He looked at my face carefully. He understood everything. Bodega gestured for us to go outside, and I silently followed him to the playground. The assembly was going to go on for at least another half hour. He picked an isolated but open space under a bent basketball rim, beside a broken water fountain. He faced the school doors.
“If those doors open we have to go back inside, all right?” he said.
“Where’s Sapo?” I dodged the question because I wasn’t planning on going back in.
“Sapito is hidin’.” It wasn’t a surprise.
“Why’d you have Salazar killed?”
“Because Salazar was crooked.”
“But a few weeks ago I heard Nazario tell you he didn’t take your money when you offered it to him.”
“Thass right, he didn’t, because he already belonged to someone else.”
“Sapo is my pana. If he’s in trouble—”
“Wha’? You think I’m gonna let Sapo fry? Let me tell you, Salazar was a worthless piece of shit who didn’t even make a deal with his own people. He got what was comin’.”
“Shit, bro, just like that?”
“Yeah, just like that. Just when I’m almost there, Chino, just when … this Salazar fuck has to make static.”
“You killed that guy, bro.” I looked at the sun as if I wanted to punish my eyes. “I mean, when you sell that stuff and someone buys it and dies, that’s one thing. I mean, it was his choice to go and buy it, but actually killing someone—”
“Yeah, I did.” Bodega looked at the doors. “It wasn’t the first. And let me tell you cuz I feel I owe it to you. Let me tell you why. B’cause Salazar belonged to Aaron Fischman.”
“Who?”
“He is this fucken guy they call the Fish of Loisaida. I been dealin’ with that bastard for years now and I always do whass right. I’ve told him, ‘This is my neighborhood and the Lower East Side is yours.’ There’s enough junkies and gamblers to go around, right? And the mutherfuckah agrees. I say, ‘No one wants a war.’ With a war everyone loses money and things get sloppy. So I back away and he backs away. Then out of the blue comes this reporter. This Alberto Salazar. I think I got problems because he’s a good man. Then Nazario finds out Salazar made a deal with Fischman. He’s gonna get all this shit together on me, ignore Fischman. Salazar was almost there, too. He only needed a few more pieces, and he would have called all this attention to me.”
“No way. You think the cops don’t already know what you’re doing?”
“They might be sniffin’, they ain’t that stupid. They got a little piece of it too. But everything is still layin’ low. No noise, and as long as there’s no noise, cops don’t care. But if the media makes a big deal out of it then the cops look bad. They’ll have ta come after me. That’s what Salazar was planning on, exposing me for buying buildings with so-called dirty money. I couldn’t let that happen.” He kicked the ground as if it were dirt and not concrete. “Thass the way it works, Chino. Then I have to deal with the police and that would weaken me. And with me out of the way Fischman would move in on my neighborhood. I got tired of that bastard. Salazar wanted to be the hero around here. Well, I sent Sapito to make calcium of him and I’ll deal with Fischman later.”
“Shit, you gonna kill that other guy too?” Most practical people would have cut the cord right there, would have broken away from Bodega like a rancher shoots a horse with a broken leg. But I didn’t. I didn’t want Sapo in jail, that was part of it. And though I didn’t want to admit it, secretly I was rooting for Bodega. I had been all along.
“I don’t know yet,” Bodega said. “I don’t wanna to do anythin’ hasty. Maybe Nazario can still talk. Find another solution. That fuck Fischman did some work with this big Italian in Queens, can’t just get rid of him like that. But I’m not going to worry about that right now,” he said, glancing at the school doors.
“Right now, Chino, all I’m askin’ is for you to help me find some sort of happiness. Remember when I told you at the museum that when Vera arrived I was going to ask somethin’ else from you?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’m askin’, all right. I don’t like people to think I’m weak, because I’m not. Never been. But you, Chino, if yo’r as smart as I think you are, if you’ve studied your history, you would know that the most powerful men have turned to garbage, basura, when they have fallen in love. All of them.” He got defensive. And because his everyday speech didn’t have any diplomacy, he defended his case the way he always did.
“Chino, bro, last week I saw a special on channel thirteen about Napoleon. And when that nigga was about to lose Egypt, you know what he was really afraid of? Losing Josephine.” He looked at my face, hoping I wasn’t going to make fun of him. “See, Chino, he was far away and Josephine was rumored to be two-timing him with some other guy. While he was fighting to expand her empire she was like … like … you know what I’m sayin’?”
“What’re you gonna do about Sapo?” I hadn’t seen the special and didn’t care much about Napoleon.
The school doors opened. Bodega shot me a desperate look.
“You gonna get Sapo off somehow, right?”
“I’ll help Sapo. Nazario is workin’ on it. Wha’? You think this Vera situation has clouded my mind? Nah, you wrong. I love that woman but it was me who sent Sapo. It will be me who will bring him out.”
“So, you gonna get Sapo off?”
“Of course. I don’t know how, but you have my word.”
“I have your word, then?”
“My word is bond.”
“All right. So tell me what it is you want me to do.” Now Bodega smiled as if he had swallowed the canary, but there was still something childlike in his look.
“I owe you, Chino, I owe you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just tell me what you want me to say to Vera.”
“See that limo parked over there?” He pointed. I didn’t turn my head but could see it out of the corner of my eye. “I want you to go over and tell—” He caught himself. If he and I were now family, he shouldn’t give me orders anymore. “Could you please, my main-mellow-man.” He laughed and put out his hand for me to give him five. I skinned it but I didn’t feel like laughing. “Just go tell Vera you are married to her niece Nancy, and that your landlord, William Irizarry, Izzy to her, is waiting for her inside that big, black, very expensive car ovah there.”
ROUND 4
A Diamond as Big as the Palladium
BLANCA’S aunt Vera seemed born to money. Her gestures, her voice, her social graces had been so well studied and cultivated that she could have fooled anyone who wasn’t familiar with her past. With her light skin, semiblond hair, pale seagull blue eyes, she could easily pass herself off as something other than a woman born and raised in East Harlem. She spoke as if she had spent her formative years in some boarding school, walking around with a big-lettered sweater tied around her shoulders.
Actually, Vera had barely graduated from Norman Thomas High School and hadn’t set foot in a building of higher education since. Yet she had successfully sold the notion to her circle in Miami that she was a Barnard girl. Although she had told her Florida friends she was coming to New York City because she had done the “trendy” thing of donating money to an inner-city school, she really didn’t know how the donation had been made. She assumed that her accountant must have done it to get her a tax break. What did she care? But she had to come alone, otherwise her friends would discover her true origins.
She was returning to her old neighborhood to gloat, to show her family what she had made of herself. Yes, Vera had reinvented herself. But unlike William Carlos Irizarry, now Willie Bodega, Veronica Linda Saldivia didn’t want to be considered Puerto Rican. Hence the name Vera.
The rich Cuban family Vera had married into still kept the pink slips of their nationalized lands in Cuba, along with high hopes of reclaiming them once Castro was ousted or finally, finally died. Vera was no longer a Saldivia but a Vidal, and with that mis
leading last name she could fool anyone into thinking she was some middle-aged Anglo woman who had a taste for shopping on Fifth Avenue, threw dinner parties, and loved expensive jewelry.
I’m not a person who likes to judge why people fall madly in love with some types of people because I don’t believe such things can be explained. It’s like chemistry, some elements are attracted to each other and it doesn’t matter that they can explode. It’s just the way it works.
•
SO THAT day, I did as Bodega pleaded. I walked over to Vera, who was outside talking with some teacher. Her posture was ramrod straight; her back at a perfect right angle with the ground. When she talked, it was in the prim and proper voice of someone who understands flower shows and country homes. And when she’d say something she thought clever, she would laugh this phony laugh like she was doing you a favor.
“Julio?” Nazario said, surprised to see me. He appeared out of nowhere and stopped me just as I was about to introduce myself to Vera. He saved me the bother.
“This is Julio Mercado. He’s in college now and I’m hoping he will continue on to law school,” Nazario informed Vera. Closer, I could see that Vera’s face had the resonance of a former highly prized beauty. Years ago the entire neighborhood must have gone mad for her. I thought of Blanca; I had always believed she’d become even more beautiful when she got older, that her features—eyes, hair, cheekbones, her entire body—having traveled for years would settle down like some quiet, transparent stream. I would still be there with her and, no matter what pictures of her when young would remind me of, I’d still love her and never trade the history we had together.
“It’s a pleasure,” I said. “Actually, we’re related.” She responded like someone who instead of saying thanks when being served by a waiter only lowers her eyes.
“Are we?” Her delicate voice sounded like crystal.
“Yes, I’m married to Marisol’s daughter Nancy.”
“Isn’t that wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Marisol’s daughter all grown up and married.” She drew near me and gave me a weak hug.
“Actually, there is someone—” but I was interrupted by a teacher who wanted to shake Vera’s hand. It was recess, and the children had started pouring out to go play in the schoolyard. I saw Nazario leave to speak with a heavyset woman who looked like the principal. Then Nazario broke off his conversation and walked back to join us. After excusing himself, he asked Vera if she needed a cab back to her hotel. I knew this was my cue to usher Vera to the limo where Bodega waited.
“Actually, there is someone here that will drive you,” I said.
“Oh no, no, I’ll just find a cab. Don’t bother yourself on—” and then her face went white and I turned around to see what had scared her.
“William?” she whispered. Bodega had gotten out of the car and was walking straight toward us.
“Veronica.” He looked miserable. His hands were in his pockets, his shirt collar soaked with sweat. His face looked as if he were dying. Vera swallowed hard then drew herself up to her full height and regained her composure.
“Well, it’s absolutely wonderful to see you, William. How … how … how … are the Lords?” I was happy to see her stumble. Nazario had vanished and the three of us were left there, standing among the schoolchildren.
“The wha’?” Bodega got closer to her, cupping his ear.
“Your friends, the Lords,” she said artificially as if she had gone back to the data banks of her memory and could only come up with that reference. Bodega jerked his head back.
“Oh, yeah, the Lords, yes, yes,” he said without really answering her. For a few seconds no one said anything.
“Let’s take a ride,” I said to break the horrible tension.
“Yes, yes, let’s go around the city,” Bodega quickly agreed, and to my surprise, Vera just followed him. When she saw the car her eyebrows shot up.
“It’s not rented,” Bodega blurted out. “I … I don’t use it much, you know. I still walk almost everywhere.”
“Is this really your automobile, William?” Vera seemed impressed and Bodega took this as a triumph. His chest was a peacock’s. Vera turned her face toward me. “We haven’t seen each other for over twenty years.”
“Twenty-one years, three months, fourteen days,” Bodega said. And then Vera laughed. And with that laugh, Bodega was happy. The driver ushered us all into the car. When the doors were shut, the coolness of the air-conditioned limo was a relief but the stillness and silence made it possible for me to imagine I could hear Bodega’s heartbeat.
“I have something to show you.” His voice shook.
“I’m more than happy to see it,” she said.
“It’s not Miami, Veronica, but—”
She laughed that laugh again. “I really hate Miami, William. Despise it with a passion. Everything is so pink and blue.”
Bodega smiled as if he had won another small battle. He must have believed that if he kept winning these tiny skirmishes, victory would eventually be his. After that there was a long silence, so I thought I’d fill it in.
“I didn’t like Miami either,” I said. “I went to visit friends of mine, Ariel and Naomi, and man, that place was a mall wasteland. There was nothing to do.” That wasn’t true. I had actually had a good time in Miami.
The car pulled up in front of my apartment building on 111th between Lexington and Park. Bodega pressed a button and the tinted window slid robotically down to frame the five newly renovated tenements.
“I own those and others like those, all around the neighborhood.” Her eyes told him she didn’t understand what he meant. “I’m in real estate.”
“Are those really yours?” She leaned her body toward the window to take in the entire view. Her face glowed. “And you have others, you say?” She drew her body back and looked at me for confirmation.
“He’s my landlord.” I began. “He owns—”
“No, they are not mine,” Bodega interrupted. “Veronica, they are for you. They’ve always been for you. I knew you’d come back some day and I wanted you to come back to something different.” She stared at him blankly as the chauffeur opened the door. He extended his hand to Vera, who had to take her eyes off Bodega’s eyes long enough to get out of the car. She stepped out and we followed. Bodega looked around and took a deep breath as if he were smelling a rose rather than Spanish Harlem air.
“I have something else to show you.” Bodega led us to a newly renovated brownstone. There was an art gallery on the first floor, and the three of us stepped inside.
“You like art, right, Veronica?”
“Yes.”
“I saw a special on channel thirteen about that big museum in Moscow.”
“You still watch public television, William?” She laughed and reached her hand to Bodega, who clasped it like a drowning man would a life raft.
“Well, I remember you watched some of those shows too,” he said, smiling and pointing a finger at her as if he knew something she had forgotten.
“Yes, I’m afraid I did,” she confessed, nodding.
“Anyway, I saw a special on that big museum in Moscow.”
“Which one?” Vera asked.
“The big one,” he said.
“You mean the Hermitage?”
“Yeah, that one,” he said, and snapped his fingers because he was embarrassed about his pronunciation and didn’t want to repeat the name. “Yeah, the same exact one. Anyway, I learned that during the Russian Revolution, Lenin sent soldiers to look after the museum so that looters wouldn’t rob the place. That was something. He didn’t care about the czar’s palace. Looters were like all over the palace stealing silverware and stuff but he didn’t want the Russian people to lose their art. Wasn’t that something?” he asked her. She just nodded her head and looked dutifully impressed.
“The second, third, and fourth floors are where the artists live,” he said.
“William, you, a patron? That’s … That’s …” She couldn�
�t find the words to describe her disbelief.
“That’s right,” he said, liking the sound of it. “I’m a patron. This gallery is for painters from the neighborhood. It’s the neighborhood’s art. I got the idea from Taller Boricua,” he said proudly.
“You’re still the same, William. Still the idealist, eh?” Holding hands, they began to swing them together, slowly, not saying anything.
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said, thinking it was better to leave them alone. “I’ll tell Nancy that you’re in town. Maybe the two of you could see each other before you leave.”
“Yes, I would like that very much. I held her once when she was a child.” She extended her free hand toward me and gave me a limp handshake. Her blue eyes held mine for a second. Then I extended my hand to Bodega, who all of a sudden looked worried. I knew he wanted to tell me something, but when he didn’t utter a sound, I walked out.
“Wait, I have to speak with you!” He let go of Vera’s hand with no apologies and followed me outside. For the first time since encountering Vera, Bodega acknowledged my existence. All this time he hadn’t taken his eyes off her and had treated me like I was a dust particle. I hadn’t really cared much about that, though it was bad manners.
“Where you going?” he whispered as if he didn’t want Vera to hear him, which was impossible because she was still inside.
“I live right there,” I said, pointing.
“You can’t just leave me, that’s not cool.” He was sweating again, like a guilty suspect in a lineup.
“What’s not cool is you leaving Vera all alone in the art gallery. That’s what’s not cool, and you know wha’—”
“Don’t talk so loud,” he interrupted.
“Look, man, Vera is as nervous as you. I could hear her heart beat inside the car,” I lied.
“Her heartbeat? You heard her heartbeat? You sure?”
“Yeah, pana, she’s just as nervous as you. So go back inside there and tell her exactly what you always wanted to.”
Bodega Dreams Page 13