Without any reservations, I understood the uselessness of presenting myself as a “writer” in surroundings where only English was spoken or among illiterate day laborers. I had spent five years trying to finish a novel based on my experiences as an adolescent among dogfighters, but my efforts proved to be those of an ugly bird without feathers, clumsy and hungry. I still didn’t have any books published, and talking about the future was like jerking off while thinking about a woman I hadn’t met yet. On top of that, I was trying to avoid a situation in which one of Rose’s friends—for the most part, they were all art students with identity problems, or civil servants, or teachers—might take advantage of the occasion to show off his or her advantageous sensitivity with “I paint . . .” or “Personally, I like literature; actually, I have some stories. Have you ever read...?” I had many years under my belt in dealing with those empty titles belonging to elegance, financial solvency, position, and prestige that are so pleasing to imposters. I had nothing to do with all of that. (And yet my sister’s indiscretion and critique as a tasteful reader infuriated me, and I—who so appreciated silence—had defended my lofty ambitions by screaming.)
Some photos of Sandra ended up decorating part of a wall in my room. In each one she had a cigarette dangling from a hand or the corner of her lips. Sandra’s character was like the teetering between dawn and daybreak: those moments when one hesitates between running home from the light, or sprawling out on a bench while letting the drunkenness wear off, smoking wearily and absorbed, like after fucking a stranger. With Sandra, you never knew when to light one last cigarette before going to bed, drunk but still lucid. That moment could arrive inopportunely: Sandra would leave without saying good-bye, a sudden sobriety overtaking her.
I learned that after various weeks of identical nights. With booze and Marlboros to spare, I waited in the kitchen thinking that Sandra had gone to take a piss. I finished the brandy, most of the cigarettes, without pausing to think if Sandra was actually gone for good; finally, I went to my room, juggling the glass up a staircase that felt steeper than usual. I crossed the second-floor landing where the largest room was, and I heard the labored breathing of Rose, as if she weren’t sleeping and Joe was suffocating her with a pillow. Upon reaching the top floor, I saw the bar of light from beneath Sandra’s door and heard the sound of country music guitar from Sandra’s record player. I paused in front of her door for a brief moment, mentally re-creating the interior’s scene: Sandra smiling drunk while swinging her hips in front of her trunk’s mirror. Then I continued on my way.
Without turning on the lamp, I shrugged off my clothes like I had a hand tied behind my back and, tottering, threw myself into bed, forgetting about the full glass of brandy as well as the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. I had a hard-on, but it wasn’t because of Sandra. Or maybe it was. But only for the ample illusion instigated by drunken binges in a place I found strange and evocative. The curtains of white cloth filtered the sandy brilliance from the lamppost beneath the window. For a long time, I let myself drift along on my imagination and the almost imperceptible strumming of the soothing electric guitar as it played a Texan version of “Blue Moon.” And that’s how I fell asleep.
In which...the Artist gets to know his neighborhood.
The dilapidated constructions in the Bronx, some of them occupied by the homeless, have the appearance of an inevitable catastrophe: fire, demolition. Bricked-up doors and windows enclose chapters of gloomy epics in the country of the easy buck.
To my sorrow, the Bronx revived unbearable memories. I had already educated myself via an abundance of myths extracted from movies, music, and literature that combined the sordidness of my origins with the opulent culture of the States. Something soothed me; I knew that while I was in the United States, I would never again wear shoes patched together with tape or clothing from the swap meet. In the United States I would be a first-class poor man.
The few whites who lived in the Bronx, like Rose and her other tenants, were like a rash on the dark skin of the neighborhood. Despite my few ventures into the city, I knew from first sight that I had in my grasp all the resources of a society where efficiency was the norm. From the subway that ran twenty-four hours, churches for every creed, schools, libraries, nightclubs, bars, and restaurants serving ethnic food, to alcohol, drugs, weapons, and well-equipped police, the Bronx confined us to territories defined by the fear of disturbing the general indifference.
$
The argument with Norma left me feeling restless and with a parched mouth. I went to the store and avoided making any noise to not get tangled up in a conversation with someone from the household. I crossed the street. I bought three thirty-two-ounce Colt 45s and two packs of cigarettes: I was thinking about Sandra. The store stayed open for sixteen hours every day of the week. Behind the counter there was always one of four Dominican brothers who had saved money for thirty-odd years to become the owners of the most important store for blocks around. They were thinking of investing their savings into remodeling the business into a supermarket. “Self-service is more relaxed, tú sabe,” the sour-faced youngest brother with horse teeth would say. He would pretend to reach for the automatic pistol hidden behind the counter when he caught some odd behavior in the convex mirror at the back of the store. Sometimes we would crack jokes, and I obligingly accepted whenever he called me “bro,” as I thought that that would eventually let me run a tab. No such thing.
By the corner on 138th Street, a group of old Puerto Ricans and Mexicans would gather. They would drink beer and slap down dominoes on a folding metal table. In the entryway of their building they had a tape recorder that played Javier Solís. I approached them to observe the game. They seemed to ignore my presence, and then with a know-it-all air they would hum the melody upon making a play. All of a sudden one of the Puerto Ricans addressed me without taking his eyes off the pieces.
“What the hell’s wrong? Too hot?”
“Somewhat.”
“Go ahead and grab a beer.”
They called him Papi. He pointed to the bag at his feet. I bent down to take out a can. I took the beer and pretended to be interested in the game. Papi had been the owner of a barbershop and a bazaar that sold trinkets, and he was one of the area’s patriarchs. He loved boxing and borrowing money; he’d often visit Rose to talk about his son, the high-class cultural functionary who hadn’t appeared on those streets since the divorce.
“You from Mexico?” one asked.
“That’s right.”
“Lots of Mexicans ’round here. Nice folk, ain’t that so?”
“Yep.”
The Mexican they were referring to coughed after answering, focusing on his dominoes.
“Take it slow, bro,” Papi said to me. “Savor the beer. The store’s nearby. And besides, if we run out, we’ll send you to get more.”
After the cackles, the slapping of dominoes on the table continued.