The Accidental Native (3 page)

“Don Marco,” Julia said, pointing to my bags. A short skinny guy with lemur eyes and a shaggy mustache covering his lips jumped for my bags. Surprised that I shook his hand, he nodded and grinned, then tossed my bags in the trunk. Julia sat in the back, staring at me for what seemed eternity, grasping my hand. I peeked at the manicured hand at times as if it wasn't touching me but somebody else. She looked away as Don Marco maneuvered his way through frenetic San Juan traffic.

When we left the congested metropolitan area and started passing less denser areas, Julia broke my reverie. She asked, kind of late I thought, how my trip had been. A bit bumpy, I said, and she smiled. She told me that she would have driven to the airport and picked me up alone.

“But this allows me to talk to you easier,” she said.

We talked about stupid shit: the weather, sights rolling by. Sometimes she'd respond to a news item on the radio, switching from Spanish and English, almost lecturing, and directed at the driver. To my surprise, he would respond, sometimes heatedly.
The topics would turn to politics, even our conversation about sports, their opinions clashing every time. Halfway through, I wished Julia had not come.

As we drove closer to our destination, the landscape became greener. We had left the last major city heading toward the heart of the island, and although impossible to escape the cement, less urban sprawl confronted us as the elevation rose. The car sped into an expanse of small green mountains and abundant flora, and I breathed freely again. Fifteen minutes later, we passed the last toll booth before exiting the autopista into the town of Baná.

Straight out of the exit, at the light, giant billboards advertised housing units. Not cheap at all, considering the location. To our right, a mall had recently sprung up, the driver informed me. He was a local and beamed with pride at the growth of his hometown. I told him that both my parents claimed this as their hometown, too, and he asked me their names. Julia remained quiet, her gaze set on the horizon. He knew the families. Equally surprising, he did not know what had happened to them. I didn't have the heart or energy to tell him.

Julia asked him to stop at a wooden kiosk near the highway exit and bought me a coffee, which I accepted and sipped as I scanned the surroundings. Around me, middle-aged men huddled at the bar, in this weird wooden shack, drank their midday coffee or beer. The television emitted canned laughter as two on-screen mustached comedians in drag and rollers gossiped.

As towns go, Baná appeared busy and desperate to grow. In the distance, housing developments spotted the green hills. Closer, trucks clogged the feeder road that ran parallel to the autopista; these merged with dozens of cars meandering around orange traffic cones and barrels as they herded traffic toward the new mall. A crane loomed over the scene, swinging to finish the emerging multiplex.

“The air is cooler up here,” I told Julia.

“Well, that's at least one good thing about it,” she said. “Take a hard look. Sure you don't want to live in San Juan?”

She had tempted me with buying me a car so I could drive to and from the capital to Baná. She insisted a young man needed a
livelier place. I declined. I was not going to take anything as luxurious as a car from her.

We rushed back into the car and within minutes were on campus. They deposited me in front of a fading white cement house. “It's the guest house,” Don Marco informed me, giving me the keys. I thanked him and extended my hand. He hugged me.

“Bienvenido,” he said. Julia hugged me too, and I draped my arms around her.

“I can't believe you're here,” she whispered, embracing me harder as if to make sure. She kissed my cheek and looked like she was going to cry, but she wiped the lipstick off with spit and patted my chest. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

They sped off, Julia waving her arm out of the window. She wanted to stay and help me unpack, invited me to dinner. But the sudden maternal outpouring put me off. Too soon, I thought.

When I entered the house, I noticed the television. Someone else would have looked for the remote. Instead, I turned it around, making the screen face the wall. Then I sat down.

On any trip, I move to other business, start unpacking or just plop on the bed. But I was in Baná, my parents' hometown, where every sense would have elicited a vibrant memory with every morning, each rainfall, any walk into town, had they attained their dream of returning. I threw myself back on the bed and closed my eyes.

“Come with us,” my parents had begged. We had not taken a trip together in a while. They handed me the brochure and I contemplated it, knowing I would not go. Milk and Honey Israel Tours, it said. “Experience Israel in a unique way you will never forget.” Late in life, my parents had become more serious about religion—the apprehension of approaching retirement, I guess. We were in such different places. I had lost my religion a long time ago and with certainty knew that it would not be rekindled or rediscovered, especially not with some cheesy tour of the Holy Land. I gave back the brochure, which contained an itinerary of various spiritual and sacred landmarks.

One evening when they were still on their trip, the news came on. I watched scenes of screaming people, the disembodied correspondent with hurried stricken voice reporting as officials wearing
green vinyl ponchos pushed onlookers away and attempted to drag bodies from smoking, scarred vehicles. A shot repeated over and over of a white rosary atop a pool of blood.

I paced the apartment, nauseous, my heart racing, holding my hand to my forehead, not knowing what to do. I hoped my parents were not involved. But then the news trickled in: The Popular Democratic Jihad taking responsibility for the attack … three simultaneous car bombings in the city of Jerusalem … detonated in heavy traffic … 32 dead … 117 wounded … a tourist bus partially blown up by one of the suicide car bombers … a religious group from the United States on pilgrimage to the Holy Land among the dead and wounded … one of the worst terrorist attacks in that troubled part of the world.

Late that night, a young low-level official from the State Department confirmed my fears. I sat dazed, the cell phone clutched in my hand. The silence in the apartment eerie, taunting me toward reflection. My mouth dry, heartburn and anger rising in my chest. Anger and hatred for Israelis and Palestinians alike. With a wrenching wail, I hurled the phone across the room and it smashed against a lithograph of Puerto Rican patriot Albizu Campos waving an angry fist. A gift from them, now shattered, too.

I lay down recalling moments with my parents, trying hard to recall their voices, becoming frustrated I could not faithfully conjure them—having to accept the significance of their loss.
I'm all alone, I thought
. The thought paralyzed me, exhausted me, until I fell into a light sleep on the couch, the ongoing news bulletins streaming from a neighbor's apartment, my machine taking a steady string of messages from family, friends; only to wake to the door opening and Erin's scented body running to me, crying “Oh, baby, sweet baby, I heard.”

The doorbell rang. I dried my eyes, blew my nose and ran to open the door. A woman in her mid-thirties tilted her head and grinned. Had dyed reddish, she wore sharp-looking shoes from where glossy red polished toe nails appeared. Her tight dress revealed dazzling wavy shapes. She leaned over and stuck out her hand for me to shake while placing her other hand on her thigh.

“My name is Marisol Santerreguí. Welcome to La Universidad de Baná.” We exchanged nods and smiles. “I'm here to pick you up and accompany you to Dr. Roque's office.”

I looked around the furnished room for an excuse, but realized this was scheduled, so I'd better go. I thought we were going to walk, but in Puerto Rico people drive their cars everywhere. We drove less than a tenth of a mile in her car, which was so immaculate I asked her if it was new. “No,” she replied, laughing. “If it was new, I'd still have the seats covered in factory plastic.”

“Puerto Ricans take care of their wheels,” she asserted. Then, after a beat: “They love to toss garbage out the window as they speed down the highways in spotless cars.” She shrugged, and I nodded.

Marisol drove the long way to show me the campus, small compared to American counterparts. It held three academic buildings, just as many administrative structures. No dormitories. Most students lived in housing provided by town residents, who supplemented their living by gouging rents for no frills, crowded quarters.

On the roof of the student center stood a huge statue of Cano the Coquí, the college mascot, overlooking the well-kept lawns and
flowerbeds. The coquí was a tiny tree frog unique to Puerto Rico. Cano stood on two legs and waved an arm in welcome—the other arm held the school flag. The mascot wore a silly cap with the school initials, which I'm sure nobody in Puerto Rico had ever worn.

In the middle of the rotary leading to the college proper stood a replica of Evgeniy Vuchetich's famous United Nations statue, the one with the muscular nude man beating a sword into a plowshare with a hammer. This version had been sculpted to look “native,” which meant it wore clothes. Marisol explained the college had once been an American army base. When it closed in the early sixties, the citizens of Baná had petitioned for its transformation into a college campus. With few exceptions, these were the original facilities used by the U.S. Army, including the swimming pool, now closed for repairs.

We drove around the rotary, past an open structure with cement tables and benches. Two stray dogs slept in the shadows of a large ceiba. Along the way, we passed several new BMWs, Mercedes, Volvos, a couple of Lexuses. For a minute, I thought the salaries for professors might compensate for any ill feelings about teaching here.

“Student vehicles,” Marisol said, with raised eyebrows. “What their parents were spending on private school tuition they can now spend on new toys.”

She parked in the professors' area, with the Hyundais and Toyotas, I knew a teaching gig in Puerto Rico was definitely not the same as in Saudi Arabia or Dubai.

Dr. Roque's office was in The New Academic Building, so named because after six years the college community couldn't agree on someone to name it after. We walked down the English wing, with offices shared by professors. An open area begged for furniture. The architect had that in mind, but the administration didn't want to furnish sofas and armchairs because it promoted student loitering. It remained a big, unused space. As perspiration ran down my face and spotted my clothing, I noticed the building had no air conditioning.

Dr. Pedro Roque's office had the austerity befitting a monk. His working space was sparse and ascetic. Nothing on the walls. A faux
wooden bookcase held mostly folders and binders. On top he had three miniature knickknacks, souvenirs really: a porcelain coquí, a
güiro
musical scraper and bookends resembling hands in prayer.

He extended a large, but soft hand with manicured, unpolished nails. A crisp, long green folder, my personnel file, graced his otherwise clean blotter and empty desktop.

“I'm supposed to introduce you to the rector, Dr. Vigo. Pro forma,” he said, head slanted, staring at me with deep-set black eyes topped by thick, arching eyebrows.

“I'm sorry about your parents,” he said, softly. He meant well, I understood, but it didn't seem right or even his business, and the anger showed on my face.

My mother used to always tell me I wore my emotions on my face. “You really need to learn how to disimular, Rennie,” she advised, one day while walking with her at a mall, when lust had captured my adolescent face and I ogled a pretty girl walking by. Learn to feign, dissemble.

“I don't mean to intrude, but it's difficult to know something like that and not feel obligated to say something comforting.”

It's not comforting, I thought, when you're trying to forget.

“Personally, and don't take this the wrong way, but I think the unfortunate incident may have helped sway the dean in your favor. In my opinion, there were stronger candidates right here on the island.” He smiled as if he had just given me the biggest compliment in the world.

“Well, Dr. Roque, I appreciate the honesty.”

“Then we'll get along just fine,” he said looking straight into my eyes. I looked at this stooped, lanky man sneering at me, with pasty white skin pockmarked from scarring teenage acne, unflappable gray hair, wearing baggy brown pants, beige guayabera and sandals that made him look like a walking cardboard box. I felt this deep, impending doom.

He sensed the awkwardness and stood up.

“Let's take you to Dr. Vigo.”

We walked from the office building without a name in silence, passing the flowerbeds, the fountain in front of Betances Hall, which housed the administrative offices, and across the vast open
field where students took naps or read. We walked by the broken pool and the tennis court, where two older professors played a match, until we arrived at a flat, corner building, the Rectoría.

In his office, which in contrast to Dr. Roque's was decorated with many personal artifacts and lithographs done by local artists, Dr. Vigo took my file from Roque and reviewed it.

“Ah, you're Nuyorican,” Vigo stated with a smile on his face. Roque rolled his eyes.

“Well, I grew up in Jersey, but yes, I lived in New York City for a while.”

“Bien interesante,” he commented, looking up from the folder. “This return migration of Puerto Ricans—I'm a sociologist,” he offered. “Very under-studied.” I stared at him, and he looked like a walrus with glasses. The Beatles' “I am the walrus” ran through my mind. His face turned serious, a studied gravity.

“I heard about your parents.” I tensed up. “My heart goes to you,
de verdad, una tragedia
.”

“But, we all have to move on to business. I welcome you to our college and hope you serve with us for many years to come.” The little smile on his face disappeared, and he leaned toward me. “You're not involved in any politics, right?”