America's Dream (32 page)
The room is an enormous square with brick walls on two of
its sides and blacked-out windows on the others. Colored Christmas lights twinkle from the high ceiling and around steel beams. In the center a shiny dance floor stretches before a low stage with musical instruments already set up. On either side of the stage two massive speakers blare music selected by a disc jockey in a glassed enclosure off to one side. Long tables with folding chairs are set up around the dance floor. At the back of the room, opposite the stage, there is a bar, almost invisible behind a crowd of men.
The tables are numbered, and Leopoldo finds their to the left of the stage, directly in front of one of the speakers. As they’re yelling and signaling to one another trying to determine who sits where, Teresa appears from behind the stage and hugs and kisses everyone.
“I’ve already ordered,” she mouths, and points to the table, at either end of which there are bottles of champagne on ice, two bottles of rum, several Cokes, a cup full of sliced limes, a stack of plastic cups, and a filled ice bucket.
América sits between Elena and Carmen, facing the stage. Several couples are already dancing. Leopoldo, Rufo, and Lourdes prepare drinks for everyone, without asking what they want, since they can’t be heard about the music. Darío, who sits across from América, hands her a Cuba Libre, and América feels Carmen step on her toes and Elena poke her in the ribs. As they were getting dressed at Paulina’s, the two sisters teased América that she shouldn’t worry about finding a dance partner at the club. Darío, they claimed, had been practicing merengues for weeks in preparation for this night.
The disc jockey puts on a bolero, and the dance floor clears, then fills again with a different group of dancers. Some women wrap their arms around their men, flatten their hips into their partners’, whose palms press them closer by sequeezing their buttocks. América feels a familiar warmth between her legs, heat rising from her belly, intensifying the fragrance of the perfume she liberally sprayed on. She blushes and avoids looking at the dancers, at Darío, who as usual has his eyes fixed on her, at Lourdes, whose hand has strayed to Rufo’s thigh.
The musicians take their place onstage as the last strains of the bolero fade. They open with a blare of horns and the throbbing of congas. The audience applauds, and the orchestra leader, a dark, wrinkled man with an enormous nose and a small hat perched precariously on his balding head, raises his hand, waits for the applause to stop, and launches into a furious solo on his conga drums that infects even the most stalwart nondancers. Hips shimmy on chairs, feet tap the floor, fingers rap the tabletops, heads bob above shaking shoulders. The loft vibrates with the pounding rhythm of the congas, which rises and falls in pulsating waves primal as a heartbeat. When he stops, suddenly, as if he had grown tired of beating the drums, the whole place explodes in applause, which the orchestra leader acknowledges by lifting his hat. He walks over to the microphone in the middle of the stage.
“Damas y caballeros,” he says, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, “tonight we have the pleasure of introducing a wonderful new talent.” Paulina and Teresa applaud, and everyone else at the table follows. “I see he brought his fan club,” the or- chestra leader says with a grin. “Ladies and gentlemen, Orlando Ortiz!”
Everyone at table 1 cheers and applauds. Orlando smiles and waves at them, and launches into a salsa tune about being in love and not knowing why. He sings in a clear tenor filled with emo- tion. The audience applauds after the first verse, and those who want to dance make their way to the floor. Teresa and Paulina are annoyed that people aren’t listening, but Orlando signals that they should dance.
Leopoldo extends his hand to Paulina, who smiles coquettishly and follows him. Rufo squeezes Lourdes’s shoulder, and they too stand up and join the dancers. Darío is left on his side of the table facing Elena, América, Carmen, and Teresa. Carmen again steps on América’s toes, and América kicks her back playfully. América feels Darío struggling with what he should do. If he asks her to dance, he would be leaving three young women unattended at the table. He decides to wait with them, and pours each another helping of rum and Coke. This time América feels Elena’s foot on her toes.
After two numbers, Leopoldo and Rufo return their wives to the table. Leopoldo offers his hand to América and Rufo to Car- men. Darío asks Elena, and the three married women are left alone at the table. As she follows Leopoldo, América sees a man approach Teresa, who refuses him by pointing at the ring on her finger and at the stage.
Leopoldo is a competent dancer who moves in tight circles but always in the same direction. His hands are warm and fleshy, small-fingered, heavier than she expected. América is about the same height, but they studiously avoid looking at each other as they dance. It is a peculiar feeling for her, not to look at her part- ner’s face, not to feel his eyes on hers. She again feels the warmth of desire, but this time it has a name, and she tries to wipe it away by observing the other dancers.
Every so often she notes the inviting glances of men whose partners have their back to her, and even though this gives her a thrill of pleasure, she looks away and concentrates on a spot just below Leopoldo’s ear. They exchange partners for the next song without leaving the floor: Leopoldo with Carmen, Rufo with América, Darío returns Elena to the table and brings his mother out. As Elena sits down, the man refused by Teresa asks her, and she jumps up and follows him to the dance floor. The couples twirl complex circles around each other, exchanging happy smiles, their bodies bumping against those of strangers.
When Rufo returns her to the table, América sips from her drink, but no sooner has she caught her breath than hands appear in front of her, and she’s again up and dancing with a stranger who smells like vanilla, and after him, a short, rotund man with hair parted in the middle, and then a tall, skinny man whose many gold chains jingle as he moves.
When the orchestra takes a break and the disc jockey takes over, Orlando joins them. He is congratulated and kissed by all the women and by some from neighboring tables, while Teresa hangs on to him with that possessive air América knows so well. They pop open the champagne and toast Orlando’s success. In between, there is more dancing.
América doesn’t sit a single number out. Every time she’s
returned to the table to quench her thirst, another hand appears in front of her. She follows these men to the dance floor remarking how different each feels from the other, how varied their styles of dress and grooming, the way they touch or avoid touching her, the vague whiffs of cigarette smoke or cologne that emanate from their bodies. Each one she measures against the only standard she knows, the imposing, muscular frame of Pantaleón Amador Correa. And she’s not surprised that none of these men are as handsome as he, as good a dancer, as comfortable in their skin as Correa is in his. But even though they are so different from him, they make her happy. América is breathless with ex- citement, with a joy she can’t describe or explain. Her head buzzing from too much rum and freedom, she’s as radiant as a jewel, her lips parted in a smile that holds no secrets, no pain, no fear.
When the taped music stops and the dancers return to the tables, Teresa impulsively reaches her skinny arms around América, hugs her warmly, and kisses her on the cheek. Surprised at this, América kisses her back, believing that Teresa is so thrilled with Orlando’s performance that she’s kissing the first person she touches. She sits for a minute intending to rest a while and listen to Orlando sing. She’s hot and light-headed, so she gulps her drink down, munches on the ice left at the bottom of the cup. A man offers his hand, but she refuses him, waving her fingers in front of her like a fan to let him know she’s too hot to dance.
She’s alone at the table with Teresa and Darío, who hasn’t danced with her because every time he tries she’s already up and following someone else. He smiles, hands her a napkin so she can wipe her brow. He pours her and Teresa another drink. When he’s not singing, Orlando dances from one side of the stage to the other, so that América thinks people are missing a pretty good show by not watching the singer. At the change, everyone comes back to the table, but within seconds they’re all up again, in dif- ferent combinations. Darío’s trembling hand appears in front of América, and she accepts it and follows him, to the amusement of Carmen, who’s dancing with the man with many gold chains.
It is a bolero. Orlando’s voice sounds heartbroken as he de- scribes his beloved’s raven hair and apple-red lips. Darío looks lovingly at América. He maintains a respectful distance between them, even as other couples press against them and each other. His right hand resolutely planted on her upper back, he guides her by firm pressure on his fingertips. He’s slightly taller than América, but with heels on she can look him straight in the eye if she wants to, which she doesn’t.
“Those eyes, I told myself, are my destiny,” Orlando sings, “and those brown arms are my home.”
As they dance, América and Darío relax the stiff formality that characterizes their encounters, and América finds herself leaning closer until they’re cheek to cheek.
I’m drunk, she tells herself, nestling her head on his shoulder. She lets it rest there as Darío gently draws her closer and wraps his arms around her. He’s so skinny, she tells herself, I can feel his bones. His breath comes in shallow, mint-scented drafts. Or- lando reaches for a high note and sustains it breathlessly. Darío pulls América closer, and she presses against him. He clears the bangs from her forehead and kisses it. The bolero is over. América pulls herself away.
“Excuse me,” she says, and heads toward the ladies’ room. Carmen, who has seen everything, leaves her partner in the middle of the floor and follows América. There’s a line outside the bathroom, but América pushes her way in and bangs on a stall until the women inside it comes out. She has barely enough time to kneel in front of the toilet and vomit.
Carmen finds her in the stall and holds her head and rubs between her shoulders until América is done. Elena also appears with moist paper towels to wipe América’s mouth and chin. Next thing she knows, América is being half carried down the stairs, crashing against people coming up. Once outside, she has to run to the curb to throw up between two parked cars. Paulina holds her by the waist, and Elena again appears with moist towels. Then she’s inside a car, speeding somewhere, her head resting on Paulina’s bosom.
he clock on the bedside table says 5:22. “Morning,” América mumbles, and raises herself on her elbows with the intention
of getting up, but a blinding headache forces her to lie down again. She closes her eyes, and then it’s 8:54 by the bedside clock. She’s in Elena’s room. Against the far wall, Elena is fast asleep on what América always thought was a couch, but with cushions removed, it’s another small bed.
América moves slowly, both because she doesn’t want to wake Elena and because her head still throbs with every motion she makes. She’s wearing a T-shirt with sequins on it that doesn’t belong to her. She opens the door and looks to her right, toward the living room, and there she sees Carmen asleep on the sofa bed. She tiptoes into the bathroom.
The mirror facing the door greets her with a reflection she would rather not have seen. Her eyeliner, mascara, and shadow have all settled into black circles around her eyes. The rest of her face is mottled with makeup combined with sweat and who knows what else. Her hair, which Rosy had arranged in cascading curls from her crown to her shoulders, is a hive of tangles and hairpins sticking out every which way.
She finds Pond’s cold cream inside the medicine chest and slathers it on her face, then wipes the makeup off with toilet
paper. Each swipe of the tissue reveals her natural, unmade-up features. Without pencil, her eyebrows are a thin line of single hairs over slanted chocolate eyes, which are bloodshot. She exam- ines the sides of her long, well-shaped nose for blackheads and finds none. Her lips, which she usually lines to make them look fuller, are dry.
She rinses her face and stares into her sly eyes. How am I ever going to face Darío again, she asks the reflection. I practically threw myself at him. She smiles. I think I scared him. She giggles. I think I’m still drunk.
She takes off the sequined T-shirt and steps into the shower. Once the water hits her, she remembers she hasn’t taken the pins out of her hair, so she comes out again, dripping on the rug. Rosy must have put a ton of hair spray on, because the pins are welded to the curls. She gives up trying to remove them and climbs into the shower again, letting the hot water wash away the hair fixer, the smell of stale perfume, the strange feeling that last night she crossed a threshold she’d never crossed before.
“Ay, Tía, that was so embarrassing,” América tells Paulina later, as they sit at the kitchen table chopping vegetables and skinning chicken parts for soup.
“Don’t worry about it, mi’ja. We all had too much to drink last night.”
“I spoiled it for Orlando.”
“No, you didn’t. He didn’t even realize we were gone until the end.”
“You sure made an impression on Darío, though,” Carmen says, shuffling in from the bathroom.
“Ay!” América drops her head with a blush. The three of them laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Elena comes out of her room in her night- gown. Even newly awake she’s as fresh as dawn.
“I was about to describe how Darío carried her out of the ladies’ room and down the stairs of the club.”
“He didn’t!”
“Ay, Carmen, you’re always exaggerating,” Elena chides her
sister. “We carried you out of the ladies’ room. He only carried you down the stairs.”
“Oh, mi Dios.” América covers her face with her hands.
“I’ve never seen him drive so fast,” Carmen adds, and Elena signals her to stop. “I mean, he was so worried about you.” She looks at her sister with a “What did I say?” look.
“He must think I do this all the time.”
