Thoughts Without Cigarettes (56 page)

However, it wasn't only about that: I seem to recall having a sense that writing books was a noble pursuit, akin to bringing some light into the world, and while I can't begin to put myself in that idealistic place again, I'll only say that, back then, it was my naïve faith in the value of literature that also kept me going. At the same time, I couldn't begin to imagine an interest in my work. Who, after all, published Latinos? And what were they going to do with a name like Hijuelos, and who the fuck could care one bit about a lowly spic superintendent's life and a bicultural world that, with links to the one I had been raised in, no one had ever written about, except me in that first book,
Our House
, which, to this day, has mainly remained forgotten? Of course, I wondered what sophisticated readers would make of the fact that my main character, Cesar Castillo, father of that universe, drank too much because of the woes of his life (Yes, of course, a cliché, I could imagine people thinking), or of the fragile Nestor Castillo, whose obsessions with a woman (and country) left behind, as well as his memories of nearly dying as a child, closely paralleled my own. Would those two seem pathetic? Or too emotionally blunt for any readers?

Thankfully, I could depend on my family—or my mother specifically—to help me forget about that little corner in my life. In fact, when I'd head over to 118th Street to visit her, she, having her list of required gifts—some food, a dessert of some kind (chocolate ice cream), and a bottle of wine (for she had developed a taste for it in later years)—would speak with admiration about how my older brother had everything together—kid, wife, house, reliable union job—while, at the same time, she'd imply without exactly saying it that I'd turned out to be a
trastornado,
or screwed-up loser. Indeed, I really had nothing going for me except some vague creative aspirations, which in that neighborhood, where most of the kids grew up to become cops and firemen and union workers (or else junkies, con men, and criminals), meant becoming a bum, or as I'd often hear, a “hangout artist.” On some level, she must have felt sorry to see her son floundering, and though I think it finally hit her that I might have been bright, I'm sure she didn't think I had much to show for my efforts, except some fleeting worldly experiences. And I think she secretly suspected that I was broke, for a few times when I brought over Chinese food, my mother offered to pay for it—something which, for a woman who watched her every penny, was a remarkable gesture of generosity (or pity).

On the other hand, she could really rub the vanity of my situation in my face. Oh, she'd tell me about every son and daughter of a friend to have landed a good job, how many kids they had, where they lived, or conversely, perhaps in an attempt to make me feel better, go into some of the local tragedies—that my old friend Bobby Hannon went crazy; or that Philip Ricart, Belen's son, who, once dapper and supremely well composed, took too much LSD and became a street person; and so on with one sorry story after the other, like the fire that had, the past winter, swept through a hotel in Quebec, in which one of the beautiful Haitian sisters from upstairs and her daughter, vacationing there, had perished, or that she'd just run into Mr. MacElvoy, whose sixteen-year-old son, on the brink of becoming a seminarian, had been murdered one Christmas some years back—and how shattered he remained over that—or that one of the priests at Corpus was a repressed homosexual, and that Frankie, from the pharmacy on 120th Street, still lived with his mother and drank too much . . . in her way, rightly reminding me that much worse could happen to a person than being out of work.

Sometimes, too, she'd spook me, staring at me strangely—especially if I'd made the mistake of lighting a cigarette: “So you've forgotten how you almost died, huh?” she'd say. “Go ahead, kill yourself.” Then she might lecture me about health food and vitamins—“When was the last time you went to a doctor?”—before going off into a momentary spell, fixated on my eyes, and coming out of it, she would say: “
Sabes cuánto te pareces a tu papá?
”—“Don't you know how much you look like your father?” The kicker is that while growing up, I'd always wondered why, if I looked so much like my father, who in my eyes was
muy muy cubano,
no one ever took me as a Cuban.

One day, while pondering that long-standing mystery, I asked her, “If Pop was so Cuban and I look just like him, how come nobody ever takes me as so?” Laughing, she answered: “
Tu papá
? Why, he never looked Cuban at all!”

Seeing her was always wonderful and awful at the same time. Feeling both inspired and drained by my mother, once I'd finally get home to my apartment, the first thing I'd do was pour myself a hearty drink (usually wine, my other favorite, vodka, being a luxury) and light a cigarette—and if the right frame of mind hit me, I'd feel a momentary bliss and almost an optimism about my future as a writer. But just as often, depleted and my spirits low, I couldn't even begin to muster the strength and will to imagine the things that would, shockingly, happen with that novel.

By the time my agent started sending the novel around, we'd decided, during the course of a telephone conversation, to change its title to the far more swinging and cheery
The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love
, which, if you know that book at all, was the name of a 33 LP album Cesar Castillo and his brother, Nestor, had recorded back in 1955 or so. There were several literary houses that my agent had considered sending it to, among them Farrar, Straus & Giroux, but she'd already been trying to interest one of their more upcoming young editors in my work, an Exeter/Ivy League sort with poetic credentials, Jonathan Galassi, who I had met briefly in her office, years before while working at TDI. Thin, intensely bookish in his looks, he dressed in the manner that one supposed certain editors did: button-down shirt, jacket and bow tie, loafers, and, I recall, wire-rim glasses. His handshake was neither here nor there, though his manner was never less than affable, if, however, a little too patrician for my taste—but then, in those days, most editors were. At the time, I hadn't realized how lucky I was to be introduced to such an important fellow, that as a Latino, I was being afforded the unique opportunity to break through such a long-standing literary barrier into a world that, worshipping the likes of F. Scott Fitzgerald and John Cheever, had yet to give Latino writers a chance at all.

In fact, I was hardly able to remember his name when, one evening a few weeks after she'd started sending the book around, my agent called me with the rather startling news that this same Mr. Galassi had been ecstatic about the manuscript and wanted to make an offer. My reaction? You're kidding me, right? By that same Friday, he did—for an amount that I initially turned down; I simply needed more money to finally settle up with the IRS, as well as to cover my expenses, agent, and further taxes. I didn't expect them to come back so quickly, but that following Monday, they did. Within a few months, I received a check for half the advance, enough to settle my tax situation and to pay my expenses during that year when I'd actually get down to finishing the book.

I worked on most of that manuscript on 106th Street. It was a rhapsodic time. Relieved of my financial burdens and having nothing to lose, I “filled in” the life and histories of the Castillo brothers, whose musicality I wore like an inherited glove. Along the way, I drowned in mambo music, my KLH record player running from the earliest part of the day, when I'd come back from jogging around Central Park (nothing like a smoke afterward, by the way, when you're feeling all oxygenated), until the evenings, sometimes even past midnight. But did I care? I was still young enough to possess an endless-seeming energy, and though I had never thought in a thousand years that I could end up at a publisher like Farrar, Straus & Giroux, the very notion that I was possibly on my way inspired me further. I worked tirelessly, chain-smoking like a motherfucker and only rarely taking time off to hang around with some of my musician friends. After a while, the ordinary business of going out on errands, to shop for groceries or to buy cigarettes, became an imposition. I don't recall just when I handed in a “completed” manuscript or how long afterward it was returned to me with suggestions, but the process went smoothly, nearly effortlessly, as everyone over at Farrar, Straus & Giroux had seemed to have fallen in love with that book, even if they were uncertain as to how it might go over with the critics and public. (It had tremendous amounts of sex in it—why wouldn't it? I had enough naughty schoolboy Catholicism left in me to fill a cathedral, and my hyperawareness of bodily functions and of the body itself spilled over into the book in ways that left me, once so frail and sick, cracking up over its sexual possibilities.)

And the editing? Despite his upper-class airs, Galassi, as it turned out, proved to be a superb editor for that book, allowing it to breathe in every way and urging only truly prudent changes. With a musical thing going on in my head, I treated word repetitions like beats—and sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't. Fortunately, as the author of a fine book of poetry,
Morning Run
, he was linguistically savvy enough to stanch my gushing use of certain words, like
lumbering
in reference to Cesar Castillo's sexual attributes, which, early on, had occurred some fifty or so times. He was also splendidly judicious in other ways—I don't think we had a single argument over anything at all. (It was just a different time altogether: Now everything is done over the Internet, manuscripts like this one electronically transmitted and much of the work done without actually speaking or spending much time with anyone—the impersonality of it all is staggering to old-school writers like me.) By contrast, meeting with Galassi, with my unruly, marked-up, held-together-by-chewing-gum rewrites in hand, was a joy. We'd work for a few hours in the morning, then head out for lunch somewhere near their offices by Union Square, to just relax and have a few drinks—at least I did—and later I'd take the subway back uptown feeling as good as anyone could over a professional relationship.

I also had a pleasant experience with the in-house copy editors, the sort of ladies who walked around with pencils tucked behind their ears and seemed to swarm, paper in hand, along the hall of that publishing house, whose walls were lined with books and shelving like library stacks, to check out their facts. I got along particularly well with a longtime employee, a Puerto Rican woman, Carmen, whose tender loving care in regards to that manuscript—and the capricious Spanish I employed—made a wonderful difference not just to my novel but to me. The fact that she so liked it made me feel good, as it represented its first success with a Latino reader. (And that left me happier than anything else: For once, with my writing as my own front man, as it were, I was being accepted.)

The final touches, at least at that stage, had to do with conceiving of a book jacket. A well-known cover designer, Fred Marcellino, had asked me, through Jonathan Galassi, if I had any ideas that might be of use to him. Since the novel's title followed the style of a 1950s mambo record, I sent him about four record jackets from that time: He especially liked one of them, which featured a sultry-looking blond babe of the 1950s, whose image he lifted and put on the cover of my book. (The cover, incidentally, turned out great, though a few years later, the designer's use of an actual image of a woman from one of those jackets, the model still being alive, would involve me in a lawsuit, in which I was held at fault.)

Along the way, other things seemed to be cooking. A friend from my Brooklyn days, an art scholar and entrepreneur, Jeffrey Hoffeld, had told me that the founder of a gallery in which he had once been a partner, Arne Glimcher, might be interested, as an aspiring movie producer, in taking a peek at
The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love
—even in its early uncorrected form. Since I had nothing to lose, I went along with the notion. A few months later, I met with Ms. Wasserman and we went over to Glimcher's place on East Fifty-second, an opulently maintained art deco high-rise apartment building of 1930s vintage (so I would guess), across the street from where Greta Garbo supposedly lived. He occupied a duplex penthouse overlooking the East River, and the first thing that impressed the hell out of me as I walked in was the fact that his entryway floor was inlaid with an antique second-century Roman mosaic of a maritime theme; his walls were covered with paintings from his gallery, the Pace on West Fifty-seventh, all by famous artists—Robert Rauschenberg, Jim Dine, Chuck Close, and a portrait of him in broken pottery by one Julian Schnabel, among others; talk about money. I can remember trying to behave as if I were not already in over my head, though Glimcher, younger then by a decade than I am now, could not have been nicer, nor more accommodating, and seemingly humble.