Читать книгу Outnumbered - Mandi Eizenbaum - Страница 10

5

I was reciting my morning prayers with Abuelo one morning after a night of welcomed restful sleep. I never knew what to pray for, as my grandfather led me in those obligatory traditional prayers, so I just repeated my memorized supplications and my wishes for my guiding star—my guardian angel, my father, up in heaven—to continue watching over me. The weathered leather straps of the tefillin, prayer phylacteries, wrapped tightly on my arm and head kept me tethered to my grandfather, to our family, and to our faith. Something—what was it really?—had been protecting me for as long as I could remember, and whether it was God or Gabriel Stein, I wasn’t going to test fate. We Jews might have been a flawed and tragic bunch, but our faith and legacy kept us bound to survival and hope. So I prayed with Abuelo.

That morning, I was suddenly distracted by screeching shouts and whistles from the street below our second-floor window. I knew right away it was El Bobo. Concealing the religious phylacteries on my forehead and arm behind the sun-faded lace curtains that hung in the window (hoping Bobo wouldn’t catch me in my vulnerable state and hoping Abuelo would not notice my distraction from the street below us), I cautiously leaned over the windowsill and saw Bobo standing on the sidewalk holding a long stick in his hands. The stick had a crude hook tied around one end.

What is Bobo up to now? I wondered playfully.

“Come on, Jefe,” Bobo was yelling. “It’s getting late, and I have a great idea to make muchos billetes. Lots and lots of money!”

“I’ll be right down, mi compay! Meet me at the patio de recreo,” I shouted.

The school’s playground was our meeting place. Abuelo shot me a silent sideways glare that told me, with no misgiving, that I had better get away from the window and get on with my prayers. He continued to sing the ancient Hebrew words, intoning a bit louder now so that I could pick up and continue where I had left off with my own recitations.

Maldito prayers, I cursed to myself and immediately felt the shame and guilt fill in my scrawny chest. This morning ritual was so important to my dear grandfather, so for Abuelo’s sake, I begrudgingly carried on.

When I finally got to the school’s playground on the corner of Miguel Figueroa Street, a mere five-minute walk from my grandparents’ place, Bobo was already back with Chaki and Beto. Chaki had shimmied barefoot halfway up the trunk of a coconut palm, and Beto cautiously held the long stick with the hook in his two hands.

“¿Qué, coño, están haciendo, mis compadres?” I yelled, approaching the group with a mischievous grin. What are you guys doing?

Beto scrunched his eyebrows and pouted as if he had just been caught stealing a guava from the local market.

“We’re getting agua de coco, Jefe.” Bobo’s tone was as serious as a heart attack.

“Agua de what did you say?”

“Agua de coco,” Bobo repeated. “Coconut juice is all the buzz nowadays! It is very healthy to drink it. We’re going to sell it by the beach.”

All three of us looked up at Chaki who was now hanging precariously from the fronds at the top of the palm tree.

“Oy vey,” I snorted. We were going to get rich on coconut juice? Had Bobo lost his mind? “You can find coconuts for free everywhere you go on this island! You must have coconuts in your head, Bobo!” I chanted.

Beto prodded the soles of Chaki’s feet with the long stick. He blushed wildly and mumbled, “I tried to tell them that this was a complete waste of time. No one will buy this senseless idea.” Beto was always at the ready with empathy while making light of Bobo’s purely stupid ideas. Always the voice of understanding, always patient—that was Beto.

The relentless Caribbean sun burned brightly in our eyes and blinded our vision. Suddenly, there was a loud thud from above. Then another and another.

I recoiled instinctively, flying backward and tripping clumsily over my own two feet. Bobo let out a shrieking howl and crouched on the ground, clasping his head under his chunky, short arms trying to duck a barrage of raining coconuts that fell as Chaki scrambled down the tree. Streams of cloudy-white juice oozed from the falling coconuts and soaked the kinky mop of curls on Bobo’s head. Of course, the coconuts would land precisely on Bobo! It was no wonder we called our buddy Josef “El Bobo” all his life. The poor guy had such stupid, rotten luck.

Beto burst out in uncontrollable cackles, while Chaki shimmied down the tree trunk. I could not suppress my own laughter either, as I lost control of my breathing and gasped for air. I hugged my skinny arms around my middle, doubled over, and began to cough violently. I was choking on my own gooey phlegm, my lungs feeling like they were going to pop right up out of my throat. I squatted down on my heels, waiting for the coughing to subside. Beto put his arm around my shuddering shoulders and “tsk’d” until my breathing was under control.

“Que payaso eres, Bobo,” I finally wheezed as my coughing fit subsided. The clown of the group was always good for a hearty laugh.

“I think we’ve done enough ‘coco collecting’ for the day, compadres!” I announced. “And stop laughing at Bobo, you guys. It’s not his fault his plans always seem to clobber him right in the head!” I tried to offer some comfort to my buddy, but the four of us broke out in another round of laughter, screeching and hiccupping out of control. It was at least twenty-five minutes before any of us could move from the playground.

“Cocotazos en la cabeza,” we sang over and over again on our walk home. Coconuts in his head!