One night as Palma was turning in after a dreary night of translating, having finally finished the ten-page foreword, he called and serenaded her. It was on her cell phone, the number of which she had recently emailed for when he came to town. He was on his guitar and had, in fact, a superb tenor voice. He sang, “¿Cómo Fue?” It was a bolero and, like all boleros, romantic ad nauseam. In the song the crooner (don Ed) asked how it was that he fell in love with the person he was singing to (her?). Maybe she was tired and without the usual armored response but Palma dripped an Aw, how sweet. After that he started calling every night after midnight. At first it was enjoyable to hear a human voice after hours concentrating on her work, and when he called really late and caught her sleeping, the chats even felt sexy. They didn’t do any kind of sex talk but it was like the old days, when hearing a lover or would-be lover’s drowsy voice at the other end, miles away, was by itself a mood enhancer.
Finally came the day of don Ed’s arrival in Albuquerque. Palma asked him to meet at a franchise that opened up in the ever-growing business side of town. He didn’t seem happy about it. Not a fan of the American-invented, Pan-Asian cuisine? Could he smell the pricey menu or the fake froufrou ambience all the way over to his room at the Sheraton in Old Town? Or maybe, don Ed preferred to dine at a green-or-red-chili-enchilada diner? All of the above, as it turned out.
When Palma Piedras walked in, dressed in a little black crepe number to play it safe, she was still willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Holy Moby Dick, she thought at first glance. Obviously the photo attachment he sent was a lot more hair and a lot less weight back in time. (It explained the Destiny Child’s tour T-shirt.) Not losing what she hoped was an effervescent smile, she approached the age-appropriate date and held out her hand. He somehow freed himself from the stool his derriere had crushed, and as the host led the way to a table, Palma kept just ahead of don Ed, feeling a little like Jonah before the big swallow. They got through the meal with a lot less to say than on the phone or email but for reasons she couldn’t explain at the moment, Palma was unable to bring herself to end the date, go home, get into pjs, get out the Haagen-Dazs, and call Randall to tell him where he could shove his big-ass cousin. Instead, as if a ventriloquist had his hand up her back to move her mouth, she heard herself suggest they step into the restaurant’s humidor room. Don Ed considered the thought and then said, Okay, we could do that.
A combination musk-sage smell filled the air and they found a couple of cushiony seats. Someone came right over to offer cigars out of a large, cedar-lined box. To her surprise (then, but not in retrospect), don Ed, who didn’t smoke, picked out the biggest one. The waiter helped him get the small bonfire going while she sat, back straight, ankles crossed with a stiff pageant smile, looking like a housewife turned escort. Don Ed was pulling hard on the cigar like he was giving it a blow job when he stopped and asked, Do you know how I came to be called a “don?”
Randall had told her about the Chichen Itza ritual but she said, Let me guess. Back in 1922 you started this little “thing of ours?” Like any native Chicagoan she knew her Godfather Trilogy and The Sopranos, but it went over don Ed’s head—a close-cropped-hair head. Don Ed (and this was not the only discovery she was to make that evening) was not white, as it happened. At least not by half. He was, as her abuela would have called mulatto, in the States was known as mixed race and soon in the world, just like everybody else. His skin and eyes were lighter than hers and lips fuller and nose wider. Her fated lover didn’t get her kidding. She pulled on the string of cultured pearls she wore that evening (erroneously chosen, since don Ed was hoping for a Toltec queen, not Princess Grace). For his part, he had not worn a sport coat (with his jeans) for dinner, but instead had on an off-the-charts size guayabera in tribute to his first expedition to New Mexico, which after a hundred years of statehood was still thought by some (like don Ed apparently) as belonging to old Mexico. While Palma got the lowdown of don Ed’s knighting by the author of The Four Agreements, his most favorite book in the world, Palma threw back three appletinis. Shooting herself in the head would have been another way to obliterate her consciousness. (There was no explaining to herself later how she managed to leave the restaurant unless don Ed had carried her out in his pocket.) The next thing she knew they were at the Sheraton.
In his room with a king-size bed, the flickering lights of Albuquerque below served to flummox her further, while a drunken Palma fluttered around like Breakfast at Tinkerbell’s, trying to take off her itty dress and bitty shoes with finesse. She had thrown out any notion of herself as a seductress, and by then, aspired only that don Ed not roll over her in his sleep. Once she was naked and he in his natural wildlife state lying flat on the bed, she began her arduous climb, something for which she had not trained.
NASA had directed her to blow in his ear while yanking the moon where she found no life and which, as it turned out, was much smaller than it appeared from orbit. Playing back later what she did recall and skipping the pre-broadcast, she’d gone straight to the landing of Apollo 11. While Palma was certain she would return a national hero, the universe went black right about then.
12
When Randall came over with his new boy toy, Palma gave them her version of Gulliver’s Travels. Vladimir said, Oh, I should fix you up with my brother.
Vladimir was the prettiest chicanito she had ever seen. His hostess couldn’t place her finger on why she thought that, but Palma did believe in the eye of the beholder being a truism, plus the way he brought his cigarette up to his Sal Mineo mouth and half-closed eyes, the smoke creating a halo around his tragically curly head, was the stuff of gay legends for generations to come. Vladimir from the Lower Valley barrio.
Your brother? Randall said, pouring the Shiraz he brought. She hated red wine. Everyone knew that. He did it so as not to have to share. Pour me a glass, she said, and then left it there. What’s wrong with his brother? Palma asked.
Nothing, Randall said, pursing his mouth.
My brother is younger than me, Vladimir said. Hector is the brain in the family. He practically runs the Apple Store, he added. He’s a poet. (See, right there, she thought, was reason to call out Vladimir, sitting on her white couch, in Randall’s best shirt, holding the Nambe wineglass with a pinky out like he was on a reality housewives reunion show. A poet couldn’t run an electric pencil sharpener much less a store that sold the very definition of high tech.)
He’s twelve! Randall said. He went to the kitchen and came back with the multivitamin bottle that don Ed gave Palma in lieu of a bouquet on their first and last date. It was from don Entrepreneur’s product line and all she had that Randall found to snack on. Palma looked at the boyfriend. He’s not twelve, he said. He’s going on thirty.
Yeah, Randall said. In about five years.
Listen, Mishu, darlin’, Palma said, renaming He-Who-Named-Himself. As Russian names went Palma liked Mishu better. I’ll meet your carnalito, she said, but first I’m on my way to Chicago. I have some unfinished business there.
13
It was September, but global warming brought heat to the Windy City as murderous as Albuquerque’s desert. Palma Piedras was waiting in front of Abuela’s grave at the Calvary Cemetery north of the city. A warm wind picked up, coming in from Lake Michigan, and she pushed down her size-two printed frock. It was just above the knee, this side of bad taste for a forty-plus-year-old. (Whatever side the open-toed,