Blue Genes (17 page)

Our room was on the ground floor. Its large, shuttered windows opened onto a square patio in the front of the hotel, shaded by a huge cypress. Here, in the evening, marimba players would serenade the hotel while its guests sipped rum or tequila drinks.

Tony and I drifted off to sleep. When I awoke, a few hours later, it was dusk, and I could hear the sad strains of “Zandunga,” a Tehuantepec song, played on marimbas in the patio. My nose was running. I wiped it with my sleeve, but it continued to run. Opening my eyes, I saw that my shirtsleeve was covered in blood. I was bleeding copiously. I went to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and held it hard against my face, but the towel quickly turned deep red. I began to panic. What would happen if this bleeding didn’t stop?

Waking Tony, I had the presence of mind to have him call for ice from room service. It was a long time coming. Meanwhile, I watched him for signs of fear, for Tony was frightened of physical pain or illness. If a hypodermic needle came near him, he had been known to faint. A syringe for bloodletting would make him turn his head away in nausea. Once, I was told, he even fainted during a simple eye examination. From time to time, he reported that he was suffering from one serious disease or another, even when there was no evidence.

Now, however, he just sat on his bed and watched me bleed. Perhaps it was only
his
pain and blood loss that were frightening. From time to time he would ask, “Any better?” I would check the towel, then shake my head.

Finally a slim young girl in a white dress entered the room and stood at the door, aghast at the sight of this young American stretched on the bed, holding a bloody towel to his face. Tony took the bowl of ice, the precious cargo already melting in the tropical heat, and the girl fled.

I held what was left of the ice to my nose, hoping that the bleeding would stop. Tony sat on the other bed, and we talked about what would happen if it didn’t. Would he have to find a doctor? Would we fly back to the States? In my innermost thoughts, I wondered whether I would die here.

Outside, the marimbas continued to play their sad, tango-like tune about Zandunga, the ghost who haunted a man’s memory:

Around midnight, as I drifted in and out of sleep, the bleeding finally stopped. I was hungry and persuaded Tony to phone down for toast and tea, which I thought would be good for an ailing American and his ravenous brother. Instead, a tostada—the vegetable-laden salad Mexicans serve on a tortilla smeared with refried beans—arrived. Tony ate it, and I went back to sleep.

In the morning, the marimba and its sepulchral players had gone; traffic was up to its daytime cacophony; the streets were alive—and so was I.

A few days later, the same DC-3 did take us, without incident, to the small airport at Acapulco. We found a tiny, grimy, and by no means upscale motel near the northern end of town—away from all the shiny resorts, but close to a small beach touted by a local taxi driver. We thought we would swim in the motel’s pool, but it was cloaked in green slime and apparently hadn’t been used for years.

On the beach, however, we found a sybaritic heaven. Strolling guitarists serenaded us for a few pesos, singing “Malagueña,” “Crei,” “Cuando Caliente el Sol,” and other laments of the South. Shrimps and oysters could be purchased from our beach chairs for mere pennies. The sun was hot and magical, and though we shaded ourselves as much as possible from its rays, we could feel its healing power in our backs and legs.

Though we occasionally argued over how long we should stay at the beach (Tony was just hanging out; I wanted to get on with explorations), we were beginning to accept the rhythms of each other’s lifestyle and compromised sufficiently to stay on good terms.

We were also both learning a lot about a new world outside of ourselves. We had not been prepared for Mexico—for its colonial apparatus, the richness of its culture, the poverty of most of its citizens, the acceptance by them of
us
, the
yanquis
.

At this point, we began to address our assumptions about the country, about our right to be there, to be waited on, to get good lodging and great food while tens of thousands went homeless and hungry. It happened in one of the first restaurants where we ate. Tony softly whistled for the waiter. I looked up, surprised. This would be considered outrageous behavior in the States. But Tony assured me that his friends in Baltimore said it was quite the custom here. And, to be sure, the waiter didn’t seem bothered at all by the whistle. “
Sí, señor, mande
,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

This began a discussion between us as to where we were and what we were up to. As vacationers, we made assumptions about
our
comfort,
our
safety. But what about
their
comfort and safety? At the University of Mexico, and at the museums, through the great muralists, we came face-to-face with colonialist history and its oppressive practices.

Which is not to say that we became zealots for the rights of the poor. We were still tourists in a strange land, still trying to secure
our
own comfort and safety. But we did come to understand something of what the indigenous people of this country were up against.

As we went from place to place, we gobbled it all up. This was better than history from a book: this was what the ancient Greeks called
historin
—experiencing the world, not just learning about it.

One experience came close both to bonding us and to separating us. I don’t know about other siblings, but my brother and I never talked about sex. It just wasn’t part of our interaction. This was partly embarrassment, partly prudishness, partly a desire for absolute privacy. Nevertheless, I was aware that Tony used prostitutes. In Mexico City one night, he disappeared into the darkness around 10:00 p.m. and told me later he had been looking for a bordello. On the one hand, this was a mystery to me—both Tony and I had women friends who, even in the Victorian 1950s and early ’60s, were amenable to sex—but it also seemed natural: Didn’t
all
men engage in this kind of thing? Up to this point, I had not done so, but I chalked that up to my
unnatural
shyness and morality about sex.

In doing research for our vacation, I had heard that there was a seedy backside to Acapulco: a little red-light district called Rio Rita. It was up in the hills and said to be a “must” for tourists. Tony said he wanted to see it. Would I accompany him? For me, Rio Rita was a chance to do something I’d never done before. Though it caused me a certain tremor (I had seen the raunchier districts of Mexico City, and I knew that foreigners were often robbed there), it was also something a “man” had to experience, wasn’t it?

The single street that was Rio Rita was long, gaudy, brightly lit, and consisted of nothing but cantinas. It was not overrun by tourists—far from it—and unlike similar joints in other Mexican towns and cities, the interiors of these bars were clean and tidy. And quiet. There were a few tables at which a few women sat, idly swinging their legs. Tony and I picked a place to sit and asked for Dos Equis beer. Nearby sat a young woman, perhaps my age or a little younger. Despite my aversion to the idea of having paid sex, I was curious. The place seemed clean, there were no menacing figures ready to grab pesos from our wallets.

Lifting myself off the chair at our table, I took the plunge and sat down next to her. Esperanza (Hope) was her name, and she didn’t speak English. My Spanish was sufficient to make a deal: thirty pesos for a quick trip to the back room. She would have been happy to spend the night at our motel, but that didn’t fit my desire or my budget.

Before Esperanza and I left for the back room, Tony spied a dark-haired woman in the far corner and asked me to interpret for him. This turn of events had not occurred to me. How was I supposed to carry this out without becoming a part of Tony’s sexual life itself? It turned out I didn’t need to: the woman spoke good English. I left them at our table and went into the back with Esperanza.

At the doorway to the nether regions of the cantina, she stopped and held out her hand. “Money,” she said, in thickly accented English. I put thirty pesos into her hand and she disappeared. Had I just been robbed, or was she off to give the money to the management? In a few seconds, she returned, and we went to her little room.

In some ways, this was exactly what I had expected of a Mexican bordello: dim red light, a tiny bed, walls covered with dime-store folk art. In the corner was a shower.

Looking back, I still feel badly about the next fifteen minutes. Not just because I was contributing to a deleterious way of life, but because of my inability to feel anything verging on interest in this thin, only vaguely sexy young woman. I was asked to take a shower. I provided a condom from my pocket (this was before AIDS, but not before syphilis or gonorrhea).

The experience was short, sordid, and not very satisfying. But I had now practiced that male skill—going to a prostitute—and could add that to the list of things I did that others said had to be done to be a real man. I would never repeat it. For me, affection was a necessary component of sexual activity.

Tony and I never talked about this experience. The very fact that we didn’t put a bit of distance between us: here was one more thing that was improper to discuss; one more
secret
that had to be kept.

ON THE NEXT-TO-LAST DAY IN ACAPULCO
, Tony and I took a little boat that carried just six passengers over to La Roqueta, a tiny island about half a mile from our usual beach. The sand was cleaner, the crowd thinner, and the shade deeper under groves of palm trees. The afternoon was spent drinking beer, eating shrimp, napping in the sun, and bathing in the salty, bath-warm water. We were mindful that the last boat left at 5:30; after that hour, it was swim for it or stay the night on the island.

Toward 4:30, we noticed four or five boys in their subteens playing soccer on a wet and slippery stone terrace near a refreshment stand. Since Tony and I had been middling players in high school, we asked if we could join in.

It was a silly move, since even ten-year-old boys in Mexico were bound to be better than we. We feinted and kicked and caused a great deal of laughter. Then Tony’s foot went out from under him on the wet stones. He fell on his left elbow, causing instant swelling and intense pain.

The boys were worried—for about ten seconds. Then they took off for parts unknown. Suddenly the place was quiet and dark. I looked at my watch: it was 5:15. Would we miss the boat? Tony was now sitting on a stool at the refreshment stand, nursing his badly bruised elbow. How was I going to get him back to the motel? Where would we find a doctor?

Behind the counter—on which stood sweating bottles of orange Fanta—was an old man, one of tens of thousands of such Mexicans, face lined from too many hard days in the sun. Reaching to a shelf below him, he pulled up a jar of something viscous, green, and evil smelling. Motioning Tony to move closer, the Indian slopped this gummy substance on my brother’s elbow and massaged it gently. Within seconds, Tony reported that a warm, healing electricity had entered his arm, swiftly reducing the pain. Within minutes, we were able to walk to the ferry—which had not left—and made it back to our room. By this time, Tony was perfectly comfortable.

For the rest of the trip we referred to this as “The Magic of La Roqueta.”

But the real magic of the trip was in the relationship with Tony. Traveling with him had created a brotherhood that had not existed before. We were more equals, more comrades, more
family
than ever before.

This golden time would never happen again. From then on a divide would exist between us.

In the years to come, I would think back to this trip often. I would refer to the food, the weather, and the experiences I had shared with my brother. These were roseate memories, lovingly preserved.

I RETURNED FROM MEXICO
to find that my “girlfriend” was taking off for Europe for a postgraduation tour of architectural sites.

It is not an exaggeration to say that this threw me into a panic. What would she
do
while she was away? Forage for a new man? Explore the depths of his romantic soul? My fantasies ran the gamut.

And what would
I
do? How would I get by without her?

This
abandonment
(for that was how I experienced it) was the worst I had ever felt. I was in a fit of coruscating grief. Why was she doing this to me? Why did everyone always abandon me? It was a neurotic despair unlike anything I had gone through.

Then, as letters from abroad came one by one, I began to consider the possibility that she had not forgotten me—only gone on a lovely vacation. We wrote back and forth, and in one letter I asked her to marry me. She didn’t reply.

In fact, two months later, when she returned, she said nothing about marriage. I waited, afraid to ask, becoming more and more unsure of myself, more and more panicked.

She never did say no, but I took her silence for a turndown. She was abandoning me, and I went into a period of intense anxiety. For two weeks, I was afraid to go to work, or indeed to go anywhere. I shut down.

Little by little with my psychoanalyst’s help, I worked on what had encouraged me to get tied up with this woman in the first place. Had I perhaps
sensed
that she would never commit to me? Had I sabotaged myself from the beginning? Was I—in the words of the psychology profession—in an endless cycle of the repetition compulsion: the need to live through what had traumatized me in the first place, hoping over and over again that I might reverse history?

The relationship was over, and I needed to find a way to move on, to find the “right girl.” In July of 1961, the mother of a high school roommate suggested that I meet the daughter of one of her friends. Susan Ries was twenty years old, an English and philosophy major at UCLA. I phoned the number I had been given.

“Bob’s Big Boy” was how the young woman on the other end answered. Now, Bob’s Big Boy was a fast-food restaurant in Los Angeles. I quickly hung up. Clearly, I had dialed incorrectly. I tried again.

The same young female voice answered, but this time she said, “Hello?”

“Hi,” I said, relieved, not even taking the time to realize that I’d experienced a practical joke. “My name is Kit Lukas . . .”

There was a slight laugh on the other end of the phone. “Kit!” she said. “That’s the hokiest name I’ve ever heard.”

Susan’s sense of humor might be just what I needed to pop my bubble of despair. Certainly she felt that I spent too much of my time being oh-so-serious about love, life, sex. At times, true to form, I couldn’t believe that she was the right woman for me. After all, if she loved
me
, how could she be good enough? After she began to reciprocate my affection, I began to find reasons to have a fight, to pull away. If she loved me, then this couldn’t be what I wanted, because the person whom I had most loved had deserted me. If she didn’t love me, then I wanted her passionately, because I had to conquer the loss of childhood.

I recognized this behavior in Tony (who dated ferociously but for years couldn’t find the “right woman”). But it took months for me to see it clearly in my relationship with Susan.

Six months, to be precise. In January, I proposed. On July 1, 1962, we were to be married. Tony would be best man.

Susan and Tony took to each other immediately. She was not put off by his dark moods, simply sought—as with me—to lighten them with her irrepressible joshing. On Dad’s arrival for the wedding, he, too, could not believe how beautiful and charming Susan was. The only naysayer was Missy, who, like a Wicked Witch of the East, arrived with a cane, a scowl, and demands for attention.

On the day before the wedding, rather than adhere to Susan’s mother’s schedule for yet one more hair appointment, she, Tony, and I went to the racetrack, where we bet on numerous losing horses but enjoyed ourselves tremendously. After the wedding, just before we drove off to San Diego for our brief honeymoon, Tony confided to me, “If you hadn’t married Susan,
I
would have.”

The big news at the wedding was that Tony had been hired by the
New York Times
. He would start on the general assignment desk but would then be prepped for foreign duty either in Asia or in Africa; if he was lucky—and skillful—he would be sent to one of those plum European positions that foreign correspondents aspire to.

I don’t think the family could have been prouder. Tony had shown us all that he had the right stuff. I knew it was the culmination of one dream, and the beginning of another. The culmination, because just
getting
a job on the
Times
had been his goal for over a decade. The beginning, because I knew that Tony would now shift his sights upward: to a higher rung of the ladder. If past predicted present, he would begin to berate himself for not climbing faster, harder, still higher.

After four months at the
Times
, Tony wrote me that the news-paper was sending him to the Congo on December 1. They clearly knew what they had in hand. But, true to form, Tony wrote a peculiar if not quixotic note:

For years, he had been striving to achieve this status. The mother of all journalism—the
Times
—was sending him abroad. Now that he
had
this prized possession, he was dispirited, discounting the rewards of his expertise and hard labor. It was a sign of things to come: forever doubting that what he aspired to was what he really wanted.

He was right. What he really wanted, and what
I
really wanted, was proof that we had not been abandoned and rejected, that we could regain our previous, childhood state of grace.

Nevertheless, Tony’s first foreign assignment was to Léopoldville. His fragile command of French now bolstered by an intensive course at Berlitz, he set off with great excitement to learn about Kasavubu, Adoula, Mobutu, Moise Tshombe, Patrice Lumumba, the Pygmies, and how King Leopold II and the Belgians had destroyed a nation. Endless civil wars, which continue to this day, would show him that the king’s legacy was . . .
more
blood-shed.

I knew what it meant for Tony to be abroad. I wouldn’t have liked it: it would have been neither exciting nor a “romantic” enterprise, nor one I would dream of taking on. But
he
wanted the job, and despite leaving safety and family behind, he would conquer the work and, on some level, feel gratified by it.

Once Tony got to the Congo, he stopped writing home almost entirely. Dad complained bitterly that he didn’t hear from his elder son. To me, Tony sent only two letters during his two-year stay in the Congo, but each gave insight into the beginning career—as well as the inner emotions—of this foreign correspondent.

He
did
thank Susan and me for sending him paperbacks. He remarked that he particularly enjoyed Durrell’s
Alexandria Quartet
and Mark Harris’s
Southpaw
. Conrad, Malamud, and Waugh were also on his list.

And he reported on the dangers of following the civil war to its heart of darkness. Tony and fellow journalists Arnaud de Borchgrave and Jon Randal came under attack at one point. All the men in the town were herded into a small building by local government officials and a CIA operative, given a weird assortment of guns, and told to protect themselves if the rebels came close. Tony’s army training may or may not have come in handy. He didn’t say. He did say that even in the midst of battle, he remembered to take his antimalaria pills.

There was also a revealing story about how Tony’s ever-present anger could boil over at any point.

Mobutu Sese Seko had taken over the country in a coup. He called a press conference. When Tony arrived at governmental headquarters, he found that soldiers were checking identification of all journalists. The ID package had been changed recently, but Tony had neglected to collect his new papers. The soldiers refused to admit him to the news conference. He struggled with them in his serviceable French, but to no avail. Furious that someone reporting for another newspaper might get hold of this important story, depleted from long service in a strife-torn country, bogged down in humidity, Tony reverted to curses. “
Je m’en fou de vous
,” he said, “
de vous et de Mobutu
.” The translation runs something like: “Fuck you and the president you rode in on.” Tony was marched off to jail, to await a
Times
lawyer to get him out. In retrospect, the story was told with a sense of humor and bravado. But
what
, as the narrator in
Peter and the Wolf
says, what if the soldier had used his rifle?

In Tony’s next assignment, India—a step up in the journey to top foreign posts—life was a good deal better, and the letters flowed more often.

India provided him with high living: a house with three servants, plenty of room for entertaining, a patio with tropical birds, a car and driver. He traveled widely and came to respect the country and its people.

More important, his reporting made it to the front page during perilous times in that country. The Pakistan-India wars were heating up over Kashmir. There were threats of building nuclear deterrents on both sides. And Russia was making noises from the north. Tony had long ago earned his stars, and the
Times
brass thought highly of him.

He did play tennis, go to the movies, go on dates, but it was clear that none of this was enough to satisfy his need for companionship.

He gave over more and more of his thinking to his status as a single man and why he couldn’t find the “right woman.” Still, while he might worry about his personal life, it was always the professional one that he came back to—on paper and in practice. He wondered if he wouldn’t be better off quitting the
Times
and going freelance. He’d lose money and prestige, perhaps, but get to do “a really solid piece of work.” What was insubstantial about the work he’d done for the
Times
was unclear.

Perhaps it was not solidity of work that was the problem so much as the old depressive devil. While he had now found a female companion, who moved in with him, he spoke more often of his pain when she went away than he did of the pleasure of having her there. He once wrote that his “gazelle” had gone to Bombay to look after her ill mother. “I’m melancholy.”

To Dad he found it necessary to be more upbeat about life and about his companion in particular. “She’s a real delight—one of the most vivacious and lively people I’ve ever known. Delhi seems the grimmer for her absence. I may even take a jaunt down there myself in the next few days so if you start seeing bylines from Bombay you’ll know what I’m up to.”