by John Fante
He slowed to a walk when he reached the street. Little Tokyo was crowded with Saturday-night strollers. Coatless, he lost himself among the shoppers, making his way past the toy stores and cafés, the clean, bright shops. The windows always shone in Little Tokyo, there was less refuse in the gutters, the street lamps were brighter, and incense from a hundred doors filled the air with sweetness. Like the others, Mingo Mateo sauntered unhurried and at ease in the warm December night.
The brightness of the street gradually ended. Now there were blackened warehouses, and beyond them the Filipino Quarter began. Flophouses and wine shops, burned hamburgers and strong perfume, barbershops and massage parlors, juke-box music and chippies, and everywhere his countrymen, the little brown brothers, exquisitely tailored, exquisitely lonely, leaning against poolroom doorways, smoking cigars and staring alternately at the stars overhead and the clicking high heels passing by.
At the fountain of the Bataan Poolhall Mingo ordered a glass of orange juice. As he raised it to his lips, someone touched his shoulder and spoke his name. He gulped the drink and turned around.
Vincente Toletano stood there. The two men with him were Julio Gonzales and Aurelio Lazario. Without glancing at Toletano, Mingo understood why they were there. These men were officers of the Filipino Federated Brotherhood. Vincente Toletano had gone to them with the name of Mary Osaka on his lips.
Julio Gonzales spoke first. “Come into back room, Mateo. We wish to have little talk.” He was the largest of the three, a middleweight prize fighter with mauled ears and a crushed nose.
“Talk with Toletano!” Mingo sneered. “He is stool pigeon. He tell everything.”
Said Toletano: “You lie, Mingo. I do this for good of the Filipino Federated Brotherhood. You make the oath. You must keep.”
Said Mingo: “Cannot keep the oath. I am in love with Mary Osaka. I resign from Brotherhood.”
“Not so easy to resign,” said Gonzales. “Better to come and have little talk.”
Said Mingo: “I love Mary Osaka. Go to hell.”
Said Gonzales, “How you like when I put best right on whole Pacific Coast inside your mouth, bust out the teeth?” He lifted a heavy brown fist into Mingo’s view.
“Is make no difference. Still I love Mary Osaka.”
Aurelio Lazario got between them. An educated man, Aurelio. Bachelor of Arts, Pomona College; Doctor of Law, University of California; now a dishwasher in Jason’s cafeteria. Aurelio laid his thin, soap-softened hand on Mingo’s shoulder, and friendship was in his voice. “Come with us, Mingo. There won’t be any trouble. I promise you that.”
Mingo looked into the warm eyes of Aurelio Lazario, and he knew that Lazario was his friend, the friend of all Pinoys. Twelve years he had known this man, twelve years in America, and the fame of Aurelio Lazario had spread to every Filipino community on the Pacific Coast. Lazario, the fighter for Filipino rights, a leader in the asparagus country, with gunshot wounds to prove it; Lazario, who got them better housing in the Imperial Valley. Aurelio Lazario, an old man of thirty-five, his head still high and unbroken despite the clubs of the vigilantes; prunes in Santa Clara, rice in Solano, salmon in Alaska, tuna in San Diego—side by side with his brother Filipinos, Lazario had worked and suffered; and though he had gone on to the university and become a great man among his people, yet his face, like Mingo’s, was forever marked by the hot sunlight of the San Joaquin, and his brown eyes were soft and womanlike with compassion for all men.
“I come,” said Mingo. “We talk.”
He got off the stool and followed them past the pool tables to a door that led to the back room. Gonzales opened the door and switched on a plain light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The room was dusty, empty, with newspapers spread over the floor. Gonzales stood at the door, waiting for them to enter. After they filed in, he closed the door and stood before it with folded arms. Mingo crossed to the far corner, leaned against the wall, biting his lip, opening and closing his fists. Lazario stood directly under the light, Toletano beside him.
“So you’re in love, Mingo,” Lazario smiled.
“Whole lots,” said Mingo.” I no care what happen.”
Toletano spat on the floor. “Japanese girl! Ugh. Is terrible.”
Said Mingo: “Not Japanese. American. Born in Los Angeles. American citizen.”
Said Toletano: “And her papa, her mama?” He spat again. “Japanese.”
Said Mingo: “I no love her papa, her mama. I love Mary Osaka. Crazy for her.”
Abruptly Gonzales crossed from the door and pushed Mingo against the wall. He held him there with his right hand. Drawing back his left, he held it on a line with Mingo’s nose. “Say one more time you love this Japanese woman, and I give you best left hook on whole Pacific Coast.”
The eyes of Mingo bulged; his face turned bloated and purple; still he blubbered stubbornly, “Mary Osaka, I love you.”
Lazario raised his hand. “Wait, Gonzales. Violence won’t help matters. He has his rights like the rest of us.
Gonzales shook his right fist between Mingo’s eyes. “I have right, too, best right on whole Pacific Coast. I think maybe I let him have it.”
Lazario waved him away. “Let’s get down to the facts. We founded the Federated Brotherhood of Filipinos in protest against the Japanese invasion of China. We’ve pledged ourselves to boycott Japanese goods, to have as little as possible to do with all Japanese elements. Unfortunately, some of us can’t carry out this pledge. We need jobs. Sometimes we have to work for Japanese employers.”
It was Lazario, the man of learning who spoke now, and they listened respectfully. Gonzales pulled a cigar from his checkered sports coat and bit off the end.
Boycotting Japanese goods is one thing,” Lazario went on, “but falling in love with a Japanese girl who isn’t Japanese at all, but an American of Japanese descent—well, I don’t know. The Federation perhaps might be overstepping itself here.”
Gonzales lit his cigar and puffed contentedly. Aurelio Lazario, the smartest Filipino on the whole Pacific Coast, was talking, and what he said was gospel, even though he, Gonzales, understood not one word of it. Slumped in the corner, Mingo rubbed his bruised neck and stared at the floor. Toletano shoved his hands in his pockets. Plainly he had no patience with Lazario’s argument.
Lazario turned to him. “Vincente, have you ever been in love?”
Toletano considered this. “Yah. Two times.” Melancholy softened his face. “Two times,” he repeated. “Is wonderful, sad. It hurt so—” he touched his heart—“here.”
“Were you in love with American women?”
“Beautiful American girl. In Stockton. Blonde.”
“And did you ask her to marry you?”
“Alla time. Every few minutes.”
“And why wouldn’t she?”
“She was American. I was Filipino.”
Said Lazario: “You see, Vincente? The same is true of Mingo. She is of Japanese descent. He is Filipino. We mustn’t be prejudiced. A man’s heart knows nothing of race or creed or color.”
Toletano shook his head doubtfully. “Good Filipino can always smell Japanese.” He went on shaking his head. “Is different. American girl is one thing, Japanese something else.”
But Lazario wouldn’t have it. “Love is very democratic, Vincente. Nationality is an accident. You say you were in love twice. What about the other girl?”
Vincente sighed. “Was same blonde American girl. She move to San Francisco. I follow her. Fall in love in San Francisco, too.”
Lazario gestured with both palms. “There. You see?” Gonzales took the cigar from his mouth and flipped the ash. “Maybe better,” he said, “if Mingo fall in love with American girl.”
“Mary Osaka is American girl,” said Mingo. “Hundred percent. Graduate, Manual Arts High School.”
Lazario crossed to the prize fighter, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Look, my friend Gonzales. Put yourself in Mingo’s place. We are all Filipinos. We all know the lif
e of a Filipino in the United States is hard. How can we expect justice if we interfere in the life of one of our brothers? He loves this girl, this Mary Osaka. You, Julio. Have you ever been in love?”
Gonzales filled his great chest proudly. “Four times,” he said. “All American girls, finest on whole Pacific Coast.”
“And what happened?”
Was wonderful. I marry with all of them. Then divorce.”
Lazario blinked thoughtfully. He placed his arm around the pugilist’s shoulder and turned him toward Mingo, slumped in the corner. “Look at him, Julio. There he is, a small, insignificant little Filipino. He’s your countryman, Julio, brother of your brothers. But you’re a strong man, Julio, a great middleweight, with a deadly left hook. You’re successful, handsome, exciting. Women fall at your feet. You have to fight them off with your fists. But look at him! Timid, scared. He needs the support of a tiger like you. Why shouldn’t he marry this girl? After all, she’s probably the best he can find.”
Gonzales pouted, the cigar in the middle of his mouth. He rolled it thoughtfully. “Sure,” he said finally. “Is okay by Julio Gonzales.”
In the corner Mingo hung limp and tear-sodden, his arms like broken branches at his sides.
Gonzales stepped forward. Said he, “Mingo, you want to marry this woman?”
“Mary Osaka,” Mingo groaned, “I love you.”
Gonzales pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket. “Here. I have Packard roadster, white tire, red leather upholster, go hundred-ten mile an hour. You take, Mingo. Go to Las Vegas. Get marry tonight.”
Mingo lifted his sodden, grateful eyes. Slowly he sank to his knees. He took the hand that held the keys and kissed it, wet it considerably with his lips and his tears. Gonzales tried to pull his hand away.
Said Mingo: “God bless you, Julio.”
Gonzales dropped the keys to the floor, jerked his hand free, and hurried from the room. Lazario and Toletano stood with dry mouths. Quietly they tiptoed away.
A new Mingo Mateo stalked out of the back room of the Bataan Poolhall. Sunlight in his face, stars in his eyes, and lips grinning like a crescent moon. Twirling a ring of keys, he stood at the tobacco counter and ordered a cigar. Removing the gold band, he fitted it around his small finger. Said he: “Mrs. Mingo Mateo.”
There was a wall telephone, and he dug for a nickel. Six times he spun the dial, then listened to a soft humming. Her “hello” filled him with fine music.
“Mary.”
“Are you all right?”
“Everything okay. Meet me tonight. City Hall steps. Twelve o’clock.”
“But, Mingo—”
“Goodbye, Mary.”
In the street he found Gonzales’s car. It was a rust-colored job, a roadster with fender lights, spotlights, fog lights. It crouched with white-walled paws, like an animal ready to spring. He circled it breathlessly. When he touched the horn the first bars of “Tiger Rag” snarled forth. He slipped under the steering wheel, gripped it tightly in both hands.
Probing the switches and dials on the dashboard, he finally got the radio started. It was a news broadcast; something about two special Japanese envoys talking hopefully of peace with the State Department in Washington. Mingo scowled and pushed another button. It brought forth music: steel guitars, a Hawaiian voice singing of a certain island princess with plenty of papaya to give away. He leaned back and listened, his eyes sailing through the blue-black dome of the sky freckled with white stars.
“Mingo, my friend, hello.”
Standing at the curb was Vincente Toletano. A girl clung to his arm. She was Chinese, not more than twenty, her black hair in bangs. She lowered her bright, delicate face and stared at the sidewalk. She wore a long smock buttoning to the chin, slit from hem to knees. Her cheeks were rouged, and her lips were wet scarlet. Vincente slipped his arm around her waist, patting her with considerable affection.
“Look what I got, Mingo. Pretty good, no?”
“Pleased to meet,” said Mingo.
“Name of Lily Chin,” said Toletano, introducing her. “Lily, my friend Mingo Mateo.”
“Please to meet.”
Toletano rolled his eyes over her. “How you like, Mingo?”
Said Mingo, “Is pretty.” He dropped his eyes.
Said Toletano, “What you think, Lily?”
“He’s cute,” she said.
Toletano motioned her to move away, to leave him alone with Mingo. They watched her glide to the corner. Toletano opened the car door and got in.
Said he, “How you like this girl, Mingo?”
“Fine. Pretty. Chinese, no?”
“Yah, Chinese. Not Japanese, Chinese.”
Said Mingo “Mary Osaka is not Japanese. She is American, hundred percent.”
Toletano waved it aside. “Is better to talk about Lily Chin. You like, no?”
“Sure, I like.”
Said Toletano, “She is pretty, no?”
“Wonderful pretty.”
“Make fine wife?”
“You betcha.”
Toletano offered him a cigar. “Special Havana.”
Mingo bit off the end and put it in his mouth. Toletano had a light ready immediately. Mingo puffed, tasted the smoke. “Good cigar,” he said.
Said Toletano: “I am your friend, Mingo. Tonight you make me lose job, but I say nothing.”
“No, Vincente. You quit job. Is not my to blame.”
“For you I quit, Mingo. For you, for whole Filipino nation. To make big sacrifice, to show you lesson, so you don’t disgrace Filipino people.”
Mingo took the cigar from his mouth and looked at Toletano’s face. It was a cold, hard face. Toletano leaned back, his eyes to the sky. It was like a fist, his face, tensed and threatening like a closed fist.
Said Mingo: “Vincente, what you want from me? For why we talk like this? Is already settled. Lazario, he say get married. Gonzales, he give me the car. But you, Vincente, you fight with me. Why?”
Toletano swung round and shook him. “Because I am great Filipino. Because I have fire of love in my heart for my country, but not for Japanese girl, enemy of my people. To marry Japanese girl is like dirt in the face of whole Filipino nation.”
Panting, Mingo tore the hands from his throat. “Is nothing I can do, Vincente. The mind, she is made up.”
He was not a fighting man, this Mingo Mateo. He was too small and gentle for that. But when rage took him, it was with the fury of a mad dog. At that moment it got hold of him, and in a deluge of fists and teeth he was punching and tearing the man beside him.
Somehow the car door opened, and they were on the sidewalk, rolling over and over among the legs of a crowd that quickly gathered. He neither saw nor felt what he did, this Mingo Mateo, and it was not until a dozen hands had jerked him to his feet and held him that he realized what he had done to the figure sprawled face down on the sidewalk.
He picked out certain faces in the crowd, faces of his countrymen, the face of Lily Chin. Then he heard a police siren and an old voice, a good voice that calmed the kicking of his heart.
Said Aurelio Lazario: “Go, Mingo. Hurry. The police are coming.”
Mingo looked down at Toletano.
“He’s all right. We’ll take care of him.”
Brown hands led him to the big car. Someone slammed the door. He felt the keys. Their coldness gave him strength. Around him the faces of his countrymen, begging him to escape. He started the car. The power of the engine entered his arms and legs like a hypodermic shot. He saw clearly now, even turning to look back and wave to Aurelio. A block away he swung into Los Angeles Street and passed a black squad car with blood-red lights, its siren howling as it sped to the place he had just left.
Mingo lived on Bunker Hill, that high island of Mexicans and Filipinos not far from the City Hall. It was his most intimate fraction of American earth. He had gone there the first time twelve years before, an immigrant boy from a village in Luzon, with two straw suitcases and a thousand dreams. No
w he was twenty-nine. He had learned to love the sad ruin of Bunker Hill, the smoke-licked rooming houses, the paint-bloated apartments. Each spring, going away to follow the crops, to work in the canneries, he remembered it as home, and in the fall he was back again.
Bunker Hill: sacred soil. A block away from his rooming house was a park, no more than fifty feet square. Around it grew five palm trees. Beneath them was a bench. Holy ground: the feet of Mary Osaka had trod it. The bench had felt the weight of her body. It was here they had met for snatched hours the past three months. She had come in spite of everything, even the wrath of her father, because he had asked it. Vincente Toletano could call her Japanese; but Mingo Mateo had seen the dream of America through the eyes of Mary.
Those were the nights—the moon throwing yellow arms through the five palms, the great city below, and the soft voice of a girl beside him, speaking of this bright land of American youth. She had told him that Artie Shaw’s was the best American band, that Benny Goodman played the best clarinet. For twenty minutes she had expounded the cool nostalgia of Bing Crosby. She had picked Oregon in the Rose Bowl, Minnesota in the Big Ten. She entranced him with thoughts on boogie-woogie, Joe DiMaggio, and the Micromatic shift. She loved Clark Gable. He held her hand and was pleased to listen, the warm breeze picking up her scent and wafting it over the city. She liked automobiles and cigarettes, Joe Louis and scented face powder, nylon hose and Ginger Rogers; she liked Fred Allen and Bob Hope. She liked Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara. She talked of Wendell Willkie, the Okies, John Gunther, Cab Calloway, slacks, Harper’s Bazaar, President Roosevelt. America the wild and wonderful, out of the sweet lips of a small girl who loved it deeply, spoke of it intimately, as though it were her brother, her house, her life—this girl whom he was meeting tonight.
A few minutes before midnight he was coasting down the steep incline of Bunker Hill toward City Hall. He had bathed and shaved, flung a palmful of lilac perfume into his dark hair, changed to a light-brown suit. When the massive white tower of the City Hall came into view, dismay squeezed his heart: all at once he was sure she would not be there, that he had been a fool, that his dream had run amuck.