Lit Riffs (33 page)

The next morning a postcard with a cup of coffee filled with stars stood alone in her mail slot. She almost didn’t pick it up. “Walk with me, talk with me,” he wrote.

He was writing, he was calling. He was everywhere. She locked up her apartment and left, walking up and down the Village, staring into windows. How many years had passed since she stopped seeing gifts that made her think of Ray? Things she thought he’d love? She didn’t want to call Ray. She’d didn’t want to write Ray. She wondered, what did those nurses think if they thought anything at all?

She went to the hospital three days after his surgery; she was taken aback by how groggy he was, how hooded his eyes were. She hoped he wasn’t aware of how much time had passed.

“I’m here,” she said to him. “Can you see me?” She looked around the room, anywhere but
at
him. He held her hand, and she understood how a fox would chew off its own leg to escape a trap.

Two days later he called her; his voice sounded thick. “They’re kicking at me next week,” he said, breathing heavily. “Goddamn insurance company … ,” his voice trailed off. Could the story not have a thread that was some indictment of corrupt insurance practices? Wouldn’t that make it of social value?

“Next week?” she said frowning. “So soon?”

It was all happening so fast now.

She didn’t pick him up at the hospital. She told herself that Tad wouldn’t have liked that; he was out of town and it would be like sneaking around in his absence. It was one thing to see Ray when Tad was in town, but this seemed to be taking advantage of his absence. It was cheap. Tad wouldn’t understand that a man like Ray had few close friends, and those that he had were as unpredictable and irresponsible as Ray himself had once been.

Tracy didn’t pick up Ray and she didn’t take him home, but when she got to this point in the book—the end—she would. She’d talk about how long it took him to make it up the stairs, how he’d rested leaning on her shoulder, how a Jamaican home-care worker named Betty came by several times a day to take blood and give him meds and weeks later would accompany him on slow walks around the block. She’d joke that he shouldn’t get any ideas about her becoming his girlfriend, because she was already taken, and her husband was a minister.

“I want to see you,” he wrote her, “but I’m not ready to come to you.” She didn’t know if he meant the traveling or her. Did he not want to revisit the landscape of their past? A red woven blanket from Oaxaca thrown over the back of the old leather sofa they’d found on the street, a piece of amber carved into a swan that they’d discovered in a thrift shop in Montana, the odd assortment of coffee cups they’d collected on their drives cross-country, an ivory hand mirror inlaid with gilt that he’d once painted her holding.

She’d waited almost three weeks to visit. For a week she’d nursed along what she’d told Tad and Ray was a cold (she couldn’t go see Ray and risk infecting him) but was surely depression. She sat around in pajamas, her hair dirty, working sporadically on the book, picking out words and rejecting them. She thought about taking up smoking. She was ashamed; sure she’d visited Ray in the hospital, twice even, but still. Wasn’t it possible she could say that she’d been there right when he came out of surgery? He wouldn’t remember. And anyway, wouldn’t he want to believe it?

“Hey,” he said when he opened the door.

His voice sounded tired, but it was his voice now. The hoarseness was gone. His hair was growing out, the curl was back. He’d lost some of the paunch, his chest seemed wider, less sunken in. He even had some color in his cheeks. He wasn’t dying. Still, he wasn’t himself. There was no tape on his fingertips like there’d always been, from working on motors or using X-Actos, no paint stained his clothing. His shirt, buttoned up, looked ironed. On the walls hung a few old paintings she’d seen before. There was a picture of her in the dress of a Moorish woman, which now seemed quite silly, and she noticed, her heart nearly stopping, something she’d never seen before, a painting of a church identical to one in their little town.

“This,” she said, drawing closer so she could see the brushstrokes.

“That is my favorite painting ever,” he said.

She smiled at him. “I know this church.”

“I did it when I was a kid,” he said, “from a picture.”

She stopped and stared into the painting; she could see now it was crude, and unrealistic, the light was all wrong, it was sloppy, she hoped he didn’t know what she’d been thinking.

“It’s a piece of shit,” he said, “but I love it.”

“So,” she said, turning toward him, “are you going to have a great scar?”

“It’s pretty great.”

“Can I see it?” She wanted to see it. She needed to see it.

“Well,” he said after a long moment. He fingered the hem of his shirt, like this was too personal a question.

“Later, maybe,” he said.

“You don’t have to or anything,” she said.

“I can’t drink coffee anymore—imagine—but I have some juice, some water …”

They drank iced green tea and ate cheese puffs, the kind that leave your finger pads bright orange, and he told her where he’d traveled in the past years, Russia, Italy, and Costa Rica. He’d gone back to Mexico, not to their town. His Spanish was really great now, he told her.

“But it was the best with you,” he said, his voice getting soft. “That was the best time of my life.”

“I know,” she said. “So,” she said, this was it.

“So,” he said, smiling at her. He sat back in his chair, his hands laced behind his head. It would be so easy to shoot an arrow right there into his heart.

“I should go,” she said, brushing the orange powder on her pants. “Look at this stuff,” she said. “What is this orange stuff anyway? Agent Orange … ?”

“Ah shit, do you have to?” he asked. “Already?”

“I’m on deadline.” She couldn’t believe it was over just like that. That was it. It was over. She felt slightly sick.

“Sure, but you’ve got to come again.” He looked a little confused, and flustered.

“Of course,” she said. She couldn’t get her breath.

“Look, it’s not like I’m doing anything. They come and take my blood, and I hang out. I sleep a lot, eat lots of steak. Cash my disability check.”

“Wow,” she said. “That’s the life.”

“I miss you,” he said, and she believed him. He did. She felt sick.

“I’ll come back,” she said, “don’t worry. You’ll get sick of me.”

“Sick of you? Not possible.”

How had this happened? It was because he was sick, she told herself. That’s all.

“Is this driving you crazy?”

He shrugged. “What can I do? I can’t work.” He didn’t seem bothered by this. “I am taking hundreds of dollars’ worth of pills every day just to keep my body from rejecting the heart.”

Rejecting the heart.

“Do you know whose heart is it?” She couldn’t help herself, and who knew about the etiquette of transplants?

The whole way over on the subway she had wondered what he had done with his heart. Had he asked for it back? How could he not? How could he let it go?

“I don’t want to think about it,” Ray answered.

“Right,” she said, but she didn’t understand.

“All I know is, it was from an eighteen-year-old kid, from the Midwest.”

“A boy,” she said, thinking how untested and undamaged that heart would be. How she wished she’d known Ray when he had that heart.

In the silence that followed, though neither of them said it, she knew they were both imagining that the kid had died in a car accident, or a motorcycle crash, some way Ray might have once died, or should have died—a moment stolen. So rarely in life do people get the death they deserve when they deserve it. Didn’t he deserve that?

“That makes sense,” she said.

“It does,” he said.

“Better than like a giant beaver …”

He gave her a funny half-smile.

“At one point, you know like the time of the dinosaurs, beavers were twelve feet tall.” He stared at her. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“So you’ve got to come back soon,” he said, leaving his hand on her shoulder. She knew he was about to kiss her, so she turned her head and kissed his cheek, letting her lips linger there for a long moment. She couldn’t take the kiss.

“I’ll be back,” she said, but as she opened the door to the outside, the sun coming in, she knew that she’d never come back here. He would call her, and he would write her, and she would return calls late, she would forget emails he had sent. She’d wouldn’t kill this thing between them, but she’d slowly let it die. She’d disappear, just the way he had. She would finish the book about her and Ray, and in the death scene, for Ray would die in her book, she would cry, she would cry and mourn, but then, like that, it would be over. Maybe she wouldn’t understand it any better, but it would be over.

author inspiration

This song was written the year I had my nervous breakdown. While I didn’t hear it until years later, when I saw the date of composition, I felt like it was my story. I listened to it compulsively for a very long time.

zev borow

D
iego Guiterrez stares into the mirror and can’t help but wonder if another Central American strongman would have gotten a better suite. Even worse is the quick thought that one of his contemporaries, deposed or otherwise, could be decamped in New York at this very moment at another, decidedly better hotel altogether, staring into a larger mirror, with a more decorous frame, set off by more flattering lighting, a man even more mercifully alone with nothing except his own reflection. Where, he wonders, does Chávez stay? Chinaco, he knows, is usually at the Grand Hyatt. Who else? Perez, Salzar? No, no, no. He’d know if it were even a possibility. It might not make the papers—though Lord knows he reads enough newspapers these days not to miss it if it did—but still … It isn’t as if he no longer
knew
things. And was there even a comparison between the Waldorf and the Grand Hyatt? What about The Peninsula? Had someone recently mentioned a new Four Seasons? Perhaps.

Guiterrez has a nickname. El Pollito. The little chicken. His mother gave it to him, and even though he has always hated it, it has, as they say, stuck. It is midafternoon and El Pollito is wearing a crisp, pale blue Armani dress shirt fresh out of the box, along with silver cufflinks, a gift from Vicente Fox. The room is cold. The entire building practically thrums with air chilled so powerfully as to be menacing. How American, Guiterrez thinks. Of course, the truth is he loves it, that after all these years it still seduces him. When he first came to New York in the early 1970s, then just a junior member of his predecessor’s security detail, it wasn’t the skyscrapers or the Cadillacs that left him overwhelmed, it was the air-conditioning. That first trip had been during summer. New York was hot and thick, like home, but with even less breeze. They’d driven from the airport directly to the hotel—which one?—and as the baggage was unloaded the doors to the lobby were propped open. Out rushed a wave of air unlike any he could ever have imagined—air so ferociously piercing, so soulless, as dry and chilled as death itself. He was seized entirely. It was all he could do to keep his composure. This was cold that devoured the heat, not like the sickly, dripping coughs that spit out of rusted vents at home. This air was less a feat of engineering than brute will. Marco Polo upon first seeing the gilded court of the Chinese khan could not have been more awed. Guiterrez had turned to the soldier next to him and whispered, “
¡Dios mio!
How much could this possibly cost?”

The soldier, older, smiled and replied, “Resistance is futile, eh?”

But why resist at all? One thing Guiterrez could attest to was there was nothing better for fucking. Even this trip he’d woken up every morning with a hard-on. It also tended to make him hungry, a sensation he enjoyed almost as much. This made him recall a meal he’d had years ago with an American from the embassy. The man, surely CIA, from Texas or somewhere else in the American South, had actually cooked for him. A chicken dish, something deep-fried. He reveled in the origin of the recipe and the exact manner of its preparation and had called it “comfort food.” Guiterrez hears the phrase again in his mind as he continues to stare into the mirror. Even after eleven days his skin is still tanned. He looks healthy. “The air-conditioning at the Waldorf-Astoria,” he is surprised to hear himself say aloud, “is like comfort food.”

Then, from the next room: “President Guiterrez?”

It is the voice of an American woman, from the State Department. Her name is Lora Schuler. “Can we get you something?”

“I am fine,” Guiterrez answers softly.

He continues to stare at his reflection. His hair is thick, wavy, and mostly black. He is fifty-seven years old, and while there is some gray, it suits him. He’d always believed he would look distinguished as an older man, and the fact that now he indeed does offers a daily dose of brief, but deep, satisfaction. It is, he thinks, an example of the kind of small comfort that can help a man soldier on—to know that some things, thank God, can be counted upon. But could the same be said of the Waldorf? The lobby still shimmers, yes, but there seem to be more tourists, certainly more Asians, rich, of course, but … He couldn’t help but detect a slow creeping to the place; a vague film or faint echo, a lingering. It unsettles him. And now he can’t even come and go as he wishes. He’d been asked, no,
told
, “to stay removed from things.”

Removed?

“Removed.”

For how long?

“A little while. Just until the situation settles.”

The situation was settled. They all knew it. He was not going home. Not that things could not have been worse. On the contrary, he was lucky to have been here when it happened. Now they would have to arrange things for him. He would get an apartment, a car and driver, nothing extravagant. He had no grand illusions, mind you. He was … What was it? A small fish, sure, but not so small as to toss back, not right away at least. Better to let him flop in the boat for a turn. There were favors owed, and more importantly, things he knew. Others knew more, maybe, but if nothing else, the years had allowed him an understanding of how the Americans worked when it came to these things. Smooth transitions were important, they were all too happy to attach value and ease; and he’d cooperate, and they appreciated cooperation. As for home? He would monitor things, of course, always, but the truth was his time had passed. He knew this. Perhaps, if all went well, he’d be able to go back for a visit. Stranger things have happened. But he would be fine here, happy even. There, was money, yes, not as much as some no doubt thought, as some would no doubt say, not nearly, but enough.

In the next room, Guiterrez’s daughter, Arantxa, an exotic-looking young woman, the only child born to Guiterrez’s first wife, a Costa Rican beauty, stands next to her father’s most senior aide, Carlos Vinto. Once a member of Guiterrez’s own security detail, for the past eight years he has functioned as a chief of staff. Vinto and Arantxa are staring out a window that looks over Park Avenue. Sitting near them, reading one of the dozen newspapers scattered about, is Ms. Schuler. Her pin-straight brown hair is tucked behind her ears; she is wearing a long navy skirt, a white top, and a small cross around her neck. When El Pollito walks into the room, they all turn around; only Ms. Schuler smiles. Arantxa says she likes the color of her father’s shirt. Carlos asks if he is hungry for lunch. Guiterrez doesn’t say anything. He considers picking up a paper, then thinks better of it and walks back to the mirror.

A few minutes later, Ms. Schuler’s mobile phone rings. Minutes after that there is a knock on the suite’s door. It is someone she is expecting, a colleague. She goes to the door and greets a husky blond man wearing a navy blazer and a white shirt. Arantxa and Carlos stay fixed at the window. Ms. Schuler and the man in the blazer walk into the dining area to speak more privately. After only a few moments, the man walks back to the door of the suite. Another man in a blazer is posted outside the suite’s door, for security purposes. Ms. Schuler apparently wants a word with him, too; both men walk back into the suite to speak with her.

Guiterrez can see all of this because the mirror he has taken to staring at is located off the master bedroom. An open sliding door allows him to see into the suite’s sitting and dining rooms. As he watches, Guiterrez notes the precision with which everyone in the room seems to move and, even, stand still. It reminds him of silent films. He also notices that when the security man walked into the suite, the door did not close entirely behind him. So, without giving it much thought, Guiterrez quickly and quietly walks out of the suite, rides an elevator down to the hotel’s lobby, buys a pack of cigarettes, and walks outside and onto Park Avenue. It is just before 3 p.m. on a Friday.

The sky is clear and blue. It is mid-September and almost hot. Guiterrez smiles as the sun first hits his face and the warm air surrounds him. Another benefit of American airconditioning, he thinks: like misfortune, enough of it can make you value even the heat of the day. He begins walking north on Park Avenue, vaguely aware that is the direction of Central Park. After a few blocks, he sees two girls dressed in school uniforms. He asks them for directions, which they relay with what is unquestionably the least possible effort and attention, an act, Guiterrez notes, of true, merciless efficiency.
They
should run a country, he thinks. Then he notices a café across the street and decides he’d like a coffee.

He takes a table in a corner, a semiconscious act of discretion. At this point, it should be noted that while Guiterrez is aware he is flouting the U.S. State Department’s stated position regarding his leaving the hotel, and that back at his suite at the Waldorf there is probably a small flurry of reactive activity occurring, he does not in any way think he has committed any grand offense, and the idea that he might be in any kind of … danger couldn’t be more removed from his mind. In fact, his simple act of … well, to call it defiance would be too much. Assertion? Independence? Recklessness? However it should be described, it has left him feeling lifted, and very much alive, a feeling, as it would happen, shared by a young woman he is about to meet.

Her name is Ellie Bowen. She is nineteen years old, and has lived all of her life in the very large apartment owned by her parents in the prestigious prewar building next to the café, which is where she is sitting, drinking a 7UP, when Guiterrez walks in. As it is a Friday afternoon, she has not been to sleep for nearly forty eight hours. Generally speaking, when Ellie goes out for the evening, it lasts a while. She likes being out, is good at it, and often finds that a mere six or twelve or even twenty-four hours of the doing so isn’t enough to sate her. More often than not, she finishes these stretches—she likes to call them sessions—by spending an hour or so, usually alone, at the café. Not that you’d guess it from looking at her. Her long, brown hair seems like something from a magazine ad, all but posed, and backlit to flattering effect by the afternoon sun sliding in through the café’s open windows. Her eyes, also brown, are clear and open wide, and her skin is smooth and deeply tanned. She is wearing a simple, white dress. She could be anyone young and pretty.

Often people think she is Latin, or Italian, sometimes Middle Eastern, none of which is true. She smiles often, and with skill, but her most charming quality, the thing that inevitably distinguishes her in a group and has been the catalyst for the high frequency of what can rightly be called singular experiences during her relatively young life, is a true faith in the power of lying. For as long as she can remember it is only when wedged deep into a dark crevice of a dense, living fiction that she feels … calm. For Ellie, lies are blankets, and windows, portable accessories that offer both security and possibility. Ellie and her lies share a kind of understanding; they need one another, yes, of course, but more than that, they
like
each other. The ramifications of this are, naturally, extensive, but have thus far at least been largely contained, and even capitalized upon. Not yet diagnosed, but under treatment, Ellie is an agile, fragrant textbook pathology. A true bird of paradise.

She had been sitting in the café for nearly twenty minutes before Guiterrez walked in. Now she waits until he orders, before going to his table. “I’ve seen you on TV,” she begins.

Guiterrez looks up at her. No, she is mistaken, he says in Spanish.

“You were on a talk show.”

No, she is thinking of someone else (again in Spanish).

“You were talking about rivers.”

He stares at her.

“No, no, no, not rivers. That was someone else. You were talking about something bigger, something about how the world is, most of the time, a terrible and sad place where there are millions and millions of poor children dying due to neglect, because no one will act on their behalf. You said that it is understandable that most of us don’t spend our lives trying to feed poor children on continents thousands of miles away, or even poor children in the cities we live in. You made it clear you understood the reality of the situation, that it’s simply not feasible for most people to do that. But,
but
, you said, if we—and by
we
I think you meant, you know, not just all of us who happened to be watching you on TV at that moment—if we acted only a little, changed our behavior only in some small, manageable way, then we could do a lot to help these poor children, then we could literally save thousands, maybe millions of them.”

She sits down at his table.

“I understood what you were talking about. I remembered it.”

Now he speaks in English: “I’m sorry, miss, but you do have me mistaken for someone else. I have never been on television.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Never?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“That’s too bad.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“I said that’s too bad,” Ellie says.

“Is it?”

“Well,” she says. “Yes, I think so. Being on TV is actually quite remarkable.”

“I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“No, you don’t have to, that was just my experience.”

Guiterrez takes a sip of his coffee, then looks up at her. This girl is lying, he thinks. What is this about?