“So what? You know that age has no meaning. You of all people.” “It has nothing to do with what I know or don't know.” She was trying to get him to leave. This was terrible. “Diane, I don't care how old you are. You are my country now. Come here.”
She got out of the bed, and he got up to follow her. He tripped over something on the floor and landed directly on his kneecap. He sat on the bed, in tremendous pain, holding his vibrating knee. She was in her bathroom, unreachable. He wanted to help her settle in. He wanted to live with her in her new apartment. He wanted to go to the supermarket and the cinema with her, and do normal everyday things. She came back and sat down next to him on the bed.
“Javier, if you want to see me again, go home now and say nothing,” she whispered, her hand on his rounded back. “Otherwise, we have no options. Do you understand?”
Javier dressed and left, in spite of his better judgment. He'd discovered something critical, and he didn't want anything to upset that. He didn't take his game out. He walked down Seventh Avenue South, awake, alive. Everything was bright, outlined, intriguing and new.
Vladimir was on the sofa, writing in a checkbook.
Javier's mood soured. He put his key in the bowl by the door.
“You're home late,” Vladimir said.
And what are you going to do about it?
“What did you do?”
Javier wanted to tell him about every last caress, and then tell him to go fuck himself. He wanted to say, You know nothing about life, you know nothing about Diane, you are a blind, selfish fool.
Instead, he took off his shoes. “We saw a beautiful French movie.” That shut him up. His father didn't even like movies! How can you be alive and not like movies? Javier contemplated taking a shower, but it would be sad to wash the smell of Diane off his body. He stayed in the bathroom, looking at himself and thinking about her for the longest time. He was ready to do whatever she told him.
Diane woke up feeling as if she'd just driven a car into a preexisting train wreck. Information began passing through her head.
“OH MY GOD!” she said out loud, and tripped over a box of long-lost junk as she staggered into her new bathroom. She resented every last piece of chipped pottery, beaten-up furniture and all the pointless equipment—humidifiers, dehumidifiers, hair driers, rags. Why hadn't she thrown all this crap out? One-room living only worked if you were monastic about it.
She felt better once she was in the shower; she felt better than she had in years. She connected with Javier on every possible level. She had never been more in tune with a person: this had to count for something.
Still. What a mess this was going to be.
No shampoo: she hadn't set up the bathroom yet, and she didn't want to get out and hunt for it—it could be anywhere. She wanted to stay in warm water all day.
You couldn't just have a normal boyfriend, said a voice in her head that sounded like Connie Kurasik on helium. Like David Blicksman on Norwood Avenue: he had such a crush on you and you ignored him. And that nice fellow from the film archive, who followed you out to California. He was so interested in you, and you paid absolutely no attention. And what about that older man, the psychiatrist you met at the cooking class in France? That could have gone somewhere. This interlude was noteworthy in that all the men mentioned had been happily married to other women for fifteen or twenty years by now. There hadn't been a “normal boyfriend” in well over a decade.
She had to get out of the shower sometime.
In Lovely and Amazing (Nicole Holofcener, 2002), a self-involved and professionally frustrated married woman in her late thirties (Catherine Keener) takes a job at a one-hour photo shop and begins a distracted affair with her seventeen-year-old co-worker (Jake Gyl-lenhaal) out of boredom and despair. Her interest in him becomes more active, and she's caught completely off guard when his mother arranges for her to be arrested for statutory rape.
The moving-day disarray was out of control; the remains of the previous evening's Chinese takeout were scattered over the tops of several boxes. Diane sat on the couch in a towel. She had to organize. She had to unpack. She had to do something with this chaos. But first she had to call Vladimir.
She realized she had misdialed his number and she stabbed the button to end the call as a cranky male voice answered, “Hello? Who is that? Hello!”
She kept pressing the button, and he kept saying “Hello?”
She hung up. When she picked up the phone again, the same man's irritated voice was saying, “Who is this? How dare you?”
“I'm terribly sorry, I dialed a wrong number,” she said, and hung up again. She waited a moment, and picked up the phone.
The wrong number was still on the line. “You didn't even have the courtesy to apologize.”
“I just apologized.”
“Afterwards. When you had to,” he said with venom. “You didn't take responsibility initially. You just hung up.”
“Look, I'm sorry; I have an important phone call to make.”
“And it's okay to disturb me on a Saturday?”
“What kind of disturbance? Your phone rang. If that's too disturbing, maybe you shouldn't have a phone.” She hung up.
She waited a moment. What time was it? She didn't have a clock. Somewhere among her effects were a watch and a cellphone that had the time. She couldn't be bothered to look. She needed to reach Vladimir.
The phone rang. She picked it up, and heard someone hanging up.
Twenty seconds later, the phone rang again.
It could be Javier. She answered it.
“So, how does that feel to you?” the wrong number said.
“What a miserable, pathetic life you must have to hold someone hostage like this. I'm calling the phone company to report you for harassment.”
“I could do the same thing.”
“You DO that. Now hang up the phone.”
She hung up, and rose in frustration.
Well, why call Vladimir in the first place? Was she seeking his approval? She didn't trust Javier not to tell him; perhaps she wanted her version to reach him first. What version? Your son makes you look like a rigid, embittered old man? She dressed rapidly and ran out of the new building with one thing on her mind: to see Javier.
In the final scene of the seriously underrated Spanking the Monkey (David O. Russell, 1994), the hero walks away from home in the rain the morning after spending a night in bed with his mother. Shocking, of course, but a perfectly logical extension of all that had come before in the film, which laid out in harrowing detail the particular dysfunction of a middle-class family in Connecticut (with the miserable mother immobilized in a leg cast, attention-starved and drinking; the intransigent father traveling on sales calls; the pre-med student forced to stay at home and help his mother instead of taking a coveted internship); and the potent mix of gin, frustration, pity and desire that led to the incestuous climax. The next day, Jeremy Davies, who plays the son, is seen hitchhiking on a highway, drenched and shocked. He looks like he's been scalded.
This was how Diane felt. Scalded. Terrified.
And happy, truly happy.
She may have been involved with Javier's father, but she wasn't his mother, after all.
It appeared that the madman was still alive after all. Step by step, they had orchestrated proof: the photo of the dictator in bed in an Adidas warm-up jacket, with an obviously dyed beard, reading a copy of Granma on his eightieth birthday, with his eightieth birthday as the headline; the photo of Hugo Chávez visiting his aging professor, the two of them wearing the same tomato-red button-down shirt; the photos of the concerned but quiet Cuban people gathered on the street to hear official notices. The fact that all the reports about the dictator in Havana had the byline “Mexico City” or “Santo Domingo” was not discussed.
That day he had the studio to himself: Chris and Paul were in Atlanta for their first weekend in the house and Magnus had gone home to Maryland to shock his bourgeois family. Vladimir dearly
hoped that Magnus's parents had tattoos of their own when Magnus arrived in a sleeveless T-shirt to show off his snake. Vladimir took advantage of the quiet to spend the day sorting through piles of papers and old drawings and straightening out the bookshelves.
He made a pot of decaffeinated coffee. The images of the tractable people of Cuba anxiously awaiting news of the health of their Great Leader disturbed him. Perhaps all the independent, confrontational, stubborn people with minds of their own had left by now, as Paul had suggested. Perhaps the Revolution had created the New Man after all—fearful, compliant, nonconfrontational, opinion-free. Perhaps Little Brother could run an island populated by these new people, even without the charisma of Big Brother. He poured himself a cup of the decaf.
This was nonsense. Yes, there were New Men in Cuba, as well as people who pretended to be New Men. But there were plenty of others who would jump at the chance to be free once the machine guns were pointed in a different direction. People were waiting to see what happened: running out into the eye of the storm was stupid and self-destructive. There would be change in Cuba.
He hadn't been able to get through by phone since the announcement on August 1, but he'd received a cryptic e-mail from his mother about some kind of medical aid from the people of Madrid to the people of Havana. Back when he lived on the island, he'd understood this kind of coded message; now he had no idea what it meant. On the other hand, he'd also received another e-mail from her announcing, “We still haven't heard any news about whether Javier's grandmother can come to visit him, but we are crossing our fingers.”
The censors would never be able to break that code.
Javier wasn't picking up the phone at home, and wasn't at the theater when he tried to reach him there. Vladimir hesitated a moment, then tried Diane on her cellphone. He didn't leave a message.
At five o'clock, Vladimir entered his apartment and was hit by a warm smell of fermentation, as if he had walked into a brewery.
He put his keys down. “I am not even going to ask,” he said.
“I'm making bread,” Javier said, hovering over a glass bowl of brown paste.
“I called you before, but I guess you were out. We're going to Bebo's for dinner tonight.”
“Is Diane coming?”
“You see Diane every day. I think you could give her the night off.”
“No,” Javier said, turning on the TV and staring straight ahead.
“Excuse me?”
“If Diane isn't coming, then I don't want to go.”
Vladimir took the remote control. “You know, it's over between me and Diane,” he said, turning off the TV. “You're not getting us back together.”
Javier said, “Ha,” and turned on his portable toy.
“You know, you can play chess on that thing.”
He nodded. “Right. I'm going out.”
It was probably a good thing that he didn't have to include Javier in every outing. Dinner at Bebo's would be a boring obligation for Javier.
“You know how to get where you're going?”
He nodded.
“You need money?”
Javier pulled a MetroCard and some cash from his pocket.
“When are you coming back?”
“I may stay with Diane tonight.”
“Where is she staying now?”
“A new place.”
A thought crossed his mind, and he dismissed it. “Okay have a good time.”
“In fact, I think I might move in there,” Javier said, walking out the front door.
Vladimir sat a moment, staring unfocused at the screen.
He poked his head out into the hall, where Javier waited in front of the elevator.
“You heard me,” Javier said, and stepped into the elevator.
The doors closed.
Things had been going much too smoothly. He hadn't really had anything like a personal discussion with Javier. He probably shouldn't have discouraged him from hanging out with the skateboarders and the kids in the neighborhood. Almost anything could have happened while he was playing chess on the Internet; he had twenty-three games going on at once now. He stared at his RedHotPawn personal page, where his wins, losses, draws and numerical ratings were displayed in color. A new assessment came to him unbidden: bad person. He tried to remember a time when he didn't have the feeling that he'd let everyone down.
PREVIOUSLY,when she was alone, understimulated and left to her own devices, Diane had felt as if the great big wide world was passing her by. Now, in the midst of everything, Diane felt as if the great big wide world had run her over.
The moment she reached the theater she realized she should have stayed home. She accomplished nothing that afternoon: her head was a scramble of desire, censure and rationalization. All she wanted was to get Javier back into her apartment. Javier had no problem with her proportions. In fact, he told her that a big ass was a great thing for a woman to have. However, like Vladimir, he wouldn't let her touch his rear end. Was this a Cuban thing? You often heard about macho Latin behavior; she hadn't experienced classic machismo with either of the Hurtados. But if she'd learned anything from Vladimir, it was that “Cuban” and “Latin” were rarely synonymous.
She was changing the display on the bulletin board in the lobby, thinking that he had held her hand in the same way he'd held the sheet of stamps, when Javier burst through the door. She ducked her head and made herself busy with the thumbtacks; she was in high school and had spotted a crush in the hall. He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist and put his mouth on the back of her neck.
So much for keeping a low profile. Diane broke away and whispered at him to follow her. He followed her down the empty corridor. She was almost positive that Cindy had seen them. Diane closed her office door with care.
“Look, you can't do that,” she said, as Javier came at her and kissed her with an open mouth. “Javier, stop. We have to be very careful.”
He pulled away. “You're not sorry?”
“Of course I'm not.” She put her head on his chest. “But it's touchy.”
“Touchy-touchy” he said, touching her rear end.
“Javier. It's awkward. How can I make you understand?”
He laughed. “Diane. I come from a place where everything is illegal, except this. You can't expect me to be scared. I want to live with you.”
She sank into the chaotic sofa. “Oh, what a mess this is going to be. What a big mess.”
“I'm ready.”
He began kissing and touching her face in a very sweet and ardent way.
This was wrong. This was fun. This was the point of life. What possibly was more important? Diane let her mind drift. They were smooching on the couch like this for some time when Cindy arrived.
“You're sick, you know that?” Cindy shouted. “Storm, get in here!”
So much for waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Storm arrived in a hurry, taking in the scene. “What's the problem?”
Cindy pointed at Diane and Javier on the couch. “Look at this: Is she fifty years old, or what?”
“Okay, let's calm down,” Diane said. She felt short of breath.
“I don't want to work for you anymore,” Cindy said. “You are disgusting.”
Javier said, “Cindy, that's enough.”
“And you! You're a liar!” She made a nasty face at him.
Diane was so tired.
“This is my resignation. I've been meaning to do this for a long time, Diane,” Cindy announced. She threw her keys on the floor and slammed the door behind her.
Storm waited. “Well, that was exciting. But the show must go on. Shall I take over the ticket booth?”
Diane nodded. “I'll work concessions, and we can switch after the second show.”
She turned to her boyfriend, who was, yes, a teenager. She almost did the math again, but stopped herself.
“I will do anything you tell me,” he said, with questions on his face.
“Why d
on't you take tickets?”
“And we'll go home later? Okay! I'll do a quick errand, and be right back.”
She smiled as he trotted out. A positive note, lost in the midst of the mess: She had a home to go home to! She sat at her desk, thinking abstract thoughts about what she would say to Vladimir, her parents, her sister, her friend Claire, for example—Claire, whom she had known for twenty-seven years, which was nine years more than Javier was alive. Math, such a pointless subject. There was nothing to say.
She looked up to find Vladimir standing in front of her, his head in a sweat.
“I want to know what exactly is going on between you and Javier.”
“Vladimir.” She swiveled a little in her desk chair.
“Well?” Vladimir was planted there, he wasn't moving.
“There's no easy way to tell you this. Javier and I have become involved. Romantically.”
“How is this possible?”
“Where have you been? We've spent all day, every day together, for almost three months. And I've loved every minute of it.”
“I enrolled him in that class to get him away from you.”
“Because I was such a horrible influence, taking him to movies and museums and concerts? Explaining democracy, private property, advertising and the post office—everything that you didn't do with him? You didn't even get him a map, Vladimir.”
He stared at her blankly.
“Meanwhile, you made it perfectly clear that you and I were finished, that you wanted nothing from me. So what do you care?”
“You did this to get back at me?”
“This isn't about you. This is about Javier, who is … interactive! Let me tell you what a refreshing change that is.”
“And the fact that he's a minor doesn't bother you?”
“He's eighteen.”
“Hardly an appropriate choice for you, Diane.”
“Here finally is someone who wants something from me. He and I laugh all day long. So he's eighteen. That's not my fault.”
He clenched his teeth as if she had angered him. “How will it end, Diane?”
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