No Matter How Much You Promise Page 58

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Ayep, ma’am, I guess I am,” she said, hooking her thumbs into the loops of her jeans.

  “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m your daughter, ain’t I?”

  “Unfortunately,” Elsa said icily as she gathered the photos.

  “The feeling is mutual,” Vidamía said. “It’s your loss, you know. I’m sure you would’ve found Wyn fascinating. And you have to admit, Wyn and Vee make an outstanding couple. We are so fucking photogenic. We are like Ellen Barkin and Laurence Fishburne sucking face. Or like Wesley Snipes and Annabella Sciorra in Jungle Fever. We be two boogies. We be two niggahs, one black and the other white,” adding this last in her most extreme black English.

  Elsa looked at her daughter with the deadliest expression Vidamía had ever seen on anyone’s face. It was as if whatever drove her mother had been sucked out of her life and what remained was spiritually skeletal, the vestiges of a damned soul, which by her second year of college she could assign specifically to a circle in the infernal literary convolutions of Dante Alighieri. For now, however, she was reminded of the boys around Avenue B who stood glaring at her and from time to time made lewd suggestions when she walked by on her way to the video store. Their eyes had no life to them, no mirth, no compassion. Whatever traces of humanity had at one time existed in them had become extinguished and only mistrust and hatred were now there. Her mother’s eyes looked very much like that.

  52. Explorations

  Meeting her grandfather, Justino “Tumba” Santiago, master conguero, raconteur, bon vivant, Latino good-time Charlie, skirt-loving guaguancosero, and hombre del basilón, threw Vidamía Farrell for a humongous loop. This thin, dark, impish man—with skin the color of cordovan leather, an infectious smile that featured a dazzling gold tooth, and the sparkling eyes of someone who has seen the world in all its splendor and degradation and has distilled the experience into a most relaxed attitude—appeared to treat the entire matter of existence, without any philosophical basis or words to articulate such, as a great cosmic joke. And, to ward off any pretense that death will look the other way when it comes calling, he seemed to have decided that one must always keep uppermost in one’s mind the truly important things in life: first and foremost, one must learn of those places where good-looking muchachas perch their glorious nalgas and what threads to wear when standing skintight-close to their magical flesh, conveying to them how truly unique a flower they are in this vast garden of life; or who’s bringing the rum; or whether to choose red, pink, kidney, black, or white beans, pigeon peas, petitpois, or chickpeas to go with the rice. Because, after all, he seemed to say, besides the music and those things, what the hell was there?

  Listening to Justino Santiago talk made the core of Vidamía’s cells become itchy to know where he had truly come from. Puerto Rico, yes, she knew that. But she needed to know the interior of his life and how he existed and what it was about him that drew her to come back to see him and ask him questions about this Puerto Rican thing that seemed different from what her mother talked about.

  As she saw it, the problem was that her mother wanted to pretend that the Puerto Rican thing was only a matter of language, history, politics, and culture, with a great deal of rhetorical justification, rather than the indefinable quality that her grandfather possessed. Her mother and Barry and their friends sounded as if they were trying to convince themselves of how wonderful it was to be Puerto Rican, and that someday when Puerto Rico was free, they would rest from their labors of preaching its greatness, in spite of being ravaged these many years by Yanqui imperialism, and go back. But she doubted that they truly would. Her grandmother and most of the people of her generation talked longingly about returning to their homeland. Few that Vidamía knew, perhaps because they lacked the financial resources, ever did so. The younger generation, the people who had been born in the United States and were under forty, had little desire to go back, yet insisted that they were Puerto Rican, and proud.

  Her grandfather’s attitude puzzled her for it was totally different. He showed no zeal for going back, nor any sense of resignation about staying, no resentment of the United States, nor any great flag-waving concerning the island. Tumba Santiago took everything in stride and, whenever she asked him about Puerto Rico, he’d smile and tell her a story about playing at the Escambrón Beach Club with Noro Morales and his orchestra, or traveling with Bobby Capo or going to Ponce to play at society dances, adding how beautiful the women were, but always telling her that none were as beautiful as she was; telling her that there had never been a Puerto Rican girl as beautiful as Vidamía Faro, as he pronounced her name, saying those things about her in such an honest way that it made her believe it more than when Wyn would shake his head and marvel at her.

  Vidamía Faro. She had looked in the dictionary for the word and found that faro meant lighthouse. This reading of her name made her laugh. She was Mylife Lighthouse. You light up my life. C’mona my house, which her mother sang and said that it was by Rosemary Clooney, who had been married to José Ferrer, who was Puerto Rican, even though some people thought of him as a Spaniard who happened to be born in Puerto Rico. This angered her mother and she explained that this was the way the society looked at Puerto Ricans. If the person achieved something great then it must be because he was from Spain. If the person had accomplished little or had done something bad, then the person was Puerto Rican. Her mother was always throwing famous Puerto Rican names at her. But unlike her mother, Vidamía didn’t have a Puerto Rican name. Her last name was Farrell, and not Faro.

  She knew she was an attractive person, better than average-looking, she thought, but never took it further than that. She also realized that her sister, Cookie, was brutally honest and couldn’t be hypocritical if her life depended on it and, if she had said that she was very beautiful, then there had to be some truth to it. Wyn had said the same thing, but she knew he was blinded by love. But when her grandfather said it, it was different because underneath he knew something and that something was Puerto Rican so that everything he said had a hidden meaning, an indirecta which told you a truth without spelling it out.

  If it wasn’t the indirectas, there was always some kind of joke going on, the language so convoluted that Vidamía needed an explanation most of the time. She often imagined they had to be talking about sex, since her grandfather just laughed at her, pointed at Flaco or his other friend, Baltazar, who had African features, reddish processed hair and pale, white skin with freckles, and who had one brown eye and one blue eye, which, her grandfather explained another time, when Baltazar was sitting at the table and they were eating crabs Baltazar had caught in the river in East Harlem where he lived, was a problem that he, Justino, also had.

  “No, grandpa,” she’d argued. “Tus ojos son negros. You have black eyes, güelo.”

  “Oh, no, negrita,” he’d said, calling her “my little black one,” which she liked hearing because it had so much tenderness in it; using the term of endearment her grandmother and all of Cookie’s friends and their relatives used no matter how white the person was, but which she never heard from her mother. “Yo tengo un ojo negro y otro azulado.”

  Vidamía shook her head and then took his face in both her hands, smelling the traces of cigar smoke and the lingering sweet taste of rum, and, peering closely at his eyes, challenged his contention that one of his eyes was black and the other bluish.

  To which he replied, pointing to one eye and then the other, “Uno negro y otro a su lado. See the other one, next to it? A su lado. Not azulado. I guess you heard me wrong, negrita,” he chided her, speaking English much better than she’d thought he was able.

  “Oh, güelo, I’m going to strangle you.”

  “I got you again,” he’d said with total delight, hugging her, and his face now smelling of aftershave lotion and his body of baby powder, traces of which you could notice around his neck, so that the skin there was dusky with a fine layer of talc.
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  “You’re so bad,” she’d said, hugging him back, “but I love you. You’re my güelito.”

  And he’d laugh and tell her little rhyming puzzles like “Plata no es, oro no es, abre la cortina y verás lo que es.” To which she’d say that if it wasn’t silver and it wasn’t gold, why bother to open the curtain because she wouldn’t be able to guess, and he’d laugh some more and say, “Plátano, plátano, boba,” calling her silly and telling her that behind the curtain was a plantain. But if she asked him something complex, such as what he thought of the lack of opportunities for Puerto Rican people on the island and in New York, he’d say no more than “I love Puerto Rico and I love the United States.”

  As much as she loved her grandfather, she had to admit that he wasn’t much help, because she had so many questions and most people she asked didn’t know what she was talking about. She wanted to find out what had happened to the Taino Indians or how African slaves had gotten to the island. Had the same thing happened to Puerto Ricans that happened to the people in Roots? Why had so many Puerto Ricans come up to the United States, and why were so many of them so poor? Why was it that practically every girl she’d met who was a friend of Cookie’s, in the six years she’d gone to spend summers with her father, had a brother or a sister, cousin, uncle, aunt, father, or mother in jail, addicted to drugs, or murdered?

  Needing answers to these questions, she spoke with Elsa, with whom she had fashioned an uncomfortable truce after her threat to marry Wyndell. Two weeks later, Vidamía spoke with Barry about Wyn. He reassured her that he’d had nothing to do with the photos, though he did express his concern over the difficulties that a mixed relationship still had in this society.

  “I mean, if you really like the guy, there’s nobody in the world that can give you advice. Your mother worries about you. I suppose like every mother she doesn’t want to see you hurt.”

  “All she worries about is how she’s gonna look to other people.”

  “Deep inside, that’s not the way she is,” Barry said.

  “I don’t know …” she replied.

  “You ought to be open with her,” Barry had said. “I really think she’d appreciate that.”

  “I don’t know if it’s a good idea. I met my grandfather. Her father. I went to see him.”

  “Then you ought to tell her. I don’t feel right revealing a confidence to you regarding your mother, but I’m going to and hope that it’ll stay between us.”

  “I’m not going to tell her.”

  “Anyway, hiring someone to keep an eye on you had nothing to do with your boyfriend. Your mother was afraid of you establishing contact with her father.”

  “She was afraid?”

  “Yes, that’s the reason she did it. It’s too bad she got different results, but in the long run it’s probably for the best that it’s out in the open. I’m sure you feel relieved.”

  “You’re right. But you think I ought to tell her that I went to see abuelo?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “His name is Justino and he is so cool,” she said, enthusiastically, jumping up and down.

  “Good, but you should tell her.”

  She nodded and that weekend, when Elsa returned from one of her trips, Vidamía decided to sit with her mother and explain what she had done. Ostensibly, Vidamía came back to Tarrytown to begin packing the things she would eventually take to Harvard. It was the beginning of August and things were moving very rapidly toward Wyn’s gig. Nervously, she approached her mother, who was sitting on the second-floor terrace outside her bedroom.

  “May I speak with you, mami?” she said, returning to the more tender form of address she had for her mother, and using the more proper “may I,” which she knew Elsa would appreciate.

  “Sure,” Elsa said, removing her sunglasses.

  “I’ve met Grandpa Justino,” she said, taking a seat in one of the patio chairs.

  “I see,” Elsa said, tensing up immediately.

  “I tracked him down and went to see him. He lives up in the Bronx.”

  “When did you go up there?”

  The tone of Elsa’s voice annoyed her, but she kept calm, deciding to ignore the inquisitorial attitude behind the question.

  “In the middle of July,” she said. “A couple of weeks ago.”

  “I see,” Elsa said. “And do you want to invite him here?”

  “Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. I just wanted you to know. Do you want me to?”

  “Not particularly,” Elsa said, rising, and, as she did when things became difficult, turning her back and speaking out into the expanse of lawn below the terrace, her arms crossed in front of her. “This may sound cruel, or perhaps detached, but I was never too close to him. With the years, I’ve distanced myself from any emotions that may have remained as vestiges of child-parent bonding. You understand, don’t you?”

  Vidamía wanted to tell Elsa that all she was doing was defending herself from being hurt, from having to identify with a man who lived life simply and without a need for pretense, a man who was sophisticated neither in his view of life nor in the subtlety of his emotions.

  “Sure,” she said, diplomatically. “Things happen. People become estranged,” she added, enjoying the word, infusing what she was saying with sincerity and understanding for her mother’s plight. “But wasn’t it difficult growing up without him?” Vidamía asked. “I mean, you knew he was around but he never came to see you. Didn’t it bother you? Didn’t you want a connection to him? He’s your father.”

  “It was difficult, but something I had to do,” Elsa said, and turned to face her.

  “Had to do?”

  “To cut myself off from him. I asked about him from time to time but didn’t want him involved in my life.”

  “Why not? He seems really nice and respectful,” Vidamía said, wanting to reach her mother, to make her see she wasn’t being fair. “He asks about everyone and feels bad that he wasn’t able to be there.” Elsa began to respond, but shook her head. As she did, Vidamía saw the sadness in her mother, saw how painful it must have been for Elsa to create the separation between father and daughter.

  “He asked me how you were,” Vidamía said.

  “Really?” Elsa said, uncomfortably. “What did you say?”

  “I said you were fine. I told him you were married and I described our house. He asked me if you were rich and I told him no. I thought he’d feel bad if I said we were. I said you lived comfortably, and then he asked me if I thought you were happy.”

  “And what did you say?” Elsa asked, the anxiety in her voice betraying her concern for how her father would see her.

  “I said you were very happy.”

  Elsa smiled wanly, sat back down and put on her sunglasses.

  “Thank you,” she said, softly.

  Vidamía was certain there were tears behind her dark glasses.

  “Anyway, I asked him about Puerto Rico. You know, the culture and politics, but mostly the history. That’s what I’m interested in. He doesn’t know. All he could tell me about was playing in different clubs with different orchestras. I want to know about the Tainos. How come they were wiped out? Cookie said that they were. I want to know why. I don’t know why, but I want to know about everything.”

  Elsa’s spirits were suddenly alive again and she said that she was very happy to hear that Vidamía was interested in finding out more about their culture. She said it was one of the happiest days of her life, to hear that her daughter was finally interested in Puerto Rico. What Elsa really meant was that perhaps in studying about Puerto Rico Vidamía would eventually get rid of her obsession with black culture.

  “I’ve been waiting for this moment a long time,” Elsa said.

  “Really?” Vidamía said, somewhat surprised by Elsa’s reaction. “Why?”

  “Sure, I always worried that raising you like I did, you’d forget that you’re basically Puerto Rican. I mean you’re white, but you’re Puerto Rican. When people say blacks,
whites, Puerto Ricans, they’re forgetting something. Puerto Rican isn’t a color. We come in all sorts of colors. I’m sure you’re very much aware of that. Finding out just now that you’re getting interested in PR. culture is, I don’t know. Really cool.”

  Elsa went on chattering happily about the relationship between learning about one’s culture and developing into a healthy adult, as always, referring to her own field of expertise.

  “I was hoping you could suggest some books,” Vidamía said. “Maybe they’re even downstairs in the library.”

  “Oh, sure,” Elsa replied. “I’m sure there are some. Start there. Whenever you can’t find a book I’ll refer you to other people and they can help you. I have colleagues all over. Vassar, City College, Hunter, and Princeton. I’ll send you to my friend Dr. López Adorno at Hunter, and he can get you a pass to the Center for Puerto Rican Studies. Whatever we don’t have here you can get there.”

  Vidamía thanked her mother, kissed her cheek, and returned downstairs. After talking to her mother Vidamía was left with an odd sensation that something was still amiss in her mother’s enthusiasm. Why would Elsa all of a sudden be all smiles when she had just told her that she had seen her grandfather? She was sure it had to do with the business of color, but she couldn’t figure out what it could be.

  Being a reader of gargantuan capacities Vidamía Farrell availed herself of the opportunity to go up to Hunter College, where she did enough reading in the next two weeks to write a fairly decent thesis. She read that in colonial times the Taino Indians had fought the Spaniards. When they could no longer fight, they clasped their children to their breasts and leapt into the sea, thus setting in motion a strain of self-destruction rather than capitulation in Puerto Ricans. She also understood that race was swept under the rug, and everyone acted as if it didn’t matter.