Caramelo

by Sandra Cisneros

  —Spic Spanish? Inocencio ventured.

  —Finally! Someone who speaks the language of God! Wenceslao Moreno* to serve you, the tuxedo man said proudly and tipped his top hat, flashing for a moment a bald head.

  —Inocencio Reyes at your orders, Inocencio replied, relieved to find himself in the company of someone who was his equal. —I regret this is my last cigarette, but, please, take half.

  —No, no, I would not even think of it.

  —I insist. Don’t offend me, Inocencio said.

  —As you wish. Many thanks.

  —There is no cause for it. It’s a pleasure to find someone who speaks Castilian in this dog pit. Are you Spanish? Inocencio asked.

  —Yes. I think it’s not an exaggeration to say there are more Spaniards living in other countries than back in Spain.

  —I understand you. I am a Mexican national by birth, but my father’s father was from Seville.

  —Is that so? Wenceslao said, studying Inocencio’s face.

  —That’s how it is. Look at my nose.

  —But it’s obvious, man. You have the profile of a Moor. And the same ill fortune. What brought you here, my friend?

  —Honor, said Inocencio. —They mistook me for a drunk and an irresponsible and hauled me in with a carload of criminals. And you?

  —The same, Wenceslao Moreno said, sighing. —So what’s your story?

  —Well, look, Inocencio said, pausing for effect. —I don’t want to bore you with a lot of talk, but since you ask. It all began rather innocently. You won’t believe it! At a soccer match.

  —A soccer match? Wenceslao said. —I believe it.

  —Well, let me tell you, how it happened was like this. I often frequent Grant Park to watch the Mexican team, and, as Destiny would have it, our team was playing against a local team of Mexicans from over here, American Mexicans, I mean. People think because we carry the same blood we’re all brothers, but it’s impossible for us to get along, you have no idea. They always look down on us nationals, understand? And so whenever we scored, some pocho would shout an insult, “Sons of the fucked whore,” or something or other, terrible things.

  Worse was their lack of respect during the Mexican national anthem. They started tossing a lady’s stocking filled with piss and sand. They swung it over their heads like this, like David and Goliath, and let it go flying over to our side, where that filth rained all over us. You can imagine what a bunch of animals I’m talking about, right?

  The last straw was when some monkey started insulting Mexico. That’s even worse than someone insulting your mother. That this thing, and this, and that. Well … some of the things he said are true. But it hurts to have them said all the same! Especially because they are true, understand? And then they started with, “We didn’t come to this country because we were starving to death,” that’s what they said. “No,” I said. “You came because your fathers were a bunch of cowards and deserted their patria during its time of need.” That’s when they answered with their fists, even the players joined in. An entire field of tangled arms and bodies, and the next thing I know the police are rounding us up and clubbing us both, Mexican Mexicans and American Mexicans, herding us like cattle into their wagons, I’m not lying. And that made us all mad as hell, you can imagine. And the Mexicans from over here more American than anything, and us Mexicans from over there even more Mexican than Zapata. And, well, what more can I tell you? Here I am.

  —But you were only doing your patriotic duty, Wenceslao added.

  —Correct.

  —You wouldn’t be a true patriot if you didn’t defend your country. These norteamericanos don’t understand about honor.

  —That’s how it is, my friend, Inocencio sighed. —Qué suave your clothes. Very elegant. I’ve always wanted a tuxedo with tails. And the white tie and cummerbund. Sharp.

  —Thank you, but I’m afraid these aren’t mine. Borrowed from a colleague. Though I really think they suit me.

  —Fíjese nomás. It looks as if it was tailored for you, Inocencio said.

  —You don’t think the hat makes me look too foolish?

  —Not at all, a true gentleman is what you look like. It gives you class, if you ask me, and class, in my experience, always opens doors. With your permission, may I ask what is your profession?

  —Better I show you, Wenceslao said, —if you will permit me.

  —But of course.

  Wenceslao Moreno looked inside the latrine door, called inside the toilet, and shouted, —Zaw-rright? And a voice from deep inside the toilet bowl gurgled back, —Zaw-rright! He walked about, found a match on the floor, and drew a pair of eyes with dark eyebrows on his fist.

  The fist said in a high wobbly voice, —Señor Wences, tengo miedo.

  —Are you afraid, Johnny, my friend?

  —Sí, señor. Y la verdad, tengo muchas ganas de llorar. Llorar y orinar.

  —There’s nothing to be afraid about, Johnny. Don’t worry. I know exactly how you feel. Would you like a little entertainment? Perhaps a song to cheer us up, then? I know just the thing. How about a nice Mexican bolero for our Mexican guest here? He pulled his pocket inside out a bit and had his pocket sing, “Piensa en mí,” a sad song guaranteed to make you cry, even when you’re happy.

  —Si tienes un hondo penar, piensa en mí.

  Si tienes ganas de llorar, piensa en mí.

  Inocencio swallowed back his own grief, but just then Wenceslao’s bologna sandwich began to complain about the singer. And the cockroaches scurrying across the ceiling hurled funny insults as well. Laughing, Inocencio forgot he was waiting in a miserable cell. He was fed with laughter, and this nourished him a little. When Wenceslao stopped, Inocencio broke into furious applause.

  —Maestro, you’re a genius!

  —Not so much a genius, just an artist. And these days that’s genius enough. I work in the theater. Traveling. Maybe it’s Chicago today, tomorrow it might be Nashville. This tuxedo is my magician friend’s. I borrowed it for a wedding. But at the reception some fellows got too drunk, and before you know it, a fight broke out. Isn’t that how it always goes? I was out the door and down the block before the police even got there. Then I remembered I’d left my puppets at the hall, because I was supposed to perform at the reception. That was my gift to the bride and groom. Of course, I was obliged to return, they’re my livelihood. And that’s when the police mistook me for one of the troublemakers and pounced on me. So there we were, understand? I had my puppets under each arm and was making my way out when whoosh! One big gorilla tried to yank them from me. I wouldn’t let them go, of course. Next thing I know he had me by the neck like this, and another gorilla bends my arms behind my back like so, as if I was a puppet, and then to add insult to it all, they banged my puppets into chalk dust right before my eyes. You have no idea. It was like seeing my own children being murdered. I can’t tell you how it breaks my heart. I’m still sick when I think of it.

  Wenceslao paused to blow his nose. —You must think I’m a big fool. But that’s my wonderful life for you. I’d do anything for just a little luck. I’ve been on the stage for twenty, more than twenty years and have nothing to show for it yet. Look at me. I’m not young anymore.

  —Nonsense! You’re well conserved, maestro.

  —Well conserved or not, if something doesn’t happen soon … I just don’t know. Of course, going back to Spain is out of the question. The war.

  —Well, of course.

  Wenceslao sighed. And then, as if to fight off sadness, he made the fist-puppet talk:

  —And you, Señor Inocencio, what about you? What do you wish for?

  —Me? Well, right now two things. One, to get out of here. The other, to fix my papers. There’s sure to be trouble for me after this arrest. It’s that I’m not here legally, see. I’ll be deported for certain. And, like you, I can’t go home either because … well, because of my father. He and I …

  —Don’t see eye to eye? Wenceslao finished the sentence for him.
r />   —That’s how it is.

  —I understand. So. You wish only for two things? To get out of here and to fix your papers?

  —You can’t imagine how much.

  —I think I can, I think I can. Well, leave it to me. I’m a bit of a magician myself. Watch.

  They waited until the next officer walked past and then a little voice erupted from out of Inocencio without his even moving his lips. It said this:

  —Officer! Pardon the trouble, but I do not have the English.

  —What did you say, wise guy?

  —Excuse, Wenceslao interrupted. —My friend here says he wishes to enlist.

  —Oh, is that so?

  —Yes, sir, Wenceslao continued. —I beg you to be so kind. Let me present my friend Inocencio …

  —Reyes, Inocencio said.

  —Yes. Inocencio Reyes here, who desires very much to become an enlisted man.

  —!!! Yes, Inocencio stammered. —With all my heart, officer my friend. Please please.

  —Oh, yeah? So, you want to join up, eh? Seems to me the whole bunch of yous should be sent to the front line. Uncle Sam ain’t picky these days. I’ll ask someone up front to personally escort you to the nearest enlistment station, buddy. Hold on.

  After he’d left, Inocencio said, —What, are you crazy? I don’t want to enlist.

  —You said you wanted to get out of here and fix your papers, right? And unless you have money, my friend, this is the easiest way, believe me.

  —Well, my father was a military man. Maybe he’d be proud of me finally if …

  —Of course. Don’t worry. You’re young. You’ve got nine lives. You can do anything. But look at me. Here I am at midlife going nowhere. I’m tired. How many times can a man reinvent himself? I’ve got absolutely nothing, no energy, no money, no family, not even my puppets. I’m finished, I tell you, I’m dead.

  —But, maestro. Don’t exaggerate. As long as God keeps loaning you life, you’ll do well. I’m certain. You’re a genius. You make everything come to life. In my opinion you don’t need toys. It seems to me you’re excellent with what God gave you, your imagination and your wit.

  —Think so?

  —Absolutely. Trust me.

  —Well … they may have destroyed my instruments, but not my music!

  —That’s it!

  Just as Wenceslao Moreno was expounding on the nature of art, a police officer unlocked the door and shouted:

  —Moreno! Out!

  —How?

  —You’re free. Some clown just paid your bail. Says he’s a magician.

  —Ah! My friend the escape artist, of course! The greatest since Houdini, in my opinion. An excellent man! But look what time it is! If I hurry I can just make it to the theater. No time to change. I’ll have to go just as I am. No harm in that, is there? I’ll make do without my puppets. Improvise, as they say. After all, the show must go on!

  —¡Bravo, maestro!

  —Inocencio, my friend, it’s been a true pleasure. I’m off. So long. Wish me shit.

  —¡Mierda! said a voice from inside the toilet bowl.

  Inocencio laughed, and his spirit squeezed between the bars of his jail cell, somersaulted in a shaft of sunlight, floated past the armed policemen, ascended into the starry heavens, and escaped on the wings called hope.

  * Spanish ventriloquist Wenceslao Moreno, Señor Wences, became a big success in the fifties and sixties, appearing many times on The Ed Sullivan Show. Like Desi Arnaz and Gilbert Roland, he was one of the first Latinos we ever saw on television. Then, as now, there were hardly any Latinos on TV who were actually Latino and not some payaso pretending to be Latino. In his elegant tux and with his elegant accent, Señor Wences thrilled us and made us feel proud of who we were. I wonder if he ever realized this gift he gave us. He died April 20, 1999, in New York City at the age of 103.

  50.

  Neither with You Nor Without You

  A fanfarrón, nothing but a big show-off, she’ll confess in disgust, first to the best friend, Josie, and later and always to us. She’s talking about Father, what she thinks when she first meets him. How he’s full of the sweet scent of Tres Flores hair oil and full of shit. But she never says why she kept seeing him. Zoila Reyna couldn’t tell her sisters or herself. She’s not the kind to tell someone her feelings. She’s not one to think about those things.

  Better to not think. Ni contigo ni sin ti—tumbling and repeating itself in her head, like a jingle from the radio. Neither with you nor without you …

  Friday. 8:49 when a skinny private with a face like Errol Flynn steps in with eight of his friends and a cigarette in his mouth. He never goes anywhere without a cigarette and a whole bunch of hangers-on hanging on. His army buddies. And you can bet he pays when they haven’t got a dime. He’s a good sport like that.

  —It’s that I’m a gentleman.

  —A fool, mumbled she.

  Better than sitting at home, Zoila thinks, with the clock ticking toward and then past the hour Enrique* used to telephone. The clock, the calendar, the hours, weeks, months. The silence. The silence like an answer. The silence an answer. There was a little hole in her heart where he’d once been, and when she breathed, the air hurt her there, there. Before. And then after. Before. After.

  The dance hall smelling of the men in uniform, of Tres Flores hair oil, of Tweed cologne. The wooden floor old and stained like a pissy mattress. Women wearing hair snoods, silk flowers bought at the five-and-dime bobby-pinned behind one ear like Billie Holiday.

  The Reyna sisters. Aurelia, Mary Helen, Frances, Zoila. In flowered crepe and open-toed platform shoes. The best friend, Josie. The swish of skirt and lipstick pressed on toilet paper. Nylons that cost a whole dollar. —An hour of standing at the cookie factory these cost me!

  —Full of himself, she’ll say. —A big talker. Nothing but talk. A mile a minute. Can’t fool me.

  Wants to go to Mexico. —Ever been there? Never? I’ll take you there. I’ve got a new car. Not here. Over there. Miss, would you care to dance?

  —Get a load of her.

  Looked after a redhead with big floppy breasts. —Chiches Christ! Looked at a morenita with a heart-shaped ass. —¡Nálgame Dios! Did the jitterbug with a flirtatious tejana with a dress so tight you could see the mound of her panocha, te lo juro.

  Zoila Reyna dressed in a crepe skirt and a pink see-through blouse she borrowed from her older sister Aurelia after three days of begging. —Huerca, you’ll ruin it! —I won’t, I promise—please—I’ll wash it by hand. A pink blouse with rhinestones and pearls sewn around the collar. Hair brushed a hundred times each night and draped over one eye like Veronica Lake. Zoila has a way with hair, does all her sisters’. Her sister Frances won’t let anyone touch her hair but Zoila.

  —Comb me like Betty Grable.

  First you put a rat in, and comb the hair over it like this. Then you dip the comb in that clear green gel, and you use plenty of bobby pins, and then you finish with a hairnet. She takes her time. She likes doing hair. Maybe she’ll even take classes at the Azteca Beauty College on Blue Island. Zoila, who studies the magazines—Mirror, Hollywood. She can tell you anything. Who Linda Darnell was married to before she got famous. How Gene Tierney paints her eyebrows into a perfect arch. The secret to Rita Hayworth’s shiny hair.

  Zoila Reyna looking in the crowd for his face. Enrique. The crowd of black-haired men. Enrique. Enrique, she had said to herself, and every cell inside her filled with light.

  She couldn’t admit that she still telephoned, would hang up before anyone answered. Once she had let it ring and someone answered, but the voice on the other end was a child’s voice and said no one with that name lived there. Some nights, she still walked past the house, that house, though she knew Enrique no longer lived there. Even the street name made her shiver. Hoyne. Silly, ain’t it? Silly, just plain goofy. A silly girl. That’s me.

  Records starting before the band. Peggy Lee’s sassy voice singing “Why Don’t You Do Right?”
Bodies pressed against each other, sad swishing sounds of feet dragging across dance floor.

  When she was little and had a wound on a hand or knee, some place that broke the body’s symmetry, she would look at the unharmed twin and compare it with the limb that was now swollen and plum-colored. This is how my hand had been before the fence tore it open and this is how my hand is now. Before. And after. Before. And now this.

  Something like this happened to Zoila Reyna when she met Enrique Aragón. There was her life before him, smooth and whole and complete, without her ever being aware or grateful for its well-being, and then her life after Enrique Aragón, taut and tender. Forever after.

  Dressed in a borrowed pink blouse and skirt too big for that skinny girl’s body, hangs on her hips, pinned it with a safety pin. Bring-me-luck blouse, and a pair of gold earrings bought on layaway.

  Not Hank. Not Henry. “Enrique,” he’d said. Enrique Aragón, in Spanish. And not a crooked Spanish either, like her own. A Spanish luxurious as gold silk wrapped in tissue, an English crisp and creased as a pocket handkerchief. A tongue that leapt from the whir of one to the starched linen of the other with the ease of an acrobat on a flying trapeze. Enrique, this name with its tongue trill, with its patent leather shoes and toe taps clacking down an ivory stairway built by Ziegfeld, this name in tux and tails, began its reign of terror. She had taken to writing the name beside her own a thousand times in ballpoint pen, on napkins, in between the lipstick print of her lips on toilet paper. Enrique Aragón. Enrique Aragón. Enrique Aragón. And sometimes if she dared, Zoila Aragón.

  “Mi reina,” Enrique had said once. “Neither with you nor without you,” he’d told her. That’s what he’d said. And it’s as if love is some kind of war. “Are you brave enough to sacrifice everything for love? Are you?” he’d said.

  Enrique Aragón. Mr. Aragón’s son, who traveled and was here in Chicago for a little, and then there, Los Angeles. Because los Aragón owned a lot of movie theaters in Chicago and L.A. —Teatro San Juan, Las Américas, El Tampico, La Villa, El Million Dollar—all raggedy and run down, with a flickering version of some old black-and-white Mexican western. Jalisco, no te rajes. Soy puro Mexicano. Yo maté a Rosita Alvírez.