Mama shrugged. “If you say so. I have to tell you, Peru doesn’t sound much different than here.”
“But there’s work here,” she said.
“There is, which is why I’m better off if you stay put.”
Ana bit her lip then took a shot. “Does this mean you’ll lend me the money?”
Mama scoffed. “I meant stay put at your cousin’s. I’m not an ATM, Ana. The answer is no. Unless you have something else to offer as collateral.”
“I just have the deed—”
“No, I have the deed to that house in Lima. Anything else?”
Her shoulders fell, her gaze shifted to the floor.
“Then I won’t be lending you any more money.”
She spoke plainly, as if it didn’t matter that Ana had no place to live, or that she might be separated from her children. It was black and white. She owed the woman money. There was no chance of her lending Ana any more until she got paid.
But who else could she ask? She wasn’t going back to Don Beto. No more of that. She wasn’t going to lose her children either. “Mama, I need that apartment,” she pleaded.
“Then you should’ve paid me. And you shouldn’t have disappeared like you did. You realize I could’ve done some real damage to you, Ana. I could’ve sold that house in Lima, but I didn’t. You know why? Because I actually have some compassion for you. I understand you’re in a difficult situation. That’s why I’m being patient, but understand that it’s not my way. If I lent out money to every pobretona with a sad story then I’d be penniless myself.” Her voice grew louder. “Now, I could be just like others in my position and give you that money. I’ll wait for you to miss a payment, which you will, and then I’d have no other choice but to sell your house. Because that’s the business that I’m in. That’s the agreement you and I have. And I’m starting to think that you have a really hard time understanding what it means to not fuck around with other people’s money.” She peered over the top of her glasses, her eyes boring into Ana. “But see, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. I’m telling you to get caught up, keep up your payments, and then we’ll see. I’m doing you a favor. If you can’t see that then that’s a very big problem for you.”
“But Mama,” Ana whispered, “it’s not a lot of mon—”
“It’s my money!” she hollered. “And every penny I lend out is a lot to me. I earned every dollar I lend you and people like you. That’s my money that you’re using to fuel whatever ambition you have here. It’s not insignificant to either of us. If it were, you wouldn’t be asking for it. So don’t trivialize it.” Her cup hit the table with a high-pitched clank. “Pay me what you owe me. I don’t care what you or your husband need to do to pay me back, just do it. Do it on time and exactly in the amount you said you’d pay each week. Then maybe we can talk about another loan. Until then, don’t come asking me for more money, or believe me, I’ll start making a few phone calls. The first will be to my new tenant in Peru. Filomena, was it?” She settled into her seat and turned her attention back to the middle-aged male defendant and his Pomeranian. In seconds, she was cackling as the plaintiff showed pictures of the dog’s alleged bites to a befuddled judge.
This was a joke to her, thought Ana. She—Ana—was an absolute joke.
She resisted the urge to leave, though she wanted nothing more than to run out and scream. But Mama hadn’t said she could go. She was fettered to the woman. Until she repaid her debt, until she could reclaim the passports and the deed, she was shackled to her. Even when she did pay off the debt, she’d still need her. Who else was going to lend her money when she needed it? Who else but Mama?
She needed to make sure things between them were fine. The judge ruled in favor of the neighbor, and as the newscast began, a familiar face appeared on the screen—that of the reporter who looked so much like Mama’s son.
And so Ana cleared her throat and asked, “How is your son?”
Mama’s head snapped. “My son?” she repeated, tilting her left ear toward Ana as if she’d misheard.
“Yes, your son,” said Ana, a little louder. “When I called last week, Don Beto said you were out. He said your son was here. I was just wondering how he was. I don’t remember him visiting before.”
“Why are you talking to Alberto about my son?”
Ana felt her face flush. “He just—he mentioned him when I called the other day,” she stammered and pointed to the television. “And the reporter. You once said he reminded you of him.”
Mama stiffened. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” said Ana. “I mean, I just thought I’d ask since he doesn’t visit much, right? And like you said, everyone has a reason for coming here.”
Suddenly, Mama bolted from her seat, her sluggishness gone. Her hand was up in the air, ready to strike. Ana gasped, recoiling into the chair. Mama stopped short of hitting her. She panted as she loomed over Ana. She had a reputation of being lenient with her clients, more so than others in her line of business. Perhaps because her clients were mostly female and immigrants. But there were also rumors about what happened to those who crossed her. She sold property; she destroyed passports. But she also had men show up at schools, at work, at a parent’s nursing home. Sometimes, her clients got beaten and robbed. Sometimes, they were told to go to Mama’s to recover whatever was taken, and they were always told to think twice about going to the hospital. Going to the police was never an option.
She was close enough now that Ana could feel the heat of her body, how it was on the verge of exploding. All she could do was turn her face away, curl her legs closer to her chest. She could let Mama break anything but her face.
Instead, Mama set her hands on the arms of the chair, caging Ana in. “What do you want me to tell you?” she said menacingly. “What do you want to hear? That he’s gay? Is that what Alberto told you? Or that my son has cancer?”
Ana shut her eyes, her head stayed low.
“His,” Mama began to say, then struggled as she said, “friend told me. He thought I should know. He thought I should see my son before he dies.” She straightened, her body as still as the air. The reporter signed off as he wrapped up his story. The anchorwoman thanked him for the report. “Get out,” she said, and Ana sprinted from her seat. She grabbed her coat and shoes, putting them on as she scrambled to the building’s front door. It wasn’t until she heard the door slam behind her that she remembered to breathe.
10
SNOW DESCENDED AS ANA HURRIED TO LA FACTORÍA. THE STREETS already slumbered under a thick blanket of white, as the first snowfall of the season fell overnight. She had left Lexar Tower nearly an hour before her usual time, squeezed between the doors of a packed number 7 train, forgetting her lunch in the rush, all in an effort to get to la factoría early and speak to Betty. Time was not on her side. The longer she took to take care of her problem, the harder it’d become to fix. Mama’s refusal to help left her with only one option: she had to use the money she’d tucked away inside Liliana.
But she needed Betty’s help. She needed something to make the blood come.
When she arrived, the snow had become lighter. The usual crew of smokers was standing outside, huddled and listening intently to the latest bit of gossip. Betty, however, wasn’t in the crowd. Then she heard a car horn honk twice. Ana looked in its direction and recognized the green van immediately. It was Ernesto Lazarte’s. Carla waved from the seat on the passenger’s side.
Ana crossed the street and headed over to the driver’s side to greet her son’s godfather just as he rolled down his window. “Surprised to see me, Comadrita?” he asked, showing off his tall, bright teeth. His silver-striped black hair was gelled back, unmovable. The tint in his aviator glasses was a shade lighter than the golden Lady of Guadalupe pendant that banged against the graying hair on his chest. For as long as Ana could remember, he never seemed to find the top buttons on his shirts.
“I am, Compadrito,” she said, nodding to Carla and Betty, who was s
itting in the back seat. Ernesto worked at night, as part of the maintenance crew of an office tower in midtown Manhattan. When she lived with the Lazartes, he was rarely home before midnight. “I thought you’d be with the kids.”
“Hugo’s watching them,” he said, referring to his twelve-year-old son. “That boy’s got to learn responsibility someday. Why not start now? Besides, I couldn’t let my queen here walk in all this snow.” He then pointed toward Betty. “Or that princess over there.”
“I told you, I can walk,” said Betty.
He threw his head back. “You can never win with that one,” he said, smiling. “¿Y mi Compadrito? When’s he gonna get permission to come watch a game with me?”
“Lucho doesn’t need my permission,” said Ana.
“Oh, come now,” he chuckled. “You’ve got the poor man practically locked away in that little room of yours. You should let him out sometimes.”
In truth, there was little the two men had in common. Lucho had only a passing interest in sports, while Ernesto liked to reminisce about his childhood playing soccer on a dirt field along the edges of Callao; how he dreamt, like every other little boy, of one day making it onto the national team. He had never finished high school, unlike Lucho who had spent several years studying economics at the university. Ernesto had spent his youth working alongside his widowed mother, peddling flowers and pictures of saints to those who came to mourn the dead at Santa Rosa cemetery, where his own father was buried. He eventually found work as a bouncer at a nightclub, the kind of place where only men were allowed and where the women working inside were encouraged to do whatever they wanted, short of prostitution. At least that was how Carla had described it to her once. The nightclub had been Carla’s first job in Lima and it was where she and Ernesto met. He wasn’t a physically intimidating man, and Ana thought it an odd job for someone with his build. He had neither the height nor the frame to elicit fear. But he was a hustler, exuding an eagerness and do-anything attitude that was charming and almost chilling.
“You’ll see him tomorrow,” said Carla. The Lazartes were celebrating New Year’s Eve at Lexar Tower. “Then you can invite him to your little soccer parties yourself. Though I’m sure el Compadrito has better things to do than waste his time drinking cheap beer and lamenting stupid World Cup dreams.” She snickered and Ernesto tightened his smile. She then leaned over her husband. “Anita, why don’t you and Betty go on ahead? I’ll meet you upstairs.”
Carla hadn’t finished speaking when Betty began exiting the van.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ana said to Ernesto as he cleared his throat. She had lived long enough with the Lazartes to know when they were arguing.
When she and Betty got to la factoria’s door, the smokers were gone. Olga was standing outside. “Get upstairs,” she said briskly.
“Is everything okay?” asked Ana, surprised by her tone.
“Everything’s fine,” she said. “I just need you to get upstairs.” Betty ran back to the van to get Carla.
George was already on the fourth floor when they arrived. He held a rolled-up sheet of paper in one hand, which he used to shepherd the women inside. “Vamos, muchachas, adentro,” he said. Minutes later, Olga took her place beside him like a sentinel. The bell rang, and the two began to make their way through the room. He tapped the paper into the palm of his hand as he stopped by each island. Olga translated. Since she’d been at la factoría, Ana had only seen this scenario play out three times: once, when George had to let go of some workers, then again when the boss was coming for a visit. The last time was after the raids in June, when immigration rushed into a nearby meat-packing plant, stuffed men and women into vans, and made them disappear. It was the same raid that had spooked Lucho’s boss and prompted him to let him go.
But Ana always assumed immigration didn’t matter much to George. It was Carla who’d gotten her the job there, and although she now had her green card, she’d been working at la factoría for years with fake documents as she waited for Ernesto to divorce the American he’d married for papers. Ana’s hand had quivered as she tried to give George her documents. She had memorized the numbers on the social security card, repeating them to herself and pausing where the dashes were. At the time, remembering the address where she supposedly lived was much harder. But George only pointed at Olga, and Ana handed her the documents instead. Olga made copies, then handed them right back.
When they reached Ana’s station, it was Olga who spoke. “Something happened with one of the girls,” she said. Ana glanced at the other women, but their eyes were glued to the floor.
Olga continued translating. “I don’t ask too many questions. Mainly because I don’t know if you’re lying or telling the truth. What you do outside of here is your business. All I ask is that you don’t do anything stupid.”
George had given a similar speech after the June raids. “Behave” was the takeaway from that lecture. Don’t do anything that’s going to get everyone into trouble, like getting arrested. If your papers didn’t check out, and immigration got involved, and an officer asked where you lived, and where you worked, it could be a problem for George, who didn’t ask too many questions and simply wanted good seamstresses who could be invisible outside the factory walls.
It was then that Ana realized Nilda’s station was empty. Was she late or had she decided to be visible?
“It’s very simple,” Olga continued, “just don’t do anything stupid. That includes your husbands and boyfriends.”
When Olga finished translating, George slapped the rolled-up paper into his palm. “Do we understand?” he said. The women nodded, and he slapped the paper one more time against his palm before he moved to the next set of stations with Olga trailing behind him.
When they were far enough away, Ana asked the women who it was he was talking about. “Your friend Nilda,” said one. “Remember how she came in here the other day, flashing those earrings?”
“The ones her husband gave her?” said Ana.
“¿Ese hambriento?” replied the seamstress. “¡Qué va! It was that man, the one who gave her a ride home the other night. Well, her boy saw them this time. Can you believe that? She let her kid see them. Apparently they were kissing right outside their building. Qué descarada.”
“What was that boy doing up that late?” asked Betty.
“He was waiting for his mother, of course,” said the seamstress. “He told his father. He hit her, she punched him, the other man got involved. Someone called the police, and of course they all got arrested.”
“Wait, so her husband hit her because someone else gave her a ride home?” asked Ana.
“A man that wasn’t her husband,” Carla pointed out.
“So what?” said Ana. “If he cared so much about appearances, he should’ve picked her up himself.”
“But then who would watch the boy?” said one woman.
“If I worked at a bar, I wouldn’t want my child to know,” said another. “And we all know what kind of bar Nilda was working at.”
“She should’ve been more careful,” said Betty, sympathetically. “She’s got that boy and no papers.”
“I thought her husband had papers,” said Ana.
“He does,” said Carla, “but she never got them. After all these years and a kid, she’s still undocumented.” The women began to mumble. Why had it taken so long if they were married? Maybe the boy wasn’t his, some speculated, or perhaps filing the paperwork was too expensive. Then she should’ve spent that bar money on a good lawyer instead of highlights and getting her nails done, said others. Now, she’s got herself arrested and soon she’ll be on a plane back to Ecuador.
Ana went pale. “She’s getting deported?”
Carla nodded. “She’s had a deportation order from God knows when. So yes.”
Ana’s mouth was on the floor. How does a mother get deported? she thought. Stupid, stupid Nilda. Why had she let herself be seen?
She then looked toward the windowles
s gray door, near the corner, several islands away. It was only partially visible. Rolls of fabric leaned against it.
Betty whispered, “Do you think she told them about this place?”
Carla cocked her head toward George. “That one is obviously nervous. But I wouldn’t worry. This country’s got better things to do than deport a bunch of seamstresses. All the rapists and murderers out there. All those idiots with money putting coke up their noses. No, I don’t think she’d say anything. She’s got no reason to.”
The fans’ whirr grew deafening. Some of the women on the floor had papers; most had husbands. If the husband acted up, those with papers could call the cops if they wanted. The others had to remain quiet to stay in the country with their children.
“What about her boy?” asked Ana.
“With her husband, I imagine,” said a seamstress. “Hopefully that other man of hers can get her back. Otherwise, who knows if Nilda’ll ever see that boy again.”
They didn’t speak of Nilda for the rest of the morning, yet Ana couldn’t stop thinking about her. The thought of Nilda’s son being motherless made her chest tighten. She focused on the fabric between her fingers, on each stitch that galloped across the terrain. Some things are meant to be together, she thought. Like these pieces of fabric. Like mother and child. Even Nilda and her son.
She glanced at the gray door again. On her very first day, it was one of the few things Carla had pointed out, along with the bathroom, the lunch room, and the supply closet. It was mostly unremarkable, painted the same impenetrable gray as the walls. Its knob was round and small, as if it were made for the hand of a child or a small woman. La factoría’s first laborers, Ana concluded, were smaller than her. The workers were different now, but she realized the knob was made for someone with a hand much like her own. She had never ventured through it. In fact, she had never seen anyone use it. But on that first day, Carla had told her that the door led to the basement which had a cellar door that opened to the street on the edge of the river.
The Affairs of the Falcóns Page 12