The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

by Junot Díaz

  A teacher asked them to start thinking about the new decade. Where would you like to see yourself: your country, and our glorious president in the coming years? No one understood the question so he had to break it down into two simple parts.

  One of her classmates, Mauricio Ledesme, got in serious trouble, so bad that his family had to spirit him out of the country. He was a quiet boy who sat next to one of the Squadron, stewing always in his love for her. Perhaps he thought he’d impress her. (Not that far-fetched, for soon comes the generation who’s number-one ass-getting technique will not be to Be Like Mike, but to Be Like Che.) Perhaps he’d just had enough. He wrote in the crabbed handwriting of a future poet-revolutionary: I’d like to see our country be a democracia like the United States. I wish we would stop having dictators. Also I believe that it was Trujillo who killed Galindez.↓

  ≡ Much in the news in those days, Jesús de Galíndez was a Basque supernerd and a Columbia University grad student who had written a rather unsettling doctoral dissertation. The topic? Lamentably, unfortunately, sadly: the era of Rafael Leonidas Trujillo Molina. Galíndez, a loyalist in the Spanish Civil War, had firsthand knowledge of the regime; he had taken refuge in Santo Domingo in 1939, occupied high positions therein, and by his departure in 1946 had developed a lethal allergy to the Failed Cattle Thief, could conceive for himself no higher duty than to expose the blight that was his regime. Crassweller describes Galíndez as ‘a bookish man, a type frequently found among political activists in Latin America…the winner of a prize in poetry,’ what we in the Higher Planes call a Nerd Class 2. But dude was a ferocious leftist, despite the dangers, gallantly toiling on his Trujillo dissertation.

  What is it with Dictators and Writers, anyway? Since before the infamous Caesar-Ovid war they’ve had beef. Like the Fantastic Four and Galactus, like the X-Men and the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants, like the Teen Titans and Deathstroke, Foreman and Ali, Morrison and Crouch, Sammy and Sergio, they seemed destined to be eternally linked in the Halls of Battle. Rushdie claims that tyrants and scribblers are natural antagonists, but I think that’s too simple; it lets writers off pretty easy. Dictators, in my opinion, just know competition when they see it. Same with writers. Like, after all, recognizes like.

  Long story short: upon learning of the dissertation, El Jefe first tried to buy the thing and when that failed he dispatched his chief Nazgul (the sepulchral Felix Bernardino) to NYC and within days Galíndez got gagged, bagged, and dragged to La Capital, and legend has it when he came out of his chloroform nap he found himself naked, dangling from his feet over a cauldron of boiling oil, El Jefe standing nearby with a copy of the offending dissertation in hand. (And you thought your committee was rough.) Who in his right mind could ever have imagined anything so fucking ghastly? I guess El Jefe wanted to host a little tertulia with that poor doomed nerd. And what a tertulia it was, Dios mío! Anyway Galíndez’s disappearance caused an uproar in the States, with all fingers pointing to Trujillo, but of course he swore his innocence, and that was what Mauricio was referring to. But take heart: For every phalanx of nerds who die there are always a few who succeed. Not long after that horrific murder, a whole pack of revolutionary nerds ran aground on a sandbar on the southeast coast of Cuba. Yes, it was Fidel and Revolutionary Crew, back for a rematch against Batista. Of the eighty-two revolutionaries who splashed ashore, only twenty-two survived to celebrate the New Year, including one book-loving argentino. A bloodbath, with Batista’s forces executing even those who surrendered. But these twenty-two, it would prove, were enough.

  That’s all it took. The next day both he and the teacher were gone. No one saying nothing.↓

  ≡ Reminds me of the sad case of Rafael Yepez: Yepez was a man who in the thirties ran a small prep school in the capital, not far from where I grew up, that catered to the Trujillato’s lower-level ladroncitos. One ill-starred day Yepez asked his students to write an essay on the topic of their choice—a broad-minded Betances sort of man was this Yepez—and unsurprisingly, one boy chose to compose a praise song to Trujillo and his wife, Dona Maria. Yepez made the mistake of suggesting in class that other Dominican women deserved as much praise as Dona María and that in the future, young men like his students would also become great leaders like Trujillo. I think Yepez confused the Santo Domingo he was living in with another Santo Domingo. That night the poor schoolteacher, along with his wife, his daughter, and the entire student body were rousted from their beds by military police, brought in closed trucks to the Fortress Ozama, and interrogated. The pupils were eventually released, but no one ever heard of poor Yepez or his wife or his daughter again.

  Beli’s essay was far less controversial. I will be married to a handsome wealthy man. I will also be a doctor with my own hospital that I will name after Trujillo.

  At home she continued to brag to Dorea about her boyfriend, and when Jack Pujols’s photo appeared in the school newspaper she brought it home in triumph. Dorea was so overwhelmed she spent the night in her house, inconsolable, crying and crying. Beli could hear her loud and clear.

  And then, in the first days of October, as the pueblo was getting ready to celebrate another Trujillo Birthday, Beli heard a whisper that Jack Pujols had broken up with his girlfriend. (Beli had always known about this girlfriend, who attended another school, but do you think she cared?) She was sure it was just a rumor, didn’t need any more hope to torture her. But it turned out to be more than rumor, and more than hope, because not two days later Jack Pujols stopped Beli in the hallway as though he were seeing her for the very first time. Cabral, he whispered, you’re beautiful. The sharp spice of his cologne like an intoxication. I know I am, she said, her face ablaze with heat. Well, he said, burying a mitt in his perfectly straight hair.

  The next thing you know he was giving her rides in his brand-new Mercedes and buying her helados with the knot of dollars he carried in his pocket. Legally he was too young to drive, but do you think anybody in Santo Domingo stopped a colonel’s son for anything? Especially the son of a colonel who was said to be one of Ramfis Trujillo’s confidants? ↓

  ≡ By Ramfis Trujillo I mean of course Rafael Leonidas Trujillo Martinez, El Jefe’s first son, born while his mother was still married to another man, un cubano. It was only after the cubano refused to accept the boy as blood that Trujillo recognized Ramfis as his own. (Thanks, Dad!) He was the ‘famous’ son that El Jefe made a colonel at the age of four and a brigadier general at the age of nine. (Lil’ Fuckface, as he is affectionately known.) As an adult Ramfis was famed for being a polo player, a fucker of North American actresses (Kim Novak, how could you?), a squabbler with his father, and a frozen-hearted demon with a Humanity Rating of 0, who personally directed the indiscriminate torture-murders of 1959 (the year of the Cuban Invasion) and 1961 (after his father was assassinated, Ramfis personally saw to the horror torture of the conspirators). (In a secret report filed by the US consul, currently available at the JFK Presidential Library, Ramfis is described as ‘imbalanced,’ a young man who during his childhood amused himself by blowing the heads off chickens with a.44 revolver.) Ramfis fled the country after Trujillo’s death, lived dissolutely off his father’s swag, and ended up dying in a car crash of his own devising in 1969; the other car he hit contained the Duchess of Albuquerque, Teresa Beltran de Lis, who died instantly; Lil’ Fuckface went on murdering right to the end.

  AMOR!

  It wasn’t quite the romance she would later make it out to be. A couple of talks, a walk on the beach while the rest of the class was having a picnic, and before she knew it she was sneaking into a closet with him after school and he was slipping it to her something terrible. Let’s just say that she finally understood why the other boys had given him the nickname Jack the Ripio; he had what even she knew to be an enormous penis, a Shiva-sized lingam, a destroyer of worlds. (And the whole time she’d thought they’d been calling him Jack the Ripper. Duh!) Later, after she’d been with the Gangster, she would realize how little respect Pujols had
for her. But since she had nothing to compare it to at the time she assumed fucking was supposed to feel like she was being run through with a cudass. The first time she was scared shitless and it hurt bad (4d10), but nothing could obliterate the feeling she had that finally she was on her way, the sense of a journey starting, of a first step taken, of the beginning of something big.

  Afterward she tried to embrace him, to touch his silken hair, but he shook off her caresses. Hurry up and get dressed. If we get caught my ass will be in the fire.

  Which was funny because that’s exactly how her ass felt.

  For about a month they scromfed in various isolated corners of the school until the day a teacher, acting on an anonymous tip from a member of the student body, surprised the undercover couple in flagrante delicto in a broom closet. Just imagine: Beli butt naked, her vast scar like nothing anybody had seen before, and Jack with his pants puddled around his ankle.

  The scandal! Remember the time and the place: Baní in the late fifties. Factor in that Jack Pujols was the number-one son of the Blessed B—í clan, one of Baní’s most venerable (and filthy rich) families. Factor in that he’d been caught not with one of his own class (though that might have also been a problem) but with the scholarship girl, una prieta to boot. (The fucking of poor prietas was considered standard operating procedure for elites just as long as it was kept on the do-lo, what is elsewhere called the Strom Thurmond Maneuver.) Pujols of course blamed Beli for everything. Sat in the office of the rector and explained in great detail how she had seduced him. It wasn’t me, he insisted. It was her! The real scandal, however, was that Pujols was actually engaged to that girlfriend of his, the half-in-the-grave Rebecca Brito, herself a member of Baní’s other powerful family, the R—, and you better believe Jack getting caught in a closet with una prieta kebabbed any future promise of matrimony. (Her family very particular about their Christian reputation.) Pujols’s old man was so infuriated⁄humiliated that he started beating the boy as soon as he laid hands on him and within the week had shipped him off to a military school in Puerto Rico where he would, in the colonel’s words, learn the meaning of duty. Beli never saw him again except once in the Listin Diario and by then they were both in their forties.

  Pujols might have been a bitch-ass rat, but Beli’s reaction was one for the history books. Not only was our girl not embarrassed by what had happened, even after being shaken down by the rector and the nun and the janitor, a holy triple-team, she absolutely refused to profess her guilt! If she had rotated her head around 360 degrees and vomited green-pea soup it would have caused only slightly less of an uproar. In typical hard-headed Beli fashion, our girl insisted that she’d done nothing wrong, that, in fact, she was well within her rights.

  I’m allowed to do anything I want, Beli said stubbornly, with my husband.

  Pujols, it seems, had promised Belicia that they would be married as soon as they’d both finished high school, and Beli had believed him, hook, line, and sinker. Hard to square her credulity with the hardnosed no-nonsense femme-matador I’d come to know, but one must remember: she was young and in love. Talk about fantasist: the girl sincerely believed that Jack would be true.

  The Good Teachers of El Redentor never squeezed anything close to a mea culpa from the girl. She kept shaking her head, as stubborn as the Laws of the Universe themselves—No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No NoNo No No No No No No No No No No No No No. Not that it mattered in the end. Belicia’s tenure at the school was over, and so were La Incas dreams of re-creating, in Beli, her father’s genius, his magis (his excellence in all things).

  In any other family such a thing would have meant the beating of Beli to within an inch of her life, beating her straight into the hospital with no delay, and then once she was better beating her again and putting her back into the hospital, but La Inca was not that kind of parent. La Inca, you see, was a serious woman, an upstanding woman, one of the best of her class, but she was incapable of punishing the girl physically. Call it a hitch in the universe, call it mental illness, but La Inca just couldn’t do it. Not then, not ever. All she could do was wave her arms in the air and hurl laments. How could this have happened? La Inca demanded. How? How?

  He was going to marry me! Beli cried. We were going to have children! Are you insane? La Inca roared. Hija, have you lost your mind?

  Took a while for shit to calm down—the neighbors loving the whole thing (I told you that blackie was good for nothing!)—but eventually things did, and only then did La Inca convoke a special session on our girl’s future. First La Inca gave Beli tongue-lashing number five hundred million and five, excoriating her poor judgment, her poor morals, her poor every thing, and only when those preliminaries were good and settled did La Inca lay down the law: You are returning to school. Not to El Redentor but somewhere nearly as good. Padre Billini.

  And Beli, her eyes still swollen from Jack-loss, laughed. I’m not going back to school. Not ever.

  Had she forgotten the suffering that she had endured in her Lost Years in the pursuit of education? The costs? The terrible scars on her back? (The Burning.) Perhaps she had, perhaps the prerogatives of this New Age had rendered the vows of the Old irrelevant. However, during those tumultuous post-expulsion weeks, while she’d been writhing in her bed over the loss of her ‘husband,’ our girl had been rocked by instances of stupendous turbidity. A first lesson in the fragility of love and the preternatural cowardice of men. And out of this disillusionment and turmoil sprang Beli’s first adult oath, one that would follow her into adulthood, to the States and beyond. I will not serve. Never again would she follow any lead other than her own. Not the rector’s, not the nuns’, not La Inca’s, not her poor dead parents’. Only me, she whispered. Me.

  This oath did much to rally her. Not long after the back-to-school showdown, Beli put on one of La Inca’s dresses (was literally bursting in it) and caught a ride down to the parque central. This was not a huge trip. But, still, for a girl like Beli it was a precursor of things to come.

  When she returned to the house in the late afternoon she announced: I have a job! La Inca snorted. I guess the cabarets are always hiring.

  It was not a cabaret. Beli might have been a puta major in the cosmology of her neighbors but a cuero she was not. No: she had landed a job as a waitress at a restaurant on the parque. The owner, a stout well-dressed Chinese by the name of Juan Then, had not exactly needed anyone; in fact he didn’t know if he needed himself: Business terrible, he lamented. Too much politics. Politics bad for everything but politicians.

  No excess money. And already many impossible employees. But Beli was not willing to be rejected. There’s a lot I can do. And pinched her shoulder blades, to emphasize her ‘assets’.

  Which for a man any less righteous would have been an open invitation but Juan simply sighed: No obligated be without shame. We try you up. Probationary period. Can’t promises build. Political conditions give promises no hospitality.

  What’s my salary?

  Salary! No salary! You a waitress, you tips.

  How much are they?

  Once again the glumness. It is without certainy.

  I don’t understand.

  His brother José’s bloodshot eyes glanced up from the sports section. What my brother is saying is that it all depends.

  And here’s La Inca shaking her head: A waitress. But, hija, you’re a baker’s daughter, you don’t know the first thing about waitressing!

  La Inca assumed that because Beli had of late not shown any enthusiasm for the bakery or school or for cleaning she’d devolved into a zángana. But she’d forgotten that our girl had been a criada in her first life; for half her years she’d know nothing but work. La Inca predicted that Beli would call it quits within a couple of months, but Beli never did. On the job our girl, in fact, showed her quality: she was never late, never malingered, worked her sizable ass of. He
ck, she liked the job. It was not exactly President of the Republic, but for a fourteen-year-old who wanted out of the house, it paid, and kept her in the world while she waited for—for her Glorious Future to materialize.

  Eighteen months she worked at the Palacio Peking. (Originally called EI Tesoro de—, in honor of the Admiral’s true but never-reached destination, but the Brothers Then had changed it when they learned that the Admiral’s name was a fukú! Chinese no like curses, Juan had said.) She would always say she came of age in the restaurant, and in some ways she did. She learned to beat men at dominoes and proved herself so responsible that the Brothers Then could leave her in charge of the cook and the other waitstaff while they slipped out to fish and visit their thick-legged girlfriends. In later years Beli would lament that she had ever lost touch with her ‘chinos’. They were so good to me, she moaned to Oscar and Lola. Nothing like your worthless esponja of a father. Juan, the melancholic gambler, who waxed about Shanghai as though it were a love poem sung by a beautiful woman you love but cannot have. Juan, the shortsighted romantic whose girlfriends robbed him blind and who never mastered Spanish (though in later years when he was living in Skokie, Illinois, he would yell at his Americanized grandchildren in his guttural Spanish, and they laughed at him, thinking it Chinese). Juan, who taught Beli how to play dominoes, and whose only fundamentalism was his bulletproof optimism: If only Admiral come to our restaurant first, imagine the trouble that could be avoided! Sweating, gentle Juan, who would have lost the restaurant if not for his older brother José, the enigmatic, who hovered at the periphery with all the menace of a ciclón; José, the bravo, the guapo, his wife and children dead by warlord in the thirties; José, who protected the restaurant and the rooms above with an implacable ferocity. José, whose grief had extracted from his body all softness, idle chatter, and hope. He never seemed to approve of Beli, or any of the other employees, but since she alone wasn’t scared of him (I’m almost as tall as you are!), he reciprocated by giving her practical instructions: You want to be a useless woman all your life? Like how to hammer nails, fix electrical outlets, cook chow fun and drive a car, all would come in good use when she became the Empress of Diaspora. (José would acquit himself bravely in the revolution, fighting, I must regretfully report, against the pueblo, and would die in 1976 in Adanta, cancer of the pancreas, crying out his wife’s name, which the nurses confused for more Chinese gobbledygook—extra emphasis, in their minds, on the gook.)