Читать книгу Give It To Me - Ana Castillo - Страница 9

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The Art Institute had a new wing. It cost eighteen dollars for nonmembers to view. Whatever happened to art for the people? Most of it was from the twentieth-century collection they’d had for years and that Palma Piedras had long ago memorized. Some new. Ana Mendieta was exhibited there now. Palma was happy for the artist although she had flung herself (or was flung) from a window long ago. Mendieta couldn’t have been very happy for the failed pintora having to pay the equivalent of a meal downtown to see the work. Maybe she wasn’t a loser as much as a quitter. Anything worthwhile takes conviction, one of her instructors told Palma once. But how did one know she had the talent to “make it,” the “it factor”? And what of the rich kids in her classes whose privilege would open doors regardless of whether they worked at it or not? Barred from her, it seemed, were the gallery contacts, not glass ceilings but real glass doors. Eventually it seemed practical to take a straight job.

Palma skipped lunch and treated herself to the exhibit. She walked out high on art and made her way back down Michigan Avenue where she saw Pepito waiting. He had an ankle monitor, which allowed him out for a few hours a day to look for employment. He was wearing a tight, plaid shirt and sweating from the humidity. They made eye contact as if he thought only she could see him. Maybe it was an ex-con thing, thinking they were invisible—or hoping. Most were invisible to everyone except to their target. The fact that he saw her told Palma that he was ready for her. Or he thought he was. She was ready for him, too. The night of the day that she threw Pepito out of her room there were about twelve texts and voicemails on her cell phone. Basic message: please, please, please, Prima. He couldn’t let her go just yet, Palma was sure, because he had a live one on the hook. He wiped his brow with a cloth hanky and shoved it in his back pocket, his black, long hair tied back. When he walked he had a slight pimp gait. She hated everything about his gangster style. Palma thought for a moment about whether or not she hated him, too. Hey, he said.

Her small hand in Pepito’s grip, they headed straight to her hotel. As far as her little cousin was concerned, they were consenting adults. Let’s make up for lost time. We’ll recapture that day I went to see you when you were sick and I was cutting school, he said. Me, fourteen and you, twenty-four.

Palma left on her bra. She had this idea that if he truly desired her he would take it off. He never did. He was a big man, twice her size and weight. He laid on his back and propped the woman on his face. He was going to ring Palma’s chimes, float her boat and send her to paradise, he said. Cliché his way to her heart was how she took it. He knew she was with a woman so the intent was to show her he could do with his tongue whatever a female could do. She came so hard they may have heard her elephant mating calls in the next room. I’ve gotta go, he said, after getting washed and dressed. He glanced down at his ankle with the monitor. I’ve got a job interview tomorrow, he said. What time you leave for the airport?

What? Palma said, half believing what she was seeing and hearing. He’d wasted no time getting out of bed. Men were said not to like to cuddle, but as far as she knew this one had not been held for over diez años. He acted like a fugitive on the run. I saw Jim-Bo yesterday, Palma said. Pepito’s left eyebrow went up. He looked only mildly interested. Jim-Bo, you know? Your uncle? Most likely your father? Pepito made a get-out-of-here face, put on his cheap watch, and patted down his hair. I’m making him accountable about Abuela’s house, she said. It was the house we grew up in, man! Don’t you care? She pelted out questions, one after the other, with no response. Then he was out the door.