Back to Blood

by Tom Wolfe

  Señor Lugo looked at Nestor for a single moment more, then lowered his head and slunk away deeper into the casita.

  ::::::Shit. I’ve really done it now. I’m the one who lost control. That old bastard—he’s back there right now telling them all, “Be careful! Don’t get near him! He’s a mad dog!”… Still—seeing the fear on his face—it was almost worth it.::::::

  He’d had it with all these people. ::::::Even if they want to talk, civilly or otherwise, I’m not saying anything and I’m not moving, either. I’m gonna be right here the moment Magdalena comes in.::::::

  The platoons, the brigades, the battalions, the clans, the tribesmen, the termites in the family tree who were packed in around him here in the front room… drinking beer straight out of the bottles and talking at the top of their lungs. What an ungodly din. Nice atmosphere… none of them wanted to talk to him or set eyes on him or in any way be aware of his presence, much less acknowledge it.

  ::::::All right, if I’m such a non-person that you can’t even see me, why would you mind if I force my way straight through you to reach the front door?::::::

  With that, he began shouldering through the crowd, cop shades over his face, looking at no one, giving this one a shoulder into his rib cage from behind and that one an elbow in the—“Oooof!”—stomach, muttering, “Coming through, coming through,” not pausing for an instant to look back at the tribesmen he had felled, taking delight in their startled objections, the Heys, the Ouches, the Hey, watch its. ::::::So what if they think I’m rude? They already think worse than that of me.::::::

  Parading his muscles again gave him a grim pleasure, self-defeating but satisfying all the same. But the moment he went out the front door—no pleasure remained, grim or otherwise, and no fear. He was empty…

  In the instant it took him, cop shades and all, to adjust to Hialeah’s eye-frying killer-concrete sun, he was aware of a figure walking across the street here in the middle of the block, but he could make out no details, just a silhouette.

  In the next instant a vision—Magdalena.

  She was walking straight toward him, looking into his face with a certain smile that he had always interpreted as a lure… toward unspeakable delights… the curve of her lips—pure mischief… the way her hair flowed in such thick silken waves down to her shoulders… her sleeveless white silk top scalloped so deep in front, he could see the inner curves of her breasts… and more… and his loins sent out a bulletin… her perfect lissome legs and thighs and hips, he loved it all, worshipped it, idolized it.

  He blurted out, “Manena—I’d given up!”

  Magdalena slipped between I, Camilo’s FUMIGADORES van and an ancient Taurus parked right in front of it and stepped up onto the sidewalk, and the sun exploded off the shimmers of the white silk barely upon her breasts and the waves of her hair, long enough, thick enough, soft enough to—to—to… She walked up to within three feet of Nestor, still smiling the smile that promised… all… and breathing rapidly.

  “I’m so sorry, Nestor! I barely got here at all! I was at the hospital. I’ve never driven so fast—”

  “Oh, Manena—” Nestor was shaking his head and fighting back tears.

  “—fast in my life! And there was no place to park, and so I just left it over there.” With a little swing of her head she indicated somewhere behind her.

  “Oh God, Manena, if you hadn’t come at all—” More head shaking, more tears pooling on the little edge where his lower eyelids touched the eyeballs—in lieu of the words he didn’t know how to say. “Manena, you have no idea what I’ve been going through—my own family, my own goddamned family!”

  He glanced at his watch. “Shit! I can’t be late for the shift.”

  He moved toward her. He must hold her in his arms. He puts his arms around her, and she put her arms around him ::::::but shit, she’s got her arms around my back. She always puts them around my neck.:::::: He tries to kiss her, but she averts her head and whispers, “Not out here, Nestor—some of them are outside—”

  —presumably the crowd at the party. Yes, it’s true. Some of them have spilled out of the lawn in the back and onto the driveway. But what difference did it make?

  He released his sweetheart and looked squarely at his watch.

  “Shit, Manena! I’m gonna be late for my goddamned shift—and my car’s parked four blocks from here!”

  “Oh—I’m sorry, Nestor,” said Magdalena. “I messed up—look, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I drive you over to where your car is? That’ll save you some time.”

  As soon as he got in the passenger seat, he poured out his woes in a torrent. For no reason, no reason at all, his whole family—hell, all of Hialeah!—was trying to turn him into a traitor!—a pariah! He let it all out.

  As she drove, Magdalena gestured toward the rows of casitas that rolled by on either side. “Oh, Nestor,” she sighed without looking at him. “I’ve told you this before. Hialeah is not America. It’s not even Miami. It’s a—well, the word isn’t ghetto, but Hialeah’s… Hialeah’s a little box, and we grow up here thinking it’s a normal part of the world. But it isn’t! You’re in a little box here! And everybody’s poking into your life and poking into everything you try to do and they can’t wait to gossip about it and spread stories, hoping you’ll fail. They love it when you fail. As long as you live in Hialeah and think in the Hialeah way… as long as you assume that the only way you can get out of some wretched casita is to marry your way out—what kind of life is that? You’re just letting them condition you so your eyes can’t even see any life outside of a Hialeah casita. I know who’s in your house right now. There’s so many people in there who are related to you, part of you, attached to you—they’re like one of those parasite plants that has all the tendrils that wrap around the trunk and then wrap around the branches, and when there’s no more room on the branches, they go after the buds and leaves and twigs, and now the tree lives on in a completely parasitical condition—”

  ::::::parasitical condition?::::::

  “—or it dies. Listen to me, Nestor. I’m very, very fond of you—”

  ::::::“fond”?::::::

  “—and you’ve got to get out of this trap now. I was talking to a doctor from Argentina yesterday, and he says—”

  ::::::This is the moment!:::::: They were within a block of his car. He glanced at his watch again. Time was growing short. :::::::Now!:::::::

  Nestor leaned across the armrest and placed his hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes close up and in a way so wet, you’d have to be pretty dim not to see heavy weather coming.

  “¡Dios mío, Manena!… oh, my God,” said Nestor, “we’re thinking the same thing at the same time. I shouldn’t be surprised—but it’s incredible!”

  Magdalena suddenly pulled her head back.

  “Sweetheart,” Nestor went on, “we’re two people with the same—I don’t mean just the same feelings but the same—well, we’re two people who understand things the same way. You know what I mean?”

  Nothing in her expression indicated she did.

  “I’ve been thinking all day about this. You know how we’re always saying, ‘It’s just not the right time’? You know how we say that? Well, I swear, Manena, I know this is! This is the right time! This moment!… Manena… let’s get married—now—right now! Let’s just say goodbye to all this!”—he twirled his forefinger in the air, as if to take in Hialeah, Miami, Miami-Dade County—“all of it. Why wait any longer for the right time? Let’s just do it—now! We’ll both be gone from… all this! Manena! I’m leaving with you—right now. How about it? I couldn’t love you any more than I do—right now. You and I both know what the right time is… right now!”

  For a moment Magdalena just looked at him… blankly. Nestor could not read a thing in that expression of hers. Finally she said, “It’s not that simple, Nestor.”

  “Not that simple?” He gave Magdalena the softest, most loving smile possible. “It couldn’t be any simpler, Ma
nena. We love each other!”

  Magdalena turned her head. She wasn’t looking at him when she said, “We can’t just think of ourselves.”

  “You mean your folks? It’s not going to be any sudden shock to them. We’ve been with each other for three years, and I’m sure they know—well, they know we’re not just…, just going out on dates.”

  Now Magdalena looked him squarely in the eye. “It’s not just them.”

  “Whattaya mean?”

  She hesitated, but she kept her eyes locked upon his. “I’m seeing someone else… also.”

  Magdalena’s car turned into a sealed capsule. Nestor could no longer hear a thing except for a sound that began to fill his head… it sounded like the steam that comes out of those big irons at the cleaners.

  His voice rose. “Did you just say also?”

  “Yes.” She maintained her laser control.

  “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t use that kind of language.”

  “Okay.” He gave her a sardonic smile that showed his upper teeth and turned his forehead into ribbons of wrinkles. “Then just answer the question.”

  The smile cracked her composure. She began blinking to beat the band. “I mean, just like I see you, I see other people.”

  Nestor managed to bark out a single rasp of laughter. The steely Magdalena suddenly came back into her eyes. “I don’t want to lie to you. I love you too much to do that. I do love you, you know. I finally decided I had to tell you about everything. I never wanted to keep anything from you. I was just waiting for the right time… Now you know everything.”

  “I know… everything? I know… everything? I know you’re trying to double-talk me! I know you haven’t told me a fucking thing—”

  “I told you! Don’t use—”

  “Why not? Because you’re such a fucking lady who fucking loves me? Have you ever heard any bigger bullshit?”

  “Nestor!”

  He could see the disgust, the anger in her eyes. But he could also see she was afraid to say another word.

  “DON’T WORRY! I’M LEAVING!” So out of control, he couldn’t keep his voice down even when he tried. He opened the door and got out and walked in front of the car and stopped, looking straight through the windshield at her.

  “THIS IS YOUR CHANCE! WHY DON’T YOU FUCKING RUN ME OVER AND BE DONE WITH IT!” Out of control and he knew it and was helpless. He walked around to the driver’s window, Magdalena’s window, and bent over and all but pressed his face against the glass. “YOU MISSED YOUR FUCKING CHANCE… CONCHA!” He was vaguely aware of people on the sidewalk across the street stopping to gawk, but he couldn’t keep his voice down. He withdrew his head and stood up and screamed at Magdalena from about a foot and a half away. “GO AHEAD! GET OUTTA HERE! GET OUTTA HIALEAH! GET OUTTA MY SIGHT!”

  Magdalena didn’t have to be told twice. She gunned the engine, the tires squealed, and the car seemed to spring away, like an animal. Nestor followed the beast with his eyes every millimeter of the way, watched it screech around the corner on two wheels, for one horrible HORRIBLY GUILTY moment thought it was going to roll over ::::::OH, MY MANENA! MOST PRECIOUS CREATURE IN THE WORLD! MY ONLY LOVE! MY ONLY LIFE—WHAT HAVE I JUST DONE?! I CALLED YOU A CONCHA FOR ALL OF HIALEAH TO HEAR! And now I’ll never have the chance to tell you that I worship you… that you are my life!:::::: but, thankgod, it righted itself and disappeared.

  More people had stopped to gawk. He’d better get outta here himself. He got in the Camaro, but instead of speeding off, he sat back in the seat. Only then did he realize he was breathing rapidly, all but gasping for breath, and his heart was racing within his rib cage, as if it had an urgent desire to be in a better place…

  Out the windshield he could see what he had left… tiny huts all in rows, roasting on an endless arid prairie of concrete… the guilt, the thought of what he had thrown away, the hopelessness; these three, hopelessness, wanton waste, and guilt; but the worst of these was guilt.

  5

  The Pissing Monkey

  Maurice Fleischmann, that big bear of a billionaire, undid his cuff links and shoved his shirtsleeve up as far as it would go, to clear the way for her hypodermic syringe… and as always, tensed his muscles to show Magdalena that underneath all that flesh was bear-like strength and power… And as always, Magdalena said, “Please relax, Mr. Fleischmann,” and he always did, apparently oblivious of how often they went through this same overture.

  Often he would add a suggestive remark at that point, not egregiously suggestive… just to open the door a crack. This time he said, “Look, you’re young and beautiful. Tell me about your adventures since the last time I saw you.”

  Magdalena always tried to deal with it as if this were all such witty fun. “Oh, I’m not sure you’d be able to take it, Mr. Fleischmann.”

  He laughed. Oh, the badinage! “Try me,” he said. “You might be ver-rrry surprised!” Laughter, laughter.

  Oh, the badinage! And oh, how queasy-making—since at that point she always stabbed his fat arm with the syringe and pumped a jolt of Deprovan, a “libido inhibitor,” into his bloodstream… to suppress his free-floating lust for every pretty girl and his sexual obsessions… pornography in his case.

  It was in fact so unamusing that, as she did at least a half dozen times a day, Magdalena, without even knowing she was doing it, began totaling the pluses and minuses of this new “job” she had. After graduating from EGU, Everglades Global University, in nursing, she had worked for three years at Jackson Memorial Hospital. Last year she had been a nurse in pediatric surgery. But how could she resist when one of the best known physicians in this, one of the biggest and best known hospitals in the South—Dr. Norman Lewis, the famous psychiatrist—had gone out of his way to recruit her for his personal practice? She was bowled over by the glamour of it. He had taken her out of the Hialeah “ghetto,” as she now thought of it, and introduced her to the grandeur and excitement of the real world beyond. In less than half an hour, 60 Minutes—and not just 60 Minutes but the program’s star, Ike Walsh—would be here to interview him about… the Porn Plague.

  No sooner had Maurice Fleischmann departed and the door out to the Lincoln Suites parking lot clicked behind him than Dr. Norman Lewis left his office and walked toward her, beaming the look of a man no longer able to contain his laughter. When he reached her—the explosion. He started laughing so hard, he could barely catch his breath long enough to gasp the words out to Magdalena.

  “Maurice Fleischmann!” he exclaimed as he put his arm around her waist. “Moe the First!… the lordly Face of Miameeee ee ee ee eeaahhahAHHHH hock hock hock hock”—gasp—“ ’ssssgot on an eight-thousand-dollar silk suit lately made on Jermyn Street off Savile Row-oh-oh-oh-ohhahhhHHHH hock hock hock hock had to tell me that! had to show me the labellllllahhahhaHAHH hock hock hock hock hock”—gasp—and with each gasp he tightened his squeeze around Magdalena’s waist a little more. “He takes the fucking prize of the week ahhhHHHH hock hock hock hock”—gasp—a little tighter he squeezed her—“ ‘sssssso refined’ ahhHHHH hock hock hock hock”—gasp—and a little tighter—“Hunnunderneath that pretty suit is the biggest mess you ever saw aw aw aw awahhHHHH”—gasp—and tighter—“You gotta admit we got a zoooohhhhere wh wh whuh”—gasp—squeeze… and squeeze—and he broke into song, “Ohhhhh, we’re off to the Hamburg Zoo—to see the elephant and the wild kangarooooo hock hock hock hock!” He tried to catch his breath and bring his jollification under control… and failed. “You should see his groin!”—gasp—“His poor penis—it’s a little red thing, and it’s got so many herpes blisters all over it, it’s like looking down at a cluster of balloons! Only it’s a blister cluster of ballooning bliiiiIIIISTERSssssAHHHHH hock hock hock ahhhHHHH!”—gasping, panting—“What a magnificent specimen of humanity! He do beat all”—gasp—“He do beat alllllock hock hock hock hock hock I swear I didn’t mean to make a pun… I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

  The eminent
Dr. Lewis finally had himself under control, but he kept Magdalena’s body pulled tight against his, side to side. “Poor bastard… every time he masturbates, the herpes gets worse, and more blister clusters pop out—and if you think he has the willpower to get up from the internet and stop watching those boys and girls slogging away and sticking this and that and them and those into every orifice in the human body—and stop torturing his poor put-upon little penis, you’re dreaming… Wait a minute! I gotta show you! I took some pictures—”

  He released her and practically dashed back to his office. Dr. Lewis’s laughter—at his own jokes or not—his high spirits, his boyishness, his energy, swelled up into a flash flood that swept Magdalena away helplessly… Should he really be telling her these intimate secrets of his patients’ lives? But what were her troublesome little scruples compared to the totality of Dr. Norman Lewis? Any moment—any moment!—60 Minutes would be here to have Norm give them the last word on the “Porn Plague”—60 Minutes!—and Norman was all excited about something else entirely, some pictures of poor Mr. Fleischmann’s ravaged loins—as if he couldn’t care less about 60 Minutes and Ike Walsh—couldn’t care less!

  Magdalena was in a panic for him—and cried out, “Norman! Show me later! 60 Minutes’ll be here any minute, like right now!”

  Dr. Norman Lewis stopped in the doorway of his office and turned around and said, “Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart. It’ll take them an hour to set up.” He gave Magdalena a smile with a certain cynical twist of the lips. “They’re a bunch of unionized elves. Whatever they do, it takes them twice as long as plain elves. Fuck them. You’ve got to see Moe the First à la noue!”