Bodega Dreams (7 page)

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you—” Sapo interrupted.

“Yeah, he might,” I interrupted Sapo right back and he let me, because Sapo could’ve started shouting his point and drowned me out. “It’s such a big name that it’s only a matter of time before someone will wan a slice he won’t wanna give up. I don’t know much about this business like you do, bro, I only know that that’s when things start to get sloppy. That’s when dead bodies start appearing.”

Sapo jerked back. He glared at me with the Sapo face that bites, that bites and leaves warts. When he spoke his voice was low and mean.

“Ya know, Chino, at least I admit I only think about myself. But you, you play it off as if you really care about other people when in fact it’s always been you, you, and fucken you.” He opened the door of his BMW and got inside. He turned on the ignition and, before he released the clutch, his tinted window slid down. His Sapo face was framed by the opening.

“Go home to your church girl. Go home and ask her about her aunt Vera. And, Chino, don’t talk to me cuz you got leprosy, ma man.” He tore out, leaving behind the smell of burnt rubber and the squeal of his tires.

T
HAT
night, I decided I’d better walk for a while because I couldn’t go home to Blanca high. I walked down Fifth to Ninety-sixth Street, about half of the Museum Mile. I stopped in front of El Museo del Barrio on 104th Street and Fifth Avenue. Then I walked a block south and sat on the marble steps of the Museum of the City of New York. When Sapo and I were in the sixth grade we would play hooky by going there to play hide and seek, hang out. The museum was usually empty, especially during weekdays. Also, it could only afford one guard, and he was lazy. Once Sapo and I were running and we knocked a woman down. We laughed and kept running. When she complained to the guard we heard him say, “Were they touching any of the exhibits or something? No? Listen, lady, I’m not here to defend you. That’s not my job.”

After the museum got boring, Sapo and I would leave, cross the street, and spend the rest of the afternoon in Central Park. We knew Fifth Avenue was that part of El Barrio with rich people living in it. The buildings along Fifth were different from the project we lived in. Those buildings had doormen, huge glass doors, gargoyles on the walls, and air conditioners in almost every window. The people who lived on Fifth didn’t travel past Madison Avenue. They always took cabs and you’d only see them walking when they were past Ninety-sixth
Street, where El Barrio ends. When I was a kid, some residents had taken petitions to City Hall. They wanted Mayor Beame to declare Fifth Avenue from 110th to Ninety-sixth to be its own little neighborhood, separate from East Harlem, called East Central Park.

My mother used to work cleaning the homes of some of those people. One day when I was in the second grade I was too sick to go to school, and since Mami didn’t want to miss work she took me with her. When I entered the apartment my mother was supposed to clean, I felt like I was inside the Museum of the City of New York. The place was huge. There were paintings and statues and mirrors and beautiful wooden things—nothing like where we lived. That was the first time I really saw the difference between those that had and those that didn’t.

That night, after Bodega, after the walk, after I had remembered a few things, I went home hoping that Blanca was already asleep. I turned my key as silently as possible, and entered slowly. I crept into the bedroom and quietly changed clothes. I got into bed and didn’t touch her because I knew she wouldn’t let me and because I didn’t want to fight. Blanca was in her second trimester and I found her incredibly sexy. I loved to make love to Blanca with her belly round as the moon. It was smooth and the feeling was of closeness. I wanted her to know she was still desirable and that I wasn’t out there screwing other women. I wanted her to know I loved making love to her and that her body still excited me. Her breasts were full and her belly was so round and sex was great and different and screw all those men who won’t make love to their wives while they are pregnant.

“Did you eat?”

“
Sí, mami.
I though you were asleep.”

“You smell like marijuana.”

“Sapo’s always smoking that stuff, you know that, Blanca.”

“When you speak … your breath,” she mumbled.

I stayed quiet, moving my hand slowly over her stomach.

“Julio,” she whispered after a little pause of night silence.

“What?”

“I never really liked your name, but now I kind of like it. What do you think about naming the baby Julio?”

“Whatever you want, Blanca.”

“I like it,” she said, turning around, placing her full stomach close to me.

“I’d like it to have your name if it’s a boy and my sister’s name if it’s a girl.”

“Why? I like your name, Nancy,” I said, and she giggled.

“Nope. I want something biblical, like my sister’s name, Deborah. She was a judge. The only woman judge in the Bible. I like her. I like that.”

“Well, what good was it for your sister to be named Deborah when she turned out so bad that everyone calls her Negra?”

“Julio, my sister is not that bad, is she?”

“Of course not,” I said, but I didn’t mean it.

“Where did you go with Enrique?”

“Nowhere,” I said, sliding my arm around her waist. She didn’t say anything after that and I was happy.

Then I remembered something. “What about the name Vera?” If Sapo had told me to ask Blanca about this Vera, it had to be because we both had something to gain from it. I felt bad asking Blanca about her aunt; it was like me quizzing her on some betrayal that had never happened. “Vera, if it’s a girl.”

“No. No, no, no,” Blanca said firmly.

“Isn’t there a Vera in the Saldivia clan? You mentioned her, way back before we got married.”

“Oh yeah, my aunt Veronica.”

“That’s her real name? Veronica. Oh, yeah, wait, I remember.” It was about two years ago, before we got married. Blanca and I had been talking about those Latinos who Anglonize their names, from Juan to Jack, or Patricia to Trish.

“Yes, that’s the one. We don’t see her much. She sends my mother money for her birthday. That’s the only time we hear from her. I gave my mother an extra wedding invitation for her to mail to her sister in case she wanted to make the trip, but she didn’t come.” Blanca yawned and stretched a bit.

“Is your aunt Veronica married?”

“That’s why we never see her. She married well. Some rich Cuban she met. They live in Miami.” That rang a faint bell.

“
Un cubano? Eso está
heavy duty. For a Rican to marry a Cuban he better be rich,” I said, joking, because Cubans and Puerto Ricans never hit it off. The Arabs and Jews of the Caribbean. “But your aunt, didn’t she live in the neighborhood once?”

“Yeah, supposedly she was going to marry this guy she was in love with, some street activist or something, but her mother made her marry the Cuban, at least that’s what they told me.”

“A street activist? You mean a Young Lord?”

“Yeah, that’s what he was. I mean I was just being born, so I don’t really know. But I heard the story.” Nothing in Blanca’s voice or body language indicated the name Vera meant anything to her. As it came to me, bit by bit, I understood more clearly what Sapo had told me earlier. Sapo believed in Bodega because he knew other reasons why Bodega was renovating the neighborhood. I started to believe a bit myself. I could picture Bodega in an Armani suit, all legal and respectable, his renovated buildings in the background, his name no longer Bodega but something else, something politicians want on their side, a commodity of goodwill. I pictured him finding her: “I’ve always loved you, Vera. Look at me. I fixed up everything, just like it was before.”

I didn’t ask Blanca anything; I could tell she was already feeling talkative.

“My
abuela
was right in making my aunt do that. I mean, the Cuban guy was rich and the street activist she had been in love with ended up in jail.” In the dark I could feel Blanca smile. “You guys, we just turn our heads and you guys are in jail.” She kissed me.

“Oh yeah, what about you girls?” I laughed. “We just breathe on you and you get pregnant.”

“That’s cheap. Your humor,” Blanca said smiling, “sets Latin women back a hundred years.”

“Tell me more about Veronica and the street activist.”

“Who cares about her, I never even met her. Let’s talk about you coming to church with me. In two weeks we’ll be having a special guest speaker, an anointed.” Blanca propped herself up on her elbow and clearly didn’t feel sleepy anymore. She was done talking about her aunt, but it didn’t matter because I already knew enough.

“An anointed? What’s that?” I asked, letting her think I was interested.

“Someone who will one day, when he or she dies, rule with Christ in heaven for one thousand years,” she said, excitedly squeezing my arm. “And this anointed is only seventeen!”

“Seventeen, huh,” I answered, not caring the slightest bit. I just let Blanca continue talking about this seventeen-year-old anointed. I would throw in a well-timed “really” and “I hear you” and “yes, uh-huh.” My mind was really on Bodega and what he had said earlier that night. About Vera and what Bodega really wanted from me.

In the dark I looked around our tiny bedroom. Our living room was even smaller, with the kitchen set in the corner. The rent was high for this matchbox and Blanca and I’d had our tuition raised last semester because of the new governor. We didn’t want to take out loans and then have to pay off the government for twenty years. It was not a good way to start a professional career, in debt. So we were paying for all our studies at full tuition out of our own pockets. Then there was a baby on the way and we needed more space. And a way to save some money, too. Sitting there in the dark I saw some daylight. Bodega wanted something from me, so I would ask something in return. It was basic, simple street politics: you want something from me then you better have something I need.

T
HE
next day at work, I was pricing cans. I always liked pricing cans. It was better than straightening shelves because I got to use the sticker gun. When little kids were shopping with their moms, I would show off by pricing an entire box of cans real quick, and they got a kick out of that. Before I knew it they were asking me, “Yo, stick my hand.” And I priced their palms, two for a dollar.

After work I decided to get something to eat before I went to school. I had two classes that night and Blanca had one. On my way to get some food, I saw Sapo’s car parked in front of La Reyna Bakery. That bakery had been there forever. Half of El Barrio got its coffee every morning at La Reyna. Even though it was a small, dingy place, dark and crowded, people still went there because they made the best pastries, coffee,
rolitos
(flat oven bread with butter),
empanadas
, and
sanwiches cubanos
among other things.

Inside I saw Sapo, yelling his order just like the rest of the customers.

“
Dame un flan
and three of those little cakes!” La Reyna was like those pits on Wall Street, everyone screaming what they wanted, things happening fast.

I walked up to Sapo. “You still angry at me, bro?”

“Nah, I ain’t angry at you. You still my
pana. Dame un flan
and three of those little cakes! So wha’ choo doin’ here, bro?” he asked.

“Same as you.”

“Better start yellin’ then, before they run out of cakes, bee.”

“Sapo, did Bodega want to see me because he wanted me to work with Nazario or because he wants me to get Blanca to invite her aunt to New York?” He turned and hustled me outside.

“Wha’ the fuck’s the mara wi’choo? You know how many people are in there? You don’t mention shit like that in public. These people may have a lot of hair, but they all think they’re Kojak and like to ask questions.” A guy came out of the bakery and handed Sapo his order. Sapo gave him five dollars and told him to keep the change.

“Take a ride with me, bro,” Sapo said.

“Yo, I got class tonight …”

“Class, class, you always have class. You got a lot of fucken class, you know that, Chino?”

“Fuck you.”

“So,
mira
.” Sapo took out his car keys and opened the door. “I drop you off at Hunta, cool?”

“Yeah, that’s cool. It’s better than paying a fare that ain’t fair.” I was happy to save myself a buck fifty and I decided to get something to eat later.

“Yeah, I knew you’d like that. You’re like the fucken Green Hornet, you like to be driven. But don’t get used to it, cuz I ain’t Kato and you the one that looks Chinese.”

“Yo, that show was wack,” I said. “The action scenes always took place in the dark. Bruce Lee looked dope in that chauffeur outfit, though.”

Sapo nodded in agreement. “This won’t take long, Chino, but I hafta pick up Nene.” Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Sapo dug into the paper bag and pulled out one of his little cakes. He swallowed it whole and then dug for the second one.

“It’s cool if it doesn’t take too long. You know I—”

“Have class. I ain’t deaf. I heard you the first time. So, you want t’know about Bodega?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you ask him yo’self.”

“You my
pana
, bro, and I wouldn’t know where to look for him anyway.”

“Yeah, thass true, Bodega only lets himself be seen when he wants ta be. Yeah, so check this out, Bodega did want you to get Blanca to ask her aunt to come to New York. That don’t mean he didn’t want you to work with Nazario, cuz he did.” The third little cake was downed just as quick.

“So why didn’t he just come out and say what he had to say.”

“What, you wanted him to get all romantic and shit? Cut the dude some slack. See, Chino, you got it all wrong. Bodega believes ever’thin’ he told you about. But he’s also in love with some bitch from his past. Or he’s still in love with the past. I don’t know which or both or what the fuck. All I know is I’m going to ride his dream like a magic carpet. Cuz, Chino, it don’t take a genius to figure out Bodega is where I want to be and he knows what the fuck he’s doing. Know wha I’m sayin’,
papi
?”