The Accidental Native

by J. L. Torres

  Mami told me those days were like living in a concentration camp in her own home. Once, she wanted to push the “Nazi witch” out the window. It’s horrible to make light of the holocaust. Mami was always conscious of things like that, so imagine how bad my grandmother made her feel. That’s when she knew that it wouldn’t work. That they would never hit it off and become great friends. And she threw down wife law; and my father had to listen. He accepted her terms, because he loved my mother. He loved his mother and family, but he loved us more. It was simple.

  This time around wasn’t any better. She had arguments with my father all the time. It’s kind of blurry, but I do remember Isabela crying and saying how her own son had turned his back on his mother. I felt bad for her. I felt bad for Dad, too, standing in the kitchen as Isabela tried to cook some terrible dish I wouldn’t eat. She kept pointing a spoon at him. He looked trapped, his back against the fridge, ruffling all my artwork that Mami had posted. I could hear them from the living room while I read. It got louder, their yelling, and I knew Mami would be able to hear it across the apartment, from the bedroom, where she was trying to recuperate. Then Isabela started saying stuff I couldn’t understand about Mami being hollow, hueca—my father would explain later, although he never told me what it meant. I couldn’t understand the rest; it was in Spanish. Sometimes my grandmother would talk in English, which was pretty good. A solid Catholic education, she used to say. Money buys anything in PR, my father would say behind her back.

  But they kept it up in Spanish, heated, fast, furious words coming out of their tongues like fuego. They suddenly stopped. My mother stood facing them both in her terrycloth robe, her hand on her stomach. She turned to me and ordered me to my room. I grabbed my book and ran to my bedroom, where I could still see and hear them. Isabela yelled something about “the truth.” Mami shuffled closer and stared at my father. “I want her out of here, now!”

  Isabela left the next day, on an evening flight to San Juan. I saw her only that one time on the family trip to PR, and not at the funeral, after she died from breast cancer. My father visited her at the hospital in her last days and attended the funeral alone.

  Six

  * * *

  The violent dreams continued. They all had the feel of a cheap, hand-held camera movie in an endless horror film festival. In all of them, I kept seeing blood everywhere and heard frantic, disembodied screaming. Every time, I woke up startled, disoriented, and after getting my bearings, would slip into a funk.

  I had been living in the Guest House for weeks. I informed the college authorities of my housing situation. Stay as long as you need, they said. Of course, they were charging me, but it wasn’t really expensive. But that’s not the point. I had my “own” place, my so-called inheritance, and I felt stupid having to pay any kind of rent. Worse, how was I supposed to make the squatters move out? The Riveras owed my parents six months’ rent. So on top of everything, I had to file legal proceedings against them. Julia knew nothing about this legal mess. I wasn’t even sure she knew about the house. Sad to say, but we weren’t at a point where I could confide in her, and I didn’t want her involved in something concerning my parents. Miguel “Micco” Montero, a colleague, wished me luck, telling me squatters had ridiculous rights in Puerto Rico.

  I was now a perpetual guest, an insomniac and unfocused. I wanted to play some b-ball, run maybe, go lie on the beach, but sometimes I sat on the patio, sipping a cup of strong, sweet, black coffee, and let my thoughts ride the fog drifting over the green central mountains. From where I sat, I could see the neighborhood where my parents’ house was located amid houses perched on ground overlooking the college. That would always break the reverie, would upset me, so I had to get up and do something else.

  Today, in front of me, the task was reviewing the master syllabi given to me by the department secretary, Nitza. I was supposed to write my own course syllabus for each class and hand them out to students. Uninspiring work, especially with the emphasis on phonetics and grammar—it seemed like the principal objective was to teach the verb “to be.”

  So, one particular Saturday found me kicking the hacky sack, as I’m bound to do when procrastinating, avoiding a boring task like writing syllabi. I was lost in the rhythmic dance of keeping the sack in the air for minutes, when Micco came to pick me up for a welcome party I didn’t even want. Marisol Santerrequi had decided it was the collegial thing to do. Stiegler, a recent hire, told me he never got one. Watch her, Micco had said, referring to Marisol. “She’s got it bad for you.” I was not pleased by this. Nothing against Marisol. I had scanned her in those tight dresses—the cleavage impossible not to see. Not bad. But the last thing on my mind was having an affair with a colleague. The more I thought about it, the more unsettling it became, because she was persistent, and I didn’t need anything else on my plate.

  I opened the door and Micco, all five-feet-four and chunky, stood in front of me, dressed in white linen pants and a short sleeve, red silk shirt, his hairless chest held high as if he were displaying a series of medals. He dipped his sunglasses down his nose to look at me, and his from-the-bottle suntanned face turned to shock.

  “You’re not wearing that.” He threw a finger at my outfit, which consisted of army fatigue shorts with a Yankees T-shirt and flip-flops.

  “Hell no, let me get ready.” I kicked him the hacky sack and he dropped it.

  I showered, shaved and dressed, my newly donned clothes—a blue rolled-up sleeved, buttoned-down collared shirt, with khaki pants and boat shoes—did not receive any more of a compliment.

  “What’s that, Puerto Rican preppie?”

  The drive to San Juan from Baná on the autopista is forty minutes, in good traffic, which is rare, but with Micco driving we made it there faster. He drove his little red convertible like a NASCAR wannabe, moving in and out of traffic at a wild speed, turning the wheel in jerky motions, elbows upturned like it was appropriate etiquette. We still had time to chat. I found out he would be my office mate, and I suddenly sensed in him a responsibility to mentor me. All I could think of was that I was having to share such a tiny office with another human being too gabby for me. I liked my privacy, and when it was time to work, I didn’t want anyone around me talking stupid crap. In that short drive to San Juan, Montero gave me rundowns on everyone.

  “Most of these people,” he yelled, over the rushing air and speeding cars around us, “harmless, unless you get in the way of something they want. Like dogs, they’ll snap if you try to take the bone they’re chewing on.”

  So much for camaraderie, I thought. Passing us, a pick-up truck carried a huge, plastic cow.

  “Pedro, though,” he continued, swinging elbows as he steered through dense traffic. “Keep an eye on him. They don’t call him The Rock for nothing.”

  The warm night air slapped at us. We passed congested, residential areas turned commercial, cluttered with signs advertising all types of businesses, and a string of junk food franchises. Montero pointed to one of many residential areas lining the highway, La Sierra Estates. “Freddie Rivas lives there,” he said. “A gay man who has yet to accept he’s too old to cruise.” The university had an unofficial “don’t ask, don’t tell policy” in place, even before the U.S. Army came up with theirs. No one gay I met there ever admitted it, certainly not in public. Friends knew, but there lingered a tacit hush about how they did their business. It was sad, really. I looked at him as I clenched the dashboard and saw my face reflected off his mirror sunglasses, his tight, black dyed mustache embracing his purplish lips.

  “He’s into that New Age stuff, with rocks and channeling,” he added.

  I nodded, though unclear exactly what he meant.

  At the exit to Monteverde Mall, traffic thickened. It didn’t matter to Micco, who snaked through cars, SUVs and trucks like he was on the last lap at Daytona. At times, he passed vehicles on the shoulder, once almost scraping against the concrete meridian. If he could drive on top of the divider, he would. The oth
er drivers on the road were just as bad or worse. Everyone raced and cut off other drivers.

  “Then, we have the resident gringo—the other new guy, Daniel Stiegler.”

  “What about Foley?”

  “Foley,” Montero paused. “He’s like fog, comes and goes, stealth-like. I think he’s CIA.” He whispered this and laughed at my surprised expression. Then, added, “Maybe he’s here to keep an eye on Stiegler.”

  Stiegler’s wild, bushy-mustached mountain man look came to mind, his unkempt hair, wrinkled clothes and weather-beaten hiking boots recalling his days as a lecturer in Montana.

  We exited on Río Piedras, passed the University of Puerto Rico’s main campus, an amalgam of huddled, parked automobiles and buildings withered by neglect and weather, and soon entered Marisol’s street, which like so many streets in Puerto Rico had no sign. Micco said that to this day he didn’t know its name. And like so many other San Juan streets, there wasn’t a parking space to be found. Micco drove around for fifteen minutes, past vehicles whose owners had given up and stranded them on sidewalks to await the parking ticket accepted as part of the cost of hanging out in “el área metropolitana.” He finally squeezed in between two SUVs, tapping one of the bumpers several times, and we walked to Marisol’s high-rise condo, which appeared no better than most “projects” in the Bronx. The same elongated, upturned rectangular, gray-cement structure with a splash of pastels.

  Inside, similar long, narrow corridors fronting a series of clone doors. Same hard, waxy, Formica floors. Except here you own the apartment; it was an investment. Once inside the apartment, I saw that it even had the same floor plan. The kitchen area was separated from the living room by a counter and bar stools. A hallway led to two bedrooms and a bathroom. I could find my way blindfolded around this apartment, because I had lived for years in a similar one in the Bronx, before my parents got a deal on a house in New Jersey.

  Across the room, a wide, sliding glass door opened onto a slim balcony with a view of San Juan’s swarming, concrete cityscape. I was glad for the sake of Marisol’s investment that she had more footage than those same floor plans in the South Bronx. The living room was airy and accommodated the dozen individuals already there, sipping mojitos and wine.

  “Ah, here’s the guest of honor,” Marisol chirped, holding a glass of red. “Micco, you brought him late,” she scolded. She smiled at me.

  “I found the young man shamefully unprepared and utterly unattired,” he responded in his awful Brit accent. Montero taught British literature, and on occasion took delight in mimicking a purposefully annoying nasal English accent.

  “Ay,” clucked Marisol, already tipsy, “at least now we can eat.”

  It was an inviting room, full of color and practical furniture. White rattan—big in the island—with flowery prints, mostly bright reds against white. She pointed to a Botaño up on a wall. “Its value has gone up,” she whispered, “since he died.” In a corner swung a Calder mobile replica—the one with red lily pads. On top of a credenza, and other flat surfaces, stood various elongated candles and ceramic knickknacks.

  Having announced the go-ahead to eat, everyone approached the buffet spread, a rich combination of seafood paella, several vegetable dishes and a huge spinach salad mixed with tangerines. For appetizers, ham croquettes and miniature alcapurrias. Several colleagues had brought bottles of wine, reds and whites, but I preferred the sangria served in a crystal pitcher.

  I was greeted by Cari Rosas, one of several linguists, and her husband, Franco. Much of my conversation with him entailed the many surgical procedures he had undergone. Along with Cari, I met Juan Cedeño and his pretty wife, Anabel; Luis Angel Iglesias, a somber, demure scholarly type, and Rita Gómez, whose English I could barely understand. Stieglitz entrenched himself in a corner with a plate of food.

  Juan grabbed a plate with his left hand as he shook my hand with his right. A relatively new hire, he had moved from the United States and complained about the lack of technology on campus. “It’s like they’re Luddites,” he said, grinning, referring to our colleagues as he chewed on a piece of lobster from the paella, and shook his head.

  I nodded, drinking the sangria, which was strong.

  Marisol served me a plate of food. “Eat something. You could put some meat on those huesitos of yours.” She patted my arm, her hand lingering across my forearm.

  Opposite from me, Pedro Roque sat talking to Carmela López, whom people called his shadow, and a hooked-nose, hunched woman with short hair, the Chair of the Humanities department, Margo Lasca. She had been chair of that rambunctious group for over fifteen years because no one else could be trusted by the others. Pedro did not look over to me even once. He only talked to me when he approached the food. Holding his hands together and glancing down at everything with caution, he asked if everything was going well, especially with the syllabi. “Yes,” I lied.

  “Great,” he said. “Go by the syllabi—you won’t go wrong.”

  He served himself three croquettes, threw some salad on his plate and walked back to his seat. Today, he wore a frumpy, brown short-sleeved shirt, dark-blue pants and his usual sandals. Not a single strand moved from his newly moussed hair. He resumed the conversation with Lasca and Carmela López. Although Pedro didn’t talk much, his deep laughter filled the room whenever one of his colleagues said something humorous.

  “People say they’re lovers, you know,” Micco whispered into my ear. He was buzzed and refilling his glass.

  “Which two?” I really didn’t care. I just wanted clarification.

  “Pedro and Carmela.”

  It wouldn’t have surprised me if Carmela and Pedro were lovers. But people were going on appearances, always dangerous. Carmela hung with Pedro, but they also went back many years. They were two of the most senior faculty in the college. Both were single, although Pedro had gone through a divorce that by all accounts left him bitter and resentful of women. Carmela never married, and no one ever saw her with any other men, and apparently she never shared that part of her life with colleagues. She led a simple life, and by Micco’s account, wore slacks all the time in a country where a feminine dress still was considered fashionably desirable. She always kept her hair short and tidy, almost an old fashioned “bob.” Her one nod to vanity were earrings—usually tidy hoops or studs—all expensive. “This,” she would often say, waving her hand to indicate the college, “is my life—the students, especially.” No one could say with certainty if she had ever dated; she could have been a fifty-year-old virgin.

  “Here I am,” Freddie Rivas announced as he walked through the door, a bottle of champagne in one hand, a bouquet of yellow roses in the other. Behind, a young man hesitated. Freddie turned to the young man. “Ay, come in, nobody’s going to bite you.” Then, looking at me he said, “Not yet, anyway. Well, nice to see you’re still with us,” he said, shaking my hand.

  Marisol put on a CD by Olga Tañón and gestured to Freddie, hands signaling “come on,” her hips moving to the music. Freddie put down the champagne bottle and the flowers, which he was about to put in water. They shook and shuffled to a merengue. Both were good dancers who enjoyed the music. Freddie’s friend attended to putting the roses in a vase, smiling at the dancing couple.

  Everyone observed the two, spinning like dancing figurines in the center of the floor. Marisol was starting to look good. She wore tight, blue palazzo pants highlighting a formidable behind working overtime to the rhythms of the music. When they stopped, she was perspiring and she dabbed her neck and cleavage with a paper towel.

  “Want to dance?” she asked.

  I said no, but she took my hand anyway. I was a horrible dancer, a disgrace to Puerto Ricans everywhere, really.

  “Shake those hips, nene,” Marisol said in a whiny voice.

  At one point she placed her hands on my hips, trying to get me in sync with the rhythm. By now, thank God, a few other people were dancing. Montero with Rita Gómez, who was getting into the music and showin
g off serious dancing skills. Juan with his wife. Cari dancing at bolero speed with Franco. All of us maneuvering around a compact area, until Freddie and Luis Angel moved the sofa and glass coffee table. While spinning once, I glanced at Pedro Roque looking at me grimly, his other two companions equally glum, as Marisol’s left hand glided down my back and her hips rubbed against mine.

  The dancing didn’t last that much longer. Things dwindled down to boleros and soft conversation. In parties like this, people fulfill their sense of obligation and then scoot off to somewhere or something more to their liking. Freddie and his friend took off to a new gay club. Juan and Anabel had children, so they left early. Rita had gone before we realized she was gone. Luis Angel looked like the type who would rather get home to watch a good movie rental. Only Montero, Marisol, Pedro, Carmela and I remained. I found it strange that Roque would stay that long. He didn’t seem like a very sociable guy at all, and it didn’t look like he had enjoyed himself. Some people just need to see everything until the end; they get a weird power thrill as they witness everyone leave, one by one. I wanted to leave, but Montero was a hardcore partier and my ride.