MAKING IT LEGAL, page 7
“How do I look?” Santiago’s voice spoke from behind me, and I prayed he hadn’t heard me whispering about him. I turned in the seat and was pleasantly surprised. The black velvet pants fit him perfectly, except for the pants legs which were pinned up, ready for alterations. I got up from the couch and grinned at him.
“Much better, and that shirt really makes your eyes glow.” I walked over to him, but when I reached out to finger the soft white fabric, he stepped back.
“Diesel,” he wagged a finger at me. “Boundaries, please.”
“Of course.” I sighed.
“You were right. This steakhouse is excellent.” Santiago smiled as our server placed two baked potatoes smothered with sauteed mushrooms in front of him. “Normally they only have puny salads on the menu. This is how I like to eat. But oh my God, it’s so expensive!”
I laughed. “C’mon, babe, treat yourself occasionally. Look around you,” I reached across the table and patted his hand. “The decor alone makes the high prices worth it.” Dark wood covered the walls, with wine colored curtains hanging from the windows. This was fine dining at it’s best. So what if my Japanese Miyazaki steak costs ninety-eight dollars. It was totally worth it.
“Hey, remember. No touching.” Santiago winked at me. “Only in front of immigration.”
“Look, Santiago. If we don’t appear naturally affectionate, they might not believe us.” I sipped the delicious merlot he had chosen. “Plus we have to stay in the same hotel rooms and we are going to be living together. If we avoid touching each other entirely, it might tip them off that we are faking.”
Santiago grimaced, then placed his fork on the edge of his plate. “I don’t believe for a minute that immigration is going to give us any problems. We’re married, and we’ll be living in the same place.” He shrugged his shoulders. “They will ask me to say your pledge of allegiance, or something silly, then they’ll issue me the green card. It’s as simple as that. You’re overthinking things. I’m much more worried about Papa.”
“Santiago, trust me, we must act at least somewhat affectionate with each other at all times. If we’re only acting lovey dovey in public, it won’t come across as natural. It’ll appear forced.” I said, then reached over and squeezed his hand.
“Sorria, Senhor Bolsonaro!”
A flashbulb went off, temporarily blinding me. The sound of feet running across the parquet floors filled my ears. Gasps came from diners at surrounding tables.
“You, you’re not allowed here!” I heard a man yell, then I finally got a good look at the dude with the camera. It was the stocky ugly man from Nordstrom, the one I passed hurrying down the fitting room hallway. A man in a waiter's uniform, plus two other men in black suits surrounded him. They grabbed him by the elbows and dragged him out of the dining room.
“What the hell just happened?” I muttered, and when I faced Santiago he was slowly shaking his head. “Do you know who that was? And what the hell did he say to you?”
“Papa is going to be fucking livid.” He muttered. “That was the same paparazzi that photographed me fucking the presidential guard. Why the hell is he following me here in the states?” Santiago placed his face in his hands and groaned.
“Gentlemen, we sincerely apologize for that intrusion.” A man in a black suit stood by our table. He had a name badge on, indicating he was the manager. “Dinner is on us. We have a strict privacy policy, and paparazzi are never allowed here.” The man stared at us a moment, probably wondering who on earth we were and why a photographer snuck in here to take pictures of us. “Again, on behalf of our staff we apologize. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He snapped his fingers and a waiter bearing a bottle of wine rushed over and placed it on the table. When he was gone, I shook my head a few times, then spoke.
“What did he say to you? That cameraman, I don’t understand Portuguese.”
He sighed, then answered me.
“Smile, Mr. Bolsonaro.”
twelve
Santiago Moves In
“This is insane.” I mumbled. “Who the hell told the photographer we were in Vegas?”
The woman seated across from me on the train glanced over with an eyebrow raised. I shrugged my shoulders and went back to reading the horrific hit piece on me in the Correo Braziliense. It was Brasilia’s daily newspaper, and a picture of Diesel with his hand on mine at that steakhouse filled my phone’s screen. But it wasn’t just the picture stirring up trouble, it was the accompanying story about our marriage.
The paparazzi had done his homework. Over the last few days the Pap had discovered that we’d married, where the ceremony had taken place, and even got a quote from the Elvis impersonator who’d married us. My stomach churned thinking about Papa’s reaction. The reporter reached out to my father’s office, but he’d sternly refused to comment.
What was even more bizarre was how the gay websites had picked up the story. In their eyes Diesel and I were heroes, defying my conservative family so we could live together openly. If they only knew that our marriage was a fraud, that I’d married Diesel so I could remain in the US.
I felt naked, exposed somehow. This same paparazzi had already outed me in Brazil, but now it felt like the entire globe was sniffing around my personal life.
“I’m a boring person. Why do people care about me?” I raked my fingers through my hair, then the woman across from me got up and changed seats to one further away. “Good. Now I have a little privacy.”
Diesel and I had left Las Vegas the day after the steakhouse incident. I’d flown straight to DC while Diesel returned to Richmond. For the past week I’d packed up my stuff, and mourned the loss of my freedom.
“Ha, my so-called freedom.” I laughed. The gay websites were celebrating my freedom, when in my eyes I didn’t have any. I was now married to an escort, and by the look of things would have to live with him for a minimum of two years so I wouldn’t be deported and Diesel wouldn’t go to jail. To make matters worse, I’d agreed to a platonic arrangement. At first I thought that would be simple, but now I couldn’t stop thinking about Diesel in very non-platonic ways.
“Maybe we could…” My phone pinged, and I saw a message from my uncle.
Call me ASAP
“Shit.” I muttered, then placed the call.
“Your father has officially cut you off.” Were the first words out of Uncle Alfonso’s mouth. “I believe I deserve a big thank you.”
“Huh?” I was confused. “Um, thanks. And why am I thanking you?”
“My plan worked perfectly, and now you don’t have to worry about your parents bothering you again. You are free now, so enjoy it.” I could hear a smile in my uncle’s voice, though I wasn’t sure what he was talking about.
“What are you…?”
“The minute your father left DC, I discreetly tipped that photographer off about you and Diesel going to Las Vegas to get married. Nobody can trace it back to me, and now you are free to live your life the way you see fit.”
“Oh my fucking God.” I whispered. “It was you. Damn it, why didn’t you…?”
“I didn’t tell you because you wouldn’t have gone through with the marriage if I had. Now all you have to worry about is the state department, and convincing them your marriage is real.” My uncle chuckled. “Have you been able to, um, experience Diesel yet?”
“No, we’re keeping things platonic, and if we had gone to bed I wouldn’t be sharing details with you of all people.” I sighed. My fucking uncle was a perv. But, he had a point. By tipping off the paparazzi, he’d removed the threat of Papa somehow forcing me back to Brazil.
“Thank you, Uncle Alfonso.” I breathed, then saw the Richmond skyline approaching. “I’m on the train to Richmond and it’s about to pull into the station. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Give my regards to your…” My uncle paused for a second. “...husband.”
“Why did it take you an entire week to pack two suitcases?” Diesel asked when he opened his, no, our front door. I shrugged my shoulders, then he stepped back so I could come in. He didn’t need to know that I’d been purposefully avoiding him.
“Let me show you to your room, then I’ll bring you up to speed on a few things.” Diesel led me down a hallway toward the rear of the condo. “My former roommate Eddie liked this bedroom. He recently got married himself and moved to someplace in Mexico, can’t pronounce the name.” Diesel opened a door and I was greeted with a large wooden sleigh bed with matching bedside tables and a dresser drawer with a television on it. “Just put your suitcases on the bed. We need to talk.”
I did as he asked then followed him to the living room. “Guess who tipped off that paparazzi?”
“Who?” Diesel sat on one leather couch and I sat on the one opposite him. Piles of papers were scattered across the coffee table.
“Uncle Alfonso.”
“What?” Diesel’s mouth dropped open. “But, why?”
“I was a little pissed when he told me, but it actually helps us a lot.” I snatched a ruby-red throw pillow from beside me and clutched it to my chest. “Now we don’t have to worry about Papa. He’s officially disowned me, though I will miss him and Mama. I figure once he’s out of office we can…”
“That’s the least of our concerns.” Diesel interrupted. “Do you realize how much work we have to do to convince immigration that our marriage is valid?” He gestured toward the many forms on the coffee table.
“No, but I’m sure that…”
“Let’s start with the Form I-130.” He lifted a folder off the table and opened it. “Not only that, we need a ton of supporting documents too. This includes birth certificates, marriage certificates, financial documents, and…”
“Those are easy to get. Why are you stressing out about it?” I asked, then held my hand up. “Before you continue, I need a drink, preferably a strong one.” I would swear since I met Diesel my alcohol consumption had tripled.
“The bar is in the dining room.” He pointed behind him. Apparently he wasn’t waiting on me any longer. With a sigh I pushed myself off the couch and went in search of the bar, and Diesel followed along behind me.
“The state department wants to see pictures of us together, looking like a married couple. They want to see that our finances are mingled together, like a joint bank account, plus…”
“I don’t want to open another account.” I replied, though what I really wanted to say was I didn’t want to open one with him. I grabbed a glass off the bar and filled it with vodka.
“You don’t want ice or a mixer?” Diesel crossed his arms over his chest. I drank the contents of the glass, refilled it, then headed back to the living room. Diesel stayed behind for a moment, then returned with his own glass. He set it on a coaster and pointed at me.
“Look, just open a joint checking account and you can deposit my payments in it. But remember, that’s my money, even if your name is on the account too.” Diesel shook his head. “Jesus, don’t make this difficult, Santiago.”
I threw my hands up in the air. “Fine, we’ll do it tomorrow.”
“You also need to have a medical exam by one of the doctors on this list.” He rifled through the papers on the coffee table, then handed me one of them. “These are the only physicians in the area authorized by the state department. Didn’t you tell me you were in the military?”
I nodded.
“They want to see those records too. Plus we need a police clearance certificate, and…”
“Look, just make me a list of what needs to be done.” I drained my glass, fished my phone out of my pocket and found one of the gay websites with the story of our marriage on it. “Have you seen this?” I handed him the phone.
He stared at the screen for a moment. “Shit.”
“What’s the big deal?” I asked. “This makes our so-called love story look more real. I defied my family so we could be together. Your state department will eat this up.”
“God, you are such an idiot.” Diesel shook his head. “Guess what else the media might uncover?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“That I used to be an escort. What if the press or the state department finds out you paid me to marry you?”
thirteen
Diesel Begs For Help
“Why the hell do you keep that job?” Santiago slid the paperwork for our new joint checking account across the coffee table to me. I opened a drawer and dropped it inside. “You’ve got more than enough money.”
“Because it looks normal to the government.” I replied, not saying the other reason. That hanging out at home with him was lonely. He rarely came out of his bedroom, and when he did, he was always wearing the same drab brown robe. I could tell he was depressed, but he kept a wall up around himself. “You could always get a job, you know, something to fill the time.”
“I can’t.” Santiago sighed. “Not without a green card.”
“Well, hopefully that will change soon.” I stood up. “I’ll be home in a few hours. Gotta get naked for the students.”
“Later.” Santiago sighed, got to his bare feet, and trudged back to his bedroom. When I heard the door shut, I grabbed my Gucci bag and left.
I’d gotten into the habit of walking to work. The first signs of Spring were approaching, with colorful little crocuses blooming through cracks in the red brick sidewalk. The smell of the air was fresh, and the walk gave me time to think.
“Have a good day, Diesel.” The guard at the front gate said as I walked out of the condo complex. I waved, then made a right on Floyd Avenue.
“What am I going to do about you?” I muttered, glancing back toward the condos. Over the last few days, Santiago had withdrawn more and more. What I couldn’t understand was why he was depressed. He had achieved exactly what he wanted. He was free from his conservative parents, he had money to burn, and all he had to do to maintain that freedom was to stay married to me for a couple of years.
“God, am I the problem?” I stopped in front of a rundown frat house with empty beer cans strewn across its porch. One of them had made its way to the sidewalk, and I kicked it into the yard. “Is he disappointed in me? Does he regret marrying me? All I want is for him to behave like a fucking husband.” I sighed, then forced my feet forward.
In the last week, I’d gotten all the documentation the state department had asked for and mailed them in. I’d also spent hours filling out forms online, and not once had Santiago lifted a finger to help. He was too busy lying in bed sipping vodka. Which was a shame, because he was truly one of the best-looking men I’d ever known, and he was letting himself go to seed.
It was one thing to be scruffy, but an entirely different matter when I could smell you from across the room. I wanted to say something, encourage him to put on some clean clothes and simply go outside for fresh air. But I rarely saw him long enough to have that conversation.
What I wanted more than anything was for him to hold up his end of the bargain, and I wasn’t talking about my payments. Soon we would be notified by immigration of our initial interview. Aside from a few long talks we had in Las Vegas, the man knew next to nothing about me. Thank God his family was in the public eye. I’d studied them online, so at the very least I wouldn’t sound like a total idiot at the interview. Of course, none of that would matter if immigration discovered what I used to do for a living.
“Hell, you are still an escort. You’ve just lucked into a single-client gig which…”
“Hey, Diesel. Wait!”
I turned my head and saw Jolene and Landon a few feet behind me. When they caught up, Landon smirked, then handed me his phone.
“Oh, yeah. That.” I gazed at his screen for a moment. The website was Outman.com, and it had the pic of me and Santiago together at that restaurant in Las Vegas. “How long are they going to milk that?” I sighed and handed him his phone back.
“It’s a great story. That’s why they won’t drop it.” Landon grinned. “True love conquers all.” His grin faltered, then he patted me on the shoulder. “Is everything okay?”
I shrugged my shoulders and resumed walking.
“What aren’t you telling us?” Jolene asked, and I was tempted to tell them the real deal between Santiago and me. “Are you having regrets about the quickie marriage?” She glanced down at her watch. “Look, we’re going to be late for class. I’m taking you out for a cocktail after work, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Trust me, she won’t.” Landon chuckled. “I’ll give Angel a call. Maybe he can join us.”
“Are you serious? An Elvis impersonator married you through a drive-thru window?” Landon asked, and all I could do was nod my head. “I think that’s romantic, in an offbeat kind of way.”
“Oh, yeah, it reminds me of one of those funny movies, like National Lampoon’s Vacation, or The Hangover.” Angel chimed in.
Because of the news story about Santiago and me, everyone thought the two of us were deeply in love. Love wasn’t the first word that came to mind for me. Fear was what I felt, the deep fear of knowing I could go to jail for faking the marriage.
“Here you are, sir.” A waitress placed a gin and tonic next to my hand. We were at the Greek Taverna, a popular spot for students and professors a couple of blocks from campus. Since Santiago had been drinking so much, I had remained sober, because someone had to have their wits about them. But now, the desire to get ripped settled over me.
