Don't Make a Scene

by Valerie Block

  The waiter returned. “May I bring you something from the bar?”

  “What would you like?” Vladimir asked Javier.

  “I'll have what you have.”

  “Two ginger ales, please,” Vladimir said.

  “You can drink, Dad,” Javier said when the waiter had left.

  “Yes, but you can't. I think the drinking age in New York is twenty-one.”

  Javier nodded.

  “I have some rum at home,” Vladimir told him. “We'll toast your arrival when we get back.”

  There was an explosion of raucous laughter from the bar.

  What if someone he knew came over to the table? Javier was too big to hide now. He had to remember not to introduce Javier as his new son. But wasn't it true? Thus far, there had been no discussion, no resentment. It would just be a matter of time.

  “By the way, since you're old enough to drive now, I think you can call me Vladimir.”

  Javier looked down at his lap with an open mouth. Then he cocked his head and studied Vladimir. “Is that what you want me to call you?”

  “Would it not be weird and hypocritical for you to call me Dad?”

  “It's what I've always called you.”

  “Well, whatever makes you comfortable,” Vladimir said, uncomfortable.

  He was in it now. He was Dad now.

  Javier opened the menu and his head dropped low. He inhaled, and looked up, near tears. “Dad, can you afford this?”

  “I don't get paid in pesos anymore,” Vladimir whispered back.

  Javier snapped to attention when the waiter put a plate in front of him.

  “Oh my GOD!” he said, staring at the steak.

  They really could have split a steak, but Vladimir wanted the kid to have his own. “I promise you, these are not normal portions. Don't hurt yourself; we can take home whatever we don't eat and have it tomorrow.”

  “This is more meat than we saw all last year, for all of us.”

  Now Vladimir felt awful. Perhaps he should have made a more gradual introduction. But Javier's mood seemed to lift as he picked up the heavy, wooden-handled knife; he held it as if examining a valuable armament. He cut a piece of sirloin and said, “Did you know we were almost arrested last year for having meat in the freezer?”

  Javier told the story and ate very slowly, appearing to get pleasure from every bite of meat. He quizzed Vladimir. Was this a typical restaurant in New York? How often did he go to restaurants? Was it true that there were no ration cards? Who were these other people? Why were there no women? Was it true that New York was super-dangerous? What did he need to know to avoid getting into trouble with the police in New York?

  “Well, don't steal anything, that's a start,” Vladimir said.

  “No, I mean it.”

  “I'll tell you something sad,” Vladimir said, and Javier leaned forward. “I felt safer, less frightened and less conspicuous as an illegal alien in New York than I did as a full-fledged Cuban citizen in Havana. You will not be stopped just for walking down the street. You will not be stopped for speaking, or walking into a hotel, or carrying bags on the street. It doesn't happen. Maybe if you're black, maybe in the South. But not here.”

  Javier seemed about to say something, but continued to listen.

  “You want to speak ill of the president? Go ahead. If you're entertaining about it, they'll give you a TV show.”

  This elicited a burst of laughter.

  “This is New York! You can speak ill of FIDEL CASTRO, SON OF A WHORE! And no one will even look at you!”

  Javier looked around, amazed. Nobody was looking. He continued to laugh and eat, laugh and eat; he was sucking down steak, spinach and potatoes as if he hadn't eaten in months. He probably hadn't.

  “You can read what you want. At home, and even in public. I have books that could land you in jail in Cuba. Walk down Broadway holding them up. Nothing will happen. Most important, no one can tell you what to think.”

  Javier nodded.

  “Actually, that's not true. Everyone tells you what to think, all the time, including the government. But you can tell them all to go to hell.”

  “Why is nobody smoking?” Javier asked, looking around.

  “It's illegal.”

  “They can't tell you what to think, but they can tell you not to smoke?”

  “In restaurants, in New York City. It's a law. It's controversial.”

  Javier had a disconcerting habit of staring at you directly with the big, round eyes. He cleared his throat. “FIDEL CASTRO IS A SON OF A WHORE,” Javier tested, in Spanish, grinning like a maniac. Then he burst into waves of excited laughter, and knocked on the table three times, the way Pucho used to. A passing busboy smirked, and the people at the next table paused, considered them, and resumed their own shouting.

  “Oh, that felt good,” he said, sitting back, looking flushed and sated.

  When the bill came, Javier looked down, as if in acute embarrassment. “Did we need special permission to be here?”

  Vladimir put a credit card on the tray. “You've got a lot to learn, kid.”

  Javier held his doggie bag close to his body as they rose from the table. He looked sophisticated in his clothes, Vladimir decided— older than seventeen, in any event. On the way out, Javier stopped the maître d’ to shake his hand.

  “Thank you very much,” he said in English. “It is the mostest delicious dinner. The mostest meat I ever see.”

  Then he got caught in the revolving door.

  “Perhaps we can look into some English classes while you're here,” Vladimir said when they reached the street.

  At home, Javier presented him with a bottle of seven-year-old Havana Club.

  “I don't want to offend you,” Vladimir told him carefully, “but I can't accept anything from Pucho.”

  Javier nodded. “You have a problem with your father.”

  “Yes, I do,” Vladimir said. Before the boy had a chance to say the same thing about him, he added, “I understand you have problems with him, too.”

  “Yes.” It was clear they had too much to talk about, none of it good.

  “Here, have some rum,” Vladimir said, pouring two glasses. “It's not Cuban, but it will do. Welcome.”

  “Here's to you, Dad. Thank you for inviting me.”

  Vladimir inhaled, helpless. Did he have to be so endearing?

  Javier pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  “May I ask you not to smoke?”

  “It's against the law in apartments, too?”

  “No, everyone makes his own rules about his own home.”

  Javier looked as if he might get combative. “You forbid me to smoke?”

  “Oh, no. Do what you want. I just can't take the smell in the house. You can go out on the fire escape if you'd like.”

  Javier shook his head. He sipped the rum carefully. It looked as if he was thinking deep thoughts. He began questioning Vladimir: Did he ever smoke? When did he stop? How did he stop?

  This apartment was really big enough for only one person with occasional romantic companionship. More than that was problematic. The thing with Terry had worked because she'd been down the hall in her own place most of the time.

  Javier moved to sit on the windowsill, quizzing him with enthusiasm: Who were the important bands? Did Vladimir go dancing?

  What did Diane look like? What did her predecessor look like? Did Vladimir have a type?

  “A type?”

  “A type. Are you always attracted to a certain kind of woman?”

  “I don't think any of them have anything in common other than me.”

  Vladimir stood at the window, looking at the skateboarders smoking on the sidewalk next to the baseball park. These kids surely knew who the important bands were; he should send Javier down there to ask.

  “Was Mom your first real girlfriend?”

  “If you don't mind, I'd rather not discuss your mother.”

  Javier nodded, and continued: “Who are the neigh
bors? Is there anyone I should watch out for?”

  “Javier. It's legal for you to be here. This is my apartment. I pay rent, I pay taxes. No one can tell me who I can or can't have staying here. This is the United States. You don't have to worry that you'll be denounced by the neighbors.”

  Javier nodded, smiling. “Where do you get food?”

  “In stores and supermarkets. Without a ration card.”

  “Wow,” Javier said, and began another question.

  Vladimir interrupted: “You've had a big day, Javier. Why don't you get some rest? Tomorrow we can talk about what you'd like to do.” He cut himself off before he added “while you're here.”

  Vladimir went into the bedroom. Javier followed him in.

  “So how long have you been living in this apartment?”

  Vladimir went to the bathroom and closed the door.

  “Do you rent from the State?” Javier was standing right outside the door.

  He had forgotten. Privacy was an Anglo concept.

  “Javier?” he called through the door. “I'll be out in a few minutes.”

  “We have a lot of catching up to do,” Vladimir said when he came out of the bathroom. “We won't be able to do it in one night. Let's get some rest, and we'll start this up again tomorrow.”

  “Will you take me to your office tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great! I want to meet your partner. Do you make models like Grandmother?”

  “Yes. She taught me how. Go to sleep now.”

  Javier went into the living room and Vladimir shut the door behind him.

  He probably needed help with the bed. Vladimir walked out. Javier was standing by the door looking guilty of something.

  “If someone knocks on the door, what shall I do?”

  “I'm not expecting anyone tonight.”

  “But what if they do come?”

  “In the unlikely event that there is someone at the door, you look through this little hole to see who it is.”

  Javier looked at him. “And then what?”

  Vladimir sighed. “Then come and get me.”

  He helped Javier make the couch into a bed, gave him a kiss on the forehead (his son wasn't taller than he was), and went back into the bedroom. He took off his shoes, sat down on the bed and opened up his divorce decree.

  In her floral, adolescent handwriting, María had signed a document saying that the marriage was legally over.

  “jMe cago en el corazón de la madre de FIDEL! jJa Ja JA!”

  “Okay, Javier.” Vladimir laughed. “Enough. Time to sleep.”

  “Freedom of speech!”

  Vladimir took off his shirt. This piece of paper signed by María represented the time and inconvenience of standing on line; nowhere did it state that this bovine bulldozer had hijacked his life. Vladimir wanted her to sign a paper admitting that she'd gotten pregnant on purpose and that they'd been much too young to get married. He'd been only three years older than Javier was now when they'd met. The time he'd wasted.

  It was quiet in the living room.

  Perhaps too quiet.

  Javier was standing by the window, looking down.

  “Who are those people down there?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “They're skateboarding, and they're good! Look at that!”

  “Javier. Close the blinds and go to sleep.”

  “How?”

  “How do you go to sleep?”

  “No, how do I close the blinds?”

  Vladimir showed him. Javier twisted the blinds open, and then smiled triumphantly when he succeeded in twisting them closed again. Then he opened them. Then he closed them. Then he opened them. Vladimir pulled Javier's head forward and kissed him again on the forehead. Before he could turn, Javier pulled him forward and kissed him on the forehead. Vladimir laughed, and walked back to the bedroom.

  He sat back down on the bed and took off his socks.

  He heard a sound between a laugh and a cheer.

  “Dad! He made it over two trash cans!”

  He had lost a wife and gained a son. What was he going to do with this kid? He sat back, waiting for the next interruption. He took off his pants. The house phone rang.

  Javier flew into the room with a terrified expression. Vladimir put on a bathrobe and went to the intercom.

  “Who is it?”

  “It's Diane. May I come up?”

  “Diane!” Javier said, looking relieved and excited.

  It was almost nine-thirty. What was she doing? What did she want? She should have called. “Okay,” he said, and pushed the buzzer.

  He hadn't told her yet that Javier had arrived; the boy's presence would no doubt change whatever she had planned. In spite of himself, Vladimir was glad to have someone else there. He thought better of the bathrobe, and got dressed again. Javier hadn't undressed yet.

  Diane arrived, looking giddy and hopeful, wearing a new outfit in wild colors. She took one look at Javier and burst into laughter.

  “Wow!” she embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks. “No need to ask who you are!”

  “I meant to tell you. My son is here. He arrived tonight. Javier, Diane.”

  “Mucho gusto,” Javier said, blushing as she hugged him.

  “Look, it's the most gorgeous evening, and we have A Hard Day's Night playing, and tomorrow's Friday. Don't you just want to be out there?”

  “I like this lady,” Javier said in English.

  “Come out, Vladimir. We can introduce your new roommate to the neighborhood, or go to the movies, I mean, something.”

  “It's late, Diane.”

  “It's not late,” she said, and then she and Javier were off and running, chatting and laughing. Diane corrected Javier's English tactfully; he offered her rum and poured her a glass. Altogether, they were behaving as if Vladimir were not there. Which was fine. He went to his computer, and tuned them out.

  “So, Vladimir, shall we go?”

  “I have work. You go,” he said, and Javier jumped with excitement.

  “Vladimir,” she said, when Javier went to get ready. “You have a son!”

  He'd have to tell her about the papers. “It's not that simple.”

  She looked a little drunk and annoyed. “Who said anything was simple?”

  “Ready!” said Javier. He reeked of aftershave.

  “You'll bring him back at a decent hour?”

  “Right after the movie.”

  “Have a good time,” he said, returning to cubaencuentro.com. He opened the blinds, although he wouldn't be able to see them if they were walking uptown to the theater.

  But he did see them. They appeared by the skateboarders’ jump and stood watching the stunts, chatting with one of the kids. They stayed there for a ridiculous amount of time. Then they started walking uptown.

  He sat down on the sofa with an odd feeling, something he couldn't name. It wasn't irritation. It wasn't frustration. It wasn't about Diane, and it wasn't about Javier. It was something else. He studied the boy's backpack, which was overflowing with things from home: handwritten letters, guava paste.

  It was astonishing: he had the urge to call María.

  It was a five-star June morning. Diane walked down Tenth Avenue, clutching her bag with the certified checks, ignoring truck exhaust and the aroma of fried grease. She thought about what hour she would have to leave the theater to be on time for the closing on the East Twenty-first Street apartment, how many new features she would need to book for the first season of Cinema II, whether she should buy new clothing for summer or just wait for the old stuff, which would come out of storage when she moved into the new place. She had a better class of problems as of today.

  The series was “Fabulosity,” and she'd scheduled her favorite British films from the sixties to coincide with freedom and summer vacation in the air. “Anyone who can remember the sixties was not in London at the time,” Michael Caine had said of the period. “Everywhere you went there was someone wh
o was going to do something great—if not in show business then in something else, and if not now, soon. The energy was like a giant express train of talent that had no stops or stations…. You met someone one day and the next day they were all over the papers for some reason; they had jumped from the train and landed safely.”

  Beneath a marquee announcing Darling (John Schlesinger, 1965), she saw Javier waiting for her with a dreamy expression on his face. His thick, dark curls were even more spectacular than his father's, and he seemed to be in the midst of important, creative thoughts. His face lit up when he saw her.

  Coming out of the theater the previous night, he had said, “That is the bestest movie I ever see!” The air was sultry, the traffic had died down and she couldn't remember when she'd last felt so fine. She'd gone back to her rented room with kitchenette too tired and happy to kill the water bugs in the bathroom. There was something genuinely wonderful about Javier.

  “My father says that you are one excellent teacher.”

  “Nice to hear! Is he around?”

  “Yes, he is under construction. I love the Hard Day Nights. Thank you!”

  She decided to avoid the construction for now, and brought Javier back to her office. He immediately pulled up a chair and sat astride it, facing her.

  “Diane, what you do here?”

  “What do I do here?”

  “Yes, what do you do here?”

  “I present classic films in a creative format.” She gave him a current schedule. “I manage the theater, plan the film series. I'm overseeing this expansion that your dad is designing.”

  “Dad is a good architect?”

  “Yes, he is a good architect,” she said, smiling at his earnest expression. The phone rang, and a look of annoyance passed across his face, a look that reminded her so much of his father that she almost laughed. “I see you like jewelry,” she said, when she hung up.

  “This is from one girlfriend,” he said, pointing to one of the rings. “This is from one mother. This is from one aunt. This is from Grandmother.”