Stars in His Eyes

by Martí Gironell

  “No, Cefe. You don’t owe me anything. To me, you’re another member of the family.” She winked. “All I ask is that you live the life you want to live, because you’re healthy and you can do so.”

  A few days later, Ceferino accompanied his uncle to report the theft of his papers and adopt a new identity with the authorities.

  “What’s your name, kid?” the officer asked.

  “Justo Ramón León Buenavida,” Ceferino responded without hesitation. The officer filled out the police report and took down a statement from Ramón Carrión, who acted as a witness to corroborate what had happened and verify that this young man without papers was who he said he was.

  A temporary identification card recognized him for the first time as a citizen of the United States. And it was done. Cefe was Justo now, and he was safe.

  A new name wasn’t the only joy María Buenavida brought into Cefe’s life. The same day Ceferino reported his theft at the police station, María’s beautiful daughter, Eva María, was celebrating her twentieth birthday, and the Carrión family was invited to the feast, with all its sounds and aromas.

  For weeks now, Ceferino and Eva María hadn’t bothered to hide their feelings for one another, though they hadn’t gone any further than ardent stares, pretty words, the occasional compliment. The boy had even mentioned her to his mother in one of the letters he tried to write her every week, in which he reported all the good things that were happening to him. Eva María was one of them. He couldn’t wait to show her his new papers.

  Cefe didn’t think he would mention his change of identity to his mother. He felt he was betraying his father’s memory by giving up his last name, but he was also aware of the many difficulties he’d spare himself by trading Carrión for León. In addition to his being in the United States illegally, there was also the inescapable fact that he remained on the run after dodging his call-up for military service in his home country. He needed to be practical, and if he had to take a new name, León at least was one that inspired confidence, reminding him of lions and their abundant courage. His first name was a different story—it just didn’t feel like him. Ceferino was the only name he responded to.

  The scent of garlic, pepper, and oregano coming up from the ground floor filled the stairwell to the top of the building. Mrs. Buenavida had made the sofrito for a rice dish she was baking in the oven along with ham garnished with bay leaf and olives. Also rising up from the ground floor were the sounds of music from the Mediterranean.

  “It smells so good you can taste it,” Uncle Ramón said to Mrs. Buenavida by way of greeting.

  “It’s arroz con gandules,” the superintendent exclaimed proudly, all dolled up for the occasion.

  An amused, quizzical look appeared on the man’s face.

  “Gandules are green tropical peas. It’s a very old Boricua recipe.”

  “I thought you were from Puerto Rico.”

  “I am! My mother’s a descendant of the first inhabitants of the island. And they were known as Boricuas, which means ‘the people who eat crabs’ in Taino.”

  “The things you learn!” Uncle Ramón smiled.

  “That rice will make you want to lick your plate clean!” the superintendent said.

  They greeted the birthday girl in the living room. As she did her rounds, she leaned over slightly to receive a kiss on the cheek from all those who had just arrived. She left Ceferino for last.

  “Thanks for coming, Justo Ramón.”

  The boy hadn’t expected her to call him by her brother’s name, even though it was his name now.

  “I wish you many more,” he dared to say.

  “Now that we’re family . . . ,” Eva said in a flippant tone.

  “Don’t joke about that. If I ever get the chance to go to Puerto Rico, I’ll try and meet your brother. I’m very thankful to him.”

  Before he could add another word, the girl was off to talk with the rest of the attendees. It was her day, and more guests were coming in. Family, friends, other Puerto Ricans from the neighborhood, turning the ground-floor apartment into a small San Juan.

  Suddenly the girl let out a scream, and Cefe whipped his head around. He turned just in time to see her leap into the arms of a tubby man standing in the doorway. He had a part in his hair, a mustache, and a smile on his face, arms loaded down with musical instruments.

  “Baby!” The man put down his load to embrace her.

  “Who’s that?” Cefe asked.

  “Miguelito Tito Arvelo,” Julio replied. “He’s a cousin of María’s, and he plays with the Pérez Prado Orchestra and the Victoria Quartet.”

  Arvelo was accompanied by a guitarist and a maraca player, and soon they’d begun to liven up the party with Caribbean rhythms: congas, mambos, merengues. Between the music, the food, and the alcohol, everyone was having a great time. Ceferino, amused, watched from a corner, waiting for some attention from Eva María, who was also dancing and smiling profusely. She was happy, it was easy to see, attentive to everyone and captivating as always.

  Eva María was neither tall nor petite, and although slender, she filled out the right parts of her sleeveless dress with its flower print. She wore her wavy hair cropped short; it was dark brown, like her big, round eyes. Ceferino couldn’t look away from her small pink lips, which were grinning with contagious innocence. It wouldn’t take anything for me to fall in love with that girl, he’d thought the first time he greeted her in the building’s stairwell.

  But then, he fell in love easily, no way around it. Chiqui, his youngest sister, constantly threw it in his face. Ceferino, who knew his limits, had learned to compensate for his small stature and modest physical attractions with other charms. It had thus far worked out well for him: he had an eternal infectious smile and a sincere and welcoming expression in his eyes, which were always pinned on whoever he spoke with. Cefe knew how to play on his good-boy image and his innate capacity to listen with unfeigned interest, both of which the girls always loved.

  Eva María came over to him and smiled. “You want to dance?”

  “Dance?” he responded uneasily.

  “Now that you’re Puerto Rican, you should let the music grab hold of you. Trust me,” she whispered in his ear. “And look me in the eyes.”

  Ceferino grabbed her around the waist, and, as he would every time he had the chance to hold her tight, he wished he could keep her body close to him forever.

  “You like living here?” the girl asked as they danced around the room.

  “Absolutely! With Uncle Ramón and my cousin, it’s like being back with my father and my older brother.”

  “You don’t miss your family back in Spain?”

  “I miss them all the time. I think about my sisters and my mother. I try to write home whenever I can so they won’t worry about me.”

  It touched Eva María’s heart to know the boy kept in touch with those he’d left behind. A few days later, she agreed to go to the movies with him and his cousin Julio, who also brought a date—Lara, a waitress from the restaurant who had been after him for some time. The four of them chose a film everyone had been talking about.

  “It’s a musical with Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra. They told me it’s amazing!” Julio said, trying to convince his cousin.

  “What’s it about?”

  “Three sailors who get off in New York and have one day to see the city.”

  “Is it the movie or the company you’re so excited about?”

  His cousin didn’t bother answering. It was obvious.

  The night was splendid, though very cold. Lara and Julio couldn’t help but belt out that famous melody that was constantly blaring from all the radio stations. Arm in arm, they emptied their lungs, singing “New York, New York.”

  Cefe and Eva María lingered behind the other two. Cefe took a chance and kissed her for the first time, just one of many kisses to come. A kiss with a hint of mustard from their movie-theater hot dogs. After they pulled apart, Eva María froze.

&nbs
p; It’s one of two things, Cefe thought. Either she didn’t like it, or she didn’t see it coming.

  “A brother and sister shouldn’t be kissing, it’s against the laws of nature.” Eva María smiled at him, eyes sparkling.

  “You’re not my sister, and I’m not your brother,” he responded, relieved, and smiled back at her. “I just have his name. I’m Cefe, and don’t forget it. For you, I’m Cefe.” He winked at her.

  When they caught up with their friends, Ceferino wore a conspicuous grin. He couldn’t believe he had just laid a kiss on Eva María. He felt like the luckiest guy in New York.

  “Was the ship you came to America on like the one in the movie?” Eva María asked him.

  “Pretty much!” Ceferino said. “But the sailors didn’t sing or dance.” He laughed.

  It had been a while since he’d thought about the trip. Or about Joe. Or about the dreams he’d had every day he was cooped up in the stinking, dark hold of the ship. How fragile memory can be, the boy thought.

  “It’s funny. In one day, these guys from the film manage to see all the sights of the city. Me, I’ve been living in New York for five months, and I’ve still never been to the Empire State Building, the Brooklyn Bridge, or Central Park . . . And I’ve only seen the Statue of Liberty from behind!”

  “Well, there’s one place you can check off your list,” Julio said, turning toward him. “My father got tickets for the three of us to Madison Square Garden. We’re going to go see the fights!”

  The whole city was already talking about the upcoming match. Rocky Marciano, the Rock, fighting for the heavyweight title, was coming in at 17–0 against Carmine Vingo, the great hope from the Bronx. Both fighters were Italian Americans and shared a similar constitution, but Vingo was far taller and more muscular than Marciano.

  Ceferino hadn’t yet decided who was his favorite in the coming fight. He felt drawn to both boxers. He admired the discipline and bravery demanded by that sport, one that so many poor kids turned to as a way out of a life of crime. He had met a few boxers in the neighborhood, guys who found time to train despite their jobs, which were demanding enough. The little that Cefe knew about Marciano fascinated him, though he wasn’t a true fan. Vingo’s story was compelling, too, but it was one he was too well acquainted with, one that hit too close to home.

  “Remember Renata? The cook at the restaurant?” Julio asked.

  Ceferino nodded.

  “Marciano’s opponent is her kid. Carmine Vingo. We all call him Bingo Vingo. He just turned twenty. He’s tall and strong, and he can box.”

  In the days before the event, Ceferino had been convinced that Bingo’s courage and daring would be enough to topple Marciano. Inspired by the idea of overcoming the odds, which they felt was their own story as well, the boys left home headed for Madison Square Garden, ignoring the glacial cold on that December night, which vanished once they got inside beneath the spotlights, wedged in among the fans. More than nine thousand people had packed the stands in what had become boxing’s cathedral to watch what everyone predicted would be an unforgettable bout.

  Ceferino hadn’t seen so many people in one place since he’d left the port and jumped into life in the city. His uncle Ramón watched him, amused. The older man remembered how he’d felt the first time he’d seen crowds like that. The Garden that night was deafening, filled with music and jubilation. Apart from Ceferino, there was hardly a person in the audience who wasn’t shouting for one of the two boxers.

  The boxers walked into the arena. Ceferino craned his neck to get a look. Julio was ecstatic, punching the air as if fighting some invisible adversary. The public shouted and whistled. Around the ring, the judges, the ring girls, and the doctors were making their final preparations. The audience roared when they announced Carmine’s name. As the upstart, the one trying to beat the superstar, he walked out to the center and greeted the audience. He received a warm and uproarious reception in return: he was on his home turf. Everyone was also excited to see Rocky Marciano, who wore a black robe with his name embroidered in gold. He lowered his head to pass under the ropes and raised his arms to greet the masses.

  “Rocky! Rocky! Rocky!”

  Ceferino, squeezed in between his uncle and cousin, jumped out of his seat. He watched the bout with his heart pulled in both directions. Right away, Marciano took the initiative, and all Vingo could feel was the force of his rival’s strikes. Ceferino was amazed at Bingo’s capacity for recovery: he took every one of the Rock’s punches without flinching. Marciano was putting on an astonishing display of strength and superiority, but Vingo still tried to give back as much as he got. The Rock was coming hard and fast. Vingo got hit, then tried to hit back. Both boxers were bleeding, with all sorts of cuts and bruises, but Vingo was by far the worse for wear, and no one understood how, tired as he was, he had held up through those first five rounds. He just wouldn’t quit. Over and over, he fell to the canvas, but he kept getting back up.

  At the opening of the sixth, Marciano hit him square in the jaw, making his head wrench around violently. A long “Oooh!” rang out, and then the crowd went silent as Carmine Vingo hit the floor. Neither the ref nor his cornermen could do anything to revive him. He didn’t move, and the public watched in silence. A tragedy seemed imminent.

  Vincent Nardiello, the Garden’s doctor, jumped into the ring. He gave Vingo a shot of adrenaline to the heart, and that made him react. He stood up partway, stumbled for a few steps like a baby just learning to walk, and then collapsed. Was he dead, or just knocked out? Marciano didn’t budge from his corner. The medic shouted for a stretcher to get the boxer to the hospital. The bout was over. The public filed out quietly, leaving Madison Square Garden with heavy hearts.

  Neither Ceferino, Uncle Ramón, nor Julio dared utter a word. They couldn’t erase the image of Renata’s son lying on the floor. They went to St. Clare’s Hospital, where Vingo had been taken, to give support to the family. At reception, they were greeted by a nun in a black habit and veil, with a white coif framing her face.

  When they reached the landing of the second floor, a large crowd had already gathered around room 234. They were family members and neighbors, all of them with the same idea. Cefe hadn’t guessed there would be so many people. He could count at least a dozen. Two Franciscan sisters made sure the people gathered next to the room didn’t make too much noise and disturb the other patients. Cefe and his uncle pushed through the middle of the group and made their way inside.

  Cefe’s heart broke when he saw Renata, disconsolate in one corner of that filthy hospital room. She was crying like a baby, repeating as she looked at the bed where her son lay, “Ay, my Carmine! My poor son! All he wanted was to make a little money to marry Kitty! He was so excited to face his idol in Madison Square Garden. Damn you, Marciano!”

  But Marciano would leave his mark one more time that night. Although everyone thought he had gone off to the dressing rooms, bruised but victorious, in fact he was shaken and saddened after seeing his hardy young adversary lying there unconscious. Instead of leaving the Garden and hiding out, he did something that honored his opponent. Marciano showed up at the hospital to pay his respects to Vingo’s family.

  When he arrived, accompanied by his manager, all murmuring and whispers ceased and a majestic silence fell over the crowd. They opened a path for the boxer to pass through. No one uttered a word. Cefe got goose bumps and could feel a knot in his stomach. Everyone was awed at the champ’s gesture. Marciano was used to a crowd’s eyes being pinned to his broad back; it was nothing new for him. Without saying anything, he went in and knelt by Renata, who was praying for Carmine’s life while she waited for news from Dr. Nardiello, who had taken care of him from the moment he’d been knocked unconscious. She prayed he would reassure her. Lying there in that bed, Vingo was in the toughest and most decisive fight of his short career.

  When Marciano knelt down next to the weeping mother, the wrath vanished from the woman’s face. She embraced the boxer but didn’t
even try to suppress her grief. The champion stroked her hair and whispered a few words in her ear that only she could hear.

  Uncle Ramón looked at his son and at Cefe. They agreed in silence to leave the hospital. Crestfallen, they crossed Hell’s Kitchen and traveled back up to the Bronx without a word. Cefe couldn’t shake his bewilderment. The lesson from what he’d seen in the Garden might have been that you couldn’t stand up to an established power, that the simple people who dream of one day making it into the pantheon, of becoming stars, could never do so. But no. He refused to believe that. He was like Vingo: nothing would stop him, nothing would make him flinch. But like Vingo, he would have to fight—that much was clear. He would have to work hard and never let down his guard.

  By the time they made it back home, it was late, but María Buenavida knocked on their door, frantic.

  “Cefe! This afternoon a letter came for you.”

  “From my mother? From Barcelona?”

  Ceferino was shocked to see the seal of the Spanish Ministry of Defense. He had to read the letter three times before he could utter the news aloud.

  “What does it say?” Julio asked impatiently.

  “Someone told Franco’s authorities I’m a deserter,” he whispered.

  “Bastards!” his uncle said.

  “I ran away to stay out of the army, and now they’re telling me I have to go back.” He paused. “What I don’t get, what I can’t figure out, is how they found me. I hope no one in my family’s in trouble.”

  Ceferino’s blood froze when he remembered his father’s time in prison.

  “I can’t stay here. They could come for me anytime and make me go back to Spain.”

  He didn’t know what to do. He felt lost. Or worse, defeated, a sensation he thought he’d left behind long ago.

  The idea of being repatriated, of going back, of defeat, accompanied him night and day, but he also knew he couldn’t give up now. He’d done the hardest part: he had made it here, a stowaway, all the way into the United States, changing his identity. He had to keep pushing ahead!