Bodega Dreams (12 page)

“How old were you back then?” It was the only thing I could think of saying.

“I don’t know, let me think. Seventeen, I was seventeen.”

“So you left Veronica. You were angry at her and everybody. Then what happened?” We both began to walk around El Museo.

“Crazy shit. Some crazy shit. It was, like, three in the morning. I climbed up the fire escape to her room. I tried opening the window but there was a gate. So I tapped on the glass and Veronica woke up thinking it was a thief and I scared her half to death.”

“That was smart, bro. Couldn’t you wait till morning or something?”

“Nah, I couldn’t, b’cause she was getting married the next day and if her mother had woken up, you know, it would have been over. So I almost gave Veronica a heart attack until she realized it was me. She knew I could never hurt her. And she was a little scared, but it wasn’t because I was there, it was cuz she was marrying some guy she didn’t love.”

“You sure she didn’t at least like his money?”

“Didn’t I just tell you, she said she didn’t care that I didn’t have money, what bothered her was that I had no vision of how to get it.”

“Yeah, thass right, you told me she said she didn’t care that
you
didn’t have any money, but you didn’t say that she said she didn’t like the
Cuban’s
money. See the difference, bro?”

“Nah, I don’t,” he barked, “and what the fuck do you know anyway?”

“Look, bro, like you said, we are going to be related, right? So, like, do you want me to lie to you or do you want me to tell you what I really think?” My voice was respectful but loud. “All I’m telling you is that Veronica never said she didn’t want this guy’s money.”

Bodega left my words hanging and walked away toward a small wing that had an exhibition of wooden religious figures. The Three Kings on horseback on their way to meet El Niño, with everything and everyone made of wood and colored with house paint. The wood was old and the paint was cracking, giving the Nativity scene a poignant look of absolute poverty.

“You understand me?” I walked over to him and realized that all this time we had been talking, never had we looked each other in the eyes. All this time, when we’d spoken we’d looked at the artwork. It was a good way to relieve tension and just talk.

“When you moving?” Bodega asked me. I had hit a nerve. Veronica was something sacred.

“Tomorrow.”

“Thass good.”

“Look, Willie, you said you wanted to ask me something. What is it you want to ask me?”

“Not yet, Chino, not yet.” And Bodega finally faced me and looked in my eyes. “But it’s something good. Don’t worry.”

•

THE NEXT
day Blanca and I rented a U-Haul van and got family and friends to help us move. Negra and Victor pitched in. Victor had recovered but was still weak so, like Blanca, helped only with the light stuff. During the move Negra and Victor were acting as if they were on their second honeymoon, all kissie-kissie and lovey-dovey.

“Victor, honey, watch it with that, don’t hurt yourself.”

“Negra,
querida
, be careful. Let me help you with that, baby.”

For two days Blanca and I lived out of boxes until we had the time to fix things up and put everything in order. Then, just two days before Vera would arrive in New York, I got home late and tired. The house was dark. I figured Blanca must be with Negra or one of her friends or still at church. I fried myself a burger and got a
malta
from the fridge.
After I ate, I decided to study and flipped on the television for background noise. That’s when I heard about the dead body. The English news channels didn’t make a big deal out of it, to them Alberto Salazar was just a Latin reporter for a small newspaper. Just another dead Latino tonight. It only got a blurb. But I needed to find out more, in case Alberto Salazar was the same guy I had heard Bodega and Nazario talk about that night at the Taino Towers.

So I finished my drink and switched to channel 47, hoping they would give one of their own more news time. I wasn’t disappointed.

The report said Salazar’s body was found in the East River. He had been a reporter for
El Diario/La Prensa
working on an investigation of a drug lord in East Harlem. Salazar had been a big man, six feet two, 260 pounds. As the camera panned an empty pier, still wet from the afternoon rain, the Spanish newscaster reported that there was evidence of a struggle. In addition to the gunshot wound, Salazar had suffered a serious bite to the shoulder. That’s when I knew who had killed him.

S
APO
was different.

Sapo was always Sapo, and no one messed with him because he had a reputation for biting. “When I’m in a fight,” Sapo would spit, “whass close to my mouth is mine by right and my teeth ain’t no fucken pawnshop.”

I loved Sapo. I loved Sapo because he loved himself. But by now you know it was never about Sapo. It was always about Bodega. And to this day it continues to be about Bodega. Bodega had an unforgettable blend of nobility and street, as if God never made up his mind whether to have Bodega be born a leader or a hood. Bodega did something to the neighborhood, something with staying power, like a song that no one could possibly like but you, because you heard it at a time when your heart was breaking.

But after Alberto Salazar was found dead no songs were played. No one thought of love or anything. The neighborhood became a tomb. Mute as an Egyptian. Every member of the street wire from the pimp to the junkie to the hooker talked like an Italian: “I ain’t see not’en’.”

Blanca had seen the news on TV. My guess is that at first Blanca thought that what had happened was a terrible thing. Then later, when things were going around about Salazar knowing things he shouldn’t about some drug king, I figured she must have felt even worse, that
Salazar was a good man, God be with him. At some point she no doubt heard that Salazar was investigating Spanish Harlem. I figure it was then she really got suspicious. And when the newscasters mentioned the chunk of flesh missing from Salazar’s shoulder, memories must have rained down on Blanca like parachutes. She’d been an eyewitness to one of Sapo’s bites. It had been a gruesome display of hate and anger and Sapo, as only Sapo could, presented it with showmanship.

•

BACK IN
Julia de Burgos Junior High, back in the days of my growing up and all that Piri Thomas kinda crap that I will spare you from, there was the English teacher, Mr. Blessington. He kept telling us boys we were all going to end up in jail and that all the girls were going to end up hooking. He would say these things right out loud and the administration wouldn’t do anything. I hated Blessington and he knew it. He looked at Blanca with the eyes of a repressed rapist. He thought he was smooth but what he came out looking was creepy. He’d come to school in a suit and tell us that a man with a suit is a man that is valuable and that a man without a suit has no worth. He always did Robert Frost poems with us, which were all right, but after a while we started to hate Robert Frost. Blessington thought he was doing us a service, and that was his error. He was one of those upper-middle-class people who think highly of themselves because they could be making money or something, but no, they have taken the high road and have chosen to “help” poor kids from the ghetto.

On the other hand the science teacher, Jose Tapia, was always lecturing us on how fortunate we were because we were young and Latin. His speeches were at times so fiery and full of passion that every year the principal would try to make Tapia the gym teacher, in hopes of cutting down Tapia’s influence over us. But as a science teacher Tapia was state certified and was appointed to our school so there was no way for the principal to get rid of him.

And he didn’t want to be called Mr. Tapia, simply Tapia.

One day when Sapo and me were in the eighth grade, Tapia told us, “You speak two languages, you are worth two people.” Sapo retorted,
“What about the pope? He speaks like a hundred languages, but he ain’t worth jack.” The class was rolled.

“Sapo, do you think the pope would be the pope if he didn’t know his hundred languages?” Tapia asked after the laughter died down.

“Nah, if he didn’t speak a hundred languages he’d still be pope, because he’s white. All popes are white. I ain’t never seen no black pope. I ain’t seen a Spanish pope, either.”

“Hey, Tapia,” I said, “I never even seen a black nun.” Of course we were just stalling. The truth was we hadn’t done our homework and wanted to kill time.

“Or a Chinese nun. All I’ve ever seen are white nuns,” Edwin jumped in, so I figured he hadn’t done his homework either. “You can’t have a black pope if there are no black nuns.” I hated Edwin. When he borrowed a pencil he never gave it back and when school was almost over, he always borrowed loose-leaf paper because he didn’t see the point of buying a new notebook.

“Yeah, a black nun!” Sapo shouted in agreement.

“Julio, can you shut him up?” Blanca whispered to me. I always sat next to Blanca. I would leave my science book at home on purpose so I could use the excuse of sharing hers. Tapia understood this and, even though we had assigned seats, would always let me move.

“No,” I whispered back at Blanca. “Sapo has a point.”

“The point is Sapo hasn’t done his homework.”

“I haven’t done mine, either,” I said.

“Then this book”—she pulled the science text we were sharing toward her side of the desk—“does you no good.”

“Look, forget about the pope,” Tapia continued. “I don’t care about the pope. The pope is not one of my students. The pope has a good job and there are black nuns and Chinese nuns, too, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is you. I care about you. And I played the same games when I was your age. If you haven’t done your homework just tell me.” Hands shot up.

Tapia sighed loudly. “Edwin, you didn’t do your homework?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well?”

“Well, I did it, I just didn’t bring it.” The class laughed and Tapia looked at his roll book.

“All right, Edwin, you live on 102nd and Third. That’s three blocks from here. You better get your homework at lunchtime or you’d better have it done by then.” Edwin nodded his head.

“Sapo, your homework?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Why didn’t you do it?”

“Because Mr. Blessington told me I was going to end up in jail, so why waste my time doing homework?” We all laughed.

“Sapo, don’t you want to prove Blessington wrong?”

“Nah, I’d rather not do my homework.”

Tapia got upset. He threw down the roll book and began to yell at us. “I don’t care what Blessington’s been telling you! If you are here it is because you want to be, right? Otherwise don’t even come to school, just stay on the street. You can make more money selling pot on the stairwells than coming to my classroom, but if you come—and I want you to come, I like having you here—all I ask is that you make an effort! That’s all I ask. Don’t give me this nonsense about what Mr. Blessington is telling you. You guys are smart enough to know that it’s up to you to become what you want to be. So why even listen to him? I’ve heard what he says. It’s all nonsense.” Tapia pointed at one of the girls. “Rita Moreno, she was once like you, is Rita Moreno hooking?” Tapia then pointed at one of the guys. “Reggie Jackson, he was once as young as you, he’s half Puerto Rican, is Reggie in jail? They worked hard. That’s what you have to do. Just do your work and don’t pay attention to Blessington.”

So we all quieted down and did our work, even Sapo, although he copied off me. Sapo always copied me but it was no big deal. The next period was English and we hated it because it was Blessington. I was in no mood for Robert Frost, that white-assed crusty old man from some cow state. But I couldn’t say that to Blessington. Instead, as politely as I could, I asked, “Mr. Blessington, why do we always do Robert Frost, why can’t we do someone else?”

“Because Robert Frost,” he said, slowly shaking his head in disbelief as if I was asking something real stupid, “is a major American poet.”

“Well, I heard that Julia de Burgos was a poet; why don’t we do some of her poems?” I said, and the class jumped in with me.

“That’s right,” Lucy, Blanca’s Pentecostal friend whom we used to call Chewbacca, chimed in, “why did they name the school after her? She must have been important.”

“Yeah, they didn’t name the school Robert Frost Junior High, why we always reading him?” someone else asked. Truth was, I was happy we were killing time. I wanted those forty-five minutes in his class to fly. I wanted to keep this discussion going for as long as possible.

“If any of you have noticed since September,” Blessington pointed out, “this is English class, not Spanish. Julia-day-Burgos”—he pronounced her name with a thick accent—“wrote only in Spanish.”