All for Maria Read online

will have to let things play out to see.

  I drive my expensive rental car around to the front of our building and immediately spot Maria, standing out from the group like a beacon in the fog. She has changed clothes; she wears black jeans that tightly hug her hips and legs, loose-fitting white blouse tucked in at the waist, and no bra. She gets into the car and slides toward me on the bench seat. I smell lavender with a hint of perspiration; a shudder runs through me. I find it difficult to look at her, in spite of how badly I want to.

  “Hi, Maria. Where we headed?”

  “Olé, Nick, drive straight ahead. I’ll give you directions as we go.”

  I put myself in her hands without reservation and follow her directions without question. I push down the accelerator; the sedan lurches forward, heading for our destination and my adventure. She rolls the window down; her hair dances in the artificial breeze. The twilight is humid, but the air is cool with a hint of rain nearby, a distance echo of thunder. We sit in awkward silence for a while, broken only by her voice telling me where to turn.

  Finally. “Nick, I’m surprised that someone like you would want to visit the places I go for fun.”

  “What do you mean by ‘someone like me?’”

  “I mean someone who is well off. I would have thought you’d socialize with a more exclusive crowd.”

  “Listen, my father was a factory worker, and my mom was a teacher. We were never well off. I only made it into that upper crust you mention when I was in my thirties. I haven’t forgotten my beginnings, though they are becoming a little fuzzy.” We continue to talk about our lives, mostly benign things, nothing controversial; neither of us knows the other well enough to talk about our real struggles, hopes, scars, dreams—to really open up. We are cautiously probing, establishing boundaries.

  Soon we are at the edge of the barrio. The buildings take on a more dilapidated appearance, not so much run down, as built badly, cheaply. Maria continues to provide directions, and I drive down narrowing streets, squeezing by carts full of vegetables, fruits, tires, junk, kids, and past people on scooters and bikes. There are very few cars. It’s very slow going; I honk only to let my presence be known, not to complain. After a bit, Maria tells me to pull into an alley to park. I tell her I’m worried about the car, but she says it will be safe; she’ll take care of it.

  There are a lot of people on the streets. Color is everywhere; the brightly colored clothing creates a moving panoply of color, like a painting by Seurat or Gauguin. In stark contrast to the condition of the buildings, the people clearly take pride in their attire. There still are those, sprinkled among the crowd, who are dressed in dirty work clothes or even in rags, but they are the exceptions. It’s Friday night, and people are out to enjoy themselves, even those that have to work the next day.

  Where’s the military, the heavily armed men that are on every corner in the areas I frequent? Maria says they are here, just dressed to blend in. I find this disturbing for some reason. Are they afraid? Are they spying?

  Maria leads me toward a two-story building; a faded sign above the door reads “Los Lagartos Negros.” It’s strongly built of adobe; dark water streaks mar the whitewashed front. It’s old, like a cantina out of the old West. I follow Maria through the front door, half expecting to see banditos with bandoliers crisscrossing their chests. It smells like a typical bar with the usual miasma of smoke. An old wooden bar runs the length of the right side of the room. Patrons perch on stools along its length. Young adults, college-aged kids, occupy most of the tables that fill the rest of the room. In contrast to the old building exterior, the décor inside is contemporary; the furnishings are relatively new. A band of three guitarists is playing in the back; nearby couples gyrate to the music on a small dance floor. There are a few older people at the bar nursing their drinks and watching the dancers. There’s not the crush I’d seen at the high-class bars with a little less din; it’s more conducive to conversation. As run-down bars go, it’s not bad.

  Maria looks around the room, spotting her friends seated in the far left corner; she waves, smiling broadly. She covers the distance to the table in a half-dozen steps and wraps her arms around a young man who stands up to greet her. A sharp pain shoots through me; I slowly follow her. Maria grabs my left hand and introduces me to the group. I want to know her friends; I concentrate on remembering their names: Esteban, Jorge, Jovita, Pablo, and Camila. They are all in their mid-twenties and attractive; one or two look like they are from the middle or upper class. Maria and I sit down at the table; she next to Esteban, and I next to Jovita. A heavy-set waiter with a dirty apron brings a round of beers; Jovita offers me one. It’s cool, wet, and bitter; I’ve had a lot worse. My attention is on the heated conversation between Esteban and Maria; I act like my attention is elsewhere. I pick up the gist. He is asking why she would bring a gringo, an outsider, here when they have important things to discuss. Maria counters that I’m not a threat and anyway I don’t know Spanish, a lie I appreciate. He concedes only when he realizes he’s not going to win. Esteban is a handsome man with dark hair, eyes, and complexion and a strong, wiry body, but only about five and a half feet tall; a half-foot shorter than me. He’s also bright, hot-tempered. Perhaps he sees me as a competitor for Maria’s affections; a good assumption.

  The group immediately resumes its convivial conversations with sporadic laughter breaking out around the table. I spend my time making polite small talk with Jovita in her broken English and in my fake-minimal Spanish. Jovita has short brown hair and large brown eyes; she is distractingly cute. I listen intently to what the others are saying, while simultaneously trying to hold a conversation with Jovita. They’re not talking about anything special; more about school and who’s seeing whom. Occasionally, two of the group will bend their heads together to talk in very low voices; impossible for anyone more than a foot away to hear. Around the bar, arguments erupt periodically; everyone turns to see what’s going on; to see if it’s the precursor to a fight. Every now and then Jorge does a visual sweep of the room, his eyes keep settling on a man at the bar. I take a look at the object of his gaze; the man is wearing shabby clothes; he’s out of place for some reason; his demeanor or the way he stands. His shoes seem too expensive compared to the rest of his attire. Jorge’s gaze stops on me as well. I don’t think he trusts me; I keep a blank stare, something I learned well while spying for the OSS during the War, then smile.

  The revelry and drinking goes on for a couple hours. The beer and long hard day take their toll on me; I start to fade. Maria notices my eyelids beginning to get heavy; she puts her arm in mine and asks if I could take her home now. She’s doing it for my sake, but I can’t really argue; if I don’t leave soon, I’ll be asleep. Esteban and I lock eyes. He’s not happy. He must normally takes her home; he wonders what my intentions are. I don’t care. Maria and I get to the car, so we’re alone in the front seat. I drive as she gives me instructions. I can smell her again; the alcohol has weakened my restraint. I want to say something to her, express how strongly I feel about her. The question is how DO I feel about her? I’m filled with competing emotions; the conflict keeps me silent.

  I park in front of her complex. The street lighting is minimal; the building’s one of the concrete monstrosities the government likes to show off as urban renewal. The overall effect is depressing, foreboding; I’m instantly concerned for Maria’s safety. She assures me that it’s actually a nice neighborhood, a middle-class worker’s quarter. She asks me up for coffee, and I reluctantly accept, acknowledging to myself that this may not be a smart move, but knowing I could use the coffee. We walk up the three steps to a black metal door, which she opens with a key. The inside is clean and well maintained; a set of painted metal stairs leads up to her apartment, number 3, on the second floor. She unlocks her door. Entering, we’re shrouded in darkness until her fingers flick on a floor lamp near the door. Her apartment is small, like a modest one-bedroom
in the States; warm, cozy. There are only two rooms: a living room/dining room/kitchen and a bedroom, presumably there’s a bathroom somewhere as well; both major rooms are very stylishly furnished. Maria goes to the so-called kitchen, in reality a sink and hot plate separated from the living room by a knee wall, and starts making coffee. My offer to help is declined.

  I walk around the apartment; there are photos of people on the walls; on almost every surface.

  “Your family must be huge,” I say.

  “In our country, even cousins are considered part of our immediate family, so it’s not all that large.”

  “I hardly even know my cousins, even first cousins back in the States. I see you have some European ancestors. They must have given you those beautiful eyes.”

  “Gracias, you’re sweet.”

  She brings me the coffee; we sit on the couch, at opposite ends. The sweat spots under her arms gives her blouse a patchy transparency; her nipples are hard and clearly outlined in fabric. It’s hard not to look.

  “Tell me about your parents.” I stare at a newly wed couple in a photo that looks to be about 40 years old.

  “My mother did