Bodega Dreams (29 page)

“He once helped me with my rent.”

“He helped put my daughter through school.”

“He helped me and my sister get jobs.”

“He once bought me a case of Miller beer.”

•

AFTER THE
three-day wake, a hearse, long, black, shiny, and sleek like Ray-Ban Wayfarers, took Bodega’s body to a Queens cemetery. Lines of cars, with their lights on, clogged Third Avenue. Clogged 125th Street. Clogged the FDR Drive. And all along the endless convoy as it made its way out of the neighborhood and onto the highway, you’d hear a passerby ask, “Who they burying?”

“Bodega,” someone would answer.

“Who was this Bodega?”

“A Young Lord. William Carlos Irizarry. Man, where you’ve been? It was all over
El Diario
.” And as usual it was the only paper that covered the story.

The passerby would cross himself.
“Bendito, que Dios lo cuide.”

And those that didn’t come out to the street would stare out of their windows. Young women would holler and scream. Older women would bring out pots and pans, and bang on them with wooden spoons. It was to let the world know this wasn’t just any empty body inside that hearse. It once held the soul of Willie Bodega. So the people
had
taken to the streets, but in honor, not anger.

AT THE
cemetery, the crowds gathered like moss around the plot, where a Jesuit from San Cecilia, with the sign of the cross, scattered earth over the coffin. There were a lot of young people, too many for me to count. I knew these were the students whose college tuition Bodega had been paying. His great society, as he had explained it to me that day I first met him. They held hands and began to sing a song I couldn’t make out. I was too busy staring at Vera. Her elegant black dress and perfect posture, her matching black handkerchief to wipe her tears, her shoes with heels that punched holes in the grass. It was Veronica Saldivia–become-Vera at her best.

A few minutes later Nazario helped lower the coffin with Nene. Nene stood there, dignified, but cried and cried, inconsolable. The rest of Bodega’s pallbearers were ex–Young Lords: Pablo Guzman, Juan Gonzalez, Felipe Luciano, Denise Oliver, Iris Morales. Standing near them were some artists from Taller Boricua: Fernando Salicrup, Marcos Dimas, Irma Ayala, Jorge Soto, Gilbert Hernandez, and Sandra Maria Esteves, along with some ex-cons and poets. Miguel Algarin, Reverend Pedro Pietri, Martin Espada, Lucky Cienfuegos, and even Miguel Piñero cried their eyes out next to Piri Thomas, Edward Rivera, and Jack Agueros. Nearly the entire East Harlem aristocracy.

Afterward everyone lowered their heads for an interminable moment of silence. When the silence was broken, the people scattered like crows. Everyone headed for the buses that would take them to the
subway. Those who had cars gave lifts to those who hadn’t, and a growl of motors drowned out the chirping birds.

As the cemetery was emptying, I waited until Nazario and Vera had embraced the Jesuit and whomever else they were continuing to fool. Then I made my way over to Nazario. Vera, along with Nene, was waiting for him in a car.

“I know everything,” I said to Nazario. His eyes narrowed. He got closer to me, turning his back to the car where Vera was. “You killed Willie.” He got even closer, his face almost next to mine.

“This works for all of us. For all the people. We all had to cleanse ourselves. Only by killing Willie and laying all the blame on him could that be accomplished. Everyone is clean, Julio. The neighborhood is better off.” Always the practical one. To Nazario, what he and Vera had done was justified.

“No, the only one better off is you. You keep Vera, she keeps her husband’s money, and you keep Willie’s power.”

“Just go home, Julio.” Nazario was a reptile, his veins as cold as a razor in the morning.

“You betrayed all those beautiful things.”

He looked at me as if he wanted to kill me. He didn’t notice Ortiz and DeJesus behind him until they tapped his shoulder and arrested him. Nazario went peacefully. He smirked as if embarrassed that he’d been caught, and then smiled lightly at the detectives and brought up his hands for them to cuff. Vera and Nene had already been brought out of the car, handcuffed, and placed in separate squad cars. I saw Vera resisting, kicking the car door from inside, screaming and cursing like Negra.

Another squad car waited for Nazario. Ortiz and DeJesus guided him toward it. As Nazario walked, sandwiched by the detectives, he stopped for a second, turned around, and yelled, “Tell Sapo, when he gets it all, he’s going to need me.” I didn’t answer. I only felt for Nene. He kept crying because his cousin was dead. I felt sad for him and knew he had no idea what had happened. Nene had just done what he had been told. All he wanted was his cousin back. I promised myself to visit him in jail and take him a ghetto blaster and oldies CDs. Like all of us, he had had no idea. Nazario had kept everyone in the dark.

At the cemetery, after the cops left with Vera, Nazario, and Nene, I sat down near Bodega’s grave. I wished that I was a smoker; that way I’d have something else to do. I stopped thinking and just looked around. The cemetery really wasn’t a bad place. It was spring and the sun was kind, the grass was green and freshly cut. There were weeping willows and rows of apple trees leading up a hill. There was a feeling of ozone in the air and a hawk soaring in the sky. There were little sounds of insects. A couple of crows flew by and landed on a tombstone not far away. There was a lot of life in that cemetery. I stayed right until the last bus was about to depart.

On my way back to Spanish Harlem, I figured that it wasn’t Fischman that had set that fire in retaliation for Salazar’s death. Nazario must have set that fire himself. That’s why he was at the scene so quickly, presenting himself to the tenants as if he were Christ. I realized that those Italians in Queens weren’t who he made them out to be. It was all a farce. I knew something was wrong when Bodega told me that Nazario had handpicked me to go with him. It was because Nazario knew he could fool me and thus fool Bodega as well. Nazario could report back to Bodega that he had met with that big Italian and been told it was okay to kill Fischman. Nazario had taken me along as evidence that the meeting had actually taken place.

So Vera killed her husband with Bodega’s gun. Nazario killed Bodega. And since everyone thought there was trouble between Bodega and Fischman, the latter would have taken the rap for Bodega’s death. It would have left Nazario and Vera with everything.

When I got back to Spanish Harlem, the sun had set. It had set for the first time on the remains of William Carlos Irizarry.

As I walked home the neighborhood was silent. Like the anthem in Bodega’s new country. There was no salsa in the streets and the people looked as if they had just arrived home after a long day’s work.

An old man and a young boy carrying suitcases approached me.

“Do you know where we can find Willie Bodega?” the old man asked in slow Spanish. “My grandson and I just arrived from Puerto Rico and my cousin told us that this man would find us a place to live and work. My cousin was a super for one of his buildings.”

I stared at them. They had missed the party.

“Willie Bodega doesn’t exist,” I said to him. “I’m sorry.”

“No, my cousin would never lie to me. He said a man named Willie Bodega would help me. I have to find him.” The old man gripped his grandson’s hand tighter, picked up his suitcase, and walked away. A few steps on, he asked someone else. Someone who would hopefully know where Willie Bodega was and wouldn’t disappoint him. But the person just laughed at the old man and continued walking.

“ ’Pera!”
I yelled at him to wait. He kept on walking, so I went after him.

“You can stay with me. I have an extra room. My wife left for a few weeks.”

He was grateful. Told me his name was Geran and his grandson was Hipolito, and then he made me all sorts of promises that I knew to be true. He had come to work and start a new life and would get out of my hair as soon as possible. I told him there was no rush.

When we got home, I saw all those unopened boxes on the floor and I missed Blanca. I wanted to call her but I knew she was at school. Just then I remembered papers that were overdue; I had missed a lot of classes. There was no way I would catch up. My semester at Hunter was shot.

“Are you Willie Bodega?” Geran respectfully asked, looking at all the unopened boxes. “You must be rich,” he said, thinking the boxes held valuable things. I looked at the boy. He was tired and silent.

“No. I’m not Bodega and I’m not rich,” I said, and tousled the kid’s hair. I didn’t think the old man believed me. I showed them to their room, which Blanca and I had hoped would belong to the baby. He thanked me repeatedly. Both were exhausted. They didn’t want anything to eat, just sleep. I moved the sofa bed into their room and said we would talk in the morning.

•

THAT NIGHT
, I dreamed I heard a loud knock. In the dream I elbowed Blanca, who was there, next to me. I was happy.

“Mami, there’s someone at the door.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” she mumbled, moving slowly, catlike, and then settling back to sleep.

“Blanca, someone is knocking,” I said, and this time she didn’t even
move. So I kissed her and got up from the bed, walked to the door, looked through the peephole, and instantly recognized who it was. I opened the door. He was dressed as a Young Lord and had on his beret and pin, a copy of
Pa’lante
under his arm.

He walked in and looked around and then asked me, “Do me a little solid, Chino, and open the fire escape for me. I have to show you something.”

I opened the window and we climbed out onto the fire escape. East Harlem loomed below and ahead of us. He stretched out his arms and took a deep breath, like he had done when he showed Vera his renovated tenements.

“See, it’s alive,” he said, and right that minute, at a window next door to us, a woman yelled to her son down on the street. “
Mira
, Junito, go buy
un mapo, un contén de leche
, and tell
el bodeguero yo le pago
next Friday. And I don’t want to see you in
el rufo!
”

We both laughed.

“You know what is happening here, don’t you? Don’t you? What we just heard was a poem, Chino. It’s a beautiful new language. Don’t you see what’s happening? A new language means a new race. Spanglish is the future. It’s a new language being born out of the ashes of two cultures clashing with each other. You will use a new language. Words they might not teach you in that college. Words that aren’t English or Spanish but at the same time are both. Now that’s where it’s at. Our people are evolving into something completely new.” He winked at me. “Just like what I was trying to do, this new language is not completely correct; but then, few things are.” He started to walk up the fire escape. He walked up and up until there was no fire escape left and he was lost in the night sky.

In my dream I felt sad. But the new language Bodega had spoken about seemed promising.

Alone on the fire escape, I looked out to the neighborhood below. Bodega was right, it was alive. Its music and people had taken off their mourning clothes. The neighborhood had turned into a maraca, with the men and women transformed into seeds, shaking with love and desire for one another. Children had opened fire hydrants, and danced, laughing and splashing water on themselves. Old men were
sitting on milk crates and playing dominoes. Young men left their car doors wide open, stereos playing at full blast. Young girls strutted their stuff, shaking it like Jell-O, proud to be voluptuous and not some bony Ford models. Old women gossiped and laughed as they sat on project benches or by tenement stoops, where they once played as children with no backyards—yes, they were happy too. Murals had been painted in memory of Bodega. The entire graffiti hall of fame was covered with tributes. Some had him as a Young Lord, beret, rifle,
Pa’lante
, and all. Others had painted him as Christ, with a halo and glowing with the Holy Spirit, sharing his divine power and good deeds all over the neighborhood. Others had painted him among the greats: Zapata, Albizu Campos, Sandino, Martí, and Malcolm, along with a million Adelitas. But they were all saying the same thing: “Here once walked Bodega; these were the things he left for us.”

The way a picture that’s been hanging on a wall for years leaves a shadow of light behind, Bodega had kicked the door down and left a green light of hope for everyone. He had represented the limitless possibilities in us all by living his life, striving for those dreams that seemed to elude the neighborhood year after year. But in that transitory moment when at last the pearl was about to be handed to him, like Orpheus or Lot’s wife, he had to look back to find Vera.

No matter.

Tomorrow Spanish Harlem would run faster, fly higher, stretch out its arms farther, and one day those dreams would carry its people to new beginnings. The neighborhood sensed this, and in my dream the people were jumping, shaking, and jamming as if the rent weren’t due for six months. Like Iris Chacón inside a washing machine during an earthquake, Richter scale 8.9. There was salsa and beer for all. The neighborhood might have been down, but it was far from out. Its people far from defeat. They had been bounced all over the place but they were still jamming.

It seemed like a good place to start.

Para Leonor y Silvio Quiñonez

I would like to thank my agent, Gloria Loomis, and my editor, Robin “Max” Desser, for their endless labor and unwavering confidence. I am indebted to Frederic Tuten for his aesthetics and passion; Walter Mosley, whose work is always teaching me new tricks; and Professor Ed Rivera, another product of Spanish Harlem, for his insight and sound advice. I will always remember Juanita Lorenzo and Cesar Rosado’s generosity and kindness, and their couch. I am grateful to Darnell Martin for “getting it” from the very beginning. Finally, Jeanne Flavin has been a good friend as well as a significant influence on how I view issues of crime and justice. I like to think this book would have happened even without all her help. But I’m glad I didn’t have to find out.