The Empanada Brotherhood

by John Nichols

  I said, “I don’t know. I don’t have a story.”

  “Everybody has a story.” She smiled sympathetically. “I see you in here how many times over the last few months—maybe a dozen? First you’re only with that spiffy little girl and the skinny guy in the weird hat with the guitar case. I bet she’s a dancer; I bet you’re in love with her; and I bet she won’t give you the time of day. Am I close?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a little bit.”

  “The kid with the guitar, he’s her brother?”

  “No. He’s from Spain. She’s from Buenos Aires.”

  “Where is Baynose Iris?”

  “In Argentina. At the bottom of the world. Near Antarctica.”

  “You mean in South America?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. The kid from Spain is in love with her also. You guys are a triangle.”

  I laughed. “I don’t think so. She’s older than him by a lot. She never flirts with him. He’s very quiet.”

  “Quiet waters run deep,” she said. “But anyway, one day you all appear with an older guy, the Latin playboy with Liberace hair. At first I think he could be the father, but he’s all over her like a rug while you two guys sit there twiddling your thumbs. The plot thickens, am I correct?”

  I was surprised. I said, “You sure notice a lot, don’t you?”

  She chuckled. “I’m a trained professional.” Then she flinched. “Oops. The wicked witch just shot me an eyeball, I better take your order.” She popped up and took out her pad. “So what’ll it be?”

  “I guess I want a coffee,” I said. “No cream or sugar.”

  “How about with a slice of cherry pie on the side? Live it up.”

  “I don’t have the plata,” I admitted.

  “The what?”

  “The money.”

  “It’s on me,” she said, scribbling down the order. “I’ll steal it for you.”

  Before I could protest she was gone. After a minute she returned with the coffee and the pie.

  “Here you go, sir, one slice of pie and a cup of coffee just like God created it, black, no frills. Ain’t it beautiful?”

  She set them down and tore the check off her pad and placed it facedown beside the pie plate. Then off she went to clear another table.

  When I turned over the check I saw that she had only charged me for the coffee and had written Cheer up! on top.

  Was she making a play for me?

  45. Why So Glum?

  I filched a newspaper from a Washington Square trash basket and sat on a bench to read it. Everybody was nervous about confrontations between the East and the West. A long article explained how to evacuate New York in case of attack. I folded the paper and put it back in the wastebasket.

  Then I sat quietly on the bench wondering if I would be drafted. I didn’t want to invade the Soviet Union or wear a radiation suit for cleanup duty after a bomb blast. I simply wanted to publish my college novel and marry Cathy Escudero.

  The park was filled with people having a good time on a warm day. Kids and young adults splashed through the fountain. A Good Humor cart was back. Up in the trees two squirrels leaped from branch to branch, chasing each other. I felt burdened by anxiety.

  Alfonso sat down beside me, clapping his hand on my shoulder. “Hello, blondie, why so glum? On a day like this you should be joyful.”

  “I don’t want to be drafted and die before I publish a novel,” I said. Immediately I wished I hadn’t said that.

  Alfonso placed his arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “You won’t die, nene. I promise.”

  “How do you know?”

  He said, “Humanity is crazy, but not that crazy. No species that created Shakespeare, Mozart, Picasso, and Marilyn Monroe could ever destroy itself. I promise.”

  I replied, “But the same species created Hitler, Mussolini, and Jack the Ripper.”

  He scoffed, “Those jerks were canceled out long ago by Gina Lollobrigida and Sophia Loren.”

  “What about Stalin and Tojo?” I asked.

  He retorted while cleaning his glasses on a filthy handkerchief: “They are easily trumped by Tolstoy, Borges, Dickens, and Neruda.”

  “Okay. You win, profe. I give up. Let’s go to a movie.”

  “There’s a Jacques Tati film at the New School, blondie.”

  So that’s where we went. And the movie was zany and delightful and it really cheered me up.

  46. Cheating

  Tennis racket in hand, I went to the playground on Thompson Street between Prince and Spring. I had on Bermuda shorts and a torn old polo shirt. Ah, sweet primavera: The sun was bright as a bulb. For an hour I hit a ball against the high wall designed for handball games. Nearby stood two basketball hoops and a bocce court where old men from Palermo and Bari were joking with one another. A high chain-link fence surrounded the area.

  I was exercising all alone when Carlos the Artist walked past nursing a coffee-to-go he’d purchased at Miguel’s All-Nite Puerto Rican Deli on Spring Street. Surprised to see me, he stopped and peered through the fence.

  “Look, if it isn’t Rod Laver in person. Cómo estás, blondie?”

  I grabbed the tennis ball and waved. “I’m great. Thanks.”

  “Che, vení.” Carlos motioned me over. “I want to speak with you.”

  I walked closer and we talked through the fence. He had on black motorcycle boots, black chinos, a Snoopy T-shirt, and a red baseball cap that said CCCP. He had dyed his mustache purple.

  “You look like a pro, blondie, whacking that pelota. Where did you learn, in school?”

  I told him yes. He said he had always wanted to play tennis, but the only sport he’d ever excelled at was fucking. Speaking of which, now that fate had thrust us together, he had another favor to ask of me.

  “Sure. You can use my apartment anytime, amigo. Tell me when and I’ll leave the key with Roldán.”

  “No, I don’t want your apartment. It’s about my wife.”

  “Your wife?”

  “I want you to screw her, blondie. You can even kiss her if you want.”

  “What?”

  “Oíme.” He took another sip of coffee, then leaned closer to the fence. “It would be a favor to both of us. She’s bored, I’m bored, we both need a little boost to get the adrenaline going. You know what I mean?”

  No I didn’t. “Talk slower, por favor.”

  “Don’t be an ignoramus, friend. You understand very well. You’re a man. Aren’t you a man?”

  I nodded yes, I was a man.

  “So it’s simple,” he said. “I know where you live. We’ll make a date and I’ll bring her by. You two will have fun, she’s very affectionate. When it’s over just grab her a cab on West Broadway. I’ll make sure she has the guita.”

  I stalled. “I’m sorry. What are you talking about?”

  Carlos looked exasperated. After glancing both ways, he leaned closer to the fence and fixed his big eyes on me.

  “Listen carefully, friend. I’ve got a deeper problem with my wife. She’s pissed off at me. This country makes them goofy. Sure I play around, I screw the minas when I want, it’s my right. Back home nobody gives a damn. It’s normal behavior. But up here it’s called ‘cheating,’ and the wives get in a twit about it. And even if you’re a foreigner the local culture rubs off eventually. So now my wife is not only bored but she wants revenge. And who would be more perfect for her revenge than you? Then maybe she’ll quit bugging me.”

  I squinted my eyes, grimacing, and said, “But I don’t even know your wife’s name.”

  “It’s Esther. She was born in Chile. Her screwball mom admired that North American movie actress who always wore a bathing suit.”

  “But she’s your wife,” I said.

  Carlos rolled his eyes, then tried to hide his exasperation by speaking very slowly and very clearly, as if to a child.

  “Hey. Just for now suspend your prejudices. I’m giving you a college education on the psychology of sex. I told
you my wife is bored. I’m bored too. You can’t just bang the same person forever and keep it interesting. So this will stir things up, killing a couple of birds with one stone. For starters, it’ll make me jealous, blondie. It will give her an illicit thrill and more sexual confidence as well as revenge. I’ll be angry at her for ‘cheating’ on me. She’ll get enraged at me for forcing her to ‘cheat’ with you. Sounds bad, but ultimately anger and jealousy mixed together are a fabulous aphrodisiac. Do you see what I’m driving at? You may think it’s complicated, but it’s really very simple.”

  I said, “You should ask Chuy. He’ll know what to do in this situation.”

  “Chuy? Are you kidding me? If Chuy ever even looks at my wife I’ll hire Gino to break all his bones.”

  “Well, maybe Gino is your guy, then. He really understands the pibas.”

  Carlos drained his coffee, crumpled the cup, and tossed it on the sidewalk.

  “What am I, crazy? Gino is handsome, he has no principles, he’s a varón. I want to stimulate my wife, I don’t want to lose her.”

  I blurted, “But I don’t want to fuck your wife!”

  Carlos eyed me with suspicion, then he realized I was sincere and shrugged wistfully in defeat. “Bueno. So be it. I knew it was a long shot, but no harm done, correct? Don’t ever tell anybody about this, okay?”

  “Okay,” I promised.

  Carlos laughed, pointing his finger at me like a little pistol. Then he said, “Pop!” and proceeded along the sidewalk in an easterly direction.

  47. ¿Qué Hora Es?

  When I opened the dance studio door Jorge was sitting in his chair smoking a cigarette with the guitar on his lap, awaiting Cathy. The windows were open; the air smelled fresh and tangy. When Jorge exhaled, breezes blew the smoke in various directions.

  “Where is Cathy?” I asked him.

  Jorge shrugged. “No sé.”

  I didn’t see her dance bag or sneakers lying nearby. Jorge was alone and had been that way for a while. I checked my watch; I was late. They already should have been practicing for twenty minutes. Jorge wore his porkpie hat, a white T-shirt, and baggy pleated brown slacks without cuffs from Spain. Though old and cracked, his shoes were polished spic-and-span. His cigarette pack and book of matches lay on the sooty window ledge.

  I claimed my usual spot, asking him, “Did she say she would be late?”

  He shrugged again and sucked on his cigarette. Something was wrong. Aurelio Porta wasn’t there, nor were any of his cronies. Jorge seemed calm and unconcerned.

  “Has she ever been late like this?”

  Jorge shook his head. “Nunca.”

  “I wonder what happened?”

  He shrugged once more, then leaned down and snuffed the cigarette with his shoe, then picked up the butt and snapped it out the window.

  “There’s a telephone downstairs on the sidewalk.” I searched my pockets for a dime. “We could call her and see what’s up.”

  He waggled his finger back and forth. “No tiene teléfono.”

  Jorge lit another cigarette, politely gesturing the pack toward me so I could raise my hand to decline his invitation. He appeared to be really skinny in the T-shirt and baggy trousers. I wondered if he had enough money to eat okay and if smoking had damaged his lungs. His skin was pallid. He didn’t look so tough.

  Jorge tapped his wrist asking silently, Qué hora es? I told him. He nodded and blew a smoke ring. Way crosstown, police sirens whooped. Below us cars and buses accelerated, honking impatiently. One of Jorge’s fingers touched a chord by mistake, releasing a clear little twang.

  I said, “Well, do you want to play something while we wait?”

  He regarded me as if I was crazy.

  “Did Aurelio or any of his friends drop by?”

  Jorge smiled. He said, “No.” I don’t know if I’d ever seen him smile. There was a gap between his front teeth. He looked vulnerable, especially with those big ears under the brim of his porkpie hat. I had never seen the hat off except the one time Cathy grabbed it.

  We sat still for another ten minutes waiting for Cathy Escudero. Jorge bent over to place the guitar in its case, then tapped his wrist again asking for the time. After that he sat immobile, arms folded, head tilted slightly, eyes closed. I stared out the windows feeling nervous. Pigeons perched along a parapet across the street were cooing.

  I said, “She isn’t going to come, is she?”

  Jorge smiled again, his face lighting up, very incongruous.

  “How long are we going to wait?” I asked.

  “No sé.” He took out an emery board and began filing his nails, shaping them carefully. He was pretending to be bored.

  At six o’clock five young girls wearing toe shoes, blue stretch tights, and knitted leg warmers arrived to take over our space. Their lanky teacher asked, “Where’s the flamenco hotshot?”

  “We don’t know,” I said. “Maybe sick or kidnapped.”

  The teacher said, “You can’t get sick if you’re a dancer. Somebody else will take your place.”

  Jorge picked up his guitar case, nodded good-bye to me, and left the room. I hastened to catch up and walked alongside of him.

  “I hope she isn’t sick,” I said.

  “She’s not sick,” he answered.

  48. Off to Mexico

  Popeye, Chuy, and Luigi were going to Mexico City on Thursday for the first bullfights of spring. Popeye double-parked the diaper truck nearby and hopped out accompanied by Luigi. The sailor and the burnt man were pals again and La Petisa could go screw herself.

  Luigi said, “The diaper truck will be our conveyance. Who else wants to come along?”

  Gino eyed the truck dubiously. “That cacharro will never make it.”

  Popeye was offended. “My truck? You jest.”

  “They won’t let it into Mexico,” Gino assured him. “It’s a wreck. Once in, you’d never get it out.”

  “Chuy promised to buy tires and tune the engine. He’ll pay the gas. We are going to sleep on mattresses in back. Chuy might bring two girls.”

  Everybody, including Roldán, left the stand to inspect the truck. Three mattresses were laid out sideways in back with assorted blankets piled on top of them.

  “When is the first corrida?” I asked.

  “Two weeks from Sunday,” said Luigi.

  “There will be warm weather and mariachis.” Popeye’s face glowed. “We’re only stopping by to see who else is interested.”

  Not Alfonso. “I have exams. I need to study. I’m pretending to be a grown-up.”

  Luigi said, “In Mexico City I am going to see the Rivera and Orozco and Siqueiros murals, and also Trotsky’s tomb. Then I’m going to hump my brains out with cheap hookers who will have to look at my face because I’m paying them.”

  Popeye turned to me. “How about it, blondie? I have a compañero in D.F. who can get us marijuana and we’ll go for a ride across the floating gardens of Xochimilco.”

  I hemmed a little. “I don’t know … I’m working hard … I don’t have money …”

  What I meant was I couldn’t go to Mexico because I had to open my mailbox each day in case there was a postcard asking me to pick up my novel because it had been rejected again.

  Roldán said, “Why don’t you boys ask Eduardo? He just returned from Haiti. They finished the documentary. He saw a voodoo woman in a trance bite the head off of a chicken.”

  Popeye and Luigi drove away to get the oil changed and to put air in the spare tire.

  A few days later Popeye reappeared with Chuy, who had a bright red glove on his artificial hand.

  Roldán was puzzled. “I thought you were going to Mexico City on Thursday.”

  Popeye dropped a quarter onto the window ledge to pay for a coffee. “There was an accident, gordo. Keep the change.” He pointed to a shattered headlight. “It happened on the George Washington Bridge.”

  Chuy giggled. “We hit an enormous pigeon.”

  Popeye said, “There was nothing w
e could do. And anyway, the journey wouldn’t have been much fun without Luigi.”

  “Where is Luigi?” I asked.

  “He and his burnt face went to Montreal with a piba.”

  “What piba?”

  “Adriana, Eduardo’s ex-wife. Apparently they developed a friendship while Eduardo was in Haiti. Eduardo doesn’t know yet.”

  Alfonso said, “When Eduardo finds out I bet the top of his head will blow off and sail up to the moon.”

  “But they’re not even married,” I pointed out.

  Chuy scrutinized me as if I was a pitiable and deformed human being.

  “Oh,” he said, laying on the sarcasm. “I forgot. Then there’s no problem.”

  49. You Scared Me!

  After I bought a secondhand paperback at a bookstore on Fourth Avenue I walked up toward Fourteenth Street to gaze at some sexy posters in front of the burlesque theater. Next, I did a tour around Union Square. As I was back passing the outdoor bargain bins at S. Klein’s I spotted Cathy Escudero ahead of me. Just as I realized it was her she filched a pretty red blouse, stuffing it quickly into her tote bag as she moved away. I ran a dozen steps and reached forward, touching her arm.

  “Hola, Cathy.”

  She spun around with a look of frantic alarm, then realized it was me and her jaw dropped as she burst into tears.

  “Carajo, huevón, me espantaste, che!”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said. “Lo siento.”

  “Let’s get out of here, blondie, quick.” She grabbed my hand and tugged me around the corner onto University Place where we headed south toward NYU, almost running. It was all so sudden. Cathy searched right and left and repeatedly glanced backward to see if any cops were gaining on us. She wore a faded blue sweatshirt and old black slacks and sneakers, and her hair was in a ponytail. Without makeup her face was pale and blotchy.