Читать книгу Beantown Cubans - Johnny Diaz - Страница 8

“Carlito, that is a beautiful new shirt. You look very guapo! The green brings out your beautiful, light brown eyes. I’m sure Daniel must like it, too,” Mami says, sitting across from me at Versailles for our weekly brunch. When she suspects something is going on with me, she opens our talk with a compliment before she unleashes her Cuban inquisition.

“Thanks, Mami. It was a gift from Daniel. He surprised me with the Banana Republic shirt this morning,” I say, trying to hide what is really bothering me.

“Carlito, que te pasa? You seem a little sad.”

“I’m fine, Mami. I just have a lot of homework papers to grade, as usual. How is the garden? I heard there’s a sale at Home Depot on rose bushes, not that we need any more. The front of the house has the most flowers on our block. Maybe you can get some more for the backyard.” I sip the ice water the young waiter has brought us.

“Good idea, Carlos, but look at who you are talking to. I’m your mama. Que te pasa? What’s going on?” She stares at me and right through me. Mami has this X-ray vision into my thoughts and feelings, which makes it hard for me to cloak my concerns. I hold up the green and white menu, which matches the décor of the restaurant, to block Mami’s view of me. She pushes the menu down.

“Is this about Daniel? Did he do something to upset you and gave you the new shirt to make you feel better? Bueno, I never liked him. He always seemed to look at other men when you both went out, and he should only be looking at you, mi amor. He always finds a reason to go out with his friends and not spend time with you and your family. You deserve better than Daniel, someone who wants you and only you,” she says.

“No, Mami! It’s not about Daniel. He’s in South Beach with his friends. We’re doing okay. We should order.” I hold up the menu again.

“Carlos…que te pasa? We’re here, right now, talking.” She taps her index finger against the table. “It’s just you and me, like always. Talk to me. I’m here for you.”

I momentarily put the menu down to tuck my hair behind my ears. My eyes well up with tears. I hold the menu up again, but Mami pushes it down.

“Mami, you’re sick. The cancer is back. I know. Don’t pretend. I overheard you on the phone with Dr. Gonzalez. What are we going to do now? I can’t see you go through the chemo again and lose all your hair. This isn’t fair, Mami. It’s not.” My throat tightens. I look down to avoid my mother’s piercing green eyes. She leans over to me and grabs both my hands and squeezes.

“Carlos, I don’t want you worrying about this. I am going to fight this! We are going to fight this. We can do this. I just need your support. Have faith, hijo. I beat the cancer once. I can do it again. I have too much to live for. I want to see Lourdes get married and give me some grandchildren. I want to see your Papi retire from the convenience store and take me on cruises to the Caribbean. I want to see you with your own casita, a child of your own, maybe even a little dog. I want to see you grow old, mi amor, and I will. I promise, but first, let’s order. Tengo hambre! Order the breaded chicken steak this time, and maybe for dessert, we can share a coconut flan.”

I plaster a smile on my face. Mami knows how to lighten a mood by talking about food.

“But what about your health? I don’t want to lose you, Mami.”

“Ay, Carlos, you won’t lose me. I will always be watching you. We will always have our talks. But right now, let’s eat and eat fast, because you have to wake up and go to school in a little. You’re alarm is about to go off in one…two…three…”

My alarm clock thunders in my bedroom, jolts me out of my dream, and scares the hell out of me. On reflex, I press the snooze button. Ay, Mami! I catch myself smiling at the dream and trying to overcome my weariness. I prop myself up in my bedroom and catch my breath. My breathing is labored. I rub my fingers in my eyes and open them. I grab my asthma inhaler on my bedside table and pump some medicine into my lungs. I’m feeling better. If only it weren’t a dream. Every now and then when I need to hear her or see her, she appears in my dreams like a guardian angel who steps in to give me her two cents. But why do these dreams have to feel so real? Again, we were having our weekly Sunday brunch. That was our time together to talk about my work week and my issues with my ex, Daniel. I looked forward to our weekly meetings. I didn’t have Papi there talking about the Marlins or his frustrations with running the convenience store we own in Miami Springs. I didn’t have Lourdes babbling about her boyfriend and whether he was serious enough to propose to her one day. It was Mami and me, the Martin team.

In this dream, she wore her favorite light-green blouse with her blue jeans that defined her big Cuban butt. Mami always liked showing off her figure, even at fifty-seven. She looked like her old self in this dream, just as she did before the cancer. In my dreams, I remember only the good things about Mami. She’s radiant. Her arms are free of brown bruises from injections. She smells fresh, like the perfume she bought on discount at Macy’s. She doesn’t smell like the chemicals her sweat exuded from all her cancer treatments. When I dream of her, she is healthy and beaming. She is Mami.

I lie back in my full-size bed, turn on my side, and look out my bedroom window. I have a view of the other triple-deckers and brownstones in my Cambridge neighborhood near Porter Square. Red digital numbers on my alarm clock read 5:00 a.m. Soon, I have to get ready for work at the high school, which is probably what Mami meant in the dream when she rushed me to eat so I could get to work on time.

I pull my light-blue comforter up to my chin and enjoy my last hour of rest, even though now I am wide awake. Gracias, Mami, I can’t go back to sleep.

I look forward to these dreams because they remind me in a strange way that Mami still looks out for me. I can only imagine what she must have seen on Saturday night when I was at Club Paradise with Tommy. Mami probably eavesdropped as I talked to Marcello. The lean, handsome, Brazilian guy made me laugh on the dance floor with his goofy jokes and Portuguese accent. I felt all hot and steamy whenever he brushed up against me as we danced. Every time he did, I caught a trace of his Calvin Klein cologne, which he must have doused himself with before heading to the club. It’s been a while since I’ve had sex with a guy, a few months actually, not since I moved to Boston. I thought it would be fun to make out with Marcello until the ugly truth slapped me in the face.

I get up and turn off my alarm clock so it doesn’t wake the entire building. I yawn and stretch and make way to the kitchen and brew some coffee. As I prepare it, my thoughts drift to Saturday night at Paradise with Marcello.

We danced as Tommy watched from the bar looking a little down, which is unlike him. Tommy always has this sunny optimism. It’s one of the reasons that I am drawn to him and why he can be a mystery to me at times. Who can smile and laugh as much as he does? Yet that night, he was off in his own world.

After I left Tommy at the bar (with his blessing), Marcello and I headed to a pizza place in Central Square where all the other club goers gather for some late-night food. That’s one thing I have learned about Boston and Cambridge. There is nowhere to eat after midnight except for a handful of places. In Miami, the possibilities are endless at any given hour. So this fine Brazilian creature of a man and I ordered two sloppy slices of cheese pizza and then sat in a corner booth surrounded by late-night revelers, mostly college students who don’t have to worry about mortgage payments or teaching high school students about classic literature.

As I munched on my slice, I studied every speck in Marcello’s hazel eyes, the way the yellow mixed with the caramel hues. I liked how his tight, curly, brown hair scrunched up in the front. As I scrutinized his looks, I also explained my complicated Cuban background and how I moved to Boston. Am I Cuban? Am I American? Am I Cuban-American? Or am I just Hispanic, since my family lineage is from Spain? He told me that he works as a waiter in Harvard Square and that he lives in Allston, where all the college students live in squalor amid the bars and thrift stores near Boston University.

“I came here two years ago to find better work and to go to school. I’m saving money to go to one of the community colleges,” he said in his broken English, which I found endearing. I am biased. I have a slight Spanish accent when I speak, so I find accents comforting, familiar. “I want to be a translator and help other Brazilians find their way here. I know what they go through when they come to this country,” he said between bites of drippy pizza.

I was touched by his ambitious career goals but was more impressed by his sincerity in wanting to help others. Ay, Mr. Brazil! As he continued talking about his job and his large family in Sao Paulo, where he has three sisters and a brother, a built older man with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and wrinkles around his eyes suddenly appeared at our side.

“It’s time to come home, Marcello. Now!” he ordered him.

“But…I…was just dancing. I have a new friend,” Marcello explained nervously.

“Marcello, now!” the older man barked. I suspect the man was in his mid-forties. He then began speaking in Portuguese. Because of its similarity to Spanish, I was able to make out some key words. My translation: The man was telling him that he would not put up with a cheating boyfriend. Boyfriend? I thought Marcello was single. Why else would he be at a bar dancing with me? Comemierda! I should have known better. I didn’t ask if he had a boyfriend. Mami was probably watching me from the afterlife, nodding her head in disapproval with her clenched hands on her waist.

The older man then forcefully grabbed him by the arm. Marcello looked at me with pleading apologetic eyes.

“I’m sorry, Carlos. You’re a very nice person. I must go,” he said.

I sat there wordlessly watching this man drag my potential new friend or boyfriend away. I should have stayed with Tommy. Feeling deflated, I finished my pizza and took a taxi back to my condo, alone. I remember the wet-slicked streets as the taxi drove through Harvard Square, which reminds me of the same cobblestone streets found in the Harry Potter movies. The whole ride home, I thought of Marcello. Ay, Marcello! I was really hoping for something, at least a hot make-out session, but it never happened. Sometimes, I just want someone in my bed to hold and caress me throughout the night, the way Daniel did in Miami before we broke up. Loneliness envelopes me when I get home from work, the gym, or from meeting up with Tommy, but I am trying to be strong and live on my own in this new city to make myself and Mami proud. As I get ready for work, I can’t help but think that my dream about Mami was related to this episode from Saturday night. In her own way, Mami was sending me a message: “Don’t feel so bad about this guy. You are better than that. I believe in you, hijo. You must believe in yourself.” The dream somehow comforted me about the whole situation.

A few hours later, I leave the academic village of Cambridge for the urban and gritty city life of Dorchester. I traverse these two different worlds on a daily basis. I stand in front of my fourth-period class, trying to teach my ninth graders the literary power of Ernest Hemingway. This week, we are discussing The Old Man and the Sea. It’s one of my favorite Hemingway books because it is based on a Cuban fisherman looking for his great big catch. There are so many overlapping themes in the book, and I hope my students will find a connection to them in their own lives. Most of these students come from broken homes in Dorchester and Roxbury (Boston’s version of Miami’s Wynwood and Liberty City, according to Tommy). By reading Hemingway and other literary classics, I’m hoping they find some meaning to their lives so they can excel.

“Now class, settle down. Did everyone read the first chapter for homework, just as I asked you to on Friday?” A room full of eyes look right back at me. This is fishy, just like the tale.

“Oh c’mon now, who read the chapter?” About eight hands rise up. That means half the class didn’t do the assignment. Ay, dios!

I have to keep the class on schedule, according to my lesson plans. They have state exams coming up at the beginning of November. I need to get them excited about literature, but they’re more interested in downloading iTunes.

“Class, this is a short and beautiful story, of an aged Cuban fisherman as he goes head to head, or head to fin with a giant marlin. This is a story of fear, hope, death, and life. Imagine spending several days trying to reel a giant fish in,” I tell the class. Some of the students seem more interested now that I have given them more details.

“It’s man vs. nature. If any of you have grandfathers, imagine him sitting in a small boat trying to catch the prize of a lifetime and refusing to give up because he wants to win and win big.”

“Have you ever been to Cuba?” asks Carol, one of my brighter students.

“I am from Cuba. I was born in Havana, but I don’t remember much. This book is one of my favorites because it helps me understand my homeland and how it looked in the 1950s through Hemingway’s eyes. He was considered an honorary Cuban because he often wrote from his home there. If you think about it, Hemingway is a Hispanic writer because he lived there and wrote about Hispanic characters.”

The class seems intrigued so I continue trying to blend the book with my own personal experiences. I used to do this at Braddock High and it seemed to work because of the large number of Latino students there.

I pull out a map from behind the chalkboard and point to Cuba. I then explain how Hemingway lived in Key West and Cuba because he was inspired by their tropical beauty and the passionate, everyday, hardworking people found there.

“Have you been to Key West?” asks Katie, a raven-haired student who is extremely courteous but doesn’t complete her assignments.

“When I was younger, I would take road trips down there with my family. It’s a charming little city. Hemingway’s house is now a museum and home to cats with ten toes, if you can believe that.” All eyes are trained on me. Now that’s how I like a classroom to behave. As I talk, I lace the conversation with talk of Hemingway and the book, to engage them. And with that, I announce, “For those of you who didn’t, ahem, read the first twenty pages, I am going to give you about half an hour to do that right now. So get started. And for those of you who did the assignment, I want you to write down five things that you liked or didn’t like about what you read. Be ready to discuss this.”

Everyone begins their work and I take advantage of the time to step outside for a cigarette break. I ask Juanita, my fellow tenth grade English teacher next door, to keep an eye on the kids if they get too loud.

“No problem, Carlos. They won’t make a peep knowing I’m next door. Go on and do your nicotine dance. I got you covered,” Juanita says. She’s in a perpetual good mood because she retires at the end of the year, after thirty years at Dorchester High. I can only imagine that kind of longevity for myself in the public school system. I’ve only been a teacher for six years.

As I walk away, I hear Juanita’s tell-it-like-it-is voice booming from the hallway.

“Now you better not say a word. I may be next door, but I have super bionic hearing so you better not…” her voice trails off.

With Juanita’s blessing, I retreat outside and light up. I dial Tommy to see how his weekend went. I haven’t talked to him since our night at the bar.

“Tommy Perez, The Boston Daily, how may I help you?” he answers his work phone in his serious reporter tone.

“Loco, what are you doing?”

“Oh, hey, Carlos. What’s up?” His tone softens. “It’s 11 a.m. Are you on a break at school? How are your students today?”

“They’re good now that I got them to read The Old Man and the Sea. Were you okay Saturday night? You left looking pretty distracted or something.” I pace back and forth behind the school. My cigarette smoke dissipates into the air.

“Yeah, things are good. You’re not going to believe who I bumped into at Barnes & Noble yesterday.”

“Mike Lowell, the Red Sox player?”

“Um, no, Carlos. If I had, I would be interviewing him right now and not chatting with you. But seriously. I saw another Mike, well Mikey, at the bookstore café. He looked really cute. We started talking. He’s sober now,” Tommy says, telling me the whole story. “He finally stopped drinking. I couldn’t believe it.”

“That’s great. I mean, that’s great that he finally stopped drinking, not that he got a DUI. So what happened? Did you guys just talk?” I say, between puffs of my Marlboro Light.

“Yeah, we talked. I was on my way to go hiking and well, I invited him along. We had a great time, as if we picked up where we left off. I just want to be his friend.”

“His friend? Hmm.”

“Like us. His friends tend to go to the bars, and Mikey doesn’t feel comfortable around them. Poor guy.” Tommy’s voice lifts as he talks about his former flame.

“Bueno, just be careful. I think it’s great that you want to support his sobriety, but you also fell in love with this guy last year. That can’t be easy, being friends with someone you still have feelings and an attraction for. This guy has a lot of issues to work out, chico.”

“I know. I just want to be there for him, that’s all. I’m not interested in dating him. It’s purely platonic. We always had a unique connection.”

I hear what Tommy is saying, but I don’t quite believe that he believes that he and Mikey can be just amigos. Their relationship sounded so unstable. I don’t want to see Tommy get hurt by being nice to this guy because he has such a soft spot in his heart for him.

“Bueno, just know that alcoholics usually relapse in their first year. Be careful, chico! Maybe I can finally meet Mr. Blue Eyes. We can take him to the Cuban restaurant in Jamaica Plain and show him some good Cuban food,” I offer. My cigarette is almost out. I should be getting back to the classroom.

“Good idea. He could use all the new friends he can get. I’ll mention it to him the next time I talk to him. Maybe we can all meet up this weekend.”

“Sounds like a plan, Tommy. I’m really happy for you. I know how much you missed hanging out with this guy. If having him around as a friend makes you happy, I am all for it.”

“Thanks. Listen, I have to get back to work. I’m writing a story about Boston’s first black female news anchor from the 1980s and how she just produced her first documentary about the genocide in Sudan. So I can’t talk much right now.”

“No hay problema. I need to get back to the classroom myself. We’ll talk later.”

“Adios!”

I head back to the classroom for more The Old Man and The Sea. As I enter through the doorway, my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text message from Marcello.

Oi, Carlos. Sorry about Saturday. I want 2 explain. Can we meet?

For now, my focus is my class. This gives me time to figure out whether I should respond to Mr. Brazil, even though I’m intrigued about what he has to say to me. I have a feeling that Mami wouldn’t approve of him in the same way she didn’t approve of Daniel. I can imagine her saying, “Carlito, he has a boyfriend, no?”

I’m not very good at picking boyfriends. I don’t look for relationships. They find me, and they’re usually the wrong ones.