Becoming the Butlers (7 page)

“Waiter,” my father shouted after a few long moments, “the bill,
por favor!
”

No one said anything in the taxi. Cynthia, who sat in front, stared at me through the rearview mirror. She got
off first in front of the building where she shared an apartment with her friend. She and my father murmured good-bye in funereal tones. He remained silent for the rest of the ride, and it wasn’t until we were back in our “guest suite” that he raised his eyes and fully took in my new image. I pretended to admire a vase filled with wilting tulips.

“Hey, this is beginning to look kind of nice,” I said, hoping to lighten the mood. “Even Mom would be impressed.”

“She won’t be impressed by your hair. Matter of fact, she’ll probably sue me for gross negligence.” My father sat down on my bed and lit a cigarette.

“That’s the no-smoking section,” I told him.

My father took his time, inhaling and exhaling. “Right. So sorry.” Each word was marked by a wreath of ejected smoke. He slowly stood up and walked over to his side of the suite and sat down in a broken vinyl recliner that squeaked beneath his weight. I suppose he thought the suspense was killing me, but I was growing a little bored with his theatrics. He sighed a few significant sighs then squinted at me through half-closed lids.

“Rachel,” he began, “what’s going on? I used to understand you, but this is beyond comprehension. Do you know what your hair looks like? Pink bubble gum.”

“I thought cotton candy,” I answered, and then, more defiantly, “You never understood me.”

“Now that’s not fair.”

“Neither is your drinking.”

“Right now I could go for a vodka with very little tonic. You and your mother drive me to it.”

I saw my reflection in the mirror and thought: That girl with the funny hair is a stranger. The man smoking in the other room is a stranger too. I wanted to close the door between us, slide fully dressed under the blankets, and bury my head beneath the sheets.

“I’m sorry,” I heard the male stranger say. “I didn’t mean that. But can’t you see my point of view? I’m trying to hold this family together. Which is a damn difficult thing to do, what with your mother running off with our building super, of all people! Not to mention going to Spain. Jesus, I’m beginning to think we should never have come.”

“That girl said something to you, didn’t she?” I asked.

“Yes,” my father admitted, looking miserable. “Cynthia should be a lawyer instead of fiddling with this dance stuff.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing you and I couldn’t figure out, i.e., your mother doesn’t want to see us, is leading a new fulfilled life with ol’ George, and I was acting like some kind of indignant knight. She said we’d better get ourselves on a plane before our silly little mission becomes tragic and someone gets hurt.”

“Do you believe that?”

“What can I say, Rachel?”

My father, slumped down in his seat, looked as crumpled as a scrunched-up piece of paper. He had cut himself shaving that morning, and shreds of white tissue clung to the bottom of his chin. “I know she’s probably right,” my father continued, “and that makes me feel like hell.”

“Don’t you still love Mom?” I asked.

“I never stopped loving her. It’s just that I’m not very brave. Oh, it was easy in New York; buying the airplane tickets, boasting to Mrs. Vasquez how I would be the hero and save the day. I thought it would be as simple as two plus two. That’s what happens when you’re a math teacher.” My father paused to stamp out his cigarette with short angry jabs. “Just look at us, Rachel, living in a dump. Then there’s your hair, and me down at the bar by ten
A.M.
I practically had to bribe the bartender to let me in.”

“What happened to putting up a good offensive?”

My father seemed to cringe at his own words. “Did I really say that?” he asked, shaking his head. “I didn’t know I was capable of sounding so stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid at all,” I told him. “You seemed kind of noble, like Cary Grant in
Notorious
.”

“You must have picked that up from Elizabeth. As for Cary, wasn’t he just a little too late? I mean, Ingrid Bergman had already married the Nazi, and was nearly dead by poison, too.”

“Well, I was proud of you,” I said, looking straight into his clear blue eyes.

“Thank you, Rachel. I know I haven’t done much lately to be proud of. I wasn’t the greatest father even when Elizabeth was still around. If I only knew why she left,” he told me, hopelessly throwing up his hands, “I could have stayed in New York and lived with any kind of explanation. But just running away like that, without even a note. At least George had some courtesy.”

My father stood up and turned off the light in his room. The curtains were drawn and the muted sunshine made him appear wavy and blurred, as if he were submerged under water. He had lit another cigarette and clouds of smoke, violet in the soft light, swirled about his head.

“I’m taking a
siesta,
”
my father told me. “Maybe when I wake up, everything will be clearer.” He closed his door and a moment later I heard a faucet running. We couldn’t go home now. I thought of all the words for failure;
fiasco, total washout, flop, bust, dud, a
real lemon.
These words would follow my father and me, taunting us behind our backs. We would never find peace.

The hotel lobby swarmed with a newly arrived tour group of beautiful blonde women and men. Many wore
furs, the mens’ coats more luxurious than their wives’. The front desk receptionist was screaming into the telephone and slipping gold credit cards through a machine with a blinking red light.

I swung through the revolving doors and found myself in the street. I felt very hot and headed toward a great fountain across the plaza. The water sparkled in the sunlight and splashed onto the pavement. Pigeons who looked identical to their counterparts in Central Park pecked at crumbs of bread. I leaned against a kiosk, my elbows scraping against a peeling poster. Something very blue caught my eye; a poster advertising an art exposition. George’s name wasn’t listed, but there were other kiosks all over the plaza plastered with exhibit posters. For two hours, I checked every one, and, unbelievably, found George plastered on a Metro station wall, the yellowing and badly creased poster wedged in between advertisements for a karate movie and a Rolling Stones concert. His painting wasn’t featured, but there was his name, in bold black letters—Jorge Vasquez. The date of the exhibit was November third, more than a month past. I tore off the gallery’s address and then waved down a cab. I hoped I had enough money, but the gallery turned out to be only several blocks away. I stumbled out, my clothes damp with sweat.

The Gallery Marino was on the ground floor of a beautiful cream-colored building with wrought-iron balconies. A little bell rang when I walked in and a very tall man dressed all in black appraised me from behind steel spectacles.

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

“Of course,” the man said. “Most of our customers are American.”

“George Vasquez!” I blurted out.

“I’m afraid you missed his exhibit.”

“I know, but I have to find him. I’m from New York and I have a very important message from his family.”

“Well,” the man said, “it’s no secret that Señor Marino houses his protégés above the gallery. The second floor. Just follow the bird.”

I ran out of the gallery and into the building’s dark lobby. A grand white marble staircase faced me and for a moment I thought about turning back. I was terrified of what I would find upstairs. You couldn’t get hurt by what you didn’t know. I took a step forward and grabbed the bannister. My legs felt heavy and sluggish, and I practically had to drag myself up the stairs. Halfway up I heard a sudden sound and froze. Someone behind me was chatting in a long, nonsensical monologue. I turned around but the step was empty.

“Who’s that?” I whispered. A breeze from an open window rustled my hair. Something brushed across my face and I would have screamed if the parrot had not landed softly on my shoulder. I sat down to catch my breath and the bird took off again and soared above me. Its radiant plumage shone in the dim light: shimmering feathers of turquoise, fuchsia, and gold. I followed the parrot down a long hallway and then through an open apartment door. No one seemed to be inside, and the large room was empty of any furniture or decoration. The immediate impression of the room was that of a startling whiteness. The floor was covered with a thick white carpet that crackled with static electricity, and the walls were draped with voluminous white curtains. The sun that poured through the large windows was a harsh white too, almost like a naked lightbulb. The parrot darted about this whiteness like a streak of brilliant paint. A familiar smell reached my nostrils and seemed to burrow beneath my nails.

“Lizzie? Is that you?”

A stocky short man stood in the doorway. The parrot landed on his shoulder and lovingly nuzzled his neck.

“Who are you?” the man asked, stepping backward. “What do you want?”

George Vasquez was heavier, especially in his face, his cheeks round and ruddy from a sunburn. He had shaved off his moustache but there was still a visible line above his upper lip, like a residue of chocolate milk. His eyes, shiny and black, seemed permanently squinted, as if he had been staring too long at his paintings. George’s clothes looked like his super’s uniform, which had always been too big for him. Baggy gray pants were belted tightly around his waist, the long legs cuffed several times around his ankles. The faded chambray shirt was rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. George even had those same heavy black shoes with the untied frayed laces. The only real difference was that instead of a broom he held a paintbrush, dripping something brown and thick, like gravy.

“It’s Rachel,” I said. “Rachel Harris.”

“Rachel!” George exclaimed, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Lizzie’s kid. Christ, I didn’t recognize you. Something’s different: you look taller or maybe it’s your hair.” Then, as if he just remembered we were in Madrid and not in the basement of 112 Riverside Drive, he shook his head and cried: “What the hell are you doing here?”

“My father and I came for my mother,” I said as coolly as possible.

It took a minute for all this to sink in. “You what!” George’s face turned even redder. “I can’t fucking believe this!” he shouted. “Who does your father think he is… Columbo? How the hell did you find me?”

“I saw the poster for your art exhibit. The man downstairs told me where you lived.”

“So where’s your father?”

“I came alone,” I answered. “I wanted to see my mother first. Where is she?”

“She’s at her job,” George said.

“A job!” This was different. Having a job gave my mother’s life in Madrid real permanency. She couldn’t just take off and leave.

“She teaches English. I guess it beats writing wedding cards. Look, Rachel, I can’t take this all in. I got to sit down.” George walked about the empty room as if he didn’t realize there was no furniture. “Let’s go into my studio,” he told me. “It’s the only place I can think.”

Although Mrs. Vasquez barely knew English, George spoke it fluently and with an American accent. Pilar had told me that her father used to be a New York cab driver, and his voice was raspy and rumbling, as if he were a chain-smoker.

George’s studio was another large white room, but certainly not empty. Paintings were everywhere: stacked against the walls, leaning against doors, hidden in corners, lying face up on the white carpet, thrown in heaps and piles. Although I was aware of the room’s immense size, I still felt as though I could barely move without rubbing shoulders against the paint that would scratch like stucco, or without tripping over a still-damp canvas. In a way it was like George’s small bicycle room in the basement; he seemed to feel the need to cram his work into every available inch. I hadn’t forgotten the savagery of his art, the way he could use color like a weapon. You looked at his paintings and felt punched in the face. What did my mother think of such violence? And how did the white carpet stay so clean?

“I’ve got to hand it to your dad,” George told me, seemingly more at ease among his work. “Never in a million years did I think he’d come all the way here. Just shows you can’t run far enough.”

“George,” I began in a wavering voice, “your wife and children want you to come home. Mr. Oakes in 9C needs you too.”

Mrs. Vasquez’s message seemed more ridiculous than ever. Why would George ever want his old job back? Here in Madrid he appeared already rich and on his way to being famous. Returning to his family was the decent thing to do, but maybe not the most advantageous. Back home everything had seemed so clear cut. Now I wasn’t sure what was right or wrong.

“Mr. Oakes!” George declared. “I see you get your sense of humor from your father.”

“No. That message is from your wife.”

“Figures,” he grunted. The parrot followed us in and landed on George’s shoulder. He tickled the parrot’s throat, and the bird responded with cooing sighs of pleasure. “This is Mimi,” George told me. “The previous artist who lived here left this little girl behind. Mimi’s madly in love with your mother. She even knows how to recite her name. Come on Mimi,” he told the bird, clucking his tongue, “say Lizzie for us.”