The Accidental Native (7 page)

I nodded, though unclear exactly what he meant.

At the exit to Monteverde Mall, traffic thickened. It didn't matter to Micco, who snaked through cars, SUVs and trucks like he was on the last lap at Daytona. At times, he passed vehicles on the shoulder, once almost scraping against the concrete meridian. If
he could drive on top of the divider, he would. The other drivers on the road were just as bad or worse. Everyone raced and cut off other drivers.

“Then, we have the resident gringo—the other new guy, Daniel Stiegler.”

“What about Foley?”

“Foley,” Montero paused. “He's like fog, comes and goes, stealth-like. I think he's CIA.” He whispered this and laughed at my surprised expression. Then, added, “Maybe he's here to keep an eye on Stiegler.”

Stiegler's wild, bushy-mustached mountain man look came to mind, his unkempt hair, wrinkled clothes and weather-beaten hiking boots recalling his days as a lecturer in Montana.

We exited on Río Piedras, passed the University of Puerto Rico's main campus, an amalgam of huddled, parked automobiles and buildings withered by neglect and weather, and soon entered Marisol's street, which like so many streets in Puerto Rico had no sign. Micco said that to this day he didn't know its name. And like so many other San Juan streets, there wasn't a parking space to be found. Micco drove around for fifteen minutes, past vehicles whose owners had given up and stranded them on sidewalks to await the parking ticket accepted as part of the cost of hanging out in “el área metropolitana.” He finally squeezed in between two SUVs, tapping one of the bumpers several times, and we walked to Marisol's high-rise condo, which appeared no better than most “projects” in the Bronx. The same elongated, upturned rectangular, gray-cement structure with a splash of pastels.

Inside, similar long, narrow corridors fronting a series of clone doors. Same hard, waxy, Formica floors. Except here you own the apartment; it was an investment. Once inside the apartment, I saw that it even had the same floor plan. The kitchen area was separated from the living room by a counter and bar stools. A hallway led to two bedrooms and a bathroom. I could find my way blindfolded around this apartment, because I had lived for years in a similar one in the Bronx, before my parents got a deal on a house in New Jersey.

Across the room, a wide, sliding glass door opened onto a slim balcony with a view of San Juan's swarming, concrete cityscape. I was glad for the sake of Marisol's investment that she had more footage than those same floor plans in the South Bronx. The living room was airy and accommodated the dozen individuals already there, sipping mojitos and wine.

“Ah, here's the guest of honor,” Marisol chirped, holding a glass of red. “Micco, you brought him late,” she scolded. She smiled at me.

“I found the young man shamefully unprepared and utterly unattired,” he responded in his awful Brit accent. Montero taught British literature, and on occasion took delight in mimicking a purposefully annoying nasal English accent.

“Ay,” clucked Marisol, already tipsy, “at least now we can eat.”

It was an inviting room, full of color and practical furniture. White rattan—big in the island—with flowery prints, mostly bright reds against white. She pointed to a Botaño up on a wall. “Its value has gone up,” she whispered, “since he died.” In a corner swung a Calder mobile replica—the one with red lily pads. On top of a credenza, and other flat surfaces, stood various elongated candles and ceramic knickknacks.

Having announced the go-ahead to eat, everyone approached the buffet spread, a rich combination of seafood paella, several vegetable dishes and a huge spinach salad mixed with tangerines. For appetizers, ham croquettes and miniature alcapurrias. Several colleagues had brought bottles of wine, reds and whites, but I preferred the sangria served in a crystal pitcher.

I was greeted by Cari Rosas, one of several linguists, and her husband, Franco. Much of my conversation with him entailed the many surgical procedures he had undergone. Along with Cari, I met Juan Cedeño and his pretty wife, Anabel; Luis Angel Iglesias, a somber, demure scholarly type, and Rita Gómez, whose English I could barely understand. Stieglitz entrenched himself in a corner with a plate of food.

Juan grabbed a plate with his left hand as he shook my hand with his right. A relatively new hire, he had moved from the United States and complained about the lack of technology on campus. “It's like they're Luddites,” he said, grinning, referring to our colleagues
as he chewed on a piece of lobster from the paella, and shook his head.

I nodded, drinking the sangria, which was strong.

Marisol served me a plate of food. “Eat something. You could put some meat on those huesitos of yours.” She patted my arm, her hand lingering across my forearm.

Opposite from me, Pedro Roque sat talking to Carmela López, whom people called his shadow, and a hooked-nose, hunched woman with short hair, the Chair of the Humanities department, Margo Lasca. She had been chair of that rambunctious group for over fifteen years because no one else could be trusted by the others. Pedro did not look over to me even once. He only talked to me when he approached the food. Holding his hands together and glancing down at everything with caution, he asked if everything was going well, especially with the syllabi. “Yes,” I lied.

“Great,” he said. “Go by the syllabi—you won't go wrong.”

He served himself three croquettes, threw some salad on his plate and walked back to his seat. Today, he wore a frumpy, brown short-sleeved shirt, dark-blue pants and his usual sandals. Not a single strand moved from his newly moussed hair. He resumed the conversation with Lasca and Carmela López. Although Pedro didn't talk much, his deep laughter filled the room whenever one of his colleagues said something humorous.

“People say they're lovers, you know,” Micco whispered into my ear. He was buzzed and refilling his glass.

“Which two?” I really didn't care. I just wanted clarification.

“Pedro and Carmela.”

It wouldn't have surprised me if Carmela and Pedro were lovers. But people were going on appearances, always dangerous. Carmela hung with Pedro, but they also went back many years. They were two of the most senior faculty in the college. Both were single, although Pedro had gone through a divorce that by all accounts left him bitter and resentful of women. Carmela never married, and no one ever saw her with any other men, and apparently she never shared that part of her life with colleagues. She led a simple life, and by Micco's account, wore slacks all the time in a country where a feminine dress still was considered fashionably
desirable. She always kept her hair short and tidy, almost an old fashioned “bob.” Her one nod to vanity were earrings—usually tidy hoops or studs—all expensive. “This,” she would often say, waving her hand to indicate the college, “is my life—the students, especially.” No one could say with certainty if she had ever dated; she could have been a fifty-year-old virgin.

“Here I am,” Freddie Rivas announced as he walked through the door, a bottle of champagne in one hand, a bouquet of yellow roses in the other. Behind, a young man hesitated. Freddie turned to the young man. “Ay, come in, nobody's going to bite you.” Then, looking at me he said, “Not yet, anyway. Well, nice to see you're still with us,” he said, shaking my hand.

Marisol put on a CD by Olga Tañón and gestured to Freddie, hands signaling “come on,” her hips moving to the music. Freddie put down the champagne bottle and the flowers, which he was about to put in water. They shook and shuffled to a merengue. Both were good dancers who enjoyed the music. Freddie's friend attended to putting the roses in a vase, smiling at the dancing couple.

Everyone observed the two, spinning like dancing figurines in the center of the floor. Marisol was starting to look good. She wore tight, blue palazzo pants highlighting a formidable behind working overtime to the rhythms of the music. When they stopped, she was perspiring and she dabbed her neck and cleavage with a paper towel.

“Want to dance?” she asked.

I said no, but she took my hand anyway. I was a horrible dancer, a disgrace to Puerto Ricans everywhere, really.

“Shake those hips, nene,” Marisol said in a whiny voice.

At one point she placed her hands on my hips, trying to get me in sync with the rhythm. By now, thank God, a few other people were dancing. Montero with Rita Gómez, who was getting into the music and showing off serious dancing skills. Juan with his wife. Cari dancing at bolero speed with Franco. All of us maneuvering around a compact area, until Freddie and Luis Angel moved the sofa and glass coffee table. While spinning once, I glanced at Pedro Roque looking at me grimly, his other two companions
equally glum, as Marisol's left hand glided down my back and her hips rubbed against mine.

The dancing didn't last that much longer. Things dwindled down to boleros and soft conversation. In parties like this, people fulfill their sense of obligation and then scoot off to somewhere or something more to their liking. Freddie and his friend took off to a new gay club. Juan and Anabel had children, so they left early. Rita had gone before we realized she was gone. Luis Angel looked like the type who would rather get home to watch a good movie rental. Only Montero, Marisol, Pedro, Carmela and I remained. I found it strange that Roque would stay that long. He didn't seem like a very sociable guy at all, and it didn't look like he had enjoyed himself. Some people just need to see everything until the end; they get a weird power thrill as they witness everyone leave, one by one. I wanted to leave, but Montero was a hardcore partier and my ride.

Midnight found us sitting on the balcony, sipping coffee and looking out to condos and business buildings. The air felt cool, its damp muskiness hinted rain. At a distance, the white and red lights of hundreds of cars undulated through ribbon-like Baldorioty de Castro. I sat, sipping espresso. My mind had been drifting when Montero said something about another referendum over the status issue. Yet again, Puerto Ricans marching to the polls to vote for one of three choices: statehood, independence and the status quo, that is “commonwealth.”

“Why can't you guys make up your mind?” I piped in, innocently, reaching the grounds in my coffee.

“You guys?” asked Roque, looking at the others, amused.

“Puerto Ricans.”

“You don't consider yourself Puerto Rican?”

“My parents were Puerto Rican, not me.”

“How patriotic,” Roque said to the others, a smirk on his face as he drank the remains of his coffee.

“Patriotic like the people here?” I responded. “Who kiss every American ass they see?”

Roque's unibrow knitted closer together than usual, his eyes opened wide, his normally pasty face now flushed. He settled the
cup and saucer on the plastic patio table and stood up. He tried straightening his rumpled pants, without much success.

“You know, Falto, if you don't like it here, you can always leave.” He gasped the last word, almost out of breath, and with that, clutched his car keys and stomped out. Carmela followed.

“Welcome to the department,” she said earnestly, waving goodbye as she did.

I blinked at Montero and Marisol.

“Well, the festivities have come to an abrupt and unfortunate turn of events,” Montero said in mock-Brit reportage mode.

Marisol sat next to me and patted my arm.

“Don't let Pedro upset you. He's just a bit sensitive about some things.”

“Sensitive? He's practically schizoid.”

“Let us go then, you and I.… ” Montero extended an arm to help me out of the chair. At that moment it seemed like I had sunk and needed a hand.

On the way out, Marisol stroked my back. My back tingled and I got goose bumps. She handed me some leftovers, and I thanked her.

We drove back, silent for most of the trip. Montero had the radio on a salsa station with an obnoxious, loud deejay. I asked to change it and turned to soft rock after Micco nodded. He was sedated now, staying in one lane pretty much for the entire trip back to Baná. I was afraid at any moment he would fall asleep. We didn't discuss Roque. Micco only asked me, as we were getting in the car, if I wanted to stay at Marisol's. I laughed and said no.

The thought had crossed my mind. It simply didn't make much sense, though. We were co-workers in a small department, and Marisol was in her mid-thirties—still a young woman—but the idea of having an affair with someone that age was intimidating, even as it turned me on.

Once you drive past the last toll, the autopista turns pitch black and eerie. There is no lighting along the highway, houses too distant to shed light, no public way stations with available gas pumps and bathroom facilities. Sometimes, you spot an individual emerging out of the bushes, walking back toward a sidelined car. The temperature dips as the road climbs up to steeper terrain. I felt my
ears pop. As the cool and sweet air whipped against our exposed faces, Micco suddenly veered the convertible toward the next exit. “Need to use the facilities,” he said.

In five minutes, we were entering a bar facing the mountain range. “I can never make it home,” he said, quickly getting out of the car. Information that told me he frequented this place.

It was a dive like so many others open throughout the island on a Saturday night—una barra de muerte, a death bar, so named because often a macho would get stabbed or shot dead in such a locale, and the story would surface on the front page of
El Vocero
, the island's popular, tacky tabloid. A place that dangerously mixed booze and testosterone.

I expected a more rustic look, but it had a modern decor with a long, elegant wooden bar and comfortable leather swivel chairs. A patio area overlooked the mountains and Baná's city lights.

The emptiness signaled how late it was, approaching two in the morning. Most likely, the pairs who had crowded the dance floor had gone off to the nearby “garage” motels. If there had been a band, they had packed their stuff long ago and were now playing in some metropolitan after hours. A jumbo, CD-playing jukebox played requests while it emitted disco lights that floated across the room. Someone had played a series of boleros that, as the locals say, make you want to slit your wrists. Montero returned and waved for the bartender.