The Infinite Plan (36 page)

“I told you I have money saved. Thank you, though.”

“You keep your money for looking after the boy—if you're able to bring him here. I'll pay for the tickets and give you something for the trip.”

“Are you that rich?”

“What I have most of are debts, but I can always get another loan, don't worry.”

Three months later, after tedious formalities in government offices and consulates, Gregory accompanied Carmen to the airport. To throw suspicious bureaucrats off the trail, Carmen, with her hair pulled back in a bun, had left her usual costume behind and was dressed in a frumpy suit; the only sign of a fire not totally extinguished was the heavy kohl rimming her eyes, something she could not give up. She looked shorter, older, and almost ugly. The exuberant breasts that were so appealing beneath her gypsy blouses jutted like a balcony under the dark jacket. Gregory had to admit that the exotic personality she had created was greatly superior to the original version and promised himself not to suggest again that she change her style. Have no fear, Carmen said, blushing; as soon as I have my boy with me I'll go back to being my old self. When she looked in the mirror she could see no sign of that self. In her suitcase was the small wooden dragon Gregory had given her at the last minute—for luck, he told her; you're going to need it. She was also carrying a bundle of documents, the fruit of inspiration and audacity, photographs and letters from her brother Juan José that she meant to use without any consideration for honesty. Reeves had contacted Leo Galupi, confident that his good friend knew everyone and that the obstacle did not exist that could hold him back. Gregory assured Carmen that she could put her trust in the likable Italian from Chicago, despite rumors of his being something of a scoundrel. It was reputed that he had made a fortune in the black market, and that was why he could not return to the United States. The truth was different; after serving his hitch in the army he had stayed in Vietnam, not for the easy money, but because of his liking for disorder and uncertainty; he had been born for a life with a surprise at every turn and was in his element in Vietnam. He was not rich; he was a bandit betrayed by his own generosity. In years of business dealings on the edge of the law he had earned large sums of money, but he had spent them supporting distant relatives, helping friends in trouble, and loosening his purse strings whenever he saw someone in need. The war offered him the opportunity to make money in shady deals and at the same time forced him to spend it in countless acts of compassion. He lived in the same warehouse where he stored crates containing his merchandise: American products to sell to Vietnamese and Oriental curios to interest his compatriots, from shark fins to cure impotence to long hanks of hair to fashion wigs, from Chinese powders for happy dreams to gold and ivory statuettes of ancient gods. In one corner he had installed a gas stove, where he liked to prepare tasty Sicilian dishes to assuage his nostalgia and to feed a half-dozen street children who were alive only because of him. Faithful to his promise to Gregory Reeves, he was waiting for Carmen at the airport, holding a limp bouquet of flowers. He was slow to place her because he was expecting a whirlwind of skirts, necklaces, and bracelets; instead, he found an innocuous woman exhausted from the long flight and dripping with sweat. Carmen, in turn, failed to recognize Galupi because Gregory had described him as an unmistakable mafioso type, while she saw a troubadour escaped from a painting; fortunately, he was carrying a cardboard sign with the name
TAMAR
, which allowed them to identify each other in the crowd. Don't worry about a thing, dear; from now on I'll take charge of you and all your problems, he told Carmen, kissing her on both cheeks. He lived up to his word. He would have to perjure himself before a notary that Thui Nguyen had no family, imitate Juan José's handwriting in forged letters in which he referred to his sweetheart's pregnancy, doctor photographs to show the pair arm in arm in various locations, falsify certificates and seals, plead before incorruptible officials and bribe bribable ones, all dealings that Galupi carried out with the ease of someone who had paddled in those waters before. He was an impressive man, cheerful and good-looking, with strong Mediterranean features and a healthy head of black hair he combed back in a short pigtail. Carmen asked him to go with her on her first visit to Thui Nguyen, because after having looked forward to the moment for so long and having steeled herself for the meeting, she found her customary self-possession had deserted her; her knees buckled at the mere idea of finally seeing the boy. Thui lived in a room in a large house that prior to the war must have belonged to a family of wealthy merchants but now was divided into rooms for twenty renters. There was so much confusion from people going about their chores, children racing around, radios and televisions blaring, that they had difficulty locating the room. A wisp of a woman opened the door, an ashen shadow wearing a kerchief around her head and a dress of indeterminate color. One look was sufficient to know that Thui Nguyen had not lied; she was very ill. Obviously she had always been short, but she looked as if she suddenly had shrunk, as if her skeleton had been compressed without allowing time for her skin to adjust to the new size; it was impossible to calculate her age, because her face was as old as time but her body that of an adolescent. She welcomed them with great reserve, apologized for the room, and invited them to take a seat on the bed; then she offered them tea and without waiting for an answer put water to boil over a gas ring that occupied the only chair. In one corner they could see a household altar with a photograph of Juan José Morales and offerings of flowers, fruit, and incense. I'll bring Dai, she announced, and left the room with slow steps. Carmen Morales felt a pounding in her chest and began trembling in spite of the humid heat seeping through the walls and fostering greenish flora in the corners. Leo Galupi sensed that this was the most intense moment in Carmen's life and had the impulse to put his arms around her, but did not dare touch her.

Dai Morales, a slender, dark-skinned child, rather tall for his two years, with hair stiff as a brush and a very serious face in which almond-shaped black eyes and an absence of visible eyelids were the only Oriental features, came into the room, holding his mother's hand. He looked like a photograph Inmaculada and Pedro Morales had of their son Juan José at the same age, except that Dai was not smiling. Carmen tried to stand up, but her spirit failed her, and she fell back down on the bed. She concluded with mad certainty that this was the child that had been washed down Olga's kitchen drain ten years before, the boy who had been destined for her since the beginning of time. For a moment she lost all notion of present time and wondered with distress what her son was doing in this miserable room. Thui spoke something that sounded like trilling, and the little boy stepped forward timidly and shook Leo Galupi's hand. Thui corrected him with a second reedy bird song, and he turned toward Carmen, starting to repeat the same gesture, but their eyes met and locked for a few eternal seconds, as if they were recognizing each other after a long separation. Finally Carmen held out her arms, picked up the child, and sat him astraddle her knees. He was light as a kitten. Dai sat quietly, in silence, staring at her with a solemn expression.

“From now on, she is your mother,” Thui Nguyen said in English, and then repeated it in her tongue so her son would understand.

Carmen Morales spent eleven weeks completing the formalities for adopting her nephew and waiting for the visa to take him to her country. She could have done it in less time, but she never discovered that. Leo Galupi, who at first went out of his way to help her resolve apparently unresolvable problems, at the last moment worked to complicate the proceedings and delay the final arrangements, entangling her in a web of excuses and postponements that not even he could explain. The city was much more expensive than she had imagined, and by the end of a month Carmen was running out of funds. Gregory Reeves sent her a bank draft, which vanished into bribes and hotel expenses, and just when she was ready to dip into her savings, Galupi hastened to her rescue. He had begun a new trade in elephant tusks, he said, and his pockets were stuffed with money; she had no right to reject his aid, since he was doing it for Juan José Morales, his bosom buddy, whom he had loved dearly and who had died before he could say goodbye. Carmen suspected that in fact Galupi had never heard of her brother before Gregory asked for his help, but it was just as well not to find out. She did not want Galupi to pay her hotel bill but agreed to come live at his place to cut down on expenses. She moved in with her suitcase and a bag of the beads and stones she had been buying in spare moments, including some small fossils of neolithic insects that she intended to turn into brooches. She had never imagined that this person she had seen driving a wealthy man's car and spending money with both fists would be living in a kind of furniture warehouse, a labyrinth of crates and metal shelves filled with everything imaginable. At a quick glance she saw a campaign cot, piles of books, boxes holding records and tapes, a formidable music system, and a portable television with a clothes hanger serving as antenna. Galupi showed Carmen the kitchen and other comforts of his home and introduced her to the children who came at that hour to eat, warning her not to give them money and not to leave her wallet within the reach of greedy hands. Given the camp-out casualness, the bathroom was a real surprise, an impeccable wood-paneled room with a tub, large mirrors, and red plush towels. These are the most valuable things that have passed through my hands; you don't know how difficult it is to get good towels, her host said, stroking them with pride. Last, he led Carmen to the far end of his warehouse, where he had isolated a large space with boxes piled like building blocks and an impressive Coromandel screen for a door. Inside the space Carmen found a large bed covered with white mosquito netting, delicate black lacquer furniture hand-painted with motifs of cranes and cherry blossoms, silk rugs, embroidered cloth covering the walls, and small rice-paper lamps spreading a diffuse light. Leo Galupi had created the chamber of a Chinese empress for Carmen. That would be her refuge for several weeks; there the noise of the street or the clamor of war would not reach her. Sometimes she asked herself what might be in the mysterious boxes around her; she imagined precious treasures, each with its story, and felt the air was filled with the spirit of the objects. She lived in that place with comfort and good company but gnawed by the anxiety of waiting.

“Patience, patience,” Leo Galupi would counsel when he saw she was getting frantic. “If Dai were yours, you would have to wait nine months for him. Nine weeks is nothing.”

During the long hours of leisure when she was not visiting Thui and her child, Carmen wandered through the markets, buying materials for her jewelry and sketching new designs inspired by that strange journey. It seemed absurd that in the midst of a conflict of such proportions she should be strolling through bazaars like a tourist. Even though by then a major part of the American troops had been withdrawn, the war continued to rage at its apogee. Carmen had imagined that the city would be one great military encampment and that she would have to look for her nephew by crawling past soldiers and through trenches, but in fact she was wending through narrow alleyways, shopping and bargaining in the midst of a motley crowd apparently indifferent to the war. If you could talk with people you would have a different impression, said Galupi, but as she could communicate only in English, she was isolated from their real feelings. Without meaning to, she gradually ignored reality and submersed herself in the two subjects that mattered to her: little Dai and her work. Her mind seemed to have expanded toward new dimensions; Asia had worked its way into her consciousness, had invaded and seduced her. She thought about how much of the world she had yet to know; if she wanted true success in her craft and security for the future, a commitment she had made as soon as she agreed to be responsible for Dai, she would have to travel every year to distant and exotic places, looking for rare materials and fresh ideas.

“I'll send you beads; I have contacts everywhere and can get anything you want,” said Galupi, who did not understand the essence of Carmen's art but could sense its commercial possibilities.

“I have to choose them myself. Each stone, each shell, each bit of wood or metal, suggests something different.”

“No one here would wear what you've been drawing. I've never seen an elegant woman with bits of bone and feathers in her ears.”

“Back home they fight over them. Women would go hungry to buy a pair of earrings like these. The higher the price I put on them, the better they like it.”

“At least what you do is legal.” Galupi laughed.

The days seemed very long to Carmen, and she was drained by the heat and humidity. She suffered her respectable, matronly clothes only when absolutely necessary and the rest of the time wore the simple cotton tunics and peasant sandals she had bought in the market. She spent hours alone, reading or sketching, accompanied by the sounds of the large warehouse fans. At night Galupi would arrive with his shopping bags, shower, change into shorts, turn on the record player, and begin cooking dinner. Soon a variety of hungry people would assemble, almost all children, to swarm around Galupi, fill the kitchen with their chatter and laughter, then leave as soon as they ate, without a word of goodbye. Sometimes Galupi invited American friends, soldiers or war correspondents, who stayed very late drinking and smoking marijuana. They all accepted Carmen's presence without a question, as if she had always been part of Galupi's life. From time to time Galupi asked Carmen out for dinner, and when he had spare time he drove her around the city; he wanted to show her its many faces, from the crazy quilt of the real city to the European and American residential zones, with their air-conditioning and bottled water. We're going to buy you an outfit for a queen, Galupi announced one day; we're having dinner at the embassy. He drove Carmen to the most elegant shop in town and left her there with a wad of bills in her hand. She felt lost; for years she had sewn her own clothes, and she had no idea that a dress could cost so much. When her new friend came to look for her three hours later, he found her sitting on the steps of the shop with her shoes in her hand, muttering with frustration.