Taína Page 5

  The class stepped outside and BD lit a cigarette as soon as we were out. He handled his fake arm like it was real. BD never looked awkward doing anything.

  “I’m scared, man,” I said to BD. “I know this is what I want, but I’m scared.”

  The class walked around Wall Street, running into little crowded back alleys with laid-down cobblestoned streets from the city’s past. “There was once a big wall here.” Ms. Cahill outstretched her arms. “That’s where the name of this street comes from. Isn’t that cool? You might want to write about that for your college essay.” But no one thought so.

  The class turned the corner and ran into an old bar where George Washington drank. By the entrance was a bearded old man standing on a milk crate with a microphone. “As long as our civilization is essentially one of property, of fences, of exclusiveness,” he preached, “it will be mocked by delusions. Our riches will leave us sick.” And we all walked on by. Ms. Cahill continued leading the class as all the boys trailed her like puppies. The girls worshipped Ms. Cahill, too; they admired her sense of fashion and the way she fixed her hair.

  It seemed that the cops from that area knew Ms. Cahill, too. The cops would see her and say, “Hi, Megan.” And she’d act as if she were caught by surprise when it was obvious she knew the cop. We’d turn to yet another block and another cop would say, “Megan, Megan, where you’ve been?” Even detectives in unmarked cars driving by would stop and get out and flirt with her. With cops around, the boys began to tense up. Ms. Cahill noticed this uneasiness, and she nicely told her cop friends that she couldn’t talk right now. She thanked them and kept leading us.

  Then one of the girls asked, “You into cops, Ms. Cahill?”

  And Ms. Cahill answered in a polite tone, “That is none of your biz.” And the class kept walking.

  “BD, go with me, man,” I said.

  “That dude gonna be there?” BD said, smoking.

  “I don’t know, maybe.”

  “I ain’t going.”

  Ms. Cahill stopped the class in the middle of the sidewalk and looked around. “Picture tepees, fires burning, animal skins drying up in the sun, right here”—she got all worked up—“on what would become Wall Street. The subway not running underneath, but Indians fishing the Hudson River. That river was their supermarket. Some of you might want to write about that for your college essay,” she said, spreading her arms all around like she was painting a landscape.

  Old Mr. Gordon just followed along, and one of the students teased him, “You were there, right? You must have hunted with Indians, right, Mr. Gordon?” And he would just smile, knowing he was too old for any of this and simply counting his days till retirement.

  “Don’t be like that,” I said, pulling at BD’s good arm.

  BD jerked it back. “You sure that’s a good giant?” BD said, taking a long drag because we were soon going to enter a new building Ms. Cahill wanted us to experience. “I mean if you want to believe Taína is telling the truth”—taking a puff—“that’s one thing. But I don’t trust that old dude.” And then Ms. Cahill made all those who were smoking put out their butts and the entire class entered the New York Stock Exchange.

  “All right, I’ll tell you all about el Vejigante,” I said to BD.

  A young white guy with a fancy suit and tie was there to greet us. On the wall was the largest flag of the United States I had ever seen. The guide first led the class to “the pits,” where all these people were screaming and running around the floor littered with paper. It smelled bad. BO heaven, like those guys in suits didn’t wear deodorant. They sweated a lot but never took off their blazers. Our guide explained what was going on in the pits. I basically thought it came down to a big fish eating a smaller fish, but he had made it sound like it was exciting rocket science.

  “You crazy, Julio. That dude killed people!” BD whispered loudly. “And you wanna go?” BD shook his head in disbelief.

  “It was a long time ago, BD.”

  “I don’t care how long ago, that dude’s a killer.”

  We were in the back following the guide along with the rest of the class when Mario arrived late. He shoved an X-Men comic book inside his back pocket and stood next to BD and me at the back of the class.

  “You know what a bartender calls a Mexican who just crossed the desert?” Mario said to BD.

  “What?” BD answered, knowing it was going to be nasty.

  “A dry Martinez,” Mario said, knowing BD’s last name was Martinez.

  “Yo, I ain’t Mexican,” BD said. “I’m Dominican.”

  “You all Latin spic fucks are the same,” Mario said.

  “Actually,” I added nervously, “you being Italian makes you Latin, Mario. I mean you guys were the original Latins.” And even BD gave me this stupid look for stating facts in front of a guy who could kick our asses eight ways to Sunday.

  “Who asked you, psycho?” And he slapped the back of my neck.

  “He don’t hear voices,” BD said. “He just thinks that girl is right.”

  “Yeah,” Mario said to BD, “how about you hearing this voice…” He got closer to BD and whispered loudly, “One day I’m gonna take your arm and throw it in the East River.”

  Mario then elbowed his way to the front of the class to be closer at ogling Ms. Cahill’s ass.

  When the tour was over the guide handed each of us a booklet. The front cover had a shiny new nickel taped to it. “Even in this recession,” the guide said, “people are buying stocks.” And he held up the pamphlet. “So save your pennies.” He slowed his speech to make sure we’d hear and pointed at the coin taped to the cover. “This nickel is your start, kids. A generous gift from us so that you can be on your way.”

  Verse 5

  I HAD TAKEN a shower and was ironing my best shirt when I heard my mother talking loudly on the phone. She was on the line with someone from Radio WADO, a Spanish station. Mom kept repeating, “ ‘Lamento…Lamento…Lamento Borincano,’ ” as a request, and it seemed that the radio station didn’t have that song. “No…no…sí, Rafael Hernández.” But the person on the other end didn’t understand her. I was wearing my best pair of jeans, had dipped a rag in baby oil to shine my shoes, and was ready to go knock at Taína’s door.

  Mom covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “Who’s Marc Anthony?” she asked me.

  “A singer, Ma,” I said, ready to head out.

  “No, ’pera.” She handed me the phone.

  “I have to go, Ma.” But she pushed the phone on me. “I’m going to be late for a school play, Ma.”

  “Ask them to play ‘Lamento Borincano,’ but not by this Marc Anthony but by Rafael Hernández.”

  “Fine,” I moaned, and held the phone to my ear.

  Mom waited.

  I asked.

  “They only have Marc Anthony’s version, Ma.”

  “Ay bendito, how can that be?” She said, “Tell them that Rafael Hernández’s version is better. It’s the real Puerto Rican anthem.”

  I told the person on the other end of the line.

  Mom waited.

  “Ma, the woman says she’s Colombian. She could care less.”

  “¿Colombiana?” my mother said in disbelief, as if Spanish Harlem were still the same place it was when she was a child. You could still hear a lot of Spanish, but it wasn’t just from Puerto Rico. It was an eclectic Spanish with different rhythms and tones from all over the Americas. Mom’s Spanish Harlem no longer existed, and maybe it was another reason for her loving those old songs and not moving on.

  “Ma, she is not Boricua,” I said.

  “How can she work at Radio WADO and not be Boricua?” Mom said to herself.

  Then, like an insect squeaking, I heard the woman’s voice on the other end of the line, so I placed the phone back up to my ear.

  I nodded as if s
he could see me.

  “Ma,” I said, once again covering the mouthpiece, “the lady said she just found a version of ‘Lamento’ by Shakira. Do you want to hear that one?”

  “Who’s that?” Before I could answer, Mom fanned the air. “Never mind, never mind, I don’t want Shakira. I don’t want Marc Anthony. I want what I would hear my parents play.” Mom stomped like a spoiled brat. “I want to hear ‘Lamento Borincano’ by Rafael Hernández.”

  “Lamento Borincano” is a song my mother loved because her parents loved it, and I love it, too, I guess. It’s about a peasant in Puerto Rico who happily plans on selling his produce in the city and buying his wife a new dress with the money. But when he gets there, the city is deserted, the market is empty. A depression has hit the island and many Puerto Ricans have left for the mainland. My mom would wait in anticipation for the line “Qué será de Borinquen mi Dios querido?”

  “Ma, I have to go. I really have to go,” I said. Mom suspiciously stared at how I was dressed. I quickly began to make excuses. “It’s a special show at school. I don’t want people to see me in sneakers. It’s a Shakespearean opera,” I said, knowing that that Anglo name would scare her and of course Shakespeare never wrote operas.

  With a single look, Mom told me not to go anywhere. She took the phone from me. Told the lady on the line that her husband wanted to talk to the manager of Radio WADO.

  Mom yelled my father’s name. My Ecuadorian father was in the bedroom taking a nap. My dad got up and stumbled into the living room. My mother ordered him to get Radio WADO to play her song because they would respect a man’s voice and not a woman’s or a boy’s.

  Then she turned to me.

  “Since when do you dress up?”

  “It’s a special show.”

  “¿Tú me está diciendo mentira a mi?”

  “No, Ma,” I said. “I have to go.”

  She studied my face, her eyes focused in on mine, her shoulders tensed, and her head tilted a bit.

  “Ma, I don’t want to be late,” I said, because I planned on knocking on Taína’s door early. “I’ll be home before ten,” I said.

  “You are not going to see those women, right?”

  “Ma, I said I wasn’t.”

  “Even if they don’t open the door, you are not going there, right?”

  “No, Ma.”

  “That Taína is trouble, Julio. And her mother—”

  “I know, Ma. I know. Can I go now?” I said, annoyed.

  “That woman is crazy. That Inelda Flores is crazy. I knew her years ago and she was crazy then.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, I know. You told me,” I said.

  Mom’s shoulders fell, she inhaled and exhaled loudly, hugged me, and kissed my head.

  “Okay, have fun,” she said.

  “Ma,” I said, putting on my best smile, “can I have twenty dollars?”

  “What!” My mother is cheap. My father says that when Mom wakes up she looks under the bed to see if she’s lost sleep.

  “¿Tú crees que yo soy un judío buena gente?”

  “I did the laundry this week,” I bargained.

  Truth is, I could have easily stolen money from her because my mother doesn’t trust banks. She changes her ones into fives, fives into tens, tens into twenties, and then into hundreds. She then rolls all her single hundreds into neat tubes and hides them inside an old boot in the closet. My dad thinks that this is a crazy idea. A fire would burn all our life savings. Mom says it is safe because the fire would never reach the closet; it’s the smoke that kills you and that money doesn’t need oxygen.

  “No tengo. Have a good time.” Mom kissed me good-bye again. I was about to head out when my father hung up the phone. All smiles.

  “They are going to play it,” he said to Mom in Spanish.

  “Finally,” Mom said, arms in the air. “I can’t wait to hear ‘Lamento Borincano’ sung by Rafael Hernández.”

  “ ‘Lamento Borincano’?” My father wrinkled his eyebrows. “I requested ‘Guayaquil de Mis Amores’ by Julio Jaramillo, of Ecuador.” And he sat on the couch happily waiting for his song.

  * * *

  —

  IT WAS ONLY eight flights down the elevator to the second floor. I arrived at 2B. I had taken this ride many times and had always come away empty, but that night something was going to happen. I placed my ear to Taína’s door as I had done many times. I had never heard anything. But this time, this time I heard what sounded like the crumpling of leaves. The door shook, too, like there was a strong wind behind it. I heard whispers and whispers like the dead were talking. I began to feel light, as if I could float or the hallway were moving. I looked at the peephole to see if anybody was looking out, but I saw no light escaping. I wiped the sweat off my forehead and remained standing there. I had waited for this moment, and now I was scared, as if there were ghosts on the other side.

  I didn’t know what else to do and so I yelled at the door, “Usmaíl sent me.” Then I said it in Spanish: “Me mandó Usmaíl.” I repeated it again—“Usmaíl, Usmaíl”—and soon the locks began to clack. My heart was a mess wanting to stay and also run away like a reckless comet.

  Verse 6

  THE DOOR OPENED a tiny bit; the chain was still on. A nose and an eye peeked through. The eye scoped me up and down. In Spanish a female voice asked, “Did Sal send you?” I nodded, though he had told me to say that it was Usmaíl. The door closed, the chain was withdrawn, and the door opened only wide enough for me to enter. Doña Flores did not say anything, only invited me in with the simple gesture of opening the door. As I entered, I looked for Taína, but all I could see was a small empty dark hallway. The place smelled of coffee.

  Doña Flores led me to the living room, where I was sure to find Taína sitting by the sofa, watching television, reading, or maybe it was Taína who was making coffee? The lights were low and the shades were drawn. The living room was empty except for the shiny, plastic-covered sofa and love seat. There was a table, a picture of fruits hanging on a wall, and nothing else. I thought for sure there would be an old stereo system, a stack of old records, or an iPod connected to a boom box or something. I knew that Doña Flores had been a great singer. That she had been blessed with a great voice, and like Taína, Doña Flores could make people cry. I had pictured her house overflowing with hints of music. But there was nothing but a sterile silence.

  Doña Flores motioned for me to sit down. I hoped the sound of wrinkled plastic would echo loudly and Taína would hear that there was company. I sat hard so the plastic shrieked. Nobody showed up and the house felt darker. Doña Flores sat opposite me on the love seat. Her movements were rough, graceless, nothing like I remembered her elegant daughter’s. She was barefoot and wearing a long gown. Her graying hair was in a bun, her face oily, sweaty, and wrinkled. I looked for traces of Taína on her face. I searched for Taína’s eyes that sparkled like lakes, but all I saw was a woman whose features time had attacked more violently than it had ever attacked my mother’s.

  Doña Flores then looked at the wall and said in Spanish, “They used to call people who told the future prophets. Now they call them crazy.”

  “Claro,” I agreed, because I wanted to stay there as long as possible in order to see Taína, who must be somewhere.

  “Oh, no, I was not talking to you, mijo,” she said in Spanish. Like my mother, Doña Flores switched between English and Spanish when it suited her. She said she had felt bad for me standing by that mailbox. Staring up at her window like a dog left out in the rain. “Bendito, part of me really wanted to open the window and yell to go home before you get mugged.” She laughed a little. “And your mother, how is she?”

  “Fine.” I looked around the empty living room for traces of Taína. There was a door that led to a bedroom. If Taína was not sleeping, she must have been hearing us from behind that door.

/>   “Your mother…” Doña Flores’s face was remembering happy times, I think. “We were once close.”

  “Yes, I know, Doña,” I said.

  “I was kicked out of the Truth, so your mother doesn’t talk to me anymore.” She looked at the wall again and said, “But, ay bendito, what can you do, Jehovah.” And I didn’t make much of it because people who talk to God and walls are one and the same. I mean, neither a wall nor God will talk back. Plus I had my visions, so I lived in that same strange glass house. I could not throw stones at anyone.

  “Is Taína home?” I asked politely. Doña Flores got up.

  “You want some coffee, mijo?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t like coffee but figured it was only a matter of time before Taína would come out. The living room was empty, but I could feel the dust of her dead cells, loose strands of her hair, Taína’s prints, all around. I was sitting where she must nap. I was looking at things that she must see and touch. My feet stood where she walked. I could feel Taína’s presence. And I was happy.

  Doña Flores came back from the kitchen. She held out a mug.

  “Thank you.” I took the coffee.

  “Salvador said that you knew the baby’s name.”

  “Yes,” I said, not taking a sip. “Usmaíl.”

  “You know Salvador is like my Ta-te.” She sat down, cup in hand.

  “Like Taína?” I said, knowing fully well that Ta-te was her motherly way of calling Taína.

  “Yes, both are saints.”

  “Taína is,” I said, because a saint is whom you want to believe in. “I know Taína sings. She sings beautifully. Maybe we can…” And I trailed off because Doña Flores made a disgusted face, letting me know she disagreed with me somewhat. I stayed quiet. She took a long sip that told me she was going to talk for a while.

  “First, mijo,” she said, “Salvador is also a saint. And he doesn’t like that he is called el Vejigante, but accepts it because he has suffered. Dios mío, has that man suffered. Like all saints he has suffered.”