Feeling elated and then bewildered and then a little less elated as he strides down the sidewalk. Wishes he’d asked to use the toilet. Total mandona, though. Mouthy! She and Chucho, y qué? What’s so great about how Chucho was dressed? She’s one of those chicas plásticas. Not the type that sees into your heart, your values, sees who you really are.
4
CEBO, THE SWEET-NATURED ADONIS, THE FORMER LOBSTER DIVER, SWEARS he once saw a golden-haired mermaid at the bottom of the ocean, beckoning to him just as, already out of breath, lungs aching, he was about to push down through the water to pluck a lobster from between the rocks the mermaid hovered over. But Cebo knew from other divers that the blonde mermaid only appears when she wants to draw you down a bit farther, just far enough to give you a possibly fatal attack of the bends. So he resisted, and swam up, and up, so far up that he was almost unconscious and feeling torn apart by invisible sharks when his head finally popped above the surface. That’s how close he came to the bends. He quit lobster diving after that. He never wanted to see that beautiful blonde mermaid again. That’s why he started looking for a job on a ship. Though it does seem, Bernardo has often reflected, that all that deepsea diving must have affected Cebo’s brain anyway. Not that Cebo seems feebleminded. It’s just that someone always so sweet natured and uncomplaining, even in a situation like this one, has to be a little slow in the coco.
So Cebo—of all people!—punched Canario in the mouth early this morning, before dawn, in their cabin, bloodied his lip, woke everyone with their shouts, and now neither of them is saying why. Only Bernardo knows, because Cebo came to speak to him alone, and they’ve agreed to keep it a secret. Cebo told him that Canario came stumbling in from sniffing rags soaked in paint solvent with Pínpoyo and El Tinieblas in their cabin, out of his head and giggling like a ghoul, so disoriented that he even tried to get into bed with him. Cebo has promised Canario he won’t tell anyone why as long as Canario never sniffs paint solvent again. This is bad news, claro. Santísima Virgen, that’s all they need now, a ship full of paint solvent sniffers. Bernardo has agreed to have a private conversation with the pretty boy and the tattooed former prisoner about it if they keep it up. But he feels reluctant. He’s afraid he won’t have any influence. Somehow, he lacks the energy, the ganas. A part of him thinks, Let them get high if they want, destroy their own brains if they want. El Tinieblas probably already has, long before he ended up here. But he will, Bernardo decides, he’ll try to talk to them. Especially if they keep it up, if the disgusting habit starts to spread.
Then Capitán Elias came out to the ship and called them together for a meeting. Several of the crew were still asleep, including Canario, Pinpoyo, and El Tinieblas; they had to be roused from their cabins and staggered out like drunks. Bernardo noted José Mateo suspiciously watching, as if wondering how they’d gotten their hands on alcohol and why they hadn’t shared it. Esteban wasn’t there either: he left last night—and still hasn’t returned. But el Capitán didn’t seem to notice that he was missing.
El Capitán made another of his speeches. Said it was time to start working long and hard hours again. Canario listened with his hands over his face, and Pínpoyo sat on the deck cross-legged, his head nodding downwards, downwards, and then he slumped over sideways. Though El Tinieblas seemed his usual opaque self, his small-featured face expressionless as a snail’s. Apparently, the circuit breaker problem will soon be resolved. And next week there’s to be an inspection. Then el Capitán turned on the generator and compressor and the ordinary seamen went back to work welding the ballast tanks in the hold; el Capitán went down into the engine room. Later he came up, fuming about the engine crew, mocking Pínpoyo and Canario as a pair of drooling idiots. Then he descended the steel ladder into the hold and saw the muchachos welding ballast tanks in swimming goggles. What could he say? After all, he’d neglected to bring them goggles. Where did you get those? el Capitán asked. Bought them, said Tomaso Tostado. And what could el Capitán say to that?
But then he noticed Esteban was missing. Where’s Esteban? el Capitán asked. And supposedly everyone just said, No sé, mi Capi. Saber, mi Capi. Don’t know where he went. Not here today, mi Capi. Claro, el Capitán seemed angered over the insolence of everyone’s tone. But what could he say, that they’re all slaves? That Esteban’s fired? Instead he said to Panzón, If Esteban doesn’t want to be paid for today, it’s his problem, no? And soon after, el Capitán left. He didn’t bring food today.
Then Tomaso Tostado and El Buzo brought the carton of Parcheesis out of Tomaso’s cabin, where he’d been storing them, carried them all the way to los proyectos. They came back about an hour later, without the carton. Told how they’d just put the carton down on a sidewalk in front of los proyectos and started yelling in English, “Wan dólar! Wan dólar!” They sold eight very quickly. But then a group of those delinquents came and chased Tostado and Buzo away, and kept the rest of the Parcheesis, though they didn’t do them any physical harm this time, nor did they take away the eight dollars.
Of course everyone was worried about Esteban, wondering why he hasn’t come back, hoping he’s all right, wondering what he might bring.
Sí pues, an eventful day. There are changes in the air, some ambiguous, others ominous, muses Bernardo, mopping in the darkened steel corridor outside the cabins on the second story of the deckhouse. But then he smells cat urine again. He goes out on deck and sits against the base of the deckhouse, near the gangway, feeling hollowed out by apathy.
He’s still sitting there, with his knees up and his hands on his knees, when Esteban comes back. The crew gathers. Of course everyone is happy to see him safe and well, but their expressions can’t hide their disappointment that he hasn’t brought back anything to eat. After shrimp, blueberries, and duck, it’s hard not to get carried away with expectations, harder still to go back to sardines. Even Bernardo has let himself hungrily fantasize about what Esteban might bring back.
About this, Esteban is tersely unapologetic. Why should he apologize? He’s been away all night, well into the day. Knowing Esteban, he tried hard to find something, and simply had no luck, and is feeling tired and frustrated now.
So, claro, El Barbie has to open his bocón and say, “Nada? Gone all this time, y nada?”
Esteban scowls at him, as if to say, You again?
And Bernardo thinks, Esteban doesn’t realize this is just El Barbie’s way, that actually Barbie really wants Esteban’s friendship now, but it’s just his way.
“Why don’t you bring something back, fucking huevón,” says Esteban. “I’m not doing that anymore, güey. So far, I’ve been lucky. What if the police catch me, eh? They’ll beat me to a pulp.”
Güey? And before El Barbie can answer, though he’s glowering and puffing himself up and trying to think of something that will no doubt be provocative, just then El Faro excitedly says: “El Buzo and Tostado brought something back. Eight dollars! They sold the Parcheesi!”
Esteban’s face falls. “Qué?” he says. And honestly, the chavalito looks like he doesn’t know whether to cry or just go ahead and punch Tomaso Tostado, who has already started telling about his and El Buzo’s adventure today—
“Those weren’t yours to sell,” says Esteban.
And now Tostado looks upset, and it’s his turn to exclaim, “Qué? What in putas are you saying, ’mano.”
And El Barbie laughingly mutters, “Dé a verga. What a piri.”
“Those were mine,” says Esteban.
And Bernardo cringes with dismay.
Tomaso Tostado puts out his hands, looks around at the others, and says, “Esteban, qué le pasa? We’re all in this together—”
“Together! But I’m the one who does everything.”
“Sos un comemierda, de veras.” El Barbie sneers. “One week of activity after sucking your thumb for four months. And who covers for you when you sleep all day while we work, eh, Piri?”
“You ever call me that again, I’ll kill you, I swear it�
�”
“Come mierda, Piri.” After all, what does El Barbie have to fear? He’s bigger, physically stronger—
But Esteban charges him, and El Barbie is up; there is a flurry of punches and kicks while everybody else except Bernardo jumps in shouting, wrestling the two fighters apart, while Bernardo just sits there feeling helplessly dismayed. But no one gets hurt very badly, there’s no blood this time, they’re pulled apart, both of them panting heavily. But, Dios mío, look at that!—that chavalote El Barbie has tears in his reddening eyes, tears running down his grimy cheeks. He can’t even talk, he’s trying to say something but he can’t even get out the words. And Esteban is glaring around at everyone, making those sniffling, angry otter sounds through his nose. And El Barbie, his voice quavering, choking on emotion and rage, his massive chest heaving up and down, finally begins to speak:
“Piri, sos un hijueputa, sos un cabrón. And I am too, I know. Basically, I respect you. But the differences between you and me are many. And these are the differences. One, I’m not stuck-up. Two, I believe in God. Three, I can take a joke. Vos, you can’t!” and El Barbie is overwhelmed with emotion, he can’t speak, he looks down at his shoes while everyone looks at him with bewilderment, except for Esteban, standing there looking as blank as if he hasn’t heard any of it anyway. El Tinieblas mutters some words of encouragement, lays his hand on El Barbie’s shoulder, and Barbie shrugs it off.
“Four,” says El Barbie, “vos, number four is Tostadito’s been saying for days that he thinks we should sell those chunches, and you were just ignoring him, which is what I meant by stuck-up. And number five, vos, piri hijo de puta—”
“Ya, Barbie, that’s enough,” says Bernardo, slowly getting to his feet. “Carajo! Stop all this craziness!”
“Vos, what’s number five?” says Esteban calmly, staring sadly at Barbie. “I want to hear this.”
“The fifth way we’re different, vos, is I didn’t break the hand off the clock.”
Panzón says, “Vos, Barbie, Esteban didn’t break the clock.”
“Who’ll ever know, hombre? But I think he did.” Now El Barbie grins. “Oiga, Estebanito. Let’s make a pact. You treat me with respect from now on, I’ll do the same to you. But don’t ever tell me I can’t say something, because you can fucking be sure that then I will. And the next time we fight, I’ll kick your fucking culo in.”
“Bueno,” says Esteban indifferently. He steps forward and shakes El Barbie’s hand.
It doesn’t seem that El Barbie’s speech has had quite the effect he intended; he seems instantly plunged into a brooding gloom.
Bernardo says, “Chavalos, we can’t have these kinds of disagreements. You were wrong, Esteban, to react that way about Tomaso and Buzo selling those things.”
Esteban nods. “I’m sorry,” he says. “So how much money did we get?”
“Eight dollars,” says Tomaso Tostado.
“Está bien.” He shrugs. “Excuse me. I’m tired.” And he turns and walks off to his cabin.
And before El Barbie can say anything, Bernardo says, “Of course he’s tired. He’s been up all night. And he feels bad, because he didn’t find anything to bring back. It’s time to start the dinner fire.”
“The menu tonight, gallos,” croaks José Mateo, “is sardines and rice.”
When Bernardo comes into the cabin, he’s surprised to see Esteban wide awake, lying in bed with his hands clasped behind his head, smiling at the ceiling.
“Un centavito for your thoughts.”
Esteban glancingly grimaces and looks back up at the ceiling, his smile gone. “I was thinking what a good thing it would be to put rat poison in everyone’s sardines.”
“I’d rather use it on the rats, if we had such poison.”
“Then you and I could live here, fix it up, move upstairs, take steam baths, it would be like having our own mansion de Playboy, no?”
“El Capitán and the owner might have something to say about that.”
“Poison them too. Malditos.”
“De veras, chico. People who know what it’s like to kill shouldn’t joke about it. Somehow it never sounds funny.”
Esteban says, tch, with his tongue.
Claro, Bernardo knows he sentimentalizes Esteban, thinks of him as youthfully pure hearted, even innocent, always forgetting that not so long ago he was a baby-breathed military killer. Isn’t it true that those who kill, even in war, become dead inside too, at least in certain ways? Maybe that’s why the chavalo has so little fear, has revealed himself to be such a blithely intrepid felon, because he feels dead already. Though he never talks about it; just once, when he told that barbaric story about the German dog. He’s never even been in love, thinks Bernardo. That’s the saddest thing. Has never even alluded to ever having felt the elation or sorrow or rage of love—
“I know I acted like a pendejo out there,” Esteban is saying. “But I was planning to sell those things, those Parcheesi, myself, to get the money for a haircut.”
“Ah.”
Bernardo goes to the porthole and pulls it shut, a rather pointless gesture, given its broken pane.
“We should find a way to fix this,” he says, “now that the nights are getting cold.”
“I met somebody today who works in a beauty salon,” says Esteban. “It’s unisex.”
“Unisex?”
“That means it doesn’t matter what sex you are, they still cut your hair.”
“Where was this place?”
“In a part of Brooklyn where all the signs are in Spanish. I think a lot of Mexicanos live there.”
“Pues, you see? Didn’t I tell you? I bet you can find a job there just like that—” He snaps his fingers.
“Maybe. But not looking like this. That’s the point. She said a haircut would cost me ten dollars.”
“She’s trying to rob you. Was she pretty?”
“No. Pues, maybe. Y qué?”
“Young?”
“She looks young.”
“Vos, then it shouldn’t be a problem. Ahhh, Esteban.” He sighs. “I think you’ve missed all the lessons about how to get your way in life. Be audacious, muchacho, charm her, flatter her, seduce her into cutting your hair for free. When you’re all cleaned up, she’ll see how handsome you are and fall in love. And that will be your entrance to Nueva York. It’ll be good for you, anyway. You’re in no position to be choosy.”
“She doesn’t cut hair,” Esteban says heatedly. “She’s the manicurist. Her boss does. His name is Gonzalo. I suppose you think I should try to seduce him? Hijueputa, güey! The things you say!”
“Why are you saying güey?”
Esteban laughs up at the ceiling. “De veras? I caught it from her, I guess. She never shuts up and uses it twice in every sentence. Güey, you’re the one who’s been urinating in this door, güey.”
“You urinated in her door?”
“No! But that’s the first thing she said to me, I was just standing there. She’s completely horrible, a total agresiva. From then on, everything she said was a provocation.” Esteban tells Bernardo all about his encounter with Joaquina.
“Something was going on between her and that Chucho. I was supposed to believe this macho pato was there to have his hands manicured at eight in the morning? Please!”
So, this pistolito has a trigger after all! Bernardo has listened in growing astonishment.
“Chavalo, bossy, difficult women are the greatest thing on earth!” he exclaims. “Bueno, as long as they don’t overdo it. My Clarita was like that. I tell you, they only do it out of love, and they never let you fall asleep at the wheel. And after, docile women seem tepid forever. Why should it bother you that she has a lover? It’s good that she’s not a prude. You’ll have him out of the way pretty fast, if she’s already talking to you like that, already trying to take control of your life, eh?”
“Qué? She’s not trying to—puta!”
Bernardo cackles with excitement. “You don’t know what you’re in
for, muchacho! Let a woman like that down, she’ll have you burning in hell. You’ll have no choice but to be a success in life. Get used to the idea, chigüín: I’d say she already owns your salary.”
Esteban is sitting up now, glaring furiously at him. “Salary? You’re really losing your mind, viejo. Chocho! And she does overdo it! Who wants to burn in hell?”
“Ya, ya, ándale.” Bernardo nods. “If you’re so sure. Just stay here on our barquito. Eventually, I suppose, they’ll have to deport us. Sí pues, that’s what I would do if I were your age, just wait here until somehow we get sent back. Our country has a wonderful future, sí pues. What is it your family does for money? Pilfer cargo from ships that don’t come anymore? That’s a good life.”
He lies back on the bed and listens with guarded happiness to Esteban’s infuriated breathing, his angry sputtering.
“Clara was the love of my life. But she used to overdo it too,” he says finally. “But that’s because I let her down so often. Maybe you won’t.”
“Ya! I just want a haircut! … What a pest!”
“A haircut would be good, claro.”
He lies listening to Esteban ventilating his fury.
“… Bueno. OK,” the chavalo finally mutters. “How did you let her down?”
“I was a marinero. I’d promised her when we married that I wouldn’t be anymore, but there was no other way of escaping being even poorer. The same story as always.”
“She should have understood that.”
“She was twenty years younger than me, and I only saw her once or twice a year. And gradually I became old and she, when still young—” He sighs. “Pues, you know what happened.”
The Ordinary Seaman Page 25