Listen Ruben Fontanez (19 page)

I try, but it is difficult to remember anything that happened to me before I was five years old. The trip to the chicken farms in New Jersey—I cannot, it seems, remember anything on the other side of it. If Marty introduces me to his friends, I wonder what I will say to them. Someone steps on the toe of my right foot. I open my eyes. People are pushing backwards and there is a clear aisle down the center of the subway car. I hear somebody singing in Spanish. There is drumming. Manuel comes shooting down the open aisle, his feet moving with incredible speed, his arms waving, his face contorted in its own ecstasy.

My own faithful monkey shakes his hips behind Manuel. To the left, Marty crouches over his drums, his hands tapping wildly. Nobody reads. All eyes are on them. Manuel spins. In his right hand Ruben is holding Marty's beret. He shakes the coins in it so that they jingle like a tambourine. He charms his audience with Spanish lyrics, a tale of the most famous dancer of San Juan. I do not believe the intricate rhythms that pound from Marty's lap. Manuel flies in front of me, Ruben bends down, my pygmy monkey somersaults across his back. He leaps through the air, cartwheeling, flipping his narrow body, making wet sounds from his mouth. Ruben jingles the coins in Marty's beret. All around me people reach into their pockets. Marty rolls his head from side to side, making clicking sounds with his mouth, grunting to his beat. I can see the Rebbe hopping around on one foot. The music is joyous. Who will go disguised from country to country as Ruben Fontanez, I wonder. People are smiling. “Aiee—!” Ruben shouts and Marty rattles his fingertips against his two drums with increasing speed. One hardly hears the subway. Things seem silent. Manuel dances with abandon, then streaks down the middle, and, as the drum roll stops, he flips over in midair, without touching anything. He lands on his toes, then collapses, his thighs split against the dirty floor.

There is some applause. Ruben jingles his cap and goes quickly from person to person. He winks at me. His eyes are deliriously happy. They are gray now. I was right, you see. It depends on the lighting. The train is slowing down. We move into Pennsylvania Station. Ruben is gone. People have resumed their former positions. Entrances and exits are made. We continue to 14th Street. I look at Marty, who wipes sweat from his forehead, and I recall what Ruben said to me in the restaurant about listening under the windows of the Yeshiva. Let me tell you something: I have seen dancing teams before. One does not ride the New York subways five days a week for forty years and see nothing. But they are the best. None of the Negro groups from Harlem, none of the Puerto Rican teams, not even the gypsies—none can compare with my own subway three. You can believe me when I tell you.

Ruben gives the money to his leader. They talk, then make their way through the crowd, toward the third subway car. An elderly woman in a Persian lamb coat pats Manuel on the head and puts something silver in his palm. Marty's face is fierce with pride. I do not blame him. You would be also. I hum to myself. Then I hear the drumming. I see the people who hold the straps above me lean toward the third subway car. Ruben's voice mingles with the iron sound of the train. I catch only phrases.
“Amarle fué jugar con candela…salvo por un pelo…”

When we reach 14th Street, I rise from my seat and follow my workingmen. In the third car Ruben is still making his rounds. Business is good, I see. I go ahead of my students and find a seat in the fourth car. The doors close. The crowds have diminished. Only a few people are standing. Marty sits on the floor this time, his back against the doors at the center of the car.
“¡Mira!”
Ruben cries to his audience.
“¡Mira!”
Marty taps on one of his drums with both hands, then on the other. The beat is slow at first. Manuel's body is elastic. His eyelids droop. He snaps his fingers. The tempo increases. Ruben jingles his coins and I must stop myself from clapping. My body sways. I close my eyes briefly and see my father on the couch. His eyes are closed also. My eyes open and Manuel is turning upside down before me, his hands spinning him from the floor of the moving train. “Aiee—!” Ruben screams and Manuel takes his place at the end of the car. He streaks toward the middle. His body seems feather light as he twirls upside down. I hear the gasp of breath this time. Then Ruben is collecting.
“Gracias, señora…gracias… Mucho gracias…”

Your charm is undeniable, Ruben Fontanez. The Rebbe would appreciate a visit, I am certain. If you want to invite him to the Black Mass, that would be all right also. Marty walks alongside Manuel, his arm across his monkey's wiry shoulders. I think of the verse written above the prayer room of my cowboys:
All my bones shall praise the Lord
. Perhaps I will meet Marty's Mohawks also. I reach inside my overcoat, inside my jacket, into my back pants pocket. I wipe my forehead with a handkerchief and leave a line of soot on it. We are moving again. Those who have paid for the show look into the next car. Those who did not make donations are bound by their guilt to keep their eyes fixed in their own car. While the train moves I step between the cars. I grasp a handrail. Orange and green signal lights flash by. Below, I know, is water, blackness, wooden ties, silver rails, refuse.

Perhaps it is my subway three who will descend into the sewers and lead the children forth, singing and dancing. It is a story Marty can tell forever. The variations are endless. We are at Park Place. Diagonally across from me, in the far corner, my subway three take a break. It is all right. They are entitled also. At Wall Street I rise and follow them into the sixth car. The train descends into a tunnel and as my monkeys dance and sing, I know, the Hudson River flows above us. Ruben has stopped at the far end of the car and his singing is directed to a beautiful young girl. Her eyes, though, are on me. My heart quickens. Her hair cuts the sides of her face in straight lines. It is coal black and hangs past her shoulders. Her eyes slant slightly. Her cheeks have a high flush to them. Her skin is earthy. She can be no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. I am certain of it. Her mouth is full and sensuous, without paint, and under her thin coat she wears a gypsy's blouse that reveals the full length of her throat, the spread of her shoulders. Ruben sings of a soldier killed in battle, a young wife crying at home. In her lap the girl rolls a strand of orange beads between her slender fingers. Her mouth opens and I cannot catch my breath. I cough, but I do not take my eyes away. She smiles at me and her lips are gentle. I see her tongue. I remember Mary Santini and I feel your warmth also, Sarah. Ruben is gone. Manuel tap-dances from side to side. The pounding of Marty's bongos echoes that in my own chest. The jingling of coins is frantic. She brushes her hair back with her hand. I think she is laughing at me. Her eyes are soft. Does she know? Ruben is to my left now and his gray eyes tell me that he sees what is happening. Perhaps this will be your next present for your teacher, Ruben Fontanez. Together, we will violate Marty's rules. Manuel heads for the center of the subway car, but she does not look at him. I hear people gasp. Our eyes remain on one another. My monkey has told you about me already. I am certain of it. You would do what he says. I rub my fingertips against my palms. There is moisture there, and inside me I feel an aching which reaches to the bones. I will tell you of the dream, Ruben Fontanez. Then you will be certain. Listen to me, Ruben Fontanez. You have not even reached your full height yet. We slow down and the curved mosaics outside the windows tell us that we are at Clark Street, Brooklyn Heights. The river is not above us anymore. You know, don't you. Your young lady will feel her body grow, her shape change. Things will be more definite. When the train stops, I close my eyes. They will tell me if it is time to get off. If Marty were not your leader I think you would do it. I assure you I would not require much. Merely the touch. I see you smiling, Ruben Fontanez. The pins do not matter. I believe what you said. You would do it to warm an old man's bed. “You not so old, Mister Meyers.” Ah, Ruben, Ruben, it is all right. I do not open my eyes to listen to you. Your eyes are almost green now. You have your own dreams. I will rest quietly in my room, I assure you. You will leave us alone. It is all right with me if you watch over us. Does she know. I feel a drop of sweat slide under my left arm. I cannot open my coat. I dig my nails into the plastic cushion under me. Merely the touch, Ruben. That is all. The music begins again. A dream is only a dream, Harry. Don't you be the fool.

She is gone, of course. My three students have returned to the car we came from. They work in the other direction now. There is no need to ask you about it, my wild-eyed monkey. Harry, Harry, let things run their course. Finish what you have started. It is too late for anything new. Forget what you crave, no matter what Ruben says. The aching cannot come often. Do not deny that you care, only stop the games. Leave the pictures in the case. Tell Danny what you have to tell him. Who is Sarah, Harry.

The performances continue. Above the windows there is an advertisement that you should read, my subway three. They had you in mind, I am sure.

EMPLOYERS!
H
IRE
B
EGINNERS
Eager to
earn
and to
learn
YOU CAN TRAIN THEM
YOUR
WAY!

Well. We know what your reaction would be, don't we, Ruben Fontanez. I can hear you. I wonder what percentage Marty gives you, and who represents Manuel. But I will make no trouble. It is too late to start anything new. I am certain you will do all right. It is good that I have come out of my room for the day, I know, but I am not so certain the subway ride has been a good thing. We move from car to car and business continues to be good. I am feeling weary again, though. It is to be expected. Manuel is tireless. It will be best, after all, if Marty's rules remain in effect. They signal to me at Franklin Avenue and I follow them up and over the stairs to wait for the Lexington Avenue Uptown Express. We are not far from the Brooklyn Museum now. Manuel, if you will dance up the sides with the cowboys, I would assure you a good audience. After Borough Hall, the train is virtually deserted. My two monkeys sit across from me. Their leader has decided it is safe and he comes and sits by my side.

He looks straight ahead and his lips barely move. He tells me that this is the best morning they have had in weeks. Their luck has been excellent. Not a single policeman has boarded the trains we have worked in.

“With things the way they are we really have to be careful now,” he says. “I mean, some of the cops just look the other way when they see guys like us trying to make a buck—but some are real mean bastards and we have to spend half our time just trying to shake them, you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” I say.

“It'll be best if you don't talk to me,” he says. “I just wanted to let you know that we're gonna be getting off soon to take a lunch break. If you're feeling bushed and want to get back home, I wanted you to know that's okay with us.” Under cover of his jacket, Manuel is puffing on a cigarette. He blows the smoke into an empty cigarette pack. “That Manny, he's really something—he's afraid if he gets too big so people don't think he's a cute little kid—you know, the way all these women smile at him—he thinks some other little spic's gonna take away his job.” He looks in my face for a response. I give none. “I don't say yes, I don't say no. I'll tell you the truth, though, Meyers—not many people would reach into their pockets if they knew they'd been seeing a fifteen-year-old putting on our act. They don't mind if me and Ruben look older, but—” The rest of his words are lost in the rush of the train. We have already passed the Bowling Green station, so I suppose I will not meet your Brooklyn friends today, Marty. Let me tell you something else: I am sorry you have explained to me why it is that Manuel smokes so furiously. I look at him now, releasing the smoke into the empty cigarette pack, and I am uncomfortable and sad. There is no need to tell you this. I am thrown forward slightly by the rocking of the train, but I do not lose my balance. I remain seated, a few inches forward, my hands braced against the seat. I hear you again, telling me that Manuel would do anything for you. He is a loyal friend. All right. I believe you. Still, I am uncomfortable knowing.

It is all right if you cannot remember anything beyond five years old, Harry, don't you see? Not everything needs to be revealed. There is hardly time, after all. A Negro man appears at the end of the subway car, tapping a cane against the floor. His sign asks us to help him buy a seeing-eye dog. Marty reaches into his pocket, and, as the man passes us, puts some coins into his cup. His eye sockets, I see, are scarred.

“We're in the same business, the way I look at it—” Marty says. An elderly couple to our left is encouraged by Marty's action. The man nods his head up and down, mumbling his gratitude. “Anyway, this guy's really blind—he does all right this way. Better off without the dog—” Then he explains how to tell the difference between the fake and the genuine blind men in subways, but I am not interested in his theories. And I am not interested in why you are running away, my cunning friend. “I did a lot for Manny,” he tells me. “I could tell you stories about the things he had to do to make money before I came along, right?” He is angry for some reason. “So if you want to help out, Meyers, the thing for you to do is to tell your boy Ruben to cool it, you know what I mean?” I do not nod. I do not, in fact, know what he is talking about. We have passed Broadway and Fulton Streets. There are more people in the car. Businessmen with fresh haircuts read their papers and reports. They stay away from my two monkeys. Manuel has stopped smoking. Perhaps, once again, I have missed something. But that is all right also. “I mean, the way I see it, the world's got kids like them by the bazoojies, right?—and it's up to somebody to make sure they get what's coming to them—” The man to my right reads the
New York Times
editorial page, but I do not try to make out sentences. I see the photographs of the famous men who have passed away within the last twenty-four hours. Marty's drums stay in his green bag. We are at the Brooklyn Bridge-Worth Street station and Marty has stopped talking to me. He clicks his tongue and Ruben and Manuel rise. We exit from the train and walk alongside the green iron gate. Marty recommends that I stay behind them. “When we get outside, though. Nobody can tell here. It's okay.”