“You’ll be fine here,” my aunt says.
I look at her. She gives me a long, hard look. There’s no pity in her dry eyes. We get out of the car. The house said “Boarding Home.” It’s one of those halfway houses that pick up the dregs of society. Beings with empty eyes, dry cheeks, toothless mouths, filthy bodies. I think such places exist only here, in the United States. They’re also known simply as homes. They’re not government-run. They’re private houses that anyone can open as long as he gets a license from the state and completes a paramedic course.
“…a business just like any other,” my aunt explains to me. “A business like a funeral home, an optician’s, a clothing store. You’ll pay three hundred dollars here.”
We opened the door. There they all were: René and Pepe, the two mentally retarded men; Hilda, the decrepit old hag who constantly wets herself; Pino, a gray, silent man who just glares at the horizon with a hard expression; Reyes, an old one-eyed man whose glass eye constantly oozes yellow liquid; Ida, the grande dame come to ruin; Louie, a strong American with greenish-yellow skin who constantly howls like a mad wolf; Pedro, an old Indian, perhaps Peruvian, silent witness to the world’s evils; Tato, the homosexual; Napoleon, the midget; and Castaño, a ninety-year-old geezer who can only shout “I want to die! I want to die! I want to die!”
“You’ll be fine here,” my aunt says. “You’ll be among Latinos.”
We go on. Mr. Curbelo, the owner of the Home, is waiting for us at his desk. Did I find him repulsive from the very beginning? I don’t know. He was fat and shapeless, and was wearing a ridiculous track suit made all the worse by a juvenile baseball cap.
“Is this the man?” He asks my aunt with a smile on his face.
“This is him,” she responds.
“He’ll be fine here,” Curbelo says, “like he’s living with family.”
He looks at the book I’m carrying under my arm and asks, “Do you like to read?”
My aunt responds, “Not only that. He’s a writer.”
“Ah!” Curbelo says with mock surprise. “And what do you write?”
“Bullshit,” I say softly.
Then Curbelo asks, “Did you bring his medicines?”
My aunt looks in her purse.
“Yes,” she says. “Melleril. One hundred milligrams. He has to take four a day.”
“Good.” Mr. Curbelo says with a satisfied face. “You can leave him then. We’ll take care of everything else.”
My aunt turns to look into my eyes. This time, I think I see the slightest trace of pity.
“You’ll be fine here,” she assures me. “Nothing more can be done.”
My name is William Figueras, and by the age of fifteen I had read the great Proust, Hesse, Joyce, Miller, Mann. They were for me what saints are to a devout Christian. Twenty years ago, I finished writing a novel in Cuba that told a love story. It was the story of an affair between a communist and a member of the bourgeoisie, and ended with both of them committing suicide. The novel was never published and my love story was never known by the public at large. The government’s literary specialists said my novel was morose, pornographic, and also irreverent, because it dealt harshly with the Communist Party. After that, I went crazy. I began to see devils on the walls, to hear voices that insulted me—and I stopped writing. All I produced was a rabid dog’s froth. One day, thinking that a change of country would save me from madness, I left Cuba and arrived in this great American country. There were some relatives waiting for me here who didn’t know anything about my life and who, after twenty years of separation, barely knew me anymore. They thought a future winner was coming, a future businessman, a future playboy, a future family man who would have a future house full of kids, and who would go to the beach on weekends and drive fine cars and wear brand-name clothing like Jean Marc and Pierre Cardin. The person who turned up at the airport the day of my arrival was instead a crazy, nearly toothless, skinny, frightened guy who had to be admitted to a psychiatric ward that very day because he eyed everyone in the family with suspicion and, instead of hugging and kissing them, insulted them. I know it was a great disappointment for everyone, especially for my aunt who was expecting something great. They got me instead. An embarrassment. A terrible mark on this fine Cuban petit bourgeois family with their healthy teeth and buffed fingernails, radiant skin, fashionable clothes, who were weighed down by thick gold chains and owned magnificent cars of the latest make and spacious houses with well-stocked pantries and central heat and air-conditioning. That day (the one on which I arrived), I know that they all eyed each other with embarrassment, made some scathing comments and drove off from the airport without any intention of ever seeing me again. And that’s the way it’s been. The only one who remained faithful to the family ties was this Aunt Clotilde, who decided to make herself responsible for me and kept me at her house for three months, until the day when, at the advice of other friends and relatives, she decided to stick me in the halfway house: the house of human garbage.
“Because you’ll understand that nothing more can be done.”
I understand her.
This halfway house was, originally, a six-room house. Perhaps it was once inhabited by one of those typical American families who fled Miami when the Cubans fleeing communism began to arrive. Now the halfway house has twelve tiny rooms, with two beds in each room. In addition, it has an ancient television set that’s always broken, and a kind of living room with twenty folding chairs that are falling apart. There are three bathrooms, but one of these (the best one) is reserved for the boss, Mr. Curbelo. The toilets in the other two are always clogged since some of the residents stick in them old shirts, sheets, curtains and other cloth materials that they use to wipe their behinds. Mr. Curbelo does not give us toilet paper, although he is supposed to by law. There is a dining room, outside the house, tended by a Cuban mulata with scores of religious necklaces and bracelets whose name is Caridad. But she doesn’t cook. If she were to cook, Mr. Curbelo would have to pay her an additional thirty dollars per week, and that’s something Mr. Curbelo would never do. So Mr. Curbelo himself, with his bourgeois little face, is the one who makes the stew every day. He makes it in the simplest way, by taking a handful of peas or lentils and dropping them (plop!) in a pressure cooker. Maybe he adds a little garlic powder. The rest, rice and a main dish, comes from a home delivery service called “Sazón,” whose owners, knowing they’re dealing with a nut house, pick the worst they have and send it over any which way in two huge greasy pots. They should send enough food to feed twenty-three people, but they only send enough for eleven. Mr. Curbelo thinks this is enough and no one complains. But if a complaint does arise, then Mr. Curbelo, without even looking at the person, says, “You don’t like it? Well if you don’t like it, leave!” But … who’s going to leave? Life on the streets is hard. Even for crazy people whose brains are on the moon. And Mr. Curbelo knows this and repeats, “Leave, quickly!” But nobody leaves. The complainer lowers his eyes, grabs his spoon and goes back to swallowing his raw lentils silently.
Because in the halfway house, no one has anyone. Old Ida has two kids in Massachusetts who want nothing to do with her. Quiet Pino is all alone and doesn’t have anyone at all in this huge country. René and Pepe, the two mentally retarded guys, could never live with their weary relatives. Old one-eyed Reyes has a daughter in Newport that he hasn’t seen in fifteen years. Hilda, the old lady with cystitis, doesn’t even know her own last name. I have an aunt … but “nothing more can be done.” Mr. Curbelo knows all of this. He knows it well. That’s why he is so sure that no one will leave the halfway house and that he will continue to receive the checks for $314 that the American government sends for each one of the crazy people in his hospice. There are twenty-three nuts: $7,222. Plus, with another $3,000 that comes from I don’t know what supplemental source, it comes to $10,222 a month. That’s why Mr. Curbelo has a well-appointed house in Coral Gables and a farm with racehorses. That’s why he spends his weekends p
erfecting the fine art of deep-sea fishing. That’s why his kids’ photos appear in the local paper on their birthdays, and he goes to society parties wearing tails and a bow tie. Now that my aunt is gone, his face, once warm, eyes me with cold indifference.
“Come along,” he says dryly. He takes me down a narrow hallway to a room, number four, where another crazy guy is sleeping with a snore that reminds me of an electric saw.
“This is your bed,” he says, without looking at me. “This is your towel,” and he points at a threadbare towel full of yellowish stains. “This is your closet, and this is your soap,” and he takes half a piece of white soap from his pocket and hands it to me. He doesn’t say another word. He looks at his watch, realizes how late it is and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Then I put my suitcase on the floor, place my small television set on top of the armoire, open the window wide and sit on the bed assigned to me with the book of English poets in my hands. I open it at random, to a poem by Coleridge:
God save thee, ancient mariner!
From the fiends that plague thee thus!—
“Why look’st thou so?” —With my cross bow
I shot the Albatross.
The door to the room suddenly opens and a robust figure, with skin as dirty as puddle water, comes in. He has a can of beer in his hand and takes several sips from it while giving me the once-over out of the corner of his eye.
“You’re the new guy?” he asks after a while. “Yes.”
“I’m Arsenio, the guy who takes care of things when Curbelo leaves.”
“Okay.”
He looks at my suitcase, my books and stops at my small black-and-white TV set.
“Does it work?”
“Yes.”
“How much did it cost you?"
“Sixty dollars.”
He takes another swig, without taking the corner of his eye off of my TV set. Then he says, “Are you going to eat?”
“Yes.”
“Then get going. The food’s ready.”
He turns around and leaves the room, still drinking from his can. I’m not hungry, but I should eat. I only weigh 115 pounds, and I tend to get woozy. People on the street sometimes yell “Worm!” at me. I throw the book of English poets on the bed and button up my shirt. My pants swim around my waist. I should eat.
I head toward the dining room.
Miss Caridad, the one in charge of distributing food to the crazy people, points out the only open spot to me. It’s a seat next to old one-eyed Reyes, and across from Hilda, the decrepit old hag whose clothes reek of urine, and Pepe, the older of the two mentally retarded men. They call this table “the untouchables’ table,” since no one wants to be with them when it’s time to eat. Reyes eats with his hands, and his enormous glass eye, as big as a shark’s eye, constantly oozes watery pus that falls down to his chin like a large yellow tear. Hilda also eats with her hands and does so reclined in her chair, like a marchioness eating delicacies, so that half of the food ends up on her clothes. Pepe, the retarded guy, eats with an enormous spoon that looks like a spade. He chews slowly and loudly with his toothless jaw, and his whole face, up to his large popping eyes, is full of peas and rice. I bring the first spoonful to my mouth and chew slowly. I chew once, three times, and then I realize that I can’t swallow it. I spit everything out onto my plate and leave. When I get to my room, I notice that my TV set is missing. I look for it in my closet and under the bed, but it’s not there. I go in search of Mr. Curbelo, but the person sitting at his desk now is Arsenio, the second in command. He takes a swig from his can of beer and informs me,
“Curbelo’s not here. What’s up?”
“My TV set has been stolen.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he moves his head in despair. “That was Louie,” he then says. “He’s the thief.”
“Where’s Louie?”
“In room number three.”
I go to room number three and find Louie the American, who howls like a wolf when he sees me come in.
“TV?” I say.
“Go to hell!” He exclaims, furious. He howls again. He throws himself at me and pushes me out of the room. Then he shuts the door with a loud slam.
I look at Arsenio. He smiles. But he hides it quickly, covering his face with the beer can.
“A sip?” he asks, holding the can out to me.
“No thanks, I don’t drink. When will Mr. Curbelo be in?”
“Tomorrow.”
Great. Nothing more can be done. I go back to my room and let myself fall heavily on the bed. The pillow stinks of old sweat. The sweat of other nuts who have been through here and shriveled up between these four walls. I throw it far away from me. Tomorrow I’ll ask for a clean sheet, a new pillow and a lock to put on the door so that no one enters without asking first. I look at the ceiling. It’s a blue ceiling, peeling, overrun with tiny brown cockroaches. Great. This is the end of me, the lowest I could go. There’s nothing else after this halfway house. Just the street and nothing more. The door opens again. It’s Hilda, the decrepit old hag who urinates on her clothes. She has come in search of a cigarette. I give it to her. She looks at me with kind-hearted eyes. I notice a certain beauty of yesteryear behind that revolting face. She has an incredibly sweet voice. With it, she tells me her story. She has never married, she says. She’s a virgin. She is, she says, eighteen years old. She’s looking for a proper gentleman to marry. But a gentleman! Not just anyone.
“You have beautiful eyes,” she says sweetly to me. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I slept a little. I dreamt I was in a town in the provinces, back in Cuba, and that there wasn’t a soul in the whole town. The doors and windows were wide open, and through them you could see iron beds with very clean, tightly pulled white sheets. The streets were long and silent, and all of the houses were wooden. I was running around that town in distress, looking for anyone to talk with. But there was no one. Only open houses, white beds and total silence. There wasn’t a single hint of life.
I awoke bathed in sweat. In the bed next to me, the crazy guy who was snoring like a saw is awake now and putting on a pair of pants.
“I’m going to work,” he tells me. “I work all night at a pizza place and they pay me six dollars. They also give me pizza and Coca-Cola.”
He puts on a shirt and slides into his shoes.
“I’m an old slave,” he says. “I’m reincarnated. Before this life, I was a Jew who lived in the time of the Caesars.”
He leaves with a slam of the door. I look at the street through the window. It must be midnight. I get up from the bed and go to the living room, to get some fresh air. As I pass Arsenio’s room, the hospice manager, I hear bodies struggling and then the sound of a slap. I continue on my way and sit in a tattered arm chair that reeks of old sweat. I light a cigarette and throw my head back, fearfully remembering the dream I just had. Those white, tightly made beds, those wide open solitary houses, and I, the only living being in town. Then I see somebody coming out of Arsenio’s room. It’s Hilda, the decrepit old hag. She’s naked. Arsenio comes out behind her. He’s naked too. They haven’t seen me.
“Come on,” he says to Hilda in a drunk voice. “No,” she responds. “That hurts.”
“Come on, I’ll give you a cigarette.” Arsenio says.
“No. It hurts!”
I take a drag of my cigarette and Arsenio discovers me among the shadows.
“Who’s there?”
“Me.”
“Who’s me?”
“The new guy.”
He mutters something, disgusted, and goes back inside his room. Hilda comes over to me. A ray of light from an electric street lamp bathes her naked body. It’s a body full of flab and deep valleys.
“Do you have a cigarette?” she asks in a sweet voice.
I give it to her.
“I don’t like getting it from behind,” she says. “And that pig!” she points to Arsenio’s room. “He only wants to do it that
way.”
She leaves.
I lean my head against the back of the armchair again. I think of Coleridge, the author of “Kubla Khan,” whose disenchantment with the French Revolution provoked his ruin and sterility as a poet. But my thoughts are soon cut off. A long, terrifying howl shakes the boarding home. Louie, the American, shows up in the living room, his face bursting with rage.
“Fuck you up the ass!” He screams at the street, which is empty at this late hour. “Fuck you up the ass! Fuck you up the ass!”
He slams his fist against a mirror on the wall and it falls to the floor in pieces. Arsenio, the manager, says lazily from his bed,
“Louie, you cama now. You pastilla tomorrow. You no jodas más.”
And Louie disappears into the shadows.
* * *
Arsenio is the real one in charge at the halfway house. Even though Mr. Curbelo comes every day (except Saturday and Sunday), he’s only here for three hours and then he leaves. He makes the stew, prepares the day’s pills, writes something or other in a thick notebook and then leaves. Arsenio is here twenty-four hours a day non-stop, without even a quick run out for cigarettes. When he needs a smoke, he asks one of the nuts to go out to the bodega for him. When he’s hungry, he sends Pino, his peon, out to get him food at a joint on the corner. He also sends for beer, lots of beer, because Arsenio spends all day getting completely drunk. His friends call him Budweiser, the beer he drinks most. When he drinks, his eyes become more evil, his voice becomes even thicker, and his gestures ruder and cruder. Then he kicks one-eyed Reyes, he opens anyone’s drawers in search of money and he walks around the entire boarding home with a sharpened knife at his waist. Sometimes, he takes this knife, gives it to René, the retard, and points at one-eyed Reyes, saying, “Stick it in him!” He further explains, “Stick it in his neck, it’s the softest part.” René, the retard, takes the knife with his clumsy hand and moves forward on the old one-eyed guy. Although he stabs blindly at him, he never wounds him, since he’s not strong enough. Then Arsenio sits him down at the table; brings an empty beer can over, and plunges the knife into the can. “That’s how you stab!” he explains to René—“like this, like this, like this!” and he stabs the can until he pierces it through. Then he puts the knife back in his belt, gives the old one-eyed guy a savage kick in the behind, and sits down at Mr. Curbelo’s desk again to have another beer. “Hilda!” he calls out later. And Hilda, the decrepit old hag who stinks of urine, comes. Arsenio touches her sex through her clothes and says, “Wash yourself today!”
The Halfway House (New Directions Paperbook) Page 2