied. My heart was beating too fast. I wondered who had told Cathy Escudero, and what had her reaction been? Alfonso was quiet also, lost in his own thoughts. We made the rounds five times in this manner before splitting up and heading off toward our separate apartments.

  Alfonso stopped and turned around, calling after me, “Are you okay?”

  I was not, but you know how it is with guys: I said, “Yes.”

  55. Guitar Lessons

  I entered a pawnshop on Second Avenue and East Third Street and asked the big lug behind the grill how much for a Stella guitar in his window? He said, “Ten bucks.” I handed over the money, so he came forward and leaned into the window fetching the guitar.

  “This is a lousy instrument,” he admitted. “Are you sure you want it?”

  “It’s the only one I can afford.”

  I don’t know why, but he pointed out, “The neck is warped. If you don’t have calluses it’ll destroy your fingers.”

  I didn’t care. I took the guitar and walked west on Houston Street, then up to the empanada stand. Alfonso was alone in the alley talking to Roldán about the mysterious stone heads on Easter Island. I gave the Stella to Alfonso, asking would he please tune it for me? Even though he could not play, the professor knew how to tune a guitar. He started right in and immediately scowled.

  “This is a bad instrument, blondie.”

  “I don’t care. Just tune it, please.”

  “Maybe I can’t. The neck is terrible. The strings are so old they’re rusted.”

  “I spent all my money. That’s it. Do the best you can.”

  He did as well as could be expected. Then I went home and opened my new Mel Bay Chords for Beginners book and started teaching myself C, F, and G7.

  It was nearly impossible to press down the metal strings, let alone strike a note that sounded halfway decent. Nevertheless, I spent all afternoon learning those three chords. I stroked them slowly with my thumb or flopped my fingers back and forth in a sloppy rhythm. I tried some clumsy arpeggios. Could I will myself instantly to be a musician? By the end of the afternoon my fingers were sore and I had grown depressed. But I kept on until dark.

  Then I sat at my tin table and rolled a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter. I proceeded to write a three-page short story that was so cloying I shredded it immediately into a hundred pieces.

  The next day I learned E, A, and B7. Also A, D, and E7. My left fingertips ached and my right thumb had a blister. Finally I gave up and sat quietly for an hour holding the guitar on my lap while staring out the window. A man on a roof across the street was cleaning a pigeon cage as his birds circled the neighborhood. I could see the Empire State Building far north on Thirty-third Street.

  Around four P.M. I left the apartment carrying my guitar and headed up West Broadway to Washington Square. It was a lazy warm day; cherry trees at the kids’ play area had blossomed. People were throwing Frisbees near a volleyball game behind the fountain. Some guys from the Caribbean thumped loudly on conga drums.

  I sat on a bench observing the scene. Finally a beatnik sauntered over. “Hey, man, can I take a look at your ax?”

  I handed him the instrument as he sat down beside me. Laboriously, his fingers made a C chord. When he plucked it the sound was terrible. “Wow, that’s cool,” he said.

  “It’s all yours.” I stood up. “Te lo regalo.”

  He gawked at me but I walked away, going south to the empanada stand to see what was happening. Roldán had the window open but the place was still closed as he heated up the grease bin and prepared for the evening commerce. The sidewalks were crowded with tourists.

  “What’s new in Kalamazoo?” the cook asked me in English, and laughed. That was another expression I had taught him.

  I said, “Nada, nada, nada, nada.”

  “Where’s that spiffy guitar?” he asked in Spanish. “Are you ready to put Segovia out of business?”

  “I gave it to a guy in the park.”

  Roldán said, “Oh.” But he was a discreet man and never asked me why I had bought it nor why I gave it away.

  56. Grief

  I rode the subway uptown and walked east to El Parrillón. You had to step down in the stairwell and pull open the door. Just inside there was an old-fashioned coatrack. A few tables were occupied and a half dozen guys wearing business suits sat at the bar smoking cigarettes. There were dominoes on the bar and a leather dice cup. Subdued Latin music played in the background.

  Two waitresses were handling the tables and one was Cathy Escudero. At the center of each table was a thin glass vase with a carnation in it and beside the vase stood three small bottles of condiments. A smoky odor defined the area; it came from meat being grilled in the open kitchen on the east side of the room.

  Cathy looked up the second I entered and didn’t even blink. A man at the hostess station handed me a menu, but Cathy had come right over, lifted it from his hand, put it down, and led me to one side. She was holding a glass pitcher of ice water. Her hair was pulled back in a bun held tightly by invisible netting. She had mascara around her eyes but no lipstick. Her eyes seemed too large and they were bloodshot. The skin above her cheekbones was bruised from fatigue. She wore a pastel rose-colored blouse and pleated blue trousers and soft brown shoes. Not a hint of flamboyance colored the outfit.

  “Blondie,” she said, “what are you doing up here?”

  “I heard about Jorge. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.”

  She said, “You can’t do anything about dead people. Son difuntos. When they die it’s over. You’re stuck with the memories.”

  “I know, but …”

  “It’s not my fault. I didn’t kill him. We weren’t lovers. I never touched him privately.”

  I shook my head. “No, I understand … I didn’t mean … it’s not …”

  “I will find another guitarist. Because I’m an artist I can deal with tragedy. This won’t stop me. What do you think all art is about? If Jorge chose to kill himself, I respect him for that. And don’t you dare intrude on my feelings. I come from a world you can’t imagine.”

&
nbsp; Perhaps I moved my hands in a gesture of condolence, I don’t know, but I was stymied.

  Cathy said, “Weak people are always the ones you cherish most. But if you let them control your life you’re fucked. I’m not ready to die yet and you aren’t either. Now, I’m at work here, I have to earn a living. Go mourn for Jorge like a man.”

  I asked, “Are you still getting married?”

  “Yes I am. But I have to earn money for my parents before we leave because Aurelio won’t give them a penny.”

  I summoned all my courage to speak, but she put her fingertips against my lips. Cathy’s eyes glistened from tears that she was refusing to let fall. “Don’t say it, blondie. You’ll embarrass both of us. Grow up and leave me alone with my grief.”

  I hesitated.

  She said in English, “Please.”

  Then she turned away from me and went back to waiting tables. She poured water from her pitcher without splashing out the ice. She opened a bottle of wine and filled three glasses. Moving gracefully, she attended to her tables without a hint of subservience. I watched her for a moment longer and then I pushed open the door, climbed to the sidewalk, and went home.

  57. Flying to Morocco

  Ten days later Alfonso asked me, “Why weren’t you at Carlos’s art show the other night, blondie? We missed you. It was a great success.”

  “I was sulking. I’m tired of listening to Spanish all the time. And I got my old job back at the Night Owl when they reopened. It keeps me busy.”

  The truth is I had been shell-shocked and in mourning with no one to talk to. In mourning for Jorge, and also for Cathy Escudero. And for the dream I’d had in college of being an artist in New York. Tragedy was not romantic, it was awful. I felt like a confused animal stranded on a rooftop in a flood.

  “Yes, the show received some good reviews,” Roldán said. “Although Carlos himself was drunk and had to be carried to a taxi. Nevertheless, it was a triumph. The gallery has already sold three paintings.”

  Alfonso showed us a postcard he had received from Luigi, postmarked Montreal.

  The message said:

  Bonjour, mecs,

  Having a great time here.

  How were the bullfights in Mexico

  City?

  À bientôt,

  Luigi

  “What about Gino?” I asked. “Has he been around lately?”

  Alfonso said Gino was working on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street in a clothing store. “He’s earning a lot of money and has moved uptown. I think he is becoming Cosa Nostra. He runs with a pretty tough group and uses greasy hair lotion.”

  I stated the obvious: “Apparently I’m not the only one who hasn’t been showing up at the kiosk.”

  “It’s spring,” Roldán said. “There are no cold winds to drive them here. I myself might visit Spain. I’ve approached several banks for a loan.”

  Come again? Jesus, that startled me. “What would you do in Spain?”

  “Oh, travel a bit. Scramble for a peseta. I’ll hit Madrid first to see friends. Then maybe head north to Santander or San Sebastián. I’ll open a food emporium near the sea, buy a bathing suit. I’m looking for a place to settle down and that could be just the ticket. San Sebastián especially. On Sundays after the bullfights life will be relaxed. Good cognac with Basques and Gallegos. I expect to have a ball.”

  Before I could comment, Eduardo popped his head through the window. “Congratulate me,” he ordered us. “I have a new wife and a new job with CBS and I am bankrupt. But now I could become a director of New Wave films.”

  “You married again after the last lesson?” Alfonso was amazed.

  Eduardo said, “It couldn’t be helped. I dreamed about her and when I woke up there she was. A miracle. Her name is Molly, she’s American. We got hitched that same day. A very good-looking kid who’s an intern on a CBS camera crew.” He handed out a cheap cigar to each of us. “Adriana? Who is Adriana? I forgot her already. She and Luigi have evaporated like smoke.”

  “That’s what happened to my nylons business,” Popeye said as he arrived at the window with a patch over one eye. “Give me a mate, patrón.”

  Then he recounted his recent change in fortune: “I’m now employed at a supermarket dusting soup cans and tomatoes. I like the job. I have a big feather brush and wear an apron. They give me the bruised tomatoes for free. I rearrange potatoes and stack cucumbers and spray mist on the lettuce. I also polish apples and throw away rotten bananas. If a shopper drops a mayonnaise jar I run to clean up the mess. My rent is overdue, I can’t pay the electric bill, the cockroaches are even in my refrigerator, and I haven’t been laid for a week. But last night on the subway I met a sexy Asian babe who gave me her telephone number.”

  La Petisa next appeared from the wings and took over center stage.

  She said, “You never give up, do you, marinero? I would think it’d be worn out by now. What happened to your eye?”

  “I bumped into a fist,” Popeye said, but he refused to elaborate. He accepted a cigar from Eduardo, though, and La Petisa did also.

  Then she held up one hand for attention and dropped her little bomb on us. “I came here to say good-bye, boys. On Saturday I’m flying to Morocco. I’ve had it with the United States. I plan to learn Arabic. Don’t you think that will be fun?”

  “Morocco?” I blurted, astonished. “For God’s sake, what will you do in Morocco?”

  She grinned and tweaked my chin. “Wouldn’t you like to know, blondie? But you’re too late. I gave you a chance and you didn’t take it. I’ll send you a postcard from Casablanca, however. I already have your address in my book.”

  Roldán said, “Change your plans, nena. Sail with me to Spain. We could have a good time. I’ll pay for your ticket.”

  “You’re a sweetie, gordo.” She rose on tiptoes and leaned over the windowsill to kiss his cheek. “But no thanks. I have other fish to fry.”

  The cook laughed, cocking his head, spreading wide his arms. “Why do all the girls avoid me? In his lifetime every man should plant a tree, write a book, and have a child. I’m forty-seven years old already, but I have done none of those things.”

  “You have a lot of time left,” I said.

  “What do you know about time, blondie?”

  Alfonso said, “Quit picking on him. When the right day comes you will plant a tree. And write a book.”

  “Maybe in Spain,” the fat man said. “I apologize, blondie. I’m just kidding around.”

  They all seemed happy and everyone except me lit a cigar, sending forth great puffs of smoke to honor Eduardo and Molly’s nuptials and La Petisa’s upcoming voyage. After that, La Petisa kissed Alfonso good-bye, she kissed Popeye, Roldán, and Eduardo also. When it came my turn she gave me an extra-big hug and planted a wet one squarely on my mouth, causing the boys to clap enthusiastically, and Alfonso even whistled.

  Then she ruffled her hand in my hair and waved at the guys, and ran away before we could tell if she was crying.

  58. ¡Qué Quilombo!

  Luigi and Adriana returned to New York after their adventures in Montreal. “We made love five times a day,” Luigi bragged to us at the kiosk. “She couldn’t keep her hands off me. Me devoraba con una rapacidad vertiginosa.”

  He checked his watch. “Oops, it’s late, I’ll bet she’s waiting for me in a black negligee.” He paid his tab and hurried off.

  The next morning Adriana showed up at CBS and physically assaulted Eduardo’s new wife. She grabbed Molly’s hair, kicked her in the groin, and yanked her cashmere sweater off. A dozen male technicians had to restrain her. They hustled Adriana to Eduardo’s office where the young producer bawled her out but declined to call the gendarmes.

  Molly wanted to press charges but Eduardo said no. So Molly and Eduardo had a blistering fight. Simultaneously, Luigi threw a temper tantrum, accusing Adriana of being an unfaithful prostitute. The volatile lady immediately packed her bags and fled. Luigi then barged in on Eduardo at CBS demanding
to know where Adriana was hiding. They got into a shouting match and security guards railroaded Luigi out the emergency exit.

  Tearfully, Molly accused Eduardo of cheating on her with his ex-wife. Eduardo denied it but he was lying. Luigi got drunk and threatened to disembowel both Eduardo and Adriana. When Molly left Eduardo and filed for divorce, Adriana promptly reappeared, cozy as a bunny in Eduardo’s apartment. Luigi went to CBS again, but now he shook Eduardo’s hand, saying, “The best guy won,” and he ducked out of the office a free man, leaving Eduardo puzzled and slightly irritated, wondering: Am I the winner or the loser in this mess?

  At the empanada stand Luigi said, “I just spent weeks spinning in a cyclone. What a relief that it’s over.”

  He spoke too soon. Molly made a terrible scene at Eduardo’s office and was fired by CBS. She came to the kiosk looking for Luigi, who tried to hide by squatting down in the alley behind me and Alfonso. But his coffee cup and half-eaten pastelito on the counter ledge gave him away.

  “He’s crouching down there like a scared little frog, isn’t he?” Molly was blonde, blue-eyed, healthy, and wholesome—an alien creature unable to speak a word of Spanish.

  Luigi straightened up, asking Alfonso to translate. Alfonso said to Molly, “What do you want?”

  “I want you to help me nail Eduardo to the cross.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?” Molly was flabbergasted that the burnt man would hesitate even one second to begin plotting revenge.

  But Luigi was no dope. “I have nothing against Eduardo,” he said nervously. “He’s my pal.”

  Molly sized him up for five seconds. Then she asked, “Doesn’t it rankle that Adriana dropped you like a bad habit and started fucking Eduardo again?”

  We were shocked by the obscenity issuing from such a well-bred lady’s mouth.

  Alfonso, translating for Luigi, said, “What do you see in Eduardo? He’s a two-bit hack, a petty thief, a vapid egomaniac.” In Spanish Luigi had not said “vapid egomaniac,” but rather “conchudo,” which means “filthy cunt.”