In our adolescence, when we went through our existentialist period, we had become atheists. “Do you think there is an afterlife … now?” I asked.
“I haven’t gotten any previews of it, if that’s what you want to know. When I was in a coma, I saw myself walking down a dark, endless tunnel, and at the end of it, yes, there was the proverbial you-know-what beckoning me. But I resisted it. I dragged my feet. I refused to continue walking and sat down and just stared at it, without budging. I’m pretty sure it was death calling me. But I’ll be damned if I go before I’m ready. I wanted to be conscious once more, so I could see Joel and even you, if you can believe that. Seriously now,” he went on, “I had a good life. I sure got away from Barranquilla. I remember how I used to despair thinking I would never get away from that dreadful macho town. I knew I had to get away from there and become the gorgeous queen I was meant to be.”
“You sure did,” I said.
“And I had a good time with Joel these past five years so actually I don’t give a flying fuck about all the other stuff. And you know, I’m glad that it’s been such a long illness. This has been the first time since childhood that I’ve had time to think about spiritual matters. I became so wrapped up in making money that I thought only money and success could make me happy, but secretly I’ve always envied your freedom.”
“Sure. Come on, Bobby. Get real. You wouldn’t have liked Eighth Avenue all these years,” I said referring to my place of residence.
“You’ll be able to move now that you’re marrying Claudia. Lucy told me all about it the last time she was here. Now you’ll live in mansions for the rest of your life.”
“Bobby, I can’t believe you’re talking such nonsense!”
“Hey, why not? Many of my fag friends are marrying women. And look at all the famous queens who’ve gone back into the closet. Besides, it might save your life. Although, since you never have sex, you must be HIV negative. Tell the truth, have you had any in the last ten years since you came out?”
The uneventfulness of my sex life had always been a source of great amusement to Bobby. The truth is that other than the occasional vertical sex, I had practiced a single-handed celibacy for many years. Only recently had I realized that it wasn’t so much AIDS I was afraid of, but of being sexually intimate with another person.
“Anyway,” Bobby went on, “we were crazy about Claudia when we were kids; we had such great times. And she adores you. Plus she’s rich. What more do you want? A true match made in heaven. A fag who’s afraid of sex and a dyke who won’t ask you for any! If she asked me to marry her—fat chance—I’d marry her in a second.”
“Bullshit. You wouldn’t. Just because you think you’re dying I’m not going to let you take advantage of me. Is that your idea of having the last laugh?”
“No, it’s not, cariño. I always said we were like Miriam Hopkins and Bette Davis in Old Acquaintance. You know me, a drama queen to the last. I really believe we were their modern-day incarnation. But the movie is over, Sammy. You’ve won the bet. This queen is dead.”
It pleased me to see Bobby in such good spirits. Ironically, our most intimate times together since childhood had been during the past two years of his illness when we had been able to talk honestly and at leisure.
I said, “This is just like old times when I used to go by your house on Saturdays. Your grandmother cooked lunch for us. God, she was such a terrific cook. I loved her plátano pícaro and her carne asada. I can almost smell it now.”
“The way you reminisce about food! You should have been a food critic instead of a poet. Maybe you should try to be a Colombian M.F.K. Fisher. This conversation is making me hungry. I’d give anything to eat something yummy.”
“Are you still on your macrobiotic diet?”
“No, I went off it two weeks ago when the doctor told me I should get ready to die any minute. Since then I’ve been gobbling down pounds of ice cream, and chocolate, all the things I deprived myself of in my quest to be fashionably thin.”
“I have a couple of pasteles in the bag. And Buga figs and obleas.”
“My, my, you really go out well-prepared these days. Cocaine and pasteles and Buga figs. What else do you have in that bag?”
“The Parnassus women sent all that food to my mother.”
Bobby perked up. “But Lucy will never forgive me if I eat her pasteles. Will she?”
“She might, eventually,” I hypothesized.
“And what if she doesn’t?” Bobby said mischievously. “I’ll be dead anyway.”
I touched the aluminum-wrapped pasteles inside the bag. “I think they’re still warm, but I can heat them up if you want.”
“This is perfect. It’s now or never. I can’t eat anything hot. Santiago, be a darling and go to the kitchen and get everything we need, and bring out a bottle of red wine. I’ve been dying to have a glass of wine.”
I returned with the implements and cleared the medicine tray off the night table. Then I uncorked the bottle of wine and Bobby served the pasteles.
Bobby raised his glass to toast. “Here’s a toast to … to all the good times I ever had; all the cocks I ever sucked. My only regret is that I never made it with an Albanian, but maybe it’s not too late.”
“Who was the best?” I asked with envy.
“Let’s see … I know. The Belgian married count who sucked a bottled with baby formula while I whipped him.”
I started to laugh; this was the Bobby I had known most of my life and loved like a twin.
Bobby began to chew the pasteles slowly and his face lit up with pleasure. “Superb. What a good idea this was!”
“It’s the guascas,” I informed him.
“But that’s a sex drug. How interesting—a pornographic pastel.”
“This is my second pastel of the day,” I said.
Bobby smiled. I could see that although he was in great spirits he was also in pain. “Maybe tonight you’ll pork Claudia.”
“Cut it out, Bobby. Now, I wouldn’t mind marrying one of her brothers. Those killers really turn me on.”
“You know how Colombian men are, Sammy. If you marry the sister, you’ll probably fuck all those hunky mafioso assassins.”
Laughing, Bobby raised his glass, “This calls for another toast: To my last meal on earth.”
“To our friendship,” I said.
“I take back what I said earlier,” Bobby said thoughtfully. “I’m not terrified of dying anymore. I mean, not hysterically so. As I told you, I’ve had a long time to think about spiritual matters during this illness. I know that you find the subject of religion fairly revolting, and I don’t blame you. I haven’t forgotten the pact we made at thirteen to be atheists forever. But I’m not an atheist anymore, Sammy. Sorry to disappoint you, old pal. Think what you want. Maybe my brain has gone soft because of this disease. I don’t doubt it and I don’t care. But the only way I can reconcile myself to dying is by believing in God. Otherwise, I would be terrrified of sinking into a bottomless void, for all eternity.” He stopped to chew a chunk of pastel. Then he went on. “This way I know my spirit will find rest when my body goes. In these past two years, I’ve had a lot of time to study different religions and philosophies. Finally, only Christianity interested me because the Christian God sent his son to be one of us, and to suffer like all of us, and he knew how consuming and powerful love can be.” He paused. There was a faraway look in his eyes, as if he saw something I couldn’t see. “You know what my favorite passage in the Bible is? The Sermon on the Mount. Remember how it goes? ‘Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.’ And it goes on and on. It’s called the Beatitudes, and it’s found only, I think, in the Gospel of St. Matthew.” He took another bite of pastel and chewed slowly, munching and catching his breath at the same time. He handed me the plate. “This is delicious. Now I can die.”
To distract him from his gloom, I said, “Would you like a Buga fig or an ob
lea?”
“An oblea would be lovely.”
As I reached for the obleas wrapped in wax paper, a horrible burp erupted from Bobby’s throat. The violent sound startled me. I sat up very still, wondering what I should do next. I was struggling to dissemble my feelings. Bobby’s face flushed crimson. With great desperation he sucked the air around him, as if he couldn’t find it. His eyes opened wider, the light in them sparkled, and he stared at me with an enormous intensity and longing. Back in my childhood in Bogotá, when my mother went out at night, she would put belladonna in her eyes, and her pupils would enlarge and glisten so that they were both exciting and frightening to me—that was the look in Bobby’s eyes, which were dilated, submerged in a face death had already claimed. And yet, his eyes were the only part of him that was still alive. It was as if his ravaged body had been dying bit by bit, but life had concentrated in that blazing, scorching stare. The light that sparked in his eyes was that of the supernatural, the otherworldly, a light that saw and bespoke of things to which the rest of us are not privy, and never glimpse until we approach the next world, if there is any such thing. By degrees, his face relaxed, becoming softer, fuller. Now that he was out of pain, a serene expression came over his features as if he had fallen into a deep, blissful sleep. He was dead. Just to make sure, I tried to take his pulse, holding his wrist until I realized I didn’t know what I was looking for. Bobby’s hand jerked spastically in my shaking hand. Spooked, I dropped his arm and put my palm on Bobby’s chest, near the filthy patch. He was still as a board. Soon I started shaking all over. Oddly enough, I could accept the fact that Bobby was dead. But the fact that the IV and the other machine attached to his chest kept pumping liquids into his corpse really disturbed me. I turned off both machines. I wondered whether I should call the doctor or the hospital first. I dreaded the thought of a troop of paramedics bursting into the room and carrying away Bobby’s corpse in a wailing ambulance. Yet I felt peaceful; now that Bobby was dead, there was nothing more that could happen to him. I called Joel at his office, and was informed he had already left for the day—it was, after all, Saturday afternoon. Next, I called the number I had for Bobby’s mother (Doña Leticia was staying at a friend’s house because she was afraid of catching AIDS) and told her she should come over as soon as possible—I didn’t want to give her the news over the phone. The last call I made was to my mother; I told her not expect me back any time soon and the reason why. I sat on Bobby’s bed and waited, staring at the ravaged corpse. I didn’t cry or get hysterical or get down on my knees to pray for Bobby’s soul. Afraid that the police might arrive and find the coke, I hid the shopping bag in the kitchen, under the sink. Then I cleared the dishes and put everything in the dishwasher. I was in the kitchen when the door opened and Joel came in. Speechless, I looked at him. He instantly knew because he froze on the spot, closed his eyes and clenched his fists. I walked up to him and we embraced and burst out sobbing aloud, clutching at one another, saying nothing.
Later, in the bedroom, I was recounting to Joel my last conversation with Bobby and how he had died, when the bell rang. I let Bobby’s mother in. “How are you Doña Leticia?” I said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
We had never liked one another. She was the stereotypical “stage mother.” All her adult life she had worked extremely hard to give her son everything she had lacked—including great ambition. But this sacrifice had dehumanized her; she seemed more like Bobby’s trainer than his mother. He loved her, but had been afraid of her and courted success desperately to make his mother proud.
She walked to the bedroom door and looked in. When she saw Joel sobbing quietly, she turned to me. “Santiago, what’s the matter? Tell me!”
Lowering my eyes, I said, “He’s dead.”
Doña Leticia remained by the door, but she started banging her fists and her forehead against the door frame. She cried loudly, pulling her hair as if she were Juana la loca. Doña Leticia, who was a bilingual secretary in Colombia, spoke English well enough. Pointing a finger at Joel, she screamed shrilly, “You killed my son. Murderer, murderer.You killed my son. Goddamn you for turning Bobby into a homosexual. Bobby was no maricón. Not my son! I hate all homosexuals!” she screamed, turning to face me accusingly. “I hate them all! I hope they all die of this plague! I hate New York!”
After venting her hatred of homosexuals, she turned to Joel. “Where are the papers?” she demanded. “I want those papers! Don’t think you’re going to steal Bobby’s money. I know my son left me a lot of money and I’m not going to let you steal it, you dirty Jew. I’ll hire the best lawyer in New York and you’ll go to jail, you crook. That’s where you belong, you degenerate corrupter. My son was a millionaire,” she ranted. “I know that. Don’t think I’m a stupid Colombian. I’ll have my brothers come here and they’ll kill you. Give me the papers!” Like an angry lioness protecting her prey, she paced back and forth in front of the door, growling. Joel ignored her. I took a chair in the living room, beginning to get really pissed. I felt that Bobby deserved much better, especially from his mother. Maybe this was the only way Doña Leticia could express her grief, but even now that her son was dead, she refused to enter his room. I thought about how heartbreaking it must have been for Bobby that his own mother would shun him when he was dying. All of a sudden, I could feel no compassion for her. I was angry. I was about to grab Doña Leticia by the shoulders and give her a good shaking when the bell rang. It was my mother.
“Lucy, Lucy!” Doña Leticia screamed, throwing herself into my mother’s arms. They cried for a while. Mother kept saying, “Calm down, Leti. Calm down. The worst is over, Leti. Bobby is finally resting.” When Doña Leticia quieted down, Mother went into the bedroom and, crossing herself, knelt at the foot of Bobby’s bed and prayed silently, with her eyes closed and her hands clasped. When she finished, she kissed Bobby on the forehead and stroked Joel’s head. Seeing this, perhaps wanting to do likewise but still afraid of disease, Doña Leticia resumed her histrionics. “You need a good cup of cammomile tea,” Mother said with authority and, taking Doña Leticia’s hand, dragged her in the direction of the kitchen.
I walked into the bedroom and closed the door. I sat on the chair and watched Joel, who seemed almost catatonic. Trying to collect my emotions, I breathed in and out deeply. A while later there was a knock at the door. Doña Leticia summoned Joel to the kitchen. She had calmed down now. For the next hour or so she worked Joel over about Bobby’s will, insurance, holdings, etc. Mother watched all this with an expression of distaste. There was some ugly squabbling over Bobby’s corpse. Doña Leticia claimed that it “belonged” to her, and that she wanted to take it back to Barranquilla and bury it there. Fortunately, in his will Bobby had been very specific about this matter; his last wish was to be cremated and have his ashes scattered in the Hudson. Joel must have seen all this coming, because he had all the papers ready and produced copies of all the documents. Bobby had left his mother his life insurance and real estate he owned in Colombia. The truth is that in the two years he had been stricken with AIDS, many of his businesses had fallen through and, except for the condo on Wall Street, which he had purchased with Joel, his art collection and antiques, plus some stock, he had lost most of his money. Again Doña Leticia accused Joel of being a crook and threatened to have her relatives in Colombia come over to fry him unless he gave her everything. Finally, she agreed to let Joel dispose of the corpse. Then she grabbed some papers, stood at the entrance to Bobby’s room, announced that she was ready to go and once more began shrieking, cursing Joel, New York, and all homosexuals.
Mother offered to drop her off. I ordered a taxi, took my shopping bag from under the sink, and embraced Joel, telling him to call me if he needed anything. Joel stood by the door, waving good-bye, looking devastated, utterly lost, as we left him alone in the apartment with the corpse of his lover.
When the taxi arrived at Doña Leticia’s address, Mother said, “If you’d like to have dinner before you go back to Co
lombia, I’d love to have you over.”
Doña Leticia thanked Mother, and said that she would call her soon. As the taxi drove off, I said, “I hate that woman so much. I can’t believe you’re going to have dinner with her.”
“It’s more than just being polite,” Mother said, staring at me. “I’m not crazy about her either. But Bobby was her only son, and I know how she must feel. Don’t be too quick to judge harshly what you don’t understand. If you ever have your own children, you may come to understand her a bit better.”
Mother and I remained silent on the way home. Inside her kitchen, I removed the cartridges from the shopping bag. “The obleas and figs are for you. Irma wants you to know that the figs are from Buga.” I paused. “They sent pasteles, but Bobby and I ate them.”
Mother smiled. Eagerly, she asked, “Were they good? Were they corn or rice pasteles? Did Bobby like them? He used to love my pasteles.”
“He ate all of it,” I said, which for Mother was the highest compliment one could pay to a dish.
“I remember how he used to come by on Saturday afternoon; I can almost see him now. He’d say, Tía—he always called me auntie—’what goodies do you have for me today?’ He loved my picadillo, too.”
“I’m going upstairs to take a nap,” I said. “I feel beat.”
I plodded upstairs. Spread out on my bed was a beautiful white Italian suit, a pink silk shirt, white Brazilian shoes, socks, and a gold designer tie. They were gorgeous. I hid the coke behind some books on the shelves and went back downstairs.
Mother was busy making pig’s feet and chick-peas. Simón Bolívar greeted me, screeching, “Hello, stranger. Hello, stranger. Hello, hello.”
Mother, who hadn’t heard me coming downstairs, turned around to face me. There was an anxious look on her face, as if she had been worried I disliked her choice of clothes.
Regressing to my childish self, I said, “Thank you for the clothes, mommie. The suit is beautiful.” I knew she wanted a hug, but I held back—it was very difficult for me to have any kind of physical contact with her.
Latin Moon in Manhattan Page 6