Esperanza Street

by Niyati Keni

  The other men nodded in agreement. ‘Anyway, there’ll be other pretty girls for you,’ one said to Dub.

  ‘She looked real mad, eh?’ the clerk laughed, rubbing the back of his head.

  ‘Heavy, some of those books.’

  ‘She reads a lot, huh? That’s what you do together? Read? Talk about books?’ The men laughed.

  ‘You should really forget about her.’ The tone of voice was casual, as if giving advice to a friend.

  ‘Girls that pretty are always trouble.’

  ‘Sure. Find a girl who’s not so much to look at and they won’t mess you around.’

  ‘You think it’s just you? That you’re even the first?’ the clerk said suddenly.

  ‘That true?’ the driver turned to him.

  The clerk looked at Dub again. ‘Would you leave her alone if you thought it was true?’

  ‘I love her,’ Dub said quietly, almost to himself, looking out of the window at the streets moving past, the painted stalls strung with fruit, clothing, lottery tickets. I wondered, when I imagined it, whether he would really have said such a thing. I suspected not, though I hoped he had, for the possibility of him saying it seemed to me the only thread of purity in the entire matter.

  ‘Well then,’ said the clerk, ‘that’s a bit of a problem.’ They drove out of town, away from the coast. The suburbs yielded to rice paddies, coconut palms, guava groves. The men stopped the car and pulled Dub out onto the road. In the distance, the twilight was pricked by lights and smoke threaded up between the trees. The air smelled clean. The men pinned him down, his face turned to the side, one cheek against the dirt. They pulled at his right hand, spread his fingers out, palm to the road. One took out a pocket-knife but kept it folded. The clerk took out a bolo, tested the blade with his thumb, whistled. ‘My cousin Jaime plays guitar too,’ he said.

  ‘You know anyone who doesn’t play the guitar?’ Pocket Knife said.

  ‘My grandmother.’ The men laughed, enjoying themselves.

  ‘It’s nothing personal,’ the clerk said. ‘It’s just that she belongs to Eddie Casama. He’s not known for sharing.’ He raised the bolo. Maybe at that moment Dub felt a surge of disbelief, before the fear, like I had. But for Dub the blow never came. The bolo hit the ground in front of his hand, in front of his face, and stayed upright, wedged in the dirt at the slightest angle, visible the whole while as the men pulled his head back and cut his hair away jaggedly with the pocket knife. When they’d finished they pulled him back to the car.

  ‘Eddie knows your mother, eh?’

  ‘You have a little brother?’

  ‘You like bikes? You have to be real careful on some of these tracks.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll see you around.’

  He was driven back. They dropped him on the coast road, within sight of the jetty, where the last boats were already leaving and the scent of roasting nuts and meat and wood smoke filled the air. He walked quickly, not looking around him to see who might notice Dub Morelos without his usual confidence, the stains of old tears and road dust on his face, his hair short, uneven, filthy.

  At the corner of Prosperidad and Esperanza he slowed. In the street in front of the entrance to her building: the same car, the same men. They saw him, waved. He looked up at her balcony, then back down. He counted the men, four, though he already knew of course how many there were. He hesitated, not wanting to walk away when they remained so close to her, aware all the time that his presence would keep them right where they stood. Her balcony door opened and he saw her come out. The men looked up too and were caught by a cascade from her watering can as she missed her bougainvillea, scattering along the sidewalk as she hurled the empty can down at them. She leaned out over the balcony, picked up a small potted plant in each hand, raised them, ready. The clerk looked across at Dub and in that same moment Dub knew that if BabyLu saw him she would come out to him and then he alone could not guarantee her safety or that of the child inside her. He turned away and ran on up the hill, the sound of laughter, real or illusory, trailing in the air behind him all the way home. I imagined then that she turned, expecting to see him without knowing why, and saw only the emptiness where he had been.

  ‌Assemblage

  Luisa moved into our father’s apartment with her children to sort through his things. I offered, reluctantly, to help, but she picked impatiently through everything I did until I left her to it. At first Lorna and the baby, Marisol, remained in the apartment too, which vexed my sister no end but, aware of how it might seem if she asked them to leave straight away, she decided to ignore them instead. She wouldn’t let Lorna help, other than leaving her to tend all the children at once. Luisa’s children, sensitive to their mother’s dislike of Lorna, were disobedient and made this more difficult than it ought to have been, which Luisa seized upon as proof of Lorna’s ineptitude and the reason why she had attached herself so readily to our father. Luisa’s only concession was to accept the meals that Lorna presented her with and which, I later found out, had been paid for by Missy. Lorna, without any real claim to the place, was careful around us. Quiet and deferential towards my sister, she fetched and carried as Luisa decreed. I felt uncomfortable seeing Luisa ordering her about like a servant; my father had never treated her that way. But Lorna seemed happy enough to comply.

  Outside, the House-on-Wheels took up temporary encampment in the courtyard, but Luisa wouldn’t let its other occupants, especially the children, into the apartment, and watched them closely whenever they came to the door. I’d have let them inside to see Lorna at least, but Luisa wouldn’t have it. Missy Bukaykay, when she came, clicked her tongue at Luisa from time to time but my sister remained obstinate. Lottie and Lando hung on, uncertain when their daughter would be rejoining them. I wasn’t sure what she was waiting for either but I didn’t want to ask. More than once I overheard her crying, being comforted by Elisa who said to me later, ‘She doesn’t want to take Marisol back on the streets.’ She said it as if she was asking a question I ought to have an answer to, and I was annoyed at her tone, but I was even more annoyed with Lorna for not crying over my father.

  ‘Can hardly blame her,’ Missy said.

  ‘It’s what she knows,’ Luisa snapped. ‘She had her time living off him.’

  ‘She kept house,’ Elisa said. ‘She kept it real clean.’

  ‘I’d take her back with me as a maid, but then there’s the baby. I’ve got enough to deal with at home,’ Luisa said.

  Without a purpose in the apartment, Lorna took Marisol outside to be entertained by the other children. ‘It’s a shame,’ Missy said looking straight at me after they’d left.

  It was a hot day. From time to time the sound of the children in the courtyard drifted in through the open door and windows. Occasionally Lottie or Elisa or Bina’s voice came up, chiding the kids into a briefly sustained order. Inside, we mostly worked in silence. Luisa was brisk and bossed me around but I didn’t mind. She spoke more softly to Missy and to Bina when she came in to help. To Elisa she spoke quietly but didn’t look at her when addressing her. I was sure Elisa minded but she didn’t say anything. Maybe she figured Luisa would be gone in a day or two and, with both parents now dead, she might never return.

  When it was time for me to return to the boarding house, Missy got up to leave too. The afternoon air felt thick as we stepped out into the hallway together. In the courtyard the children were flinging water at each other from a pail. Lorna stood by the House-on-Wheels holding Marisol to her and fanning her gently with her hand. She lowered the baby into the cart, wedging her into place on the bedding pile, one side against a sack of rice, the other against the shoeshine boxes. The baby started to whine at being put down. I called a greeting at Lottie and Lando and, leaning over the side of the House, waved at Marisol. At the movement, Marisol quietened, but only for a moment. Lorna picked her up again to soothe her. ‘She likes him more than you!’ said Lottie to Lando, nodding at me.

  ‘We all know I wouldn’t win any beaut
y contests,’ Lando replied.

  ‘I could’ve married a rich man at least,’ said Lottie.

  It sounded like the start of an old game but Lorna wasn’t playing along this time. ‘Babies don’t know nothing about looks or money,’ she said stiffly. She smiled at me hesitantly. I wondered if she felt she couldn’t return to the apartment if Missy or I were not there. But it couldn’t be helped; I couldn’t stay there all evening to her convenience. Still, I felt guilty, and shot a look at the baby as I turned to go. Missy and I stepped out of the courtyard into the alley. Behind us, Lorna started to croon softly to Marisol, a Rey Valera song, one of my father’s favourites.

  Missy was quiet as we walked in the direction of the Bukaykay shack. ‘Lots going to be changing around here,’ she said eventually, looking in the direction of the jetty where the blackened remains of the market hall still lay where they’d fallen. ‘People are already talking about leaving.’

  ‘The whole place feels different now anyway.’

  She nodded. ‘The fight’s gone out of people.’

  ‘Maybe they can’t win,’ and even as I said it I wondered why I hadn’t said we.

  If Missy noticed, she ignored it. ‘Why do you think she’s not left yet?’ she said. I thought about saying Who? as if I didn’t know she was talking about Lorna. ‘If your father was here he’d be hoping you’d give her a reason to stay.’ Missy stared at me but I ignored her, concentrated on walking. ‘Suelita’s off to nursing college soon. She won’t wait for no one now. Maybe she’ll marry a doctor. Or get work stateside.’ I blushed. ‘You think I don’t know you like my own?’

  ‘If she matters so much to you, make Fidel marry her.’

  ‘What are you saying now?’ Missy was annoyed but she didn’t say another word after that.

  By the time I got back to the boarding house I’d worked myself up into a temper and I was heavy-handed about the kitchen until America reminded me sharply that I could take my bad mood out on my own possessions.

  I was still seething when we sat down to eat together after the rest of the household had finished. America looked tired and I wondered if her rash was giving her trouble again, but I didn’t ask. She’d made bibingka, one of my favourites, and saved a large piece for me. She watched me closely as I ate. ‘What are you sweetening me up for?’ I said.

  ‘Who says it’s for you?’

  I didn’t reply, which seemed to irritate her suddenly. ‘I’m getting pretty tired of this,’ she snapped. I stared at her, waited. She always said stuff like that. This time she kept me waiting for longer than usual. ‘I’m going home,’ she said, ‘for good. The end of the month.’ She was cunning; she’d waited for me to fill my mouth before she said it. I stopped chewing and she added testily, ‘Don’t go trying to make me feel bad.’

  I thought about being at the Bougainvillea without her. Because of my duties at the boarding house I’d never really had the chance to cultivate friendships to the extent that other boys at school did and, though I was well enough regarded there I suppose, I wasn’t popular. I didn’t have my own crowd. The other big houses at our end of Esperanza also had houseboys, but none my age, and on the occasions we met they talked lightly about what could be taken from the household that wouldn’t be missed or which of their employers’ children regularly broke curfew or kept bad company – conversations that made me uncomfortable, as if I was complicit simply by listening.

  America looked disapprovingly at my plate, the bibingka left half eaten. She got up, leaving me to tidy up the dishes while she went to find Aunt Mary. There was little else to do and I waited in the silent kitchen for her to return before giving up and retiring to my room.

  I arrived at my father’s apartment block the next morning to find the House-on-Wheels emptied of itself, its contents displayed around it in small, neat piles. Lorna perched on the foot-rail, leaning over the side into the cart. She smiled at me as I walked in and pulled her skirt down to cover the back of her legs, though it hadn’t risen particularly high. I felt a stab of scorn; did she think I’d be looking? Her other hand moved up and down rhythmically and I saw that she was fanning Marisol, who was asleep on a mat in the cart. The baby fidgeted as I looked over the side but didn’t wake. ‘It’ll be cooler inside,’ I said. ‘Anyway, Dante had an electric fan.’ In the last couple of days I’d caught myself on a few occasions referring to my father by his first name, as if his death had left us on equal terms. Lorna shrugged and smiled again, glancing up at the apartment window.

  On the other side of the House, Lottie was boiling a pan of water over their small stove. ‘The Queen of England made them sleep outside last night,’ she said. She sounded offhand, as if this was only to be expected. I wasn’t sure how to respond, whether to defend Luisa, and I was irritated by Lottie’s tone. Yet I could picture my sister closing the door on them, her face pinched and icy. I said nothing. I looked over to where Lando was washing his feet and rinsing his mouth at the water tap. He raised an arm in greeting. The other children were nowhere to be seen. I peered over the side of the cart at Marisol again. Lando turned off the tap and came over. ‘Thinking maybe we’ll leave today,’ he said, looking at Lorna. She ignored him and me, fanned the baby a little faster. I excused myself and ran up the stairs to the apartment.

  I was surprised when Elisa answered the door, for just the day before she’d said in a low voice, close to my ear, that she’d only come if she knew I was already there. She was holding a broom and looked in bad spirits. ‘She’s lucky she’s your sister,’ she said.

  Luisa came out of the kitchen. ‘Need to give it an extra clean,’ she said. ‘How long was she staying here?’

  ‘Not long. Why’d you make her sleep outside?’

  Luisa looked at me, her lips a thin line. ‘What, you’re Mother Teresa now?’

  ‘She’s all right. And the baby’s not used to sleeping out.’

  Luisa was twelve years older than me and, though I hardly saw her, she acted like she’d stepped into our mother’s role in her dealings with me, even standing the same way with her hands on her hips, the same taut expressions and sudden flashes of displeasure. I hadn’t minded it before but now I did. ‘You’re not my mother, Luisa,’ I said. ‘You haven’t even been home for years.’

  She looked away to hide her surprise. ‘We should sell the furniture, unless you want to keep it for your wedding,’ she said.

  ‘You can’t tell me what to do!’ I was incensed.

  Elisa stopped sweeping. Luisa stared at me. ‘What are you talking about?’ she said.

  ‘Why should I marry her? Why can’t Miguel or Fidel marry her?’

  ‘Marry who?’ She looked bewildered and I remembered that it had been my mother’s line, whenever I wouldn’t finish my food: you want to keep it for your wedding?

  ‘Missy thinks I should marry Lorna,’ I said, ‘but I don’t want to. I don’t love her. She’s not even pretty.’ Luisa stared at me for a moment and then, unexpectedly, she smiled. I didn’t know what she found so amusing and I bristled. Then, behind me, I heard soft sounds. At the open door stood Lorna, the baby held to her chest. She was flushed and looked away as I turned round. She looked almost as if she might break into a run. She’s not even pretty. I glared at her, unrepentant.

  ‘You can tell her yourself now,’ Luisa said, and turned away.

  Lorna, without saying why she’d come, walked away again quietly, her back straight, head high, and it was Elisa who went after her, throwing a look in my direction as she left. I closed the door after them impatiently.

  Inside, the furniture had been pushed to the edges of the room and the remaining space was ringed with boxes that Luisa had filled with our father’s possessions in no particular order, a strip of paper taped to each: books, cassette player, kerosene lamp, PASTOR L? It surprised me how little there was, finally. No vestige of him remained, or rather, now that his things were no longer where he had placed them, it felt at last that he was gone. I was struck by how many of his belong
ings were functional: kitchen implements or tools. Even the books were volumes in an old encyclopaedia. The few ornaments had been my mother’s. Most of it was to be given away to the church, Luisa said, with an exaggerated tone of generosity that made me despise her for a moment.

  She’d found a small tin containing photographs of us as children and of my mother. We sat on the floor to divide them between us but, except for one picture of her with our mother, Luisa let me have them all. There was one of Miguel squatting on the sea wall, both hands giving a thumbs-up to the camera, his mouth hesitant, tender; in the background, our mother pregnant with me. After the funeral, he’d said that he wanted no mementoes but had left an address for money to be wired if there was any.

  In the bedroom my nephews, told to sit still by their mother, were fretful. They were bored, the novelty of the trip having long since dissipated. ‘When are you leaving?’ I said.

  ‘Soon. Fetch Pastor Levi to help you move this stuff. Or take Elisa.’ I looked at the boxes. Luisa hadn’t thought to pack them lightly; one contained the entire encyclopaedia.

  ‘The neighbours might use some of this. Or Lottie and Lando,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t want anyone taking the best stuff and Pastor Levi thinking Pop was cheap.’

  ‘What about the furniture?’

  ‘The landlord’s coming to check the place. I told him if he wants to keep the furniture he can buy it. Otherwise we’ll have to sell it. We can send the money to Miguel.’

  ‘The rent was paid till the end of the month.’

  ‘I can’t stay that long.’ She glanced out the door, towards the stairs that led down to the courtyard, where the children of the House-on-Wheels could be heard returning. ‘I’ve just cleaned the place, Joseph,’ she said crossly.