Dominicana, page 18
The Spanish pavilion is the jewel of the fair, you know?
Of course, says César.
We fled Spain because of Franco. And yet, here we are visiting his pavilion, to ease the homesickness.
César, can we sit for a minute? I ask.
Excuse me, sir, he says, tips his hat to the man and then comes over to me.
We have to keep moving, Ana, I can’t do this by myself.
César’s annoyed. He’s spent fourteen dollars and we still have to make it back. I owe him that much. But the unforgiving sun beats on us, without a breeze.
Pastelitos, I say weakly. But we find a few takers.
Miss, miss! Can I take a picture with you?
An older white woman walks over to me. She touches the rose on my hair.
Boy! she calls out to César, gesturing that he stand next to me and turn around so his back faces the camera and they can see the flag better.
Instead, César places the basket in front of him and rolls back the towel to show her the pastelitos. I’m embarrassed for César, for how submissive he acts before this woman.
Miss, twenty-five cents.
When she understands he doesn’t want to take the photograph, the woman turns to her husband and says, Those thieves. All they want is money. She says it loud enough for me to recognize Juan’s tone when talking about blacks and Puerto Ricans and Jews and Americans and anyone not Dominican.
César, please let the lady take our picture.
He stands so that we’re now the centerpieces of a wedding cake. A crowd gathers around us.
The lady hands over a dollar bill to me, then tells us to smile for her camera.
I smile and try to stay still, try not to pay attention to the crowd of tourists taking my photo. Why do they want our photo? What will they do with it? What if Juan sees—
The flashes blind me.
I place the basket back on my head. From the slump on César’s shoulder it’s clear we’ve both lost something.
Pastelitos! I sing in a loud voice to make up for César’s sudden silence. I smile wider than before, when handing customers pastelitos, and especially when collecting the money in the pouch César sewed into my skirt.
When we’ve sold seventeen dollars’ worth, I ask César if we can sit on the green lawn across the International Pavilion where the thick grass looks untouched. Why is no one else sitting on this beautiful stretch under the trees, this sanctuary from the sun? I need to rest my feet. To reorganize the pastelitos, eat some myself, and have César fetch me some water. Maybe I can even go to the bathroom. Holding it in hurts. My ankles must be the size of my knees. I’m only six months along—imagine my feet at nine months?
César undoes the flag from around his neck and lays it on the grass.
Sit here, he says. Are you okay?
In his gaze, I see my own glassy eyes and dark circles, my parched lips, and the sweat beads all over my forehead.
Yes. Water. I force a smile again.
I watch him run to a frankfurter cart and buy a Coca-Cola.
I don’t know where to get water, he says. He twists the cap off and places it in my mouth. The cold and sweet instantly energize me.
Bathroom. Need bathroom, I say after a long gulp.
Maybe someone will let you skip the long line. Wait here.
He runs off. I watch him dash in and out of the crowd, searching for a kind person who’d do me a favor. I step off the flag, slip off my shoes, and walk barefoot on the grass. I squat to relieve my back, to spread the weight of the baby across my thighs. I’m so tired. I cover myself with my skirt and as if I can become invisible by closing my eyes, look to God, toward the beam of the sun, and pee through my panties and into the grass like a dog marking its territory. A wave of relief; my body unclenches for the first time in hours. Free. I ask God for his protection and am grateful for the width of the skirt. Grateful for the anxious crowds rushing to and from the pavilion paying me no mind. Grateful for my invisibility.
When I open my eyes, I’m startled by the sight of the man with the jetpack flying overhead. Like the one on TV.
Will we really all be flying soon?
I search for César’s bright white shirt and pants. Far off, I hear drumming. An accordion. A steel drum. I listen to the competing sounds of the shooting fountains, the golf cart backing-up beeps, the squeals of children. I stand up. The heaviness of the cotton skirt drapes over my legs. I arrange the two baskets close to me. Using the baskets as a shield, I pull off my underwear and ball it into a small plastic bag to be placed in the trash. I go to the edge of the fountain nearby and wash my hands.
Pastelitos, I sing to the people who pass me by while I enjoy the fruits of my own recipe. It has been two and a half hours. Lunchtime has already passed. Will we be able to sell all of this food?
Miss! A large wooden stick taps me on my back.
I flinch. A policeman. A gun on his belt.
My name is—
Ana! César yells from a few feet behind him.
César! I cry as he comes over and takes me by the shoulders.
All right, kids, off the lawn, says the cop. Nobody on the grass.
César and I grab our baskets and scurry toward the cement paths.
The policeman turns his back on us to scold another couple nearby.
* * *
We walk up and down the paths in the park and take breaks on benches.
They’re too soft now. We should just give them away, I say. My inner thighs are raw from rubbing against each other. The heat has made me delirious. Can’t we go home and take a shower?
We can’t give up now. César pushes away a paper cup from a bench and wipes the seat so I can sit. He places the baskets by my feet.
I can’t anymore, I say, afraid to disappoint him. If I take another step I will die.
We have made thirty-six dollars and fifty cents minus the fourteen dollars spent so far.
We did good, no? I say, then burst into tears.
César crouches between my legs, kneels on both knees, and places his hands on my cheeks.
Why are you crying? What happened? He uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe my tears.
I am, I’m … so tired.
His pants and the hem of my skirt are grass stained and filthy. I want him to say, Let’s go. Forget the hundred or so pastelitos still left in the basket. Leave it for the hungry, for the men who sleep on the benches when the park’s closed.
Watch this, he says. The sun is about to set right behind the globe.
César leaps across the narrow walking path. He leans forward and positions himself so he appears to be carrying the earth on his back. He does this until I laugh.
Then he grabs the basket and calls out, Free pastelitos! Free! He tips his hat, dancing to an invisible merengue beat, giving people—me—a good show. He calls the white women beautiful and the old men boss. And when the basket is finally empty, he tosses it in the air and wears it over his hat. Children nearby clap their hands, along with me.
Stop! I laugh, my cheeks and insides hurting as he plops beside me and drapes his arms over me as limp as a rag doll.
Now we get to play tourist, he says.
Wait, where are we going?
To the Vatican.
He leaves the empty baskets on the ground by the bench and carries me, my arms tight around his neck. Sweat beads by his eyes.
You’re going to get a hernia, César! I say, holding my belly, although he makes me feel so light.
We marvel at the humongous dinosaur robot and the Ferris wheel.
Do you think one day we will all be able to fly, I say, and see each other when we make a phone call?
We’ll even be able to take a vacation on the moon, Ana Mañana. Imagine us walking on the moon.
Not if we are wearing these clothes, I say.
He finally puts me down when we reach the Vatican’s pavilion. The walkway is rolling at two miles an hour. We are on the first row, slowly moving past the large white sculpture of the Virgin Mary carrying Jesus after he was killed. Under the blue lights they look like ghosts. At least we made our money back, says César, and a little more.
I don’t think I can even walk to the train, I say.
We’re taking a taxi. Call me King Kong!
César lifts me again, like Mary does Jesus—except alive, on top of the world, feeling very much like a part of the future.
PART V
I no longer ask sister Marta Lucía whether I can use the bathroom. She greets me with her hands hidden inside her black dress, bows her head, and simply smiles as if my pregnancy is a sin. I want to explain that I’m married, but she doesn’t allow Spanish. Please, English only.
The class learns to greet each other:
Good morning. How are you?
Fine, thank you. And you?
I also learn: What time is it? and Where can I take the bus?
We learn the numbers and the names of the coins: pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters. We learn directions: right, left, straight ahead, behind you. Up and down, stop and go. And lifesaving words such as dangerous, hazardous, exit, help, emergency.
I’m sorry. I’m okay. It hurts. The body parts: elbow, shoulders, feet, hands. Colors: red, blue, green, yellow. Church, hospital, grocery store, and the names of the vegetables and fruits I don’t usually buy or eat—broccoli, brussels sprouts, cauliflower, kiwi. We learn so much each week. The two and a half hours we spend together fly by.
Sister Lucía frequently takes the class outside when the weather’s nice. To learn a language is to learn a culture, she says, and learning culture requires interaction.
Ready? She claps her hands for us to follow her to the park on 166th and Edgecombe Avenue, a playground for children, with swings, slides, benches, and lots of bushy trees.
Okay, very well then.
I wait for Sister Lucía’s instructions. Who wants to volunteer to try the swings?
I’ll do it, I say.
Are you sure? She looks for another volunteer.
But I grab the swing by the chain and settle on the thin wooden board. Only my toes reach the ground. The fact that I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I’m an invalid.
Very well then, Sister Lucía says and then to the class: Ana is sitting on the swing. When I push her, you can all say, Ana is swinging.
Ana is sitting on the swing, they say in unison.
Sister Lucía pushes me. Soon, I fly up in the air. I hold tight to the metal chains, worried that I’ll pee on myself, laughing uncontrollably. The class laughs with me.
Ana is swinging! they say.
It’s good to laugh, Sister Lucía says. Ana is laughing. We’re all laughing.
When the laughing settles she tells the class that although they may feel silly playing like children and maybe even embarrassed, the lesson to be learned is that one must try to say things even if one isn’t sure. One learns through one’s mistakes.
I want to swing and swing, gather leaves, watch the birds, and listen to their names: woodpecker, blue jay, cardinal.
I point to one I recognize from Los Guayacanes and ask Sister Lucía, How do you say?
Hummingbird.
Hum-ming-bird, I repeat it over and over in my head.
Suddenly Sister Lucía claps to signal that our lesson is done for the day. She gives us a sheet with many of the new words we’ve learned. I follow close behind her, wave good-bye. Is Sister Lucía going off to pray? When people aren’t looking, does she take off her habit and smoke cigars? The nuns near Los Guayacanes did. I don’t dare tell her when Juan arrives I might not be able to continue taking the classes. The last time I spoke to Juan, he said he would be home in a few weeks. If and when he finds a good flight.
The fighting is almost over, he said.
And ours will resume. The breath will start calling again. I’ll learn no more English. I will no longer be able to sell my food to César’s friends.
After class is over, I stay behind with a few of the members from the group and give them some pastelitos. Though we only know a few words of English and have little to say to one another, we appreciate each other’s company. Someone always brings something. Strange things: spongelike buns with jam inside and flaky desserts made with honey.
On my way home I also offer pastelitos to the elderly who find refuge during the day under the large maple trees, and feed the birds in the square in front of the church. At night, the same square becomes dangerous.
Stay clear of Edgecombe, Amsterdam, and St. Nicholas, I’ve been warned by Juan, who was mugged once while walking from a parking spot on Edgecombe. Standing at the streetlight on Broadway I imagine a car hitting him at the very moment he crosses Avenida Independencia. Then his plane diving into the sea. Then Juan disappearing in a hot-air balloon into the sky.
When Mamá gets angry there’s always a tempest. Everyone thinks it’s typical unpredictable Dominican weather, but without fail, every time Mamá realizes she can’t cover the sun with one finger she screams so loud in frustration the sky collapses.
Burnt out from all the fighting and sleepless nights, the rebels are now rejoicing. The tempest is a nice break from the war—who can think of war when strong winds are ripping off rooftops? Let the people who have stood by watching teenagers die these past few months fight the impossible war with nature. The flood currents pull everyone from their feet and the palm trees hold on for dear life. The city is a mess.
Those who know about Mamá and her supernatural ability gossip at bars and in beauty salons, asking what in the world pissed her off in such a way to cause all this commotion.
Three days of relentless rain triggered by one uneventful afternoon. After a hardy lunch and leisurely siesta, Yohnny admitted what Mamá had already suspected.
I’m madly in love with Juanita.
What about New York? Mamá thundered. Your dreams of getting out of here?
I’m not going anywhere without her!
First, Teresa falling for a good-for-nothing, and now this?
Rational as she is, Mamá should’ve known. Juanita and Yohnny started like many cousins who share rooms and beds throughout childhood. Most grow out of the petting and humping. But there isn’t much to do or people to see in Los Guayacanes.
So Mamá saw to it that Juanita be placed in a permanent housekeeping position at a house in the far end of the capital. One less mouth to feed. One less girl to fret over. With time, Yohnny will forget and find new tail to chase. She’s sure of it. The boy has no car or motorbike, let alone a decent pair of shoes.
But stubborn Yohnny doesn’t lose his stride. He quickly begins to do favors for some Yankee army men who patrol the area in their military trucks. With the capital on fire keeping everyone distracted and busy, the so-called peacekeepers look for Communist activity elsewhere. They know that the mosquito buzzing around one’s face always has a hidden accomplice that will eventually bite. The bite appears later, when it really itches, when it’s too late to swat the bugs dead.
Yohnny calls the Yankees his friends. He hooks them up with weed and mamajuana and local women looking for visas or money. In exchange, the Yankees promise him a visa to New York. There are days Yohnny breaks curfew and returns short of breath and nervous.
Although Mamá is weak-kneed for any man in uniform carrying a gun—except Teresa’s El Guardia—she has a bad feeling about this Yohnny-Yankee business. Call it a mother’s intuition. These army boys will inevitably be the end of Yohnny. Is he working as a spy? Maybe keeping Yohnny away from Juanita is only deepening his troubles? Maybe, just maybe if she sends him to La Capital on an errand, the Yankees will find another sucker like Yohnny to do their bidding.
Juan has yet to drop off the gifts and letters that I had sent them from New York.
Here you go, Mamá says to Yohnny one morning. Go to the capital.
She tosses him the keys to the motorbike and folds a few pesos into his shirt pocket.
Fetch our things and visit with Juanita if you want.
Really?
The chaos in La Capital has settled. The worst is over.
Yohnny takes Juanita’s address and kisses the notepaper.
Yes, of course, Mamá says. Who am I to get in the way of love?
My breath is finally in sync with the city’s. I can hear sounds of music. A fire alarm, a police siren, a bus halting at its stop, a garbage truck backing up, and so on. At first they were so loud, almost unbearable, always alarming, but now they sound as pleasant as the radio or the TV or a house full of people. Maybe so many people in New York City live alone because its noises keep them company.
César sleeps through everything. And like all the other Sunday mornings, when he is off work and lazy and fully at my disposal, I wait and wait for him to wake up. Today we’re supposed to go to the beach. I resist the impulse to pounce on him like Lenny would do when he wanted my attention. We’d wrestle in the bed and I would trap him, my knees on his arms until he surrendered.
I try not to look at the freckles on César’s nose, how they’re more pronounced from the sun. I ache whenever he looks at me as if he’s willing to do anything I want. Nothing is impossible, he says, even when his eyes are filled with tension. Such an unusual man. How he laughs in the most devilish way when someone trips but is just as quickly moved to tears by a song or kind gesture. I resist being taken by his smell of sweet spices and cigarettes, which slips into everything in the apartment.
When the coffee percolates and the sky turns from aluminum-gray to a warm purple to a bright blue, César jolts up from the sofa and says, What day is it?
Sunday. Remember the beach? I want to go before I get so big someone mistakes me for a whale.
I’m wearing Juan’s button-down shirts over one of his T-shirts, which now hugs my belly. My skirt no longer zips up all the way.
César slaps his cheeks to wake himself, rubs the new hair growth on his chin.
I have already packed our beach bag with two bath towels, a small cooler filled with water, some apples and bananas.
Should I also pack some sandwiches?
