“Yes,” Carlito spoke absently. He paid the driver, and saw the taxi swing around in an improbable U-turn on the narrow street, and depart far more rapidly than was safe. Carlito, who had seen the shanty-towns outside of his home city, was not unduly disconcerted by the neighborhood. If anything, he thought the bright colors looked pretty. But he was feeling a certain nervousness, not so much connected with his surroundings, as with his ultimate goal.
He had delayed seeking out the address for a long time. For his first few days he had used the excuse of jet-lag. Then it had seemed foolish, having come so far, not to explore the island a little. It was not, strictly speaking, related to his research, but it was (he told himself) definitely educational. But now, with ten of his fourteen days gone, Carlito could no longer pretend that the glories of a tropical beach in January were helping him write his thesis. Clutching the bag that held his tape recorder a little more tightly to his shoulder, he stepped past a wall covered in graffiti, his shoes crunching slightly on a broken beer bottle. The woman who had given him directions when he had called the Club had been very specific. “There’s a yellow bodega on your right, and a purple house, we’re just past there, with the basketball court in back.”
Sure enough, there was a long, low building, made of battered concrete painted what must once have been a brilliant lime green. Unlike many of the buildings in this neighborhood, its roof was concrete as well, instead of corrugated zinc. Over-loud salsa music spilled through its rusty metal louvers, drowning out the irregular crash of surf on the rocks below La Perla. A number of young men about Carlito’s age lounged in front of the stoop, talking loudly. One carried an enormous boombox that seemed to be trying to drown out the music from inside with hard-edged American rap. A dented metal sign above the entrance proclaimed, in the weird argot that still surprised Carlos: “Boys’ Club de La Perla. Bienvenidos.”
A rushing wind and a loud shout on his right made him jump to one side, nearly into the street. A dark-skinned boy in an undershirt, furiously pedaling a bicycle at least four sizes too small for him zipped past, and skidded to a halt in front of the Boys Club. “Sorry,” Carlos said politely.
“We cool,” the boy had spoken in a form of English, so Carlos did not immediately understand him, but he was reassured by the bicycle rider’s grin. He looks like a gypsy, with that gold tooth, Carlito thought. He smiled back, which emboldened the boy to say. “What you doing here, Mister?”
Carlito was by this time used to being taken for an American tourist, so he deciphered the second English phrase without too much difficulty. “I’m actually looking for a Señor Llorente, who works here,” he explained.
“Hey, you speak Spanish good!” the boy grinned again. “I thought you were a gringo. Where’re you from?”
“I am Spanish,” Carlito had had variants of this conversation for the last ten days, and it bored him.
“Spanish from Spain? No shit! Hey, Piña, check it out,” he turned to one of the young men surrounding the boom box, who had been attempting a sort of breakdance. “This guy’s from Spain.”
Several of the dancers turned their attention to Carlito. “He looks like he just come from court,” one of them quipped.
Carlito opened his mouth to say that he was from the capital, and then realized that “la corte” in this corner of the world was not a synonym for Madrid. “So what’re you doing in La Perla?” this was a skinny boy with a mustache and large quantity of pimples.
“I’m looking for a Señor Llorente,” Carlito repeated patiently. “I want to interview him. For a history paper.”
“For who?” the dark-skinned boy who Carlos had labeled “gypsy” sounded puzzled.
“He means Gonzalo,” Piña enlightened his friend. Then he turned back to Carlito. “Gonzalo’s got a group now. He should be done in about twenty minutes though. Why didn’t you call ahead?”
“I did. The lady on the phone said to just drop by anytime before six.”
“That’s right. Our doors are always open,” Piña swept an elaborate bow and gestured towards the stoop. “Come on. Say, what’s your name?”
“Carlos.”
“Come on, Carlos. I’ll show you around.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Carlito was not more than normally shy, but he found Piña somewhat overwhelming. He drew back unconsciously, and the other boy grinned at him.
“No problem. And you don’t want to hang around outside in this neighborhood. Didn’t nobody tell you about La Perla? Come on.” He gestured again, and Carlito, who was starting to understand what he had heard about La Perla, followed him toward the door, with some trepidation.
“The Latin Kings’ll get you if you hang out around here too long,” Piña explained, as they stepped into a clammily warm hallway lit by fluorescent lights. A woman behind the desk frowned heavily at him, and gestured to her neck.
“Sorry,” Piña gave her an apologetic smile, and pulled a string of what looked to Carlos like white rosary beads from around his neck. “I’m blessed,” he added to Carlos as he deposited the beads in the woman’s outstretched hand. “But in the club we don’t allow no beads. This is Carlos,” he added to the woman. “He’s new. I’m showing him around.”
After nearly a dozen interviews, Carlito had become quite skilled at questioning. “Blessed?” he asked, nothing in his polite tone betraying his confusion. He had not marked his companion as a religious boy.
“Nietos,” Piña led him down the hallway and turned at an open door, where the salsa music was emanating from. “But in here we got Nietos, Latin Kings, it don’t matter. You can only come here if you don’t want to do that shit no more. This is the rec room,” he added, gesturing towards the open space.
“Don’t want to do what...er...don’t want to do what?” Carlito raised his voice a little above the music.
His guide stared at him as if he were insane. “Gangs. You’ve never heard of the Nietos? Or the Kings?” He made a complicated gesture with both hands that Carlito, who had read a little about the Free-Masons, thought looked like a secret sign. “You don’t be having gangs in Spain?”
“Umm. I don’t think so,” Carlito said apologetically.
Piña shook his head, in a mixture of disapproval and disbelief. “No way. Gonzalo’s Spanish from Spain and he knows about the gangs. Of course, maybe it was different back in the day.” He recollected himself suddenly, and patted Carlito’s arm saying with avuncular approval. “But you’re probably a good kid, and wouldn’t be into that anyway, right?”
“I guess,” Carlito admitted, feeling that in some obscure way he had disgraced his country’s honor.
“I could tell, ‘cause you said your name was Carlos, and that’s a real name, not a tag name,” Piña explained helpfully. “You know what a tag name is?”
Interviewing had taught Carlito the value of humility. “No.”
“It’s what you write on your tag. For graffiti, right? So the cops don’t know it’s you. So if you see ‘Piña’ on the wall - that’s me.”
Carlito blinked, suddenly recalling that his grandmother and his favorite babysitter had suggested, a shade too casually, that he not tell his grandfather about seeking an interview with Señor Llorente. He suppressed a smile. He didn’t think his grandfather was that hidebound. Presumably Llorente himself didn’t actually have a tag name. And after all this was supposed to be a place for reformed gang members. Making a mental note to add questions about the significance of noms-de-guerre to his interview checklist in the future, he asked casually. “So what’s your real name?”
His guide frowned for a moment, and then seemed to recall that his guest was not local. “Ramón. Come on, I’ll show you our gym.” He hurried down a flight of stairs, and Carlito, who realized that he had committed a faux pas, followed, determined to be strictly interested in the tour henceforth. To the Spaniard’s eyes the “gym” looked miserably underequipped, and it was clear that there was no space large enough for even a friendl
y soccer match, but Piña pointed out the regulation height basketball hoops with such pride that Carlito was forced to admire them politely.
“So, what’d you want to talk to Gonzalo about?” Piña asked, as he led the way out of the gym and back towards the “counseling rooms” where he announced that Carlito’s interviewee would be almost finished.
“His experiences in Spain, during the war,” Carlito’s answer was practiced. It was practically the only part of this interview that resembled any of the other interviews he had conducted.
“The war? Gonzalo was in a war? What war?”
Carlito felt a certain relief. Surprise, and even denial, had been common among the younger family members and friends of the other men he had tracked down. True, no one had thus far asked “what war?” but Carlito was reasonable enough to allow for a different perspective in a different country. “The Spanish Civil War,” he explained. “I’m interviewing as many veterans as possible, from both sides, trying to collect personal histories, for my thesis. I’m hoping to make it a book one day.”
“How’d you know Gonzalo was in this war?”
“His niece is a family friend. Sort of an almost-aunt. She told me he was here.”
“And you came all the way to Puerto Rico to interview Gonzalo?” Piña was impressed.
“No,” Carlito admitted with a smile. “I came on winter break, with my girlfriend. But since I was here anyway...”
“Makes sense,” Piña spoke judiciously. He smiled back. “So, you like Puerto Rico? You’ve seen the nice parts, right? Not just around here?”
Carlito’s unfeigned admiration for the island lasted until they reached a door from which the murmur of voices was just audible, and Piña explained that since Gonzalo’s group would be done at any minute, it made sense to wait. The Puerto Rican, pleased with the praise of his homeland, was eagerly recommending the best salsa groups and explaining why Dominicans were never to be trusted when the door to the room opened, and about five teenagers of various shapes and sizes emerged. Piña flattened himself against the wall, exchanged glares with some of the outgoing group and grins with others, and then barged into the room without bothering to knock, with Carlito trailing timidly in his wake.
“Yo, Gonzalo, what’s up?”
“Hello, Ramón,” a bald old man with a pronounced stoop shuffled forward, held out his hand elbow downward, and greeted the former Nieto with an incredibly convoluted handshake, that once again reminded Carlito of the Masons. “Who’s this you’ve brought me?”
“This is Carlos. And I didn’t bring him. Your niece sent him here.”
“Nice to meet you, Carlos,” the old man held out his hand. His accent was like a breath of desert in the moisture-rich air, and Carlito, recognizing the voice of a countryman, recovered enough to shake hands in silence, although his only coherent thought was that Señor Llorente looked nothing like any of the veterans he had interviewed in Spain. It was not that none of them had been vigorous: Carlito’s own grandfather, and a few of his friends still carried their years lightly, and walked with erect posture, seeming only a few years past the prime of their lives. It was not that none of them had been bald and stooping: many of the men Carlito had interviewed had moved slowly, and far more shakily than Señor Llorente seemed to. There had even been considerable variation in their dress, although Carlito could not remember any of them wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt and crumpled khaki shorts with sneakers. Perhaps it was the odd contrast between Llorente’s battered physique and his obvious self-confidence. None of the veterans Carlito had previously interviewed had looked their age without acting like it. “Thanks for bringing him, Ramón,” Llorente was saying cheerfully. “Now, be a good boy, and get lost.”
Ramón laughed, said a cheerful farewell, and left. Gonzalo Llorente turned to face his visitor. “Sit down, and make yourself comfortable,” his voice was friendly. “Why did Nilda send you?”
Carlito, who had been just beginning to collect his wits, found them scattered again. “Nilda?”
The old man smiled. “My niece. Judge Torres.” Seeing Carlito’s confusion he added. “We get a lot of referrals from her.”
“I’m not actually a - um - referral,” Carlito said, uncertain whether to be amused or indignant. “I’m a student. At the Madrid Complutense.”
He stopped, as Gonzalo Llorente’s face broke into a broad grin. “A madrileño! But why didn’t you say so earlier! Sit, sit and talk! I never get to hear voices from home.”
“A lot of people say I sound like a gringo here,” Carlito said, returning to a minor grievance.
“I’ll bet,” Gonzalo laughed. “The kids used to say the same of me. Now they don’t even hear the accent anymore, I don’t think. And I don’t hear theirs.” He laughed again. “A student at the Complutense! And I was about to ask if you were a Nieto! You’ll have to forgive me.”
“No problem,” Carlito could understand why Piña and others warmed to Gonzalo Llorente. He found himself liking the older man very much.
“What brings you to Puerto Rico?” Gonzalo was asking easily. “And what brings you here, specially?”
“Vacation, mostly,” Carlito explained. “But I did hope to interview you. That is, if you’ll grant me an interview.” He grinned suddenly, something he had never dared to do at any of his other interviewees. “But you will talk to me, won’t you? After all, I did come a long way.”
“Done,” Gonzalo nodded, and dropped into a chair. The telephone on the desk shrilled, and he picked it up, with an apologetic smile. “Diga...Yeah....No, I have a kid here now...What?...Oh, Jesus. Call Maribel...Yeah...yeah, you can call me back.” He hung up. “Sorry. We’re more or less in perpetual crisis here. But I suppose that’s all to the good for your research. What’s your major? Sociology? Psychology? Medicine?”
“History, actually,” Carlito said, a little bemused.
“History,” Gonzalo echoed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure there’s been too much done on the history of the gangs. They’re institutions really, but the individual members have short life spans, so their memory tends to be short. It’s an interesting approach. But why come to Puerto Rico?”
Carlito blinked. None of his other interviewees had been in doubt about what part of their life was worthy of a history student’s consideration. He found himself a little reluctant to explain his errand. It seemed somehow rude to be too uninterested in Señor Llorente’s current work. “Well,” he hesitated, trying to frame a suitable reply. “Your niece, your niece Alejandra, I mean, was one of my first babysitters. She’s an old friend of the family. And when she heard I was coming to Puerto Rico she suggested I talk to you. Although actually the reason I wanted to was --“ Before he could finish his faltering explanation the phone rang again. Llorente rolled his eyes, and picked it up. “Yes?...Damn...Oh, for crying out loud...because they’re bastards...don’t you start!...yes, all right, I’ll come. Hang on, let me get a piece of paper.” The old man leaned across the desk awkwardly, gasping slightly for breath as he rummaged for a pen and paper. Carlito, who had tried to be politely deaf, took pity on Llorente’s struggle. He rummaged in his own bag, silently produced a pen and pad, and held them out. The Spanish veteran smiled his thanks, and then scribbled something on the pad, speaking disjointedly into the phone at intervals. He hung up with something resembling a slam, and glared at the instrument. Then he turned back to his guest. “I’m sorry. One of our kids was picked up by la migra. He’s a Dominican, and they’re giving him trouble about his papers. They want me to go down now.” He stood up as he spoke, and Carlito stood also, disappointed. “You’re welcome to come along,” Gonzalo continued. “But I don’t know if I’ll actually be able to give a formal interview.”
“I can come back some other time when it’s more convenient,” Carlito said readily. “I’ll be here until Sunday.” Seeing an opportunity to explain the misunderstanding about his research he added. “It doesn’t have to be here at the Club. If you’d like to meet in a ca
fé...”
“This isn’t really café territory,” Gonzalo said with absent amusement. “I’ll give you my home address, if you like,” he added, hurrying along the corridor. “And if you could manage Saturday afternoon, that would be ideal. Any time here is likely to be hectic.”
“Yes, sir,” Carlito agreed, as they reached an open office space, equipped with loudly buzzing standing fans and some startlingly ugly metal desks.
The old man turned to face him for a moment, his slightly rheumy eyes gleaming with amusement. “Sir!” he echoed. “What lovely manners you have, kiddo. I can’t think how I thought you could have been a Nieto! Here, give me that pad back for a second, and I’ll give you the address. Oh, and take the stairs up to the Calle Norzagaray when you go. Hang a right and go down to El Morro where you can get a tourist taxi. You won’t find a cab back from here.” He turned his attention back to a blond woman behind one of the desks. “José’s been picked up by the Migra. Do we have his grandmother’s number?” The woman muttered a curse and began to flip through a Rolodex on her desk. Gonzalo tore a sheet of paper free from the pad, and handed it to Carlito. “Where are you staying?”
“The Ramada Condado.”
Gonzalo looked startled for a moment. “Nice neighborhood,” he commented. “I imagine the hotel staff can give you directions about buses then. How about Saturday at around seven?”
“That’s fine,” Carlito felt the familiar rush of satisfaction at having pinned down an interview time. “Thank you so much, Señor Llorente.”
The social worker snorted. “Call me Gonzalo. Everyone does.”
“Yes, Señor...Gonzalo,” Carlito blinked a little at the unexpected request.
The woman behind the desk laughed. “That’s Gonzalo! He meets a nicely brought up kid and the first thing he does is try to get him to be rude! Here’s the number you’re looking for,” she added. “Rosa Baez, 724-6283.”
“Hey, we’re compatriots,” Gonzalo defended himself. “And that one’s wrong. It’s a work number but it’s out of date. Do they have a telephone at home?”
What Happened When the War Was Over; further stories of Gonzalo Llorente and Carlos Tejada Alonso y Leon Page 7