Rosa No-Name

by Roger Bruner

  Before Alazne’s birth, I would become Tomás’s bride. I would take his surname.

  Nikki would remain his lover and the object of his affection. When his own wants and needs didn’t consume him, that is. He would continue to take her out in public to show off to friends and associates—and pretend I didn’t exist.

  Nonetheless, I would eventually prove a hindrance to his lifestyle. Despite my naiveté about most areas of life, I didn’t doubt that his resentment toward me would grow, just as it had with the villagers. At least he didn’t have a cave to force me to live in.

  I’d left the village with Tomás because I had to. I accepted the fact that the villagers didn’t want Alazne and me around. I did what the quiet voice of the wind had urged me to do. But would I always be better off here than in the village?

  Why ask such a foolish question? The past couple of days had been the best ones of my life. Was I wrong to hope that such peace and contentment would last forever when nothing good in my life had lasted very long?

  I was lost in thought watching the waves breaking on the shore when Tomás came into the kitchen. “Nikki’s not up yet. You and I must talk now while we have privacy.”

  And good morning to you, too, Tomás. The tone of my thoughts was bitter. Can’t we even pretend to be pleasant? Hiding my resentment when I felt like yelling at him for his rudeness took all of my resolve. “So talk, Tomás.”

  “Nikki says she took you shopping for clothes yesterday.”

  And that upsets you? “She did.”

  Despite my negative feelings about Tomás—especially this morning—I enjoyed being able to speak with someone in my own language.

  “She said the two of you spent a lot of my money.”

  I drew back, waiting for him to launch into a verbal attack about our spending. Instead, he smiled. I would never understand that man.

  I twisted my mouth before responding. “We will spend a great deal more once Alazne is born and I return to my original size and shape.”

  “If you return to it.” He wrinkled his face as if puzzling out the accuracy of his statement. “Many women remain fat after bearing children. You saw that in Santa María. Not necessarily after the first one, but eventually…”

  Relieved that Tomás would never father another child of mine, I only nodded.

  “You’re correct about not remaining this size,” he added. “Or this shape.” He looked like he wanted to touch my tummy. I was glad he wasn’t close enough. “You can have all the clothes you need. I won’t have my wife lacking anything she needs.”

  He seemed to choke slightly on the words my wife.

  I shrugged. “So when will we marry? Not that you want to. You’re just afraid my knowledge of your business practices will ruin your life.”

  “Rosa,” he began slowly as if searching for the right words, “you are not nearly as dumb as I used to think. We will marry later this week. Today we will go to get the marriage license. First, however, we must pick up a passport that says you are an American citizen of legal age.”

  “Legal age? What is that?”

  “Here,” he explained more patiently than I had expected, “a girl must be eighteen to marry unless she has her parents’ permission to marry younger. You are what, seventeen?”

  “No, sixteen.” I wouldn’t have known that if I hadn’t overheard one of the village girls talking about the fact she and I were the same age. Which was older—seventeen, sixteen, or eighteen? I had no idea.

  He groaned as if he knew more than he was revealing. “From now on, you are eighteen. Remember that.”

  “Even when I am very old?” I laughed, thankful he had ignored my joke. I wouldn’t want him to start enjoying my company.

  I frowned. “So how does one get a false passport like that? I couldn’t imagine obtaining that kind of passport legally.

  He glared at me. “I can’t explain until we’re married. Such knowledge would be one more strike against me.”

  I didn’t understand strike, but nodded anyhow.

  “Nikki will be up soon. She’ll fix us a good breakfast. Then dress to go out. Dress nicely.”

  All of my clothes are nice. Nice and new. Nikki threw my old skirt and blouse in the trash can at the clothing store.

  “In one of my new outfits? Of course.” I had never felt such pride before. “I like Nikki. She is already a good friend, even though we can’t speak together. Won’t you let her learn Spanish or me learn English?”

  Tomás’s face darkened like the sky when lightning is threatening to strike. “Absolutely not!”

  He hadn’t thought before answering. He hadn’t hesitated one instant. His response had been automatic, and his voice had sounded as rigid and stubborn as his attitude.

  “Why not, Tomás?”

  “You are Mexican. I don’t want to see you soiled by becoming a real American.”

  I won’t be a “real American” because my “legal” passport says I am? “What about Nikki, then? Why can’t she learn Spanish?”

  “She is just a dumb American. She believes everything the television says about us Mexicans. She doesn’t deserve to speak or understand our language.”

  I couldn’t tell whether Tomás really suffered that badly from pride or meant for the language restriction to keep me dependent on him.

  No matter. His words rang hollow either way.

  9

  Despite the villagers’ stipulation that Tomás provide photographs to prove that my baby and I were safe and healthy, I was too scared of what Tomás might do to consider going against his wishes about learning English.

  Even so, Nikki and I needed to find a way to communicate. Perhaps she knew a bilingual woman who would be willing to help. Of course I didn’t have the words to suggest that idea.

  Tomás cleared his throat. “One other thing. Something very important. Nikki doesn’t know what I do for a living, and you will not tell her. If I find you’ve disobeyed me, I will divorce both of you—instantly and permanently.”

  Although I didn’t understand the meaning of divorce, he didn’t need to explain. I understood his tone. After what I’d witnessed on our drive from the village, I didn’t doubt the extent of his violent nature. He could do anything without suffering the smallest regret.

  “Good morning, Rosa,” a sleepy voice said from the hallway. “Good morning, Tomás.”

  “Buenos días, Nikki.” I smiled and then hugged her. Once because I was glad to see her. Then a second time to thank her for interrupting my unpleasant conversation with Tomás—or more accurately, his conversation with me.

  Thank goodness that conversation was over. At least for the time being.

  After Tomás and Nikki exchanged a few words in English, she took eggs, bacon, and bread out of the refrigerator. She pulled a pan out of the stove drawer and a shiny metal bowl—I thumped it to see what material it was made of—from the cabinet beneath the counter.

  She cracked an egg on the edge of the bowl. Then she looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

  Yes, I can do that, too. I have done it before.

  She pointed to the sink, the soap, and the hand towel. I needed to wash my hands. First I rolled up the sleeves of my bathrobe to keep them dry. I valued it more than all of my other clothes, even though they were new and the robe was not.

  I cracked one egg and maneuvered most of its contents into the bowl. The shell of the second one was more brittle than I had expected, and I couldn’t move fast enough to catch it or keep the insides from splattering and slithering down the outside of the bowl onto the counter and then to the floor. I tried picking it up with my hands. That just made the mess more horrendous.

  Nikki giggled in amusement, and I laughed with her.

  Tomás, however, looked like he was about to explode and spew his insides all over the kitchen, not just on the floor. He narrowed his eyes. “You will be my wife in name, but you will never be my real wife. Do not help in the kitchen. Your efforts aren’t worth the trouble.”<
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  I would eventually learn he treated all women that way. Even Nikki.

  Why did she put up with that kind of treatment? Did she actually love him that much? Even if she did, she didn’t put up with his arrogance completely. I had helped Tomás clean up the evidence of that.

  “Shower now and dress as quickly as possible.”

  What? Can’t I finish eating breakfast first?

  “I have other things to do today—important things—so we must deal with this license business quickly.”

  After I showered, Nikki dried my hair and helped me dress. I was so huge that putting on unfamiliar clothes proved a double challenge. Without her help, I might never have finished. Not doing it correctly, anyhow.

  “Nikki, get the instant camera,” Tomás interrupted our getting ready without apologizing. “We need a picture of Rosa No-Name before we go. A headshot.”

  She complied without a word.

  Tomás examined each picture carefully with a ruler. Once he was satisfied he had a suitable photo, Nikki put the camera back in the drawer and picked up her purse.

  He laughed. “No, Nikki, you are not coming. A handsome man with two young women on his arms might make the marriage license officer a little suspicious.”

  Nikki shrugged meekly. “Whatever.”

  Although I didn’t know the meaning of that word, I could not mistake the tone of voice she had used. I giggled as quietly as I could. Over the coming months, I would hear Nikki say whatever to Tomás more often than any other English word I learned to recognize.

  Tomás paid no attention to either of us. “Come.”

  Once Tomás and I set foot outside the apartment, he became a different person. He put on the camouflage of a real gentleman and did it so convincingly that nobody seeing him on the streets or sidewalks of San Diego would have suspected him of being such a vile and evil man.

  He bowed deeply to the older women who had stepped into the hallway to pick up their morning newspapers. They smiled in response to his show of charm and graciousness.

  “Appearances,” he mumbled once we were alone in the elevator. “It’s done with smoke and mirrors,” he whispered as if sharing some deep dark secret.

  Although I’d understood his words, I wasn’t sure what he’d meant. Did he mean we looked like a happy young couple when we weren’t happy together? That made as much sense as anything else.

  Tomás opened the passenger door of his red sports car and helped me in. Alazne and I barely fit, and I had to turn at an awkward angle so he could close my door.

  Even if he had just been courteous to appear gentlemanly in front of the neighbors, he made me feel more like a lady than I had ever felt. For the briefest of moments, I could pretend that a tiny part of my old dreams about Tomás was actually coming true.

  I wasn’t foolish enough to believe it. Nothing would convince me that Tomás was a different person from the self-serving man my circumstances were forcing me to marry and live with.

  He patted the roof of the car. “It’s warm today. I’m putting down the top.”

  “I have always wanted to ride in your convertible with the top down.”

  “You may want to put this around your head.” He fished around in the glove compartment and drew out a fancy scarf of many colors. He handed it to me without further comment. Nikki must have kept it there to cover her hair when she rode with him.

  I cocked my head. “Today is not so windy.”

  He laughed. “You do not know how much wind the motion of the car makes.” Then he laughed again…at my ignorance.

  Satisfied with his explanation, I wrapped the scarf around my head.

  We drove to the small guardhouse. The guard wrote something on his clipboard before opening the gate. Tomás saluted him and turned to me. “Such precautions are necessary to keep valuable cars from being stolen. Models like mine are quite popular among car thieves.”

  To keep cars from being stolen? What kind of place is America, anyhow?

  If the villagers of Santa María grew illegal marijuana for distribution north of the border, they did it only for the common good. For survival.

  I could barely comprehend the concept of stealing, though. No one in Santa María would take something that belonged to someone else. Perhaps because the village was so small that an article seen in the wrong hands would arouse immediate suspicion. Or more likely because none of the villagers owned anything worth stealing.

  Tomás smirked. “You are thinking that no one steals in Santa María. Ha! If anyone discovers where I get the ‘produce’ I sell to my distributors here, people far greedier than I am will break into the village warehouse and steal whatever they find.

  “They will just take it. They won’t exchange it for merchandise the villagers need. I’m the world’s most honorable man compared to those sharks.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. How could a simple plant be illegal, yet worth so much that people would steal it? Tomás didn’t explain further. Later, when I learned what marijuana was, I was pleased that most of the villagers had the good sense to avoid using it.

  The Americans of San Diego apparently weren’t as smart.

  Not if they smoked marijuana and stole expensive cars. And not if they permitted a Mexican immigrant like Tomás to make a fortune smuggling marijuana across the border, using violence to eliminate anyone or anything that got in his way.

  I remembered his earlier use of the word divorce and shivered with fright.

  Before I could dwell on those thoughts any longer, Tomás made a right turn into a huge parking lot. He parked diagonally across a white line so his precious car would occupy two spaces. He must have seen my questioning look. “This way no one can scratch my paint by slamming my door with his.”

  He put the top up. “The car is not safe from thieves—even here in a public place.”

  We entered a large building. It looked more foreboding than the apartment building, even though it wasn’t nearly as tall.

  Tomás began looking for a sign marked “Marriage Licenses.” Huh? Hadn’t he said we needed the passport before we could apply for the marriage license? He must have seen the confusion in my eyes. “We will do both things at the same place,” he whispered.

  He took some change from his pocket and worked his way through the crowd to a pay phone. I shook my head. Why wasn’t he using his cell phone?

  Determined not to get lost, I held onto his coat sleeve. He pulled a tiny slip of paper from his shirt pocket and called the number he’d written on it. Numbers were as indistinguishable to me as letters, although several of them were beginning to look familiar.

  “He wouldn’t be pleased to know I’ve written his number down.” He gave me a nasty grin. “That evidence would connect the two of us if I’m ever caught. That’s why I’m using a pay phone and not my cell phone.”

  The tall ceilings, wide hallways, and endless flow of people who seemed to be rushing just for the sake of rushing fascinated me so much I failed to notice someone approaching. The stranger cleared his throat. At first, I thought he was Latino, too. Yet he was so much lighter than anyone from Santa María I couldn’t be sure.

  “Señor del Mundo,” he said just above a whisper in perfect Spanish, “your cake is almost ready for the oven. You’ve brought the missing ingredient?”

  Huh?

  Tomás reached into his pocket for the photograph Nikki took earlier. I hadn’t seen it before leaving the apartment, but I peeked at it now. Compared to what I saw when I looked at myself in the mirror, this picture looked dull and unattractive. Weren’t passport photographs supposed to resemble their subjects—or was that part of the plan?

  The soft-spoken stranger examined the picture and measured it with a small ruler. “Perfect.” After inserting it carefully in his breast pocket, he handed Tomás a clipboard containing a printed piece of paper. “Complete this application for your marriage license. Your cake will be done by the time you are hungry for it.”

  Although every
word the stranger had spoken sounded mysterious, the two men didn’t act like anything unusual was taking place. I didn’t know enough about America to wonder at first why they would conduct secretive business in an open public hallway with hordes of people passing by.

  But when I asked Tomás about it later, he explained that men frequently do important business in public restrooms and gymnasium locker rooms. So why not in a hallway? When I accused him of joking, he assured me he hadn’t been.

  Tomás stared at the clipboard as the stranger melded into the crowd.

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Call him Alejandro.”

  I could tell from Tomás’s tone that he’d intended for his off-the-top-of-his-head response to pacify me. It was not a real answer. Simply one I was supposed to accept and be satisfied with.

  He wrinkled his brow as he continued to stare at the clipboard. He looked like he would have preferred to drop it in the trash.

  Aren’t you supposed to be filling that out?

  “Why can’t you produce a marriage license the way you make the cake?” Tomás asked Alejandro when he returned a while later. I’d never seen him act so vexed over something so simple. “I don’t want to come back again. And my poor car. It’s remained unguarded too long.”

  “Your car is fine; we have video surveillance. And if you complete this form now, you won’t have to come back.” Alejandro had spoken like a patient father answering his young son’s foolish questions, even though he appeared to be only a few years older than Tomás. The type of parent I used to dream Tomás would be.

  “If you are to marry Rosa Sin-Nombre,” he pointed first to some printing on the newly completed passport and then to the space on the marriage license application where Tomás was apparently supposed to write my name, “public records must show you are truly and properly married. Unfortunately, I don’t bake pies as well as I do cakes.”

  He chuckled.

  Tomás grumbled.

  Alejandro shook his head. “Only you and I will know that the ‘priest’ who marries you is a justice of the peace you are paying to dress like a priest for the wedding photographs. Only that part of the wedding will be a deception. The marriage certificate will bear his signature. It will be one hundred percent genuine. You were wise to question whether a Mexican priest would marry you to a young lady who is obviously pregnant.”