The Battered Suitcase July 2008

by Battered Suitcase

  "No. Like I said, my woman... "

  "Well, if your woman waits. But let me offer some advice. To give thanks in Spanish, don't say 'grassy ass.' Try saying it as your word 'gracious' with a slight lisp on the c. Then say it fast. Say it with style, so that it comes out 'Grathias.'"

  The man's manner had seemed gentle, but when he said "Grathias," his voice hardened and he struck a pose reminiscent of a matador preparing to strike. The violence of it jarred Michael.

  "You'll find people friendlier if you do," the old man concluded softly.

  "Grathias. I'll remember that."

  "Are you sure you don't need my help?" the old man persisted.

  "No. My people are from here. I know what I'm doing."

  "Ah. Then I bid you buenos d?as." The man strolled off, the silver tip of his cane tapping.

  Michael continued down La Rambla. He wasn't going back to Marci, not without tea and juice, but he wanted to be away from the old man and his sad-eyed solicitude. And coffee sounded good; he was dying for coffee. Screw it, he thought, Marci can just wait. He took a table on the patio of the Caf? de L'Opera and, pointing to pictures on the menu, ordered coffee and rolls.

  As he waited, he gazed across La Rambla to study the Gran Teatre del Liceu, Barcelona's 160 year-old opera house. With its sand-colored fa?ade, its columns and balconies, and its arched, two story windows, it seemed to Michael a palace. Between the windows, two long, red banners ran down the wall of the building. Like sails, they billowed in the breeze. As they filled, Michael gasped.

  "A problem, Se?or?" asked the waiter, setting down rolls and coffee.

  "The banners," said Michael, pointing, "what are they for?"

  "For the festival to commemorate the 85th anniversary of the birth of Don Vicente Diego. He was a very great writer, a Barcelonan. Have you heard of him?"

  "Yes," Michael whispered, unable to take his eyes off the banners. The face of his grandfather - Abby's face - stared back.

  ~

  Had Michael known of the festival honoring his grandfather, he never would have come to Barcelona, no matter how badly Marci wanted a tan. He'd never forgiven the old man.

  They'd been close once, so close Michael called him Abby, short for abuelo, the Spanish word for grandfather. The day after his seventh birthday - the day Michael lost both his parents to a boating accident on the Hudson - Abby took him to live high in the sky on east 72nd.

  The apartment wasn't what one might expect for a man whose plays and films earned millions: just two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room with Abby's desk, an old TV, and lots of books. Widowed, Abby was a man of Spartan tastes who refused to have more than he needed. But the view was spectacular, especially at night.

  "Look, Michael, at all the lights," Abby would say, lifting him up to see out the window. "See how they sparkle like a pirate's treasure?"

  Abby immediately established their routine. Mornings, sleepy-eyed, he would wake Michael with sweet, milky coffee and a buttered roll. "Miguelito, it is time to greet the new day," he would urge softly. He could still feel Abby's warm hand as they walked to school, still see his grandfather-so dignified in his three-piece suit and yellow bow tie - wave from outside the school gate. "Learn well, Miguel!" he would call.

  Afternoons, they would work together: Abby writing at his desk while Michael sat across from him at a TV table doing his homework. Sometimes, the scratch of the old man's pen would pull him away from his math or science and he would watch as words poured from Abby onto the page. He loved the grace with which that strong, blunt-fingered hand danced. It was as if God or a ghost whispered in Abby's ear and he simply copied out what he heard.

  By the time Michael started high school, he could help Abby with his work. Evenings, the old man sat back and listened as Michael read aloud the pages completed that day. Michael loved Abby's plays and stories. They were so stirring. They spoke of freedom and self-determination and what the world might be without tyranny and want.

  Going with Abby to the Broadway opening nights, the film premieres, and the awards banquets was exciting. The courtly Spanish gentleman taught him how to dress and make his manners: to say "please," "thank you," and "may I have," to open the door for his elders, and to stand for the beautiful women who came to their table. Everyone treated Abby with such reverence. Michael longed to be treated that way.

  Michael tried emulating his grandfather. Pad and pen in hand, he'd wait for the words to pour forth. But they never did. Abby said it was because he didn't have that kind of mind. "You're not an idle dreamer like your grandfather, and thank God for that! You are a helpful, practical boy. And with your genius for math and science, I know you will do great work. Someday you will be a doctor healing the sick, or a scientist unlocking the secrets of the universe. In that, I have faith."

  The older Michael grew, the less he shared that faith. True, it was at the blackboard with equations and at the laboratory dissecting table that his own hand moved effortlessly, as if guided by an unseen force. And he liked the feeling volunteering at the hospital gave him, the satisfaction that came from helping someone else. But all that counted for less than nothing with his classmates who shunned him as a "grind" and a "know-it-all-geek."

  And the future Abby painted - college, then medical school, then years of post-graduate training-loomed before him like some steep and craggy mountain, not impossible to climb, but tremendously hard and lonely. He didn't want to be stuck in some lab. He wanted to be out amidst the city's lights and the glamour of his grandfather's set. What he really wanted was an actor's fame.

  Senior year, he gave up the science club, and Hospital Volunteers, to join the school's theater society. Drama coach George Lipson gave him the lead in Cabaret. "Excellent Michael, excellent!" the slim, beautifully dressed teacher praised during private rehearsals. "With your looks and talent, you'll go all the way. We'll make your grandfather proud. He'll come to the performance, yes? You'll introduce me, yes? So we can plan your future."

  Abby did not come. But when the mail arrived the day after the show, Abby was elated.

  "It is here, Michael! It came!" he cried. "Columbia has accepted you as a pre-med student. All your dreams are coming true."

  "I'm not going," said Michael.

  "What?"

  "I'm not going to college. I'm going to be an actor."

  "An actor? Oh no. No, no - that is not where your talent lies."

  "George says I have talent. He says there's always room for someone bright and fresh like me in the theater."

  "George?"

  "Our drama teacher. He says with my connections, it'll be easy. He was in Cats, and if anyone should know, it's him."

  "He is wrong. The theater is never easy, especially for one with no talent."

  "How would you know?" cried Michael, stung. "You didn't even come."

  "I know from your readings. Michael, do not do this. Do not throw away your gifts!"

  "Some gift! I get to spend my life in a laboratory, hanging out with bullfrogs and rats? How come I don't get to have friends like yours?"

  "God chose your talents. I didn't."

  "Yeah? Well George says I have talent for the stage. He says lots of people with lots less have made it. And with your help, I'd make it in no time. It'd be easy."

  "Is that what you want? Something that's easy?"

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "I forbid you!" snapped Abby. "I forbid you from the theater!"

  "You can't forbid me. It's a free country. I can do what I want."

  "Yes? And who will support you? What will you do for money?"

  "I'm eighteen. You have to give me the money my parents left."

  "But that is for college!"

  "It's mine and I want it. Give it to me."

  "But... "

  "Listen, I know my rights. If you don't give it to me, I can call the cops, tell them you're stealing from me!"
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  Throughout the theater world, Abby's temper was legendary. Now, for the first time ever, he lost that temper with Michael. Small but strong as a bear, he swept Michael almost off his feet and out the front door. "Get out and don't come back!" he roared. "Not until you're man enough to accept who you are!"

  Michael walked the streets for hours, furious at the old man, then spent the night at a friend's. When he returned to his grandfather's the next morning, the doorman would not let him in. Instead, he gave Michael his suitcase and an envelope containing a bank book and a note:

  Michael,

  As you are eighteen, I think it best you make your own way. Here are your clothes and the ten thousand dollars left you by your parents, plus all the interest earned. Should you change your mind, you may call me.

  Your grandfather.

  He couldn't believe Abby's betrayal. He refuses me? And then throws me out? Fuck him! I'll do it myself.

  Through "Roommate Finders" he found a situation on the West side, sharing a grimy two-room walk-up with four other actors. The last man in, he got the futon in the front hall for his $500.00 a month. He paid for headshots and resumes and began auditioning. When he heard the sighs, he started acting lessons.

  It didn't take a math whiz to figure, at New York prices, he'd soon be broke. He went door-to-door looking for work. With no degree or experience, the best job he could find was as a busboy and waiter-in-training

  His acting went nowhere. Occasionally, he'd get a small role in an amateur show, but that was the best he could do. He couldn't land a paying job, or even find an agent. At times, an equation or two would dance through his head and he'd wonder about returning to school. But the mountain of years was too daunting. And he refused to give Abby the satisfaction. He learned bartending, took more classes, and kept auditioning. Still, he couldn't find a paying part.

  It was in the third year of this apprenticeship that Abby died. Michael didn't go to the funeral; he saw it on Eyewitness News.

  A lawyer called. Abby's will left everything to the Vicente Diego Charitable Trust for Scientific Research. There was one provision for Michael. If he went to college and studied mathematics, science, or medicine, the Trust would pay his tuition and a generous stipend. The same was true for graduate work. Later, if Michael needed a research grant, the trustees would look favorably upon his application. However, the Trust would not support Michael's acting. Michael hung up on the lawyer.

  Several weeks later, Marci prowled with a feline grace into the struggling caf? he ran. Her red hair flamed and her green eyes sparkled as they bantered across the bar. The first time she laughed her wild, raucous laugh, all he could think of was sex. She hauled him back to her loft for a night he'd never forget.

  Marci was a party girl whose dad did real estate. She wanted to convert one of his downtown warehouses into a dance club. She took Michael to see the place and liked his ideas and his knowledge of the business so much, she hired him to help build and run it. Then she moved him into her loft.

  They built the club cheap. Most of the money Marci's dad fronted went into the long bar, the huge dance floor, and the state-of-the-art sound system. They bought Sears patio furniture and some lion cages from a bankrupt circus, painted pictures of jungle animals on the walls, and called the place "New York Zoo."

  The law said they had to serve food, but Marci's dad didn't want to spend the money. "When it comes to the bar business," he said n a voice still rough from Hell's Kitchen, "food's a loss-leading pain in the ass."

  It was Michael's idea to rent space to push cart vendors. They wheeled in their carts to perfume the club's air with the aromas of food from the streets: hot dogs with sauerkraut, onions and mustard; garlic-laced sausages, gyros, and kabobs; lo-mein, fried rice, and General Tso's chicken; plus melons and ices and Cracker Jack for dessert. And hadn't all the preppies and yuppies and Wall Street wanna-be's just loved eating all that junk with their Stoli and vintage champagnes?

  Marci changed his name to Mickey and dressed him in silk jackets and grungy jeans so he'd have just the right cachet. They schmoozed and networked and were so busy building their party list that Michael barely noticed the silliness of the crowd. The club made a ton and he was a star and it had been so very easy. But sometimes at dawn, as the champagne whirled him to sleep, an equation or two would unfurl in his head and he'd wonder whose voice he heard lamenting: "Such a waste."

  Marci's dad was a shrewd operator who said clubs were fragile things. When he saw the first three per cent drop in gross receipts, he sold the place for a mint and sent Marci and Michael on this junket to Europe while he built a new place uptown.

  That's what I have to look forward to back in New York, thought Michael, running another playground for the rich. That, and the acting thing.

  ~

  The red banners snapped in a stiffening breeze. His coffee half-finished, his rolls uneaten, Michael stood, wanting to be away. He was so cold. By the opera house clock, it was only seven-thirty, still a half hour to kill. He would warm himself with a walk down to the Christopher Columbus monument overlooking the harbor.

  As he paid the bill, he noticed his cash was light. He hated not having plenty. He wasn't sure how much he had, but he knew it wasn't enough.

  He remembered passing an ATM and walked back up La Rambla to the gaily-tiled sidewalk mosaic by surrealist Joan Mir?. Something about one of the buildings caught his eye. He looked up to see a large, green Chinese dragon curled around a pole jutting from the building. Hanging below it was the sculpture of a half-furled umbrella, what Abby used to call a bumbershoot.

  He knew this place! It was where Abby had fought his brother Francisco over the fascists' right to rule. Francisco was a colonel in Franco's army who insisted that Abby enlist. Abby had beaten and humiliated Francisco so badly that he'd had to flee, ultimately coming to America as a political refugee. The brothers never spoke again.

  "Runs in the family," Michael growled to himself, separating his card from the clip. He stared at the rod of Asclepius and remembered the pride in Abby's voice when he'd said: "So you'll always remember your gifts."

  Eyes blurring, throat constricting, Michael fed the machine his card and stabbed at buttons as images of Abby rushed through his head: sleepy-eyed, offering morning coffee; so dignified on their walks to school; "Learn well, Miguelito? I have faith." Oh Jesus, I miss that old man.

  A hand clutched his shoulder and he turned. A cocoa-skinned boy stood before him, his dark hair unruly, his eyes full of pain. He had a harelip and his bottom teeth jutted like the rotted posts of a picket fence.

  "Dinero?" the boy mumbled. "Yo necessito dinero."

  Michael's heart went out to the boy. Then he remembered how humiliated he'd been by what Marci said about the junkie. He knocked the hand away and turned back to the ATM. But the boy would not be denied. Again he grasped Michael's shoulder. "Por favor, dinero!" he hooted, his breath rank with old garlic.

  It was the stink that made Michael snap. Wheeling, he shoved with all his might and felt triumph as the boy stumbled away. But when the boy collapsed in the gutter, his elation turned to shame. He rushed over and reached out his hand. The boy wouldn't have it. Wiping scraped palms on mud-splattered trousers, he spat at Michael and stalked away.

  Michael ducked his head under the stares of the crowd that had gathered. Behind him, the ATM beeped. He swiped up his card and money, shoved them into the clip, which he dropped into his jacket pocket, and hurried for the harbor.

  He was just outside the large, sun-filled square known as the Pla?a Reial when the hare-lipped boy caught up with him again. Michael never saw him coming. One moment he was walking along, still berating himself-the next, he was jostled from behind. Stumbling, he felt a weight in his jacket pocket. He looked in time to see a hand emerge with his money clip. His eyes traveled up the arm to meet the boy's frightened stare.

  Then they were off. Quick as
a rabbit, the boy ran into the plaza. Between giant palms and around a fountain he fled, Michael's silver clip flashing in the sun. Michael was fast, but the boy was faster. He dashed through an arcade, then a maze of caf? tables, veered left, dodged right, leapt a chair, and was off again across the square.

  Michael raced to catch up. As he charged through the maze, he tripped and spilled into the square. He looked up just in time to see the boy's dirty shirttail disappear down an alley.

  Michael gave chase. If this had been New York, he'd have let it go. His street savvy would have told him it was too dangerous, that he'd get himself killed. But this was Barcelona, the city of his grandfather, and somehow, he felt invincible.

  Halfway down the alley, he came upon a teenaged girl standing against a building. Her skin was also cocoa, much like the boy's. But she was beautiful. Tall, willowy, with dark, shimmering hair and flashing black eyes, she looked so clean in her faded jeans and pleated shirt, freshly starched and achingly white. She held a deck of tarot cards.

  One look at the girl and Michael knew she was a gypsy. Then he knew the boy was a gypsy and that somehow, the two were connected. He didn't know how he knew. He just knew.

  "Fortuna, Se?or? You like I tell your fortune?" the girl asked, coming off the wall to stand in his way. Her English was halting and heavily accented, but Michael wasn't buying it.

  "All right," he panted. "Where is he?"

  "Qu?, Se?or?"

  "The boy who stole my money. Where is he?"

  "Qu??"

  "Don't qu? me! You know what I'm talking about. Look-tell the boy I'm sorry. Tell him to keep the money. I just want the clip back. It's special to me. It was from my grandfather. Mi Abuelo. You understand?"

  "Qu??" she asked again, a smirk gathering at the corners of her mouth.

  "How about polic?a? You comprendo polic?a? Because that's who I'm gonna get. Donde est? la polic?a?"

  "Por qu? tu quieres la polic?a?"

  "Por qu? tu eres una gitana y su hermano es un gitano y ustedes son... son... how do you say thieves? Because that's what you and your brother or cousin - whatever the hell he is - are. Gypsies and thieves! Don't deny it. I know."