The Soho Press Book of '80s Short Fiction

by Dale Peck

  “The hookers were like girl scouts selling cookies compared to what’s going on now,” Rebecca said. “But I’m getting tired of calling the mayor’s office and the midtown precinct and signing petitions. Somebody is getting paid a lot of money to keep that business open.”

  “Maybe we ought to go to the press with the story,” I suggested. “A front page story in the Post would do it, I’m sure.”

  “Honey, I’m afraid nothing will get done until there’s a massacre down there. By then I’ll be a basket case. I tell you, if Francisco asks me to marry him, I’m saying sí, sí.” She fanned herself with a letter.

  “Is it a letter from Francisco?” I asked.

  “Santiago,” she said, “would you be a dear and do a little translating for me?”

  “In that case I’ll have some lemonade.” I sat down and Rebecca went to the kitchen. Some months back, in a bookstore in Greenwich Village, Rebecca had met Francisco, a Venezuelan tourist and a hairdresser. Although she did not speak Spanish, nor Francisco English, they became lovers. After he returned to Caracas, I became the official translator of their correspondence. She entered the room and handed me a glass of cold lemonade.

  “The weather’s been so terrible, and the situation downstairs seems to be getting so much worse,” she said in her melodramatic Alabamian twang, “that I declare I was ready to hang myself if something mighty good didn’t happen to me soon. But there it was, in the mailbox, a letter from my beloved.”

  I took a sip of lemonade, cleared my throat and toasted to love. Striking a Cyrano de Bergerac pose, I pulled out the letter. It was written in Francisco’s tiny gothic handwriting, which I had come to know so well. Rebecca sat very still and upright, holding in her lap her glass of lemonade. Her head thrust forward, her lips quivering, her aquamarine eyes wide open and gleaming; the intensity of her expression was almost frightening. I could have read the first paragraph blindfolded since it was always the same. “Dear Rebecca,” I read. “I hope this finds you and your loved ones enjoying good health. God willing.”

  “Santiago, is that a South American convention of letter writing? He always says the same thing.”

  I ignored her and went on. “I was so happy to receive your last letter and to find out that you’re doing well.”

  “Goodness gracious. He’s so formal.”

  “Rebecca, my sweet, in case you haven’t noticed, we South Americans are formal people. And now, shall I go on?” I asked, somewhat irked by her interruptions. She smiled for an answer. I continued with my translation. “I’m doing very well, thank God.”

  “Is that a South American thing, Santiago, to punctuate every sentence with God?”

  I sipped my lemonade to control my temper. “Rebecca, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Well, better to have a Christian for a boyfriend than a druggie,” she sighed.

  Her reasoning escaped me, so I resumed my translation. “I’ve been incredibly busy lately, and I get to my apartment late at night, and I’m usually so tired that even though I want to sit down and write to you every night I fall asleep in spite of my good intentions.” God is merciful, I thought. If he wrote to her like this every day, translating would become excruciating. May God keep him very, very busy.

  “What is it? Bad news?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, and continued translating. “I have the most exciting piece of news. One of my clients has been elected Miss Caracas and she’ll be representing our city in the Miss Venezuela competition. The girl is too divine for words, and very intelligent and has lots of personality, and I’m positively sure that she’ll be elected Miss Venezuela and go on to represent our country in the Miss Universe Pageant. Can you imagine what that will do for my business?”

  “I smell a franchise,” Rebecca exclaimed.

  I looked up in disbelief. “I didn’t know you were into beauty pageants.”

  “Beauty pageants are one of the interests Francisco and I share. Is that the end of the letter?”

  I shook my head and continued. “‘In your last letter you mentioned wanting to visit me during your vacation. My humble abode is at your service, and I would be glad to receive you in my home.’”

  “Glad? Is that what he says, Santiago? Are you sure?”

  “Sorry. I would be happy to receive you in my home,” I corrected myself.

  “You know, Santiago, there is a difference. That’s what’s called a nuance of the English language.”

  “Even in the best translations something gets lost,” I remarked, annoyed with her.

  “Don’t mind me, honey. Go on with the letter. You’re doing beautifully. It always amazes me how well you do this sort of thing.”

  Predictably, the third paragraph referred to me. “All this part is about me, Rebecca. Do you want me to translate it also?”

  “Would you, honey? I don’t want to miss a single one of his words.”

  “Okay, here it goes: ‘Please thank our dear friend Santiago for translating my letters. I hope everything is going well with him, and that he and Mr. O’Donnell are enjoying good health, God willing. I always include Mr. O’Donnell in my prayers and ask José Gregorio Hernández for a miracle.’”

  “Who’s that? Is it voodoo?”

  “He may as well pray to Donald Duck,” I said. “It might be more effective. José Gregorio isn’t canonized, but he’s Venezuela’s national saint because he introduced the microscope to the country. And you want to know how smart he was? He was killed by the only automobile in Caracas at that time.”

  Rebecca frowned. “Well, it’s real sweet and thoughtful of him, in any case.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s real sweet of him. Now let me finish: ‘I look forward to hearing from you soon, and I hope you’re following my beauty tips and are taking good care of your hair and your lovely complexion. It’s midnight now, and through my window I can see the moon illuminating the city below, and everything—the sensual breeze that comes from the Caribbean, the stars in the sky, the fires twinkling in the mountains—reminds me of you, my adored Rebecca. Love, Francisco.’”

  “He’s a poet,” Rebecca said.

  Folding the letter and handing it to her, I said, “He’s a hairdresser.”

  “A hair stylist and a makeup artist,” she corrected me, and started bragging about what a great lover Francisco was and how she had never met a man who cared so much about a woman’s needs.

  I studied her, marveling at the change in her appearance since she had met this paragon. Before, she dressed like a receptionist in a funeral parlor. Tonight, she wore stone studded sandals and her toenails were painted a lurid purple. She had on khaki shorts and a Banana Republic shirt that depicted lush vegetation in an apocalyptic red. She wore too much glossy lipstick and mascara and green eyeshadow, but her gold-streaked, new wave haircut was becoming. I was alarmed, though, by all the gold and silver loops marching up her ears. I closed my eyes and saw Rebecca going all the way, like the Orinoco Indians in Venezuela, and piercing her lips, her nostrils, her . . .

  “Santiago,” she said, awakening me from my reverie, “is it very hot down there in August?”

  “I don’t know. I told you, I was there in November. It was pleasant during the day and cool at night. You might want to take a couple of sweaters.”

  “It sounds heavenly,” she purred.

  “So you’ve made up your mind to go?”

  “I got to get away from these crack people downstairs before I crack up myself. Besides, I’m ready for adventure. Of course, I’m mighty apprehensive to be going there alone. I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” she said, referring, I think, to my services as a translator.

  I tried to reassure her. “Caracas is a cosmopolitan city. You’ll have no problems communicating with the people.”

  “But, you know, Santiago. The truth is, when Francisco and I are together, we
understand each other perfectly. Isn’t that incredible?”

  “I’ll say. But you could learn Spanish too. It’s an easy language to learn, unlike English.”

  “I purchased a dictionary, and I’m learning useful expressions: Buenos días. Cómo esá usted?”

  “Your accent is perfect,” I lied.

  “Thanks, honey. When I come back to New York (that is, if Francisco doesn’t ask me to marry him), I’ll take some lessons. Thank you so much for translating the letter. You’re an angel, Santiago.”

  “Anything for love,” I said.

  “I hope it happens to you too. You’ll be transformed, sugar.” Rebecca sat with the letter on her breasts, blissed out. I could read love printed large over her face. Her happiness was becoming too painful to bear. I noticed side two of La Traviata was over and got up. “The opera is over,” I said. “I’m exhausted and I have to get up early in the morning.”

  Rebecca followed me into her bedroom. Mr. O’Donnell was hiding under the blankets. “Uh-oh, Rebecca,” I uttered in mock alarm, playing one of his favorite games. “Where’s the kitty? I don’t see him! He escaped again! Help!”

  Mr. O’Donnell remained still. I sat on the bed and touched the bulge he made under the sheets, quickly pulling my hand away. In the winter this game was safe, because he was covered by heavy blankets; but in the summer his teeth and nails would poke through the sheets. I placed one hand on his head and the other on his thigh, immobilizing him. He struggled a bit to free himself but then started to purr loudly.

  “It’s a wonder to me how he can purr and be vicious at the same time,” Rebecca said.

  I uncovered him—Mr. O’Donnell was now on his back, smiling.

  “Hello, kitty,” I said, scratching him under his ears. “It’s time to go home.” As I picked him up, he felt lighter, bonier, as if he had lost weight over the weekend. On the spot where he had been lying remained thick chunks of his hair. In the summer Mr. O’Donnell shed copiously, but the way he was shedding lately he’d soon go bald. As I ran my fingers over his stomach, I noticed his coat of hair had lost all luster. Overnight, Mr. O’Donnell had become old.

  I thanked Rebecca for everything and said good night. Upstairs, I stored the pasteles in the fridge. The cassette with the coke was harder to dispose of. Since I didn’t own a TV, much less a VCR, its presence anywhere in the apartment was conspicuous. I threw the plastic case in the trash and then emptied the cocaine into a glass jar. I left it next to the salt, sugar, flour, oats, etc.

  Setting the alarm for 6 a.m., I undressed, lay down, and turned off the overhead light. Although I was exhausted by the events of the past few days, I could not fall asleep. I was well aware of the strange turns and twists my otherwise dull existence was taking. I had in my possession what looked like a pound of cocaine. My brain went into overdrive. I needed to get some sleep, though. I turned on the air conditioner and tried to relax. I said to myself, Your brain is out to kill you, Santiago. Stop thinking; remember your brain wants you dead. As the room cooled, I started to drift off. My eyelids felt heavy, as if they were glued. I thought of Caracas. Of huge, prehistoric leaves. And stars that had auras, like the moon. Of parks in which exquisite orchids nested in gigantic, emerald trees. And the smells: the tropical breeze scented with a million gardenias. And the Caribbean in the moonlight, silvery and smooth, and in the distance, riding shimmering seahorses, a chorus of mermaids serenading me with sensual, heartbreaking boleros.

  I was hungry when I woke up around midnight. But I wanted something light, like yogurt or fruit, and there was nothing like that in the fridge. I splashed cold water on my face, combed my hair and went downstairs.

  Both sides of Forty-third Street were lined with garbage bags, and the homeless huddled in front of the shops closed for the night. The after-theater crowd had dispersed and was replaced by the usual junkies, transvestites, and habitués of porno palaces.

  I crossed Eighth Avenue and went into the New York Times building to get today’s newspaper. Then I walked to the Korean fruit stand at the corner of Forty-third and Eighth. I picked a piece of watermelon, oranges, carrots, and yogurt. I pulled out a twenty dollar bill. The woman rang the items as she placed them in a bag.

  “Twelve-fifty,” she said.

  For some time I had suspected this woman of overcharging me. Tonight I decided to confront her.

  “How’s that possible?” I asked, grabbing the twenty from her hand.

  “Pay, please. Next,” she said, staring at me impassively.

  Looking over my shoulder, I saw other customers in the store but no one behind me. I began pulling the items out of the bag. “Let’s add them up one by one,” I said.

  “Four oranges, two dollars,” she said, a flash of anger or annoyance sparkling in her eyes.

  “Four oranges at fifty cents a piece, that’s two dollars—if my math is correct.”

  “Watermelon,” she paused, then looking directly into my eyes, “three dollars.”

  “It sounds like a lot for a small piece of watermelon, but it’s too hot, okay, and I don’t feel like arguing. So that’s a total of five dollars.”

  With one sweep of her hand she grouped together the remaining items. “Carrots and yogurt, five dollars. Ten dollars total. Sorry for mistake. Pay, please.”

  “This is outrageous,” I exploded, realizing my suspicions had been correct all along. “Yogurt is ninety cents at the supermarket, and a bag of carrots forty cents.”

  “Then go to supermarket.”

  I found it unnecessary to inform her that supermarkets in our neighborhood closed well before midnight.

  “No want to pay price, no take,” was her fortune cookie advice.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll just take the oranges. And the yogurt.”

  She rang these items. I gave her the twenty dollar bill.

  “Sorry, no change.”

  “You had change just a minute ago.”

  The woman said something in Korean, I guess. Wondering which member of my family had been insulted, I prepared to call her a few names myself in Spanish when she turned and looked toward the back of the store. A man in a stained apron, looking like a cross between Gertrude Stein and a Sumo wrestler, emerged from behind a bamboo curtain holding a head of lettuce in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. They engaged in an animated conversation, and the man gave me a scorching look. Now Santiago, I said to myself, you don’t want to engage in combat with that creature. I put my hand in my pocket and found a ten dollar bill. “Here,” I said, looking at the man. “I’m sorry. It’s this heat.”

  It was cooler now, but the humidity was unchanged and the sky looked cottony and gray. Feeling crappy, I dragged my feet on the sidewalk as I noticed several crack addicts milling excitedly in front of Paradise Alley, like hyenas around carrion. I unlocked the door and was about to go in, when a sharp object hit the middle of my spine.

  “Don’t move,” a man’s voice ordered me. “Just give me your money.” His hand went into my right pocket, then into the left one where my money was. Thinking, This is where he busts my head and runs away, I closed my eyes.

  “Give him back the dough,” another voice screeched.

  I turned around; the mugger’s face was inches away from mine—these were eyes that hadn’t seen straight in years. I grabbed the gun and snatched the bills. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the midget hooker pressing a huge sparkling blade against the man’s crotch.

  “Now beat it, fuckface, before the cops get your stupid ass,” she ordered him.

  The man reeled backward until he reached the street curb. Pointing a finger at my rescuer he yelled, “You’re dead, you fucking freak!”

  I pointed the gun at the mugger. “You heard the lady! Piss off!”

  The man ran across the street dodging the oncoming Eighth Avenue traffic. At the corner of Forty-third, he stopped and
screamed a bunch of obscenities and threats. People were looking in our direction.

  The gun shook violently in my hand; I felt dizzy. “I don’t know how to thank you,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it,” she said, folding the blade and hooking it to a garter under her skirt.

  “Here,” I said, offering her the gun.

  She shuddered as if I had offered her a cobra. “Are you crazy? I don’t want that thing, man. It’s yours. Who knows how many dudes he’s killed with it.”

  Passersby were approaching. Like a gangster, I stuck the gun between my pants and my belly.

  “See you around. I got to try to score tonight.” She started to walk away.

  “Hey, listen,” I called after her, feeling that I hadn’t thanked her enough. “What’s your name?”

  “Hot Sauce,” she said. “And yours?”

  I told her.

  “Well, San-ti-a-go, it’s been fun meeting you. Any time you want it, I’ll give you a good deal, babe,” she said, pouting and blowing me a kiss before she swaggered into the surrounding nocturnal sleaze. From behind, she looked like a child playing femme fatale.

  The gun burning against my skin, I shut the door and dashed up the stairs. I locked the door and paced the length of the apartment looking for a niche to hide the gun in. Finally, I settled for the toilet water tank. Tomorrow I’ll wipe off the fingerprints before I ditch it in the Hudson, I thought. I was still shaking and feeling slightly hysterical but it was too late to call anyone, even Rebecca. I lay in bed and tried to read the Times, but my eyes wouldn’t focus. I ate an orange. Tonight, I wished I had a TV set. My mother was right—it was un-American not to own a television. Mr. O’Donnell jumped onto my bed. I set the paper aside. “You don’t know how lucky you are to be a cat,” I said. His face was on top of mine, and his breath stank, but I remained still. One half of his face was white and the other half gray, and he had the long pinkish nose of a tropical rat. I stared into his eyes. The black pupils were surrounded by a greenish circle that grew agate toward the edges. His whiskers were long and thick like plastic toothpicks stuck on his snout. I scratched him between his ears and he started to purr. “Yes, yes, I know,” I said. Burying his nose under my chin, he went to sleep lying on my chest, his enlarged heart thumping against mine.