Hot Sur (18 page)

Side note: Yesterday I decided to try out my theory about Fresh Kills on my father, and he tore it to pieces. According to him, Kills doesn’t have anything to do with slaughtering; he says the term comes from the Dutch occupation of NYC and it simply means water or stream. Fresh water or something like that. Too bad, my version made more sense.

Interview with Ian Rose

Upon leaving Pro Bono’s office, Rose decided to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan instead of taking the subway. Very nice, the whole thing. A splendid view, impressive feat of engineering, gentle sunlight, and pretty girls who jogged past him and made it difficult for him to concentrate. “Look, Cleve,” he said, “look at all the lovely girls, and all about your age.” The warm breeze and the bright day partly mitigated the bad taste left by the hostile encounter, and, replaying it, Rose realized that the most difficult thing had not been to put up with the irritability or lack of understanding from the guy—after all, he had been able to draw out a good part of the information he needed. The hardest thing had been finding out María Paz was no longer in Manninpox. Up until that time he had not even considered going to visit her, at least not seriously, but the news made him feel as if he suddenly was losing her, that her trail was vanishing. In the manuscript, she had mentioned that despite everything it had been a relief to be taken into Manninpox with a number and a photograph, because it allowed her to exist anew on the face of the earth, have an identity once again, even as a prisoner, and a direction, even if in prison. Would leaving Manninpox then mean she was returning to the limbo of the disappeared? For Rose, losing her trail meant losing Cleve definitively.

He had a second appointment and the time was growing near. In the upper left-hand corner of the manila envelope from Mrs. Socorro Arias de Salmon was her address, 237 Castleton, Staten Island, NY 10031. Rose had sent her a brief note asking her if he could visit. A few days later, he received the response: Mrs. Salmon would receive him at her house. After the unpleasant experience with Pro Bono, Rose had to push himself to board the bright-orange Staten Island ferry on Whitehall Street in Lower Manhattan.

María Paz mentioned the landfill in her manuscript, recounting how she had been on Staten Island taking her surveys about cleaning habits. It was Mrs. Socorro Arias de Salmon who had agreed to introduce her to her neighbors, serving as a contact in the area, because someone who lived in the area and served as an introduction was priceless; otherwise, doors would be slammed in your face and it was impossible to accomplish anything.

Socorro’s home, built in the twenties, was made of weathered wood, with two stories and a gabled roof, a yellow canvas awning over the porch, and a small front garden with two bushes shaped like swans. Socorro, a short woman with a face hard to describe because it was so innocuous, wore a shiny beige polyester outfit with a white embroidered blouse. She reached out a small cold hand toward Rose, placing on a nearby table a can of floral room deodorizer she had just sprayed to try to hide the stench that still came from the Fresh Kills area. The inside was very clean, like a dollhouse that an industrious girl keeps neat and spotless, and it made Rose think about the contrast between the neatness inside, of the private, and the ubiquity of the former garbage dump, as if the opposing elements clean and dirty were just another expression of the tension between the public and the private.

“Did you see the Statue of Liberty?” she asked him.

Of course he had seen it, impossible not to, given that the ferry passed right in front of it. Huge, Miss Liberty, with her stiff tunic that was a green the color of time or a salt coating or whatever. Rose thought that one need not bother too much describing that color because there was probably no one in the world who had not seen it, whether in television or in postcards. Watching the profile of the huge monument as the ferry approached it, he found it sad and surreal amid the undulations of that slow-moving haze that surrounded it and at moments made it disappear. María Paz too, Rose imagined, had seen it, and maybe even visited it, buying souvenirs and perhaps paying the extra fee to go up to the crown. He asked himself what kind of symbols the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island and even the Twin Towers would have been for an immigrant who came to America only to end up being locked in a place such as Manninpox.

“Bolivia and I made an offering to Libita,” he heard Socorro say.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Libita, that’s who, the Statue of Liberty; in my country we call women named Libertad Libita. Anyway, we made our offering to her during the first weeks of spring, tossing a pretty bouquet of Peruvian lilies into the water, because when it came down to it, Libita had treated us like daughters and opened the doors of America. But I never did it again after Bolivia and I grew apart; those things don’t make sense if you don’t share them with someone, depressing otherwise, don’t you think? That’s why you came to see me, right? To talk about Bolivia? That’s what I figured from the note you sent. Welcome to my home, Mr. Rose. Bolivia was a soul sister, my only sister, because I had no other. My family was all boys and one girl. Like sisters, yes sir, we were like sisters, Bolivia and I . . . till we grew apart, as things happen in life, what can you do? But come in, please, make yourself at home and sit in the living room. It’s a long story and you must be tired.”

“Well, the truth is that I came to talk to you about María Paz, Bolivia’s daughter . . .”

“Of course, María Paz . . . don’t tell me that they’re going to publish the book. I knew it! How exciting! I’m so glad I sent you all those pages. I had some reservations and that’s why I hesitated. The girl reveals things that are better left unknown. I imagined that Bolivia would turn over in her grave if she knew her family’s dirty laundry was being aired like that, especially in a book that everyone can read, because some of those bestsellers sell millions. Right? What if the girl hits that lottery? Who would have thought she could write? So they’re going to publish it? I’m so glad I finally decided to send it. She admired you very much. She said that your classes had opened her eyes, that you were marvelous not just as a teacher but as a writer.”

“Oh no, it wasn’t me she admired, it was my son, Cleve,” Rose managed to say. “Cleve died a few months ago. I’m his father. He was a writer, not me, and you sent the manuscript to him, but, well, it came to my house.”

“So you’re not the author of those famous novels?”

“Like I said, that was my son, Cleve, but he passed away.”

“Oh, I’m very sorry, I’ve never had children. Maybe it’s for the best. I could not have withstood the pain of seeing them die. I’m so sorry, please excuse me. But then you didn’t know María Paz?”

“My son is the one who met her, and unfortunately, I’m the one who is alive.”

“Those things happen, Mr. Rose, so sorry. But if you are here, it is because you intend to help her with the book. Or am I mistaken?”

“Not sure I can. I’m actually interested in—”

“Of course, of course,” Socorro said, “you have the right to think it over. How rude of me, you just told me your son died, and I hardly offered my condolences. You must be heartbroken, poor man. I know what the death of a loved one does to you. You should have seen how much I cried at Bolivia’s passing, may she rest in peace, and I’m not supposed to cry because my eyes get very swollen and red. Come, let me truly express my condolences, for a man to die so young. Don’t get me wrong, you’re young yourself, it’s just that . . .”

“Hold on one second, Mrs. Salmon, hold on. First tell me why you had the manuscript.”

“Because María Paz gave it to me, naturally. I visited her in jail once, with my husband’s approval, of course. He had warned me not to get involved in such things. So what if Bolivia’s oldest daughter wanted to live the life of an outlaw, that was her decision, this was a free country. But my husband insisted that I shouldn’t go sticking my nose into such things. Besides, as a foreigner, it didn’t make sense because they could nab me. ‘Who knows what could happen if they associate you with such scum?’ he grumbled. Anyway, she gave me the packet the one time I visited her; or I should say, they gave it to me on the way out, after closely inspecting it. I should also tell you that she was sad because she could no longer see you, Mr. Rose, she told me so outright, that she was very sad about it. Something had happened in the jail and they had suspended the classes.”

“Not my classes, my son’s, Cleve. I am Ian Rose.”

“Yes, of course, you’re not him, his father. I understand, and I’m very sorry. Please accept my full condolences. And the thing is that María Paz had written all the stuff in the manuscript to give to your son, who was her writing professor, but since she wasn’t ever going to see him again, she gave me the papers in an envelope asking me to send them to your son.”

“How long ago was this that she gave you the papers?”

“Oh, heavens, a few months ago, definitely a while, I’m not exactly sure how long . . . She urged me to get it to him as soon as possible. But you know, I had my doubts about passing off packages from a convict, because who knows what you’re getting into. Besides, what a filthy, dirty mouth that girl has, cursing on every page; she should be ashamed of herself. Fortunately, I overcame all that and finally did as she asked. I spent a good chunk of change on stamps, but what was really important about it from my end was my decision to send it in spite of everything. I hope she remembers me when money starts pouring in from the book.”

“Well,” Rose said, trying to correct her misconception, “it hasn’t been published yet, ma’am. I’m going to keep on trying, I know my son would have liked that, and of course she would too, but I still haven’t been able to do anything. I think that . . .”

“There’s no hurry, Mr. Rose. If it’s in your hands, things are as they should be. I sense you have a knack for these things,” Socorro said, winking. “My neighbor Odile has read every book in the world, probably your son’s also. I haven’t yet; I’m not a book person. But now that I have had the honor of meeting the father of the man in question, I’m definitely going to read them. I’m going to tell Odile to lend them to me. She probably has them because she buys every book, and as she herself says, if I haven’t read it, it hasn’t been written. And when you come back to this place you should consider your home, I’ll have them here for you so you can sign them. It doesn’t matter that you’re not the author, but the father of the author, which is also very important.”

“Cleve didn’t write books, ma’am, they’re graphic novels,” Rose said, but he went unheard.

“Oh, how exciting,” she continued. “I can imagine María Paz recovered from all her troubles and legal problems and signing books like a star. I’d see her picture under a headline that says, ‘From Convict to Successful Author.’ Too bad Bolivia isn’t here to see the triumph of her daughter. Who would have imagined it by looking at her, a writer, she who always seemed so lost?”

It was impossible to shut the woman up. Rose had thought of passing by her house for ten or fifteen minutes, just long enough to get a sense of Cleve’s activities before his death. But this pass-by on Staten Island threatened to go long, an eternal visit, because there was no holding back the tongue of this woman once let loose. And there was Rose, bound hands and feet, although even before he had been asked to come inside he had regretted making the visit. He began to feel ill. He felt as uneasy there as he had in Pro Bono’s office, even becoming nauseated, as if suddenly particles from the old landfill had gone down his throat.
What the hell am I doing here,
he asked himself,
when all I want is to be home with the dogs?
Then he answered his own question:
I’m doing this for Cleve, or rather for me, to find out what happened to Cleve.

“Bolivia and I liked to watch as the waves took our Peruvian lilies and swallowed them,” Socorro continued. “They were simple flowers, nothing more. But the important part was the gesture, our way of expressing gratitude for being in this country.”

While she chattered away, Rose asked himself how old this woman could be. Sixty? A well-preserved seventy? She made him sit in one of the couches in the tiny living room, upholstered in white jacquard and covered in see-through vinyl, and explained with tears in her eyes that Bolivia had been the most industrious and motivated woman you could imagine, and that she had not deserved the fate that befell both her daughters, both of them so pretty, the image and likeness of her, the mother. Then she sang something softly in Spanish, taking both of Rose’s hands in her tiny cold ones with long red nails, because as Rose knew, Latinos like to touch, they touch other people, even those they don’t know, they hug them, they kiss them, because they’re not afraid of a stranger’s flesh. Socorro finally let go of his hands after a while, but Rose thought it excessive, because although he admired that nice custom of touching, he never really practiced it—let’s just say that he wasn’t a militant member of the group Free Hugs, those loving young men and women giving out hugs and human warmth on the streets to people who are not necessarily interested. And then Socorro asked him if he wanted a
tinto
, explaining that’s what they called coffee in her country, something he already knew.

“Bolivia’s two daughters, so beautiful and so unfortunate. The first one pursued by the law, the second one sick in the head,” Socorro said as she disappeared through the kitchen door to make the tinto, while Rose brought his hands to his nose to inhale the strong scent of the moisturizing cream that Socorro used on her hands.

He looked around, somewhat dazed by the countless pieces of porcelain, not one portion of a wall without a shelf and not one shelf that wasn’t packed with figurines, those nostalgic tributes to an unimaginable pastoral era: girls wearing wide-brimmed straw hats and holding geese in their arms; couples in love and gazing into each other’s eyes on park benches; tiny chocolate houses; barefoot shepherd boys, poor yet wholesome; shepherd girls, poor yet pretty, in wooden clogs. It was a strange sensation to be amid that porcelain world, but Rose grew accustomed to it, and before long he and his host were talking as if they had known each other for ages, two old women drinking
tintico
in their respective white jacquard chairs protected from grime by plastic.