The Barcelona Brothers (9 page)

His brother says if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. But he also says the best thing Epi could do would be to forget her. Alex says so many things, too many things. In fact, everybody talks too much. There’s a reason why talking is free. It’s
something that has impressed him ever since he was a boy. On television, when a question is posed, the person being asked always knows how to answer rapidly and at length, to establish links, to give his reply a convincing appearance of the purest truth. However hard he might try, Epi could never find so many words in his mouth. He doesn’t trust them. There are people who hide behind words. People who use them like cords, like electrical tape they wrap around your body and over your lips until you’re immobilized and speechless. People like Tiffany. People like Alex.

Words had never helped Epi. It didn’t matter how much of an effort he made to explain his feelings to Tiffany; he’d never been able to express them. There was no way. His sentiments died on his lips. It was love, yes, but also something more. Tiffany produced in him the sensation that everything was right only when she was at his side, that there was no need for him to go on looking, that what everyone else thought, said, and did was of no importance. Only she and he knew what happened when they were alone. When he kept her inside, when he was sure she wouldn’t go out that night, when he knocked on her door, when he went to their date, when she smiled at the sight of him, when he said to himself yes, now she was his, now he knew waiting for her and striving to get her had been worth it.

In the beginning, it was the two of them, him and Tiffany, each holding a frosty bottle of beer, in a dark, seedy bar in this city. The music loud, the walls weeping from humidity. Surrounded by strangers, high on something, anything, smoking,
drinking, kissing, knowing they’d make love later, knowing the goal was in sight, close but not yet attained. How could he explain an avalanche of emotions like that in words?

Epi noticed his nose was wet. Snot was running from it. He let one of his hands, which were covering his face, slide down and wipe his nose. Then he realized it was bleeding. He shouldn’t have snorted so much coke, but now it made no difference. Tanveer was taking longer than he should. If only he wouldn’t come back at all. If only someone would kill Tanveer for him.

In the projects, sometimes the simplest—and at other times the most terribly complicated—thing you can do is to find the drug dealer. There’s no logical reason for it, that’s just the way it happens. What would he do if Tanveer appeared all bloody, clutching his guts, dragging himself toward the van? Would he run away, or would he act the comrade, take him to the hospital, and save his life? He can’t help thinking that some people are superfluous, while others seem to fit in perfectly; it all depends on the moment and the circumstances. Because he’d go to his death with that guy if it weren’t for Tiffany. He would be his blood brother. He may even love him more than he loves Alex, because his brother always winds up showing contempt for him and making him feel like an idiot.

He knows that, in a certain way, he fears and needs Tanveer, just as he fears and needs Tiffany. He needs them because when they speak to him or seek his company, they take him out of his anonymity; they make him feel important, singled out, visible to the rest of the world.

Tiffany, Tanveer, Epi. Yes, there’s one person too many in that world, which could otherwise be idyllic. In fact, a very simple equation applies: Without Tiffany, Tanveer and Epi would be inseparable buddies. Without Tanveer, Tiffany would be with Epi. She was already with him. Because for Epi, at that point, all mathematics were coming to an end.

“Let me out of here, man. Come on. I …”

Epi had completely forgotten the whore. She was in the back of the van, also waiting for Tanveer to return. Maybe he’d dozed off, or maybe he’d just been concentrating too hard on his thoughts. He looked at her. A rather ugly woman, probably past thirty, maybe younger. It was difficult to be accurate on that point, owing to her makeup, the hour of the morning, and the state Epi found himself in. She had cheaply dyed red hair, coarse features, and incredible tits. He tried not to look at those tits, or at her face, either, because of an absurd feeling of shyness, and also because he didn’t want her to be able to recognize him afterward. So he replied without turning toward her: “Look, don’t be a pain in the ass. We’re going to pay you. My friend went to score some shit, he’ll be right back. If you behave, we’ll let you do a few lines.”

“No, no, I don’t do any of that stuff.”

“Good, better for everybody. Just settle down back there and don’t be a pest.”

“Where are we? Will you take me back to where you picked me up, afterward?”

It was more a way of sizing up the situation than a real question, Epi thought. Like cabdrivers who talk your ear off.
They’re gauging you. They know where you’re coming from. Then the woman tried to get into the front passenger’s seat. Epi blocked her way, thrusting out his arm as far as he could until he made her back off.

“At least give me a light, chatterbox.”

“Okay, but don’t fuck up my carpet. Here’s an ashtray. Come on, settle down.”

The woman gazed at the glass ashtray in her hand and dropped her ashes calmly and precisely into the center of the transparent circumference. However, she didn’t retreat to the back of the van. She stayed where she was, on her knees, leaning with her elbows on the two front seats, with her head a hand’s breadth from his and her ass pointed at the van’s rear door. It reminded Epi of when they took the watchdog along; he did the same thing. The same except for smoking and screwing, obviously.

“I’ll suck you off if you want.”

“I don’t want.”

“I’ll charge you separate, not much. That way we’ll be doing something.”

“We’re already doing something: we’re waiting.”

There was a silence, and then the woman started in again.

“Your friend sure is taking his time.”

Epi opted for making no reply. If he shut up, maybe she’d realize he wanted to be alone and silent. Refocused. Smoke was filling up the inside of the van. He shook the lavender air freshener that was set over the dashboard vent. The device
gave off little waves of an almost pleasant scent, and the woman got the message.

“What time is it? Ooh, good God! Look, why don’t you pay me, and I’ll beat it and catch a cab …”

“Listen. What’s your name?”

“My name? Carmen.”

His patience was running out. By then, he didn’t care if she could see his face perfectly or not. With all this time spent at close quarters, he figured she could probably sculpt him in wax. “Look, Carmen,” he said. “We’re right at the entrance to a very fucked-up barrio. If you get out, you won’t make it to the first streetlight. My friend can’t be much longer.”

“The thing is, since we’ve been here all this time without doing anything—”

“Come on, keep quiet. He won’t be long.”

Her face disappeared as though hidden in the black roots of her red hair, and the curtain with the gray and red squares that separated the van’s front seats from its cargo area fell closed. At that moment, Epi had the sensation of being in one of those films where a bank robbery is just starting to go very badly and nobody knows for sure what’s fucking things up or how to stop it. It was all so ridiculous. He was out there on the edge with a guy he intended to kill that same night, or tomorrow, or as soon as he could gather the strength he’d need to eliminate the superfluous member of the cast. What sense did that make?

Something was going wrong. For sure. Tanveer should have been back a long time ago. On the other hand, Epi’s
premonitions were mistaken twice as often as they were accurate. He tried to calm himself. If something
has
happened to Tanveer, so much the better, right? What he’d give at this moment to be in front of his PlayStation or in Salva’s bar, killing Martians. Or at the slot machine. Like that glorious afternoon when, like Moby Dick, the third lemon appeared. One in a thousand. But Epi knew he wouldn’t be pressing the fast-forward key this time. If Tanveer didn’t come back right away, Epi would let the whore go, lock the van, and start looking for him in the two or three places where they’d go to score drugs when they ran out of whatever they’d got from the barber. He’d go looking for him. It was hard to explain. A question of masculine, feudal loyalty. As if it was easier to kill someone than to leave him in the lurch.

When Tiffany arrived in the barrio, Epi was the first person who saw her. She wasn’t like the other girls, the ones he’d seen grow up, the ones he’d liked and stopped liking. The way it happened, it was like something in an old story. She’d appeared out of nowhere, abandoned on the street for whoever wanted to gather her up. And he did want to, indeed he did. But she refused to be easy. She flirted with him, confused him, flattered him. And all the other men’s eyes were on her, too. It was crazy. Once, in the doorway of her building, she let him kiss her. At first she didn’t open her mouth. But then she did. That night, Epi could hardly sleep. The following morning he picked her up at her place and they went for a drive, stopping here and there. Nobody understood how that Indian girl could go out with him. His own family couldn’t believe it.
All he heard were warnings and dark hints about problems to come. But they saw each other every day; every day they went to some raucous party and got wasted or walked around the shopping center, dreaming about buying everything while she devoured colored popcorn and they decided whether to see a horror film or an action film.

Naturally, they also had quarrels and attacks of jealousy, rumors abounded, and Tiffany constantly seemed to be somewhere other than where she was supposed to be. But she always knew how to twist things around in her favor. He believed her, because as long as they were together, he felt complete. Everything was going fine, or at least that’s the way he remembered their affair after he lost her. As his mother was ill and Alex condemned to his work schedule at the parking garage, Epi would often bring Tiffany up to the family apartment, and they practically lived the fiction of being a married couple. They would make love at all hours—he remembered how she’d push his head down when he started going too fast, how she’d lie there purring when the spasms were over—sit on the sofa and watch movies, or plan mountain excursions that never happened because they’d oversleep, or because they understood they weren’t missing anything up there on the heights. It was all idyllic, until Tanveer came along to ruin everything.

“Listen, man, I …”

You had to say this for the woman, she certainly had the gift of opportunity. The anger that exploded inside Epi surprised even him. He found himself rolling around with the whore
on the carpeted floor of the van until they collided with one of the walls, in which the most deafening amplifiers in the city were installed. He sat on top of her, pinning her wrists, and her blouse rode up, revealing a teat badly injected with silicon and half supported by a red brassiere that was more functional than pretty. Epi looked at the whore’s terrified face and stopped. He asked her if she was going to keep still, and she answered with a nod. He had no plan for her, and so it was only out of curiosity that he pulled down one of the cups of her bra, uncovered one fat, black, sagging nipple, like a light switch, and took it in his mouth. He didn’t go so far as to bite it. He merely sucked it and made it hard, fully intending to go back to the driver’s seat.

Then there was a strange silence while Epi tugged furiously at his hair. He heard the click of the van’s rear door and pretended not to hear her run off. Almost immediately, Tanveer was back, climbing into the passenger’s seat with a shout of relief.

“Man, that Gypsy! Holy shit!”

“Everything went all right?”

“Like a fucking dream! He wouldn’t let me go. They’re having quite a party. Listen … where’s the slut?”

“She left.”

“What do you mean, she left? You let her go?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go get another one.”

Judging by how happy he was, Epi figured Tanveer had brought some of the party with him.

AFTER POLISHING OFF THE UMPTEENTH CIGARETTE
, Tiffany gets up from the floor. She picks up her purse, takes out her cell phone, and hesitates over whether to make one final call to Epi. But no, she’s not going to do that. Not now, not ever. Let him drop dead, the retard. A retard like his brother, like his mother. No wonder the father let the city swallow him up forever as soon as he glimpsed a brighter horizon. Disappeared without a trace, without a warning, without a forwarding address. Tiffany’s cell phone interrupts her musings. It’s her sister, explaining that Percy’s school has called. They want somebody to go there and pick up Percy, who’s running a few degrees of fever. He acted strange that morning, Jamelia says; he even ran away from her down the street. Jamelia can go and pick him up—that’s not the problem. The problem arises when she tells Tiffany she can’t keep the child for the rest of the morning: she’s got a job interview at one of
the supermarkets they’ve been opening in the barrio, the first job interview of her life. People say the pay is good there, and she’ll even have a few days off. Jamelia sounds very excited at the prospect. Tiffany’s reactions are contradictory. On one hand, she’s glad her sister can start to lead a normal life. But on the other hand, Tiffany feels a twinge of jealousy. It’s as if Jamelia, for the first time ever, were closer than she is to building something good and solid.

But Tiffany’s never hard on herself for very long. She immediately thinks that if she wanted such a job, it would be hers for the taking. At the moment, however, garbage work like that, a job in a supermarket, is not for Tiffany Brisette. Jamelia keeps on apologizing, which always exasperates her sister. It looks like today’s the day when she has to exercise patience with everybody, because all the assholes in the world are latching on to her.

“Girl, what the hell are you trying to tell me? That you don’t give a shit about your nephew? I know that, I’m used to it.” The dose of unfairness and cruelty she injects into her voice begins to have an effect on her, like a sweet, strong antidote. “I’ll take care of him myself. I had things to do, but that’s all right, it doesn’t matter. What I’ve got going on is never important. Mama’s not there?”