Afterwards, he kissed her as she fiddled with the straps to her bra. She smiled, and barely spoke as she led him back, down, across, out and through to the street. The goodbye—considering the tone of the hello—was pretty offhand:
“See you, Enrique,” she said.
He looked at her. She was fussing with her hair. “It's Javier.”
“I know!” she said, laughing, and patted him on the cheek.
He walked the rest of the way home in raw, abstract confusion. He wanted to be happy, but he felt … not happy at all.
A fight was going on in the kitchen between his mother and his aunt over who was supposed to buy the cooking oil, as there was none.
“I'm home,” he said, and sat down on the tiled floor in the living room. He was trying to figure out what had just happened.
Pucho arrived. He walked around the sofa slowly. He stopped in front of Javier. Javier refused to be afraid.
“What the hell are you doing, sitting on the floor?”
He'd spent his strength on the roof. “I'm just sitting here.”
“You're getting your uniform dirty. It's a disgrace.”
“Is combat a disgrace? Because it would get pretty dirty in combat.”
“I told you to apologize to the Principal. Why didn't you go?”
Justification was the prostitution of character.
Pucho leaned down and shouted, “I ASKED YOU A QUESTION.”
There was no winning with a person like this. He could be successful only if he redefined the argument. And such a thing was not possible: he lacked the verbal skills. Pucho hadn't actually struck him yet: real progress. Still, the lowest form of behavior is to attack—verbally or physically—without provocation. He'd been meaning to tell Pucho all these years: You are dishonorable.
But all he managed to do was labor to his feet and climb slowly upstairs to his room, a coward. There, he reviewed each thing said and done that day, replaying the frustration, amazement, triumph, shock and humiliation, over and over again, until he fell asleep, disgusted and exhausted.
On a warm, sunny day, Vladimir watched the boats on the Hudson from his seat on the train. He was going to Westchester at the request of Corinne, a problem client from his previous partnership.
She'd once asked him to help her “finish the look,” and had rearranged throw pillows on her couch and books on her coffee table for forty-five minutes, asking him in utter seriousness each time, “How's that? What about here?” On one occasion, she'd pulled her gardener aside and demanded that the sunflowers face the house. Today, she needed advice about displaying her art collection.
Was this fear, underneath it all? In the country with the most wealth and freedom in the world, the wealthiest and freest people were consumed with anxieties. Still: she paid her bills on time, it was a gorgeous spring day and he could use a field trip away from the site, the ever-present Diane and the put-on smile that didn't conceal her disappointment. The night at her depressing new apartment had been a big mistake, a weak moment. He wouldn't call her again.
At the station, Corinne leapt out of a white BMW convertible, and if he had any lingering doubts, they were put to rest when she pressed the length of her entire body against him and kissed both of his cheeks, leaving a wet substance behind. She chatted nervously as she drove to the house. Her face looked distorted. Some kind of medical intervention was no doubt involved.
He had designated his mother as his representative in the matter of the divorce, and she would go with María on Monday afternoon to sign the papers on his behalf. Next week, if all went well, he would be divorced. He wouldn't believe it till he saw it in print. He hadn't told anyone. He didn't want to think about Diane, or anybody else, either. And certainly not Corinne, whose enormous, glossy, peach-colored lips looked like an experiment that had gone very wrong.
They arrived at the house, a hideous redbrick box on a mound barely big enough for a strip of grass on either side. “I have lunch set up outside,” she said, leading him to the back. He wasn't surprised to find a pair of white stone dolphins cavorting in an enormous fountain in the center of a lawn he'd advised her not to mess with.
Artfully arranged food and color-coordinated linens were spread out on the patio table, and as Corinne confessed unhappy details about her marriage and teenage eating disorders, his mind wandered back to Havana and 1994, the heart of “the Special Period,” when everyone had cabbage and soy for dinner every night because there was no meat, chicken or fish to be found in the entire country.
The smell of mowed grass wafted over the table, reminding him of where he was.
“You haven't said anything,” she said, spooning more food onto his plate. “Say something! Or I'll think you think I'm revolting.”
He tried not to look at her enormous bee-stung lips. “I think eating disorders are a First World problem,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“If you grew up, as I did, in a place where there was no food and you were truly hungry, you'd understand why I have little patience for this issue.”
“But I was truly hungry! I still am!”
“You're not hearing me, Corinne. We had no food.”
“That's exactly right! I had no food!”
If only he could enjoy absurd situations like this. After lunch, he looked at her art and recommended a lighting designer. He could have done this over the phone. He deflected all inquiries into his private life, alluding to “a complicated situation.”
“Well, I'm married, too.”
“Actually, I was referring to a different complicated situation, although my marriage is also complicated.”
“What a pity, Vladimir.” She squeezed his arm and pouted obscenely.
He watched the Hudson River from the train, vowing never to make another house call once a job was finished.
After returning for an unproductive afternoon at the studio, Vladimir decided to walk home. It was high spring, and everyone was outside enjoying the city. He stopped at a new watering hole in the Meatpacking District on the way. He spent a few moments assessing all the synthetically smooth young women flashing bare shoulders and tattooed midriffs. Where to begin, and did it matter? He introduced himself to two young ladies perched on stools at the bar. They were Brandy and Clarissa, in their mid-twenties, self- assured and tattooed, both of them; one had straight red hair, one had straight blond hair. He ordered rum on ice.
“I like rum,” said Clarissa. “Where are you from?”
“Cuba,” he said, wondering if he wanted to get into it.
But he had to fight on all fronts. So he asked them what they thought of the fact that the United Nations Commission on Human Rights was made up of nations like Cuba, Libya, China, Saudi Arabia and the Sudan.
“Well, I hadn't really thought much about it,” Brandy said, exchanging a glance and a titter with her friend.
An overgroomed young man in a tight shirt sidled up and introduced himself to the women as Wade. Clarissa shook his hand.
“I'm Clarissa, and this is Brandy. And this is Vladimir. He's from Cuba.”
“Cuba!” said Wade. “Tell me: are there any worthwhile beaches?”
“Worthwhile?”
“You know, hot. Is it a happening place?”
“If you aren't Cuban, perhaps it is a happening place. Are you an American citizen?” he asked. All three nodded. “Your president has cracked down on travel to Cuba for Americans. So, worthwhile or not, you can't go without special permission.”
“Don't blame me, man, I didn't vote for him.”
“Did you?” Vladimir asked the women.
“I didn't vote,” said Brandy.
“What?”
“Me neither,” said Clarissa.
“What?”
“Me neither,” said Wade.
“WHAT?”
“I'm not registered,” Clarissa said.
Vladimir was thunderstruck. “WHY?”
She shrank back from him.
“An
d what's your excuse?” he asked Wade.
“Ran out of time, man,” he said, running a hand through his sculpted hair. He changed the subject to a sitcom he'd seen the night before on TV.
Vladimir interrupted him to give an impassioned lecture, to which all three listened wearing the same alarmed smile.
He paid and left them to giggle about him in his wake.
Americans. Lazy, narcissistic, sugar-sucking, SUV-driving, spoiled children, spending all their free time in front of the TV or at the mall. If they hadn't done something, well then, perhaps it didn't need to be done!
He resumed his walk, irritated. That morning, he had finally received the paperwork for American citizenship. Five years he'd waited—twelve, if you counted the time he'd spent in the UK—but he had put the papers aside for later, surprising himself. Now, as he passed through teeming New York nightlife on Hudson Street, he was awash in sudden, unexpected sentiment. Normally, he fought nostalgia like a disease. But in a single month, the compass points of his existence could change. He could become legally divorced and un-Cuban. He might not recognize his own life.
Why did he have to leave? Castro should have been the one to leave. Why should he become American? The culture was passive, callous, unthinking. Americans had all the freedom and luxury in the world, and what did they do with it? They watched TV. They went shopping. They watched TV shows about shopping. They took vacations. But they were just too busy to vote. He'd given up his language, his city and his culture. He routinely responded to bizarre, inept pronunciations of his name. Sometimes, to speed things up, he himself gave the Anglo mispronunciation of his name. The only Cuban thing left in his life was his nationality.
If he didn't become an American, he would have to renew his Cuban passport: an absurd, masochistic exercise. The rates had gone up. It was now $350 for a document that entitled him third- or fourth-class citizenship in his own country, opened no doors abroad and raised red flags at every airport. He crossed Bedford Street and thought briefly about Diane. What had she said to María? Was it what she had said, or the fact that it wasn't he, Vladimir, who had said it? Diane would be at the theater. But he didn't want to see her. Even if she had voted, even if she didn't drive an SUV or watch TV.
It was a lush Friday night in May, and he could do what he wanted, say what he wanted, go where he wanted, read what he wanted, think what he wanted. The nostalgia had been a momentary weakness, brought on by a bad drink. America was a good idea, even if it was wasted on some people.
When he got home, he pulled out the citizenship paperwork and called the woman who let his mother and his aunt use her telephone.
“Catalina isn't here,” said whoever answered. “She's having an abortion.”
He was incredulous. “Do you know who this is?”
“No. Who is this?”
“You don't know who I am, and you tell me she's having an abortion?”
“What do you want? She'll be back later tonight.”
“I'm looking for Alicia, the sister of Ana, the woman who lives across the hall. Could you go and tell her that I'll call back in five minutes?”
“I guess I could do that.”
He hung up without much confidence that she would. He walked around his living room, and caught sight of Diane's sweater on his desk chair. Every day, he meant to put it with his bag and blueprints to take it with him to work. But he forgot every day. He dropped it on the dry-cleaning pile.
He called Cuba back, and Alicia picked up.
“I have good news and bad news,” his mother said. “Which do you want first?”
“The bad news.”
“Your friend Carlos is back.”
He shut his eyes. “I can't believe it. I told him not to go.”
“His mother is very ill.”
“He told me.” He hoped his mother wouldn't press the issue. If she ever became ill, she should just be prepared. He wasn't coming to see her.
“They left a note on his mother's door saying, ‘If you do not present yourself at the Ministry of Immigration by tomorrow at five o'clock, you will be declared a fugitive from justice, and we'll issue an all-points bulletin.’ ”
“What did he do?”
“He went! They took his passport and his Dutch residency card, and they asked him questions for two full hours.”
“What did they ask him?”
“ ‘What are you doing in Holland?’ ‘Where is your brother living?’ ‘What kind of sociology are you teaching?’ ”
“What do they care what kind of sociology he is teaching?”
“Can you imagine? Also, they said: ‘Your mother takes in more foreigners than she's allowed. You wouldn't want her to do anything that might put her medical treatment at risk, would you?’ ”
“No!”
“Yes. Then they said: You didn't do your military service or social service. We'll keep your passport and your Dutch residency card until we resolve some issues.’ That was Monday. He's supposed to leave tomorrow, and they still haven't returned his papers.”
He looked out at the baseball diamond, where some teenagers were congregating. Smoke drifted up toward the sodium-vapor lights.
“What's the good news?”
“I am holding in my hand a passport for Javier Hurtado Ca-sares.”
The name sounded familiar.
“What?”
“A passport, with an American Visa. Valid for three months, beginning June third. For Javier.”
Vladimir breathed in. He would soon be a divorced American father with a teenage roommate. The speed with which his life was changing was just astonishing.
With no forewarning to Diane, Dario Travisini brought a friend to the Renovation Committee meeting. Since the friend was a French movie star who had worked with everyone from Claude Chabrol to Louis Malle, everyone overlooked the lapse in protocol and tripped all over themselves to welcome her. Catherine Mer-veille was petite and was dressed in black jeans and a deceptively simple gray linen jacket; she behaved like a college student glad to be given the opportunity to sit in on a meeting in a field she wanted to enter. She shook hands graciously, accepting praise as if she'd never heard it before. Her hair was fluffy, shoulder length, more salt than pepper; she wore massive silver jewelry and carefully applied light makeup. She had allowed herself to age, but she seemed to be conducting the energy of the universe through her body. Everyone leaned in to watch her; she had that inexplicable quality that made every last raise of her eyebrow riveting. Dorothy and Estelle were unusually quiet.
“You look fabulous, Miss Merveille,” Jan Mattias said. He had started the meeting with a big ceremony, presenting Diane with a small glass cube, the Best Repertory Cinema Award from the National Film Critics Guild, while Daniel Dubrovnik glowered at him and cleared his throat violently.
“Sank you, I am just recovaired from un accident de voiture” she said, and there was a furor at the table as everyone offered sympathy and alarm.
“Non,” she said definitively. “It was zhe best sing zhat ever 'appen to me. Before, I was bored wiz life. Now, I see zhat every moment in zhis life is a gift. Zhe surgery took sixteen howers. I do physical serapy for ten month. Zhe surgeon—young man, a fan of my film—ask me, while he is in zhe neighborhood, eef I want reconstruction of zhe face.”
She paused.
“I was offended. Why would I shange my face? I earn zhese lines! Ow can I take on a role of one who has suffaired eef I erase all zhe living from my face? All zhe actress who do not shange in sirty-fife years. You honestly belief a word of Deneuve? Zhere is nussing real zhere.”
“You're so right,” Jan Mattias said, taking her hand. “We're all such phonies.”
“Appropriately enough, Catherine, our theme this month is ‘Age, Hollywood, and the Worship of Youth,’ ” Diane said, and Catherine gave her an encouraging smile. “Perhaps you'll stay for a screening—we have All About Eve and Death Becomes Her.”
“Here's our architect,” Estelle said, as Vladimir bo
unded down the aisle, forty-five minutes late.
Vladimir, man of many mysteries: Why hadn't he just broken it off? Was he stringing her along because of the project? Did he think she hadn't noticed? She was actively dreading a blind date that evening.
“Look what I found on the Internet this morning.” Vladimir passed around a photo of a 1957 Buick being driven over water from Cuba to Florida. “They should hire these people at NASA! Instead, they deport them to Cuba. It's like a death sentence.”
“jAh, cubano!” said Catherine, and began speaking to him in fluid Spanish.
Vladimir's usual frustrated expression was replaced by a rapturous glow. He and Catherine began to chat, and the exchange went on for some time. They interrupted each other—apparently to compliment each other—and laughed as if passing back and forth some kind of private toy.
So this was what Diane needed to get Vladimir's attention: she needed to speak fluent Spanish and be a legendary if faded French film star wise in the ways of men. Oh yes, and radiate the energy of the universe.
“I hate to interrupt,” Diane said, careful not to display anything like jealousy. “But we really do need to get to business. Vladimir, why don't you give us an update?”
He smiled at Diane as if he were sorry for her, and directed his comments to Catherine, whose face had an intense expression, fascinating even in repose.
Diane wanted to flee. She wanted to set fire to his hair.
Vladimir finished, answered questions and rose to leave.
Catherine popped up. “I weel walk wiz you,” she said, following him.
Jan, Daniel and Dario jumped up to follow the legend. Diane remained seated with Estelle and Dorothy. In her mind was the image of Bette Davis, as an aging star of the stage venomously chewing chocolates and knocking back highballs before her fortieth birthday party in All About Eve (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1950), working herself into a jealous rage over the seemingly naïve and worshipful young actress who insinuates herself into her life.
Catherine Merveille had to be at least seventy.
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