Bodega Dreams (17 page)

B
LANCA
’
S
aunt Vera seemed born to money. Her gestures, her voice, her social graces had been so well studied and cultivated that she could have fooled anyone who wasn’t familiar with her past. With her light skin, semiblond hair, pale seagull blue eyes, she could easily pass herself off as something other than a woman born and raised in East Harlem. She spoke as if she had spent her formative years in some boarding school, walking around with a big-lettered sweater tied around her shoulders.

Actually, Vera had barely graduated from Norman Thomas High School and hadn’t set foot in a building of higher education since. Yet she had successfully sold the notion to her circle in Miami that she was a Barnard girl. Although she had told her Florida friends she was coming to New York City because she had done the “trendy” thing of donating money to an inner-city school, she really didn’t know how the donation had been made. She assumed that her accountant must have done it to get her a tax break. What did she care? But she had to come alone, otherwise her friends would discover her true origins.

She was returning to her old neighborhood to gloat, to show her family what she had made of herself. Yes, Vera had reinvented herself. But unlike William Carlos Irizarry, now Willie Bodega, Veronica
Linda Saldivia didn’t want to be considered Puerto Rican. Hence the name Vera.

The rich Cuban family Vera had married into still kept the pink slips of their nationalized lands in Cuba, along with high hopes of reclaiming them once Castro was ousted or finally, finally died. Vera was no longer a Saldivia but a Vidal, and with that misleading last name she could fool anyone into thinking she was some middle-aged Anglo woman who had a taste for shopping on Fifth Avenue, threw dinner parties, and loved expensive jewelry.

I’m not a person who likes to judge why people fall madly in love with some types of people because I don’t believe such things can be explained. It’s like chemistry, some elements are attracted to each other and it doesn’t matter that they can explode. It’s just the way it works.

•

SO THAT
day, I did as Bodega pleaded. I walked over to Vera, who was outside talking with some teacher. Her posture was ramrod straight; her back at a perfect right angle with the ground. When she talked, it was in the prim and proper voice of someone who understands flower shows and country homes. And when she’d say something she thought clever, she would laugh this phony laugh like she was doing you a favor.

“Julio?” Nazario said, surprised to see me. He appeared out of nowhere and stopped me just as I was about to introduce myself to Vera. He saved me the bother.

“This is Julio Mercado. He’s in college now and I’m hoping he will continue on to law school,” Nazario informed Vera. Closer, I could see that Vera’s face had the resonance of a former highly prized beauty. Years ago the entire neighborhood must have gone mad for her. I thought of Blanca; I had always believed she’d become even more beautiful when she got older, that her features—eyes, hair, cheekbones, her entire body—having traveled for years would settle down like some quiet, transparent stream. I would still be there with her and, no matter what pictures of her when young would remind me of, I’d still love her and never trade the history we had together.

“It’s a pleasure,” I said. “Actually, we’re related.” She responded like
someone who instead of saying thanks when being served by a waiter only lowers her eyes.

“Are we?” Her delicate voice sounded like crystal.

“Yes, I’m married to Marisol’s daughter Nancy.”

“Isn’t that wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Marisol’s daughter all grown up and married.” She drew near me and gave me a weak hug.

“Actually, there is someone—” but I was interrupted by a teacher who wanted to shake Vera’s hand. It was recess, and the children had started pouring out to go play in the schoolyard. I saw Nazario leave to speak with a heavyset woman who looked like the principal. Then Nazario broke off his conversation and walked back to join us. After excusing himself, he asked Vera if she needed a cab back to her hotel. I knew this was my cue to usher Vera to the limo where Bodega waited.

“Actually, there is someone here that will drive you,” I said.

“Oh no, no, I’ll just find a cab. Don’t bother yourself on—” and then her face went white and I turned around to see what had scared her.

“William?” she whispered. Bodega had gotten out of the car and was walking straight toward us.

“Veronica.” He looked miserable. His hands were in his pockets, his shirt collar soaked with sweat. His face looked as if he were dying. Vera swallowed hard then drew herself up to her full height and regained her composure.

“Well, it’s absolutely wonderful to see you, William. How … how … how … are the Lords?” I was happy to see her stumble. Nazario had vanished and the three of us were left there, standing among the schoolchildren.

“The wha’?” Bodega got closer to her, cupping his ear.

“Your friends, the Lords,” she said artificially as if she had gone back to the data banks of her memory and could only come up with that reference. Bodega jerked his head back.

“Oh, yeah, the Lords, yes, yes,” he said without really answering her. For a few seconds no one said anything.

“Let’s take a ride,” I said to break the horrible tension.

“Yes, yes, let’s go around the city,” Bodega quickly agreed, and to my surprise, Vera just followed him. When she saw the car her eyebrows shot up.

“It’s not rented,” Bodega blurted out. “I … I don’t use it much, you know. I still walk almost everywhere.”

“Is this really your automobile, William?” Vera seemed impressed and Bodega took this as a triumph. His chest was a peacock’s. Vera turned her face toward me. “We haven’t seen each other for over twenty years.”

“Twenty-one years, three months, fourteen days,” Bodega said. And then Vera laughed. And with that laugh, Bodega was happy. The driver ushered us all into the car. When the doors were shut, the coolness of the air-conditioned limo was a relief but the stillness and silence made it possible for me to imagine I could hear Bodega’s heartbeat.

“I have something to show you.” His voice shook.

“I’m more than happy to see it,” she said.

“It’s not Miami, Veronica, but—”

She laughed that laugh again. “I really hate Miami, William. Despise it with a passion. Everything is so pink and blue.”

Bodega smiled as if he had won another small battle. He must have believed that if he kept winning these tiny skirmishes, victory would eventually be his. After that there was a long silence, so I thought I’d fill it in.

“I didn’t like Miami either,” I said. “I went to visit friends of mine, Ariel and Naomi, and man, that place was a mall wasteland. There was nothing to do.” That wasn’t true. I had actually had a good time in Miami.

The car pulled up in front of my apartment building on 111th between Lexington and Park. Bodega pressed a button and the tinted window slid robotically down to frame the five newly renovated tenements.

“I own those and others like those, all around the neighborhood.” Her eyes told him she didn’t understand what he meant. “I’m in real estate.”

“Are those really yours?” She leaned her body toward the window to take in the entire view. Her face glowed. “And you have others, you say?” She drew her body back and looked at me for confirmation.

“He’s my landlord.” I began. “He owns—”

“No, they are not mine,” Bodega interrupted. “Veronica, they are for
you. They’ve always been for you. I knew you’d come back some day and I wanted you to come back to something different.” She stared at him blankly as the chauffeur opened the door. He extended his hand to Vera, who had to take her eyes off Bodega’s eyes long enough to get out of the car. She stepped out and we followed. Bodega looked around and took a deep breath as if he were smelling a rose rather than Spanish Harlem air.

“I have something else to show you.” Bodega led us to a newly renovated brownstone. There was an art gallery on the first floor, and the three of us stepped inside.

“You like art, right, Veronica?”

“Yes.”

“I saw a special on channel thirteen about that big museum in Moscow.”

“You still watch public television, William?” She laughed and reached her hand to Bodega, who clasped it like a drowning man would a life raft.

“Well, I remember you watched some of those shows too,” he said, smiling and pointing a finger at her as if he knew something she had forgotten.

“Yes, I’m afraid I did,” she confessed, nodding.

“Anyway, I saw a special on that big museum in Moscow.”

“Which one?” Vera asked.

“The big one,” he said.

“You mean the Hermitage?”

“Yeah, that one,” he said, and snapped his fingers because he was embarrassed about his pronunciation and didn’t want to repeat the name. “Yeah, the same exact one. Anyway, I learned that during the Russian Revolution, Lenin sent soldiers to look after the museum so that looters wouldn’t rob the place. That was something. He didn’t care about the czar’s palace. Looters were like all over the palace stealing silverware and stuff but he didn’t want the Russian people to lose their art. Wasn’t that something?” he asked her. She just nodded her head and looked dutifully impressed.

“The second, third, and fourth floors are where the artists live,” he said.

“William, you, a patron? That’s … That’s …” She couldn’t find the words to describe her disbelief.

“That’s right,” he said, liking the sound of it. “I’m a patron. This gallery is for painters from the neighborhood. It’s the neighborhood’s art. I got the idea from Taller Boricua,” he said proudly.

“You’re still the same, William. Still the idealist, eh?” Holding hands, they began to swing them together, slowly, not saying anything.

“Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said, thinking it was better to leave them alone. “I’ll tell Nancy that you’re in town. Maybe the two of you could see each other before you leave.”

“Yes, I would like that very much. I held her once when she was a child.” She extended her free hand toward me and gave me a limp handshake. Her blue eyes held mine for a second. Then I extended my hand to Bodega, who all of a sudden looked worried. I knew he wanted to tell me something, but when he didn’t utter a sound, I walked out.

“Wait, I have to speak with you!” He let go of Vera’s hand with no apologies and followed me outside. For the first time since encountering Vera, Bodega acknowledged my existence. All this time he hadn’t taken his eyes off her and had treated me like I was a dust particle. I hadn’t really cared much about that, though it was bad manners.

“Where you going?” he whispered as if he didn’t want Vera to hear him, which was impossible because she was still inside.

“I live right there,” I said, pointing.

“You can’t just leave me, that’s not cool.” He was sweating again, like a guilty suspect in a lineup.

“What’s not cool is you leaving Vera all alone in the art gallery. That’s what’s not cool, and you know wha’—”

“Don’t talk so loud,” he interrupted.

“Look, man, Vera is as nervous as you. I could hear her heart beat inside the car,” I lied.

“Her heartbeat? You heard her heartbeat? You sure?”

“Yeah,
pana
, she’s just as nervous as you. So go back inside there and tell her exactly what you always wanted to.”

He didn’t say anything to me, just looked down at the pavement, nodded, and walked back to the gallery, back to Vera.

I went inside my building and took the elevator up. When I got to
my apartment, I took off my suit and fell asleep. I don’t know when it happened, how long I was out, but a loud knock interrupted my sleep. At first I thought I was dreaming. But when my eyes opened and I saw the ceiling, I knew for sure I was awake. I went to open the door.

“Happy New Year, Julio!” Vera yelled, all silly and sloppy. There was a champagne bottle in her hand.

“You’re being drafted. Here.” Bodega pushed another Dom Pérignon to my chest. “It’s a new year. It’s a new life.”

“Oh, let’s go to Central Park, Izzy. I miss Central Park. You will join us, won’t you, Julio?”

“Well, I have a class later tonight and was hoping to get some sleep—”

“Nah, you coming with us,” Bodega interrupted. “You’ll get enough sleep when yo’r dead.”

“I guess things went well,” I muttered to myself.

“Is my niece home? I would like to see her. Besides, there’s enough champagne for all the Saldivias, isn’t there, Izzy?” She gulped it down so fast that some came streaming out of the side of her mouth. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t a Saldivia, I was a Mercado, and that Blanca was now a Mercado too, but then I thought that was just stupid pride, so I stayed quiet.

“Champagne for all the Saldivias, right, Izzy?” she repeated, laughing. Bodega laughed with her.

“A warehouseful, Veronica.” Then to me, “
Pana
, when you going to open that bottle?”

“I don’t know,” I said, tilting the bottle a bit, pretending to study the label. Not that I would know what I was reading, all bottles of champagne are the same to me.

“Urn, Nancy is at work and she’s pregnant so I—”

“Pregnant! My niece is pregnant! Now that calls for more champagne. You tell her I must see her. I’m dying to see her.” She leaned against the hallway and rocked her head back, lifted her bottle, and served herself a few streams. “Dying to see her,” she gasped, like an actor who doesn’t know a subtle emotion.

“Come on, Chino,” Bodega urged. His tie was loose and his shirt
was wrinkled. Vera’s dress was in worse shape. And her mascara had smeared completely, as if she had been crying.

“Chino?” She laughed that laugh again. “They call you Chino? My niece is married to a Chino?
Que bonito y pronto van a tener un chinito.
” She laughed, a little hysterically. “
Un chinito, qué Undo
, get it?” It was the first time I heard her speak Spanish. It sounded as natural as her English. Like she was two people.