Call Me Brooklyn Page 18
Frank interrupted to tell him he knew exactly who the man was and gave the copy all the pertinent information: his name, that he lived in a studio Frank had rented him since ’85, that he spent long periods of time away from said studio . . . (the Irishman jotted everything down in a notebook) . . . A writer, proofreader, translator, all that shit. Of course, I told him that I would take charge of him, and Officer MacCarthy offered to take me to the hospital in his patrol car.
I went, of course.
Acute alcohol poisoning.
No, Ness, it wasn’t the first time that they’d found him unconscious like that, although it was the first time that it happened in the Shipyard.
Maybe I should just go look around the piers. He has to be there, don’t you think, Frank?
No doubt—the question is, in what state? I don’t know if you should go alone. He took a drag from his cigar and put it back in the ashtray.
If he’s back at it, you’re going to need help. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, there’s no reason to think anything bad’s happened. Let’s do this: since it’s still early, you head over first. I’ll give you till it starts to get dark. If we haven’t heard from you by then, I’ll send the guys in.
Who?
Boy and Orlando. You know them. The boxers who come to play pool almost every afternoon.
Right. Okay, perfect, Frankie.
Ten minutes later, I was in front of Jimmy Castellano’s gym. Cletus wasn’t at the ticket booth, but I didn’t need him. What Jimmy had told Víctor was all I needed to know. Before going down, I looked toward the Shipyard for a few moments. There was a good view of it from the front door of the Luna Bowl. In truth, it’s just a succession of vacant lots scattered with filth, transfigured by Gal’s imagination. By the position of the sun, I estimated there were around two hours of daylight left. I wasn’t exactly sure where to begin my search. The day he took me to visit his domain, we had also started at the door of the gym. I tried to retrace our steps, but it was difficult because there are no landmarks by the piers, the empty lots just repeat with no paths except for the ones that Gal said he saw. The only changes in the landscape were due to the evolution of its various junk piles—what had been left behind and what had been taken. From our previous foray, the place that stuck most distinctly in my memory was a yellow brick house atop a concrete platform surrounded by an iron fence. It looked like a small, abandoned warehouse. There was a porch out front that extended over the concrete platform. The façade looked out onto the water and had a frontispiece that gave the building a vaguely Greek air. Gal always called it the Temple of Time.
I looked for the places that Gal had named on the map. Leading off the piers, there are cement ramps that sink down into the dirty water. It’s been years since any of them have been used. On Gal’s Dry Dock, there are no ship hulls to repair, only the sparse weeds that grow in between the remains of a metal fence. What Gal calls the Water Tank is a huge cylinder of cracked wood on which seagulls perch. The Round Tower is a gray structure whose windows are sealed with rotted planks.
The outer limit of the Shipyard is marked by a toppled barbed wire fence lying on the ground. The only things left standing were the cement posts that had once held it up. I crossed the street and went in, pushing aside some bushes that had grown on the edge of the sidewalk, then began to walk down the side of a hill. Something was in the air, I couldn’t say exactly what; it felt as though I really had entered a parallel world. As I approached the middle of a hollow in which there were a bunch of rusty barrels, I remembered the afternoon when I had been there with Gal. I felt something crunch under my feet and saw that it was the skull of a seagull. Two other very large ones with dirty white feathers flew past me, perched on one of the barrels, then took off letting out strident caws. When the birds were gone, it seemed to me that I could hear Gal’s voice in the distance. I thought I could make out his drunken screams, echoing and distorted, disembodied, coming from nowhere in particular, and I thought about what he said, that the rules are different in this place, that strange things can happen here, things that aren’t necessarily possible in the familiar world.
Everything is here, Ness, everything, he had told me then. All the shit and some things that aren’t shit. The good and the bad, and above all, my people. We’re surrounded by presences. Don’t you sense them? Here, sometimes—not always, it’s not wholly dependent on me—I have been able to speak with Teresa, but it’s not easy you know, sometimes it’s not very clear. But it doesn’t matter. I know it’s her and that she’s speaking to me and that’s all that matters. Same with Nadia. I can hear her much better because she’s still here, so to speak, while Teresa, Teresa died giving birth to me, you know? We always take a little bit away with us—from things, from places, from others. There are fragments, shreds of other beings that remain stuck in us like splinters. And it hurts, it hurts a lot, like right now. But that’s not what’s most important, what’s important is that they’re here now. I can hear their voices, I hear them all the time, how they talk, what they say, or shriek, if they shriek. Don’t you hear anything? It’s important to listen—that way you know what’s happening to them, what they’re feeling, whether they regret things, resent the way their lives went. Did you know that they sing, sometimes? Crows, seagulls, mermaids. Here they are, I have their screams here. Look at them, take a good look at them. Do you see them or not? All of them are here, men and women, no one’s missing. There are also people I don’t know. I see faces, shadows. But I can’t tell you their names, because they’re listening to us and they might not like it. Sometimes they gather behind that wall. They need the support of something material to hold on to. Don’t turn around now, just keep on talking as if nothing’s going on. Nadia is right across there. She’s staring at me and apologizing. She’s changed a lot, but that’s normal after such a long time. It’s even hard for me to recognize her voice—it’s not the same voice that I remember. Then there are the spiders and the iguanas scurrying around me and laughing and calling my name: Gal, they say, hey, look at that! Hey, Gal! These last words he screamed. Then he went quiet. He was shaking, and his forehead was covered in sweat.
Seeing him so delirious, I said: Let’s go, Gal—trying not to hurt his feelings. Don’t you see there’s nothing here? Just old tires, used condoms, empty crack vials, weeds, and seagull bones. Or don’t you see that? Please, Gal, let’s get out of here.
Don’t you ever say anything like that again. You hear me, you fucker? If you don’t understand it, fine. No one has to understand it. But don’t you dare say there’s nothing here. The thing is, you don’t see it, you can’t see it because you have no faith. I shouldn’t have invited you. You shouldn’t be here. You have no right. This has nothing to do with you. We’re approaching the Temple of Time, there! Do you believe me now? A temple facing the sea, that dirty, oily sea, all we have left of the wine-dark Hellespont. They know and that’s why they come. How is it possible that you can’t feel that they’re here? And you know why they come? To talk to me. That’s why I’ve erected these mounds and altars, to summon them, and they have heard my call, they know, they all come, Ness. All of them. The dead and those who are not yet dead, like her. This is a good place, I like it. Soon I will die, but before that happens . . . Never mind. The important thing is that I can call up anyone I want, Teresa Quintana, my grandfather David, even Umberto Pietri, whom I never got to meet. You know who they are, right? Do you or don’t you? I haven’t told you about them yet? I will soon. They’re my ghosts for now, but soon they will be yours. Even little Brooklyn, the girl Nadia was never able to have. Did you know that we were going to have a baby girl and call her Brooklyn? How do you like that name for a girl, Ness? Ness . . .
I felt utterly confused and out of place, as if I had been in fact transported to that distant afternoon. I could hear Gal’s words, or so I thought, as if he were actually speaking them at that very moment. I had to make an effort not to lose my bearings completely. The echoes of Ga
l’s deranged screams were still floating in my head when I spotted him. Just as I had suspected, he was at the Temple of Time, in front of the main altar, where he had set countless empty bottles of all shapes and sizes. As he put them in place, he counted them, solemnly reciting each number. Every once in a while he made a mistake and started over again, like a child learning his numbers. There was something about that ridiculous ceremony that inspired respect. Somehow, Gal sensed he was being watched and so turned around and said hello. He was calm. When I reached the foot of the steps, he turned to me as if we’d been together all afternoon and I was just returning from some errand he had sent me on. He considered the rows of bottles with an expression of great concentration, as if he were making a very complex calculation or trying to decide if he was satisfied with the décor—he’d stuck sundry weeds into some of the bottles, as if making a floral arrangement. Everything must have been as he wanted, for he sat on the steps and tapped the spot beside him, gesturing for me to sit by him.
One day, he said, Nadia came to the studio in a very good mood and told me she had a gift for me. It was supposed to be a surprise, although you didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what it was. The silver wrapping paper had the shape of a bottle. It was held together with a blue ribbon. When I opened it, I saw that it was a small bottle filled with a violet-colored liquid. Parfait Amour, said the label. I picked it because of the name, she said, because a perfect love is something that cannot possibly exist, but if it did, it would be reserved for us. All very like her. Wordplay aside, though, I have to say the stuff was pretty disgusting—I almost threw up—but the thought was nice, and we drank it together. Nadia loved the slop. Since she barely drank, she preferred her liquor on the sweet side. We started giggling. I don’t know if the name had something to do with it—it never occurred to me that it could be an aphrodisiac, somehow, but the fact is that we started making love like teenagers. Can you imagine drinking almost a liter of Parfait Amour, straight up, without ice or anything? No fucking way I’ll ever touch it again. But, will wonders never cease, there are people out there who actually enjoy it. The proof is that I found an empty bottle out here. I’ve put it up on the altar, right in the middle. Do you see it?
He pulled out a pint of the cheap vodka he liked to drink from the pocket of his jacket. It was almost full, but he drank it down in one long slow gulp. When he finished, he stood up, took a deep breath, and exhaled violently. Almost immediately, he was overcome with a spasm. I went to help him, but he pushed me away, brought his hands to his stomach, and puked out the liquid he had just swallowed. When his stomach was empty he went up to the altar, stumbling, gnashing his teeth, and taking in big gulps of air. He went rigid then, lost his balance, and fell on the altar of bottles, as if a sniper had gunned him down.
That’s when the sun began to set. I felt an intense panic that couldn’t have been mine alone but must have come from him as well; it permeated the atmosphere. I didn’t know what to do. I put a hand on the back of my fallen friend as if that could ease his suffering, and in the paralysis of the late afternoon, I couldn’t help but contemplate the extraordinary beauty of the twilight casting a curtain of red and yellow fire onto the clouds floating over New Jersey and the Hudson. I looked one last time at the burial-mound made of bottles, half of them now scattered all over the temple, and picked Gal up as best I could, carrying him over my shoulder. He was heavy, so when we made it to the barrels, I stopped to rest.
Voices came from the top of the hill. Two figures descended toward us: Boy and Orlando. They came up to me, grabbed Gal’s body and easily carried it away, laughing. To them, Gal might as well have been weightless. I told them they had to take him to the Oakland. That’s where we came from, they said. Frank sent us. He said it was urgent and didn’t even let us finish a single game of pool.
Víctor was waiting for us at the door. When Frank saw Orlando and Boy come in bearing Gal on their shoulders, he made a face that was difficult to interpret. The boxers asked him what he wanted them to do with the sack, still laughing. Frank told them to take Gal into his office, where they dropped him on the sofa. The boxers asked Nélida for sodas when they came out. Frank served them, also giving each a twenty dollar bill. He looked at me for a moment and then went to the back and returned with a blanket. He was going to put it over Gal, then changed his mind.
Why don’t we just take him up to his room? Have you ever been upstairs?
I told him I hadn’t.
More sacred ground. But in a different way.
Víctor took Gal upstairs without the slightest difficulty. Nélida opened the door with the master key. Everyone went into the studio, but I didn’t dare cross the threshold. I saw a window with the shutters open; on top of a table was a typewriter, paper, and a pile of books. Frank set the green folder there.
Once we were all back below, he insisted I have a drink, but it was impossible for me to stay in the Oakland even a second longer.
I appreciate it, Frank, but I need to get some rest. It’s been a very intense day. I’ll see you tomorrow. You think Gal will be okay?
The gallego took off his cap and scratched his head.
Don’t worry about him, Néstor. None of this is new. Tomorrow, when he wakes up, he’ll say he doesn’t remember anything. Frank tapped me on the shoulder, saying good-bye, and added, No, he won’t say that, if I know him. He won’t say anything at all.
Eleven
CONEY ISLAND
When I was a boy, our world ended at Coney Island. That beach on the outer reaches of Brooklyn was our Finis Terrae. Everything began in the summer of 1947. David sent the publisher of his newspaper a handful of articles and the guy liked them so much that the next day he offered him a weekly column. It wasn’t the first time that he’d published something, but this was different. He’d been working at the Brooklyn Eagle for more than thirty years, then—had done all kinds of jobs there before being promoted to head typesetter, but his secret dream had always been to write. He told us the news on my birthday, when the whole family was gathered. He said that he wanted to bring the hundreds of stories hidden in the many neighborhoods of Brooklyn to life. What he had sent the publisher was only a sampling—he had a lot more where that came from. Since there was so much to tell, he would write a series of articles about each neighborhood, beginning with Coney Island. After saying this, he put a hand on my shoulder and told my parents: I need a good field assistant. Grandma May went into the kitchen and returned with a raspberry tart adorned with ten flaming candles.
The trips began on the first day of summer vacation. My job basically consisted of keeping him company, listening to him, and occasionally jotting down instructions in a notebook whose only function was, I now realize, to give me something to do. At his house, David had a file cabinet in which he kept the material relating to each neighborhood. He never called them by their real names. Coney Island was the “Haven of Dreams”; Brooklyn Heights, an “elegant and stately enclave of writers.” Did you know, Iacchus, he asked me once (I’ll explain the origin of my nickname later), it was there that the first edition of Leaves of Grass was published? He showed me a copy signed and dedicated by Whitman himself. “For David Ackermann [sic], Cordially, your friend,” and, below, the impeccable signature of the poet. When we went to Red Hook (“volatile and phantasmagoric, full of mysterious taverns, riddled with side streets paved with blackened cobblestones”), he loved to stroll through the port. He couldn’t mention East New York without adding “sordid and bloody,” nor Brownsville without repeating for the umpteenth time that it was the “frightful theater of operations of Murder, Inc.” He was fascinated by the stories about that band of criminals, to which gangsters of the caliber of Lucky Luciano, Meyer Lansky, and Frank Costello had belonged. More neighborhoods. Williamsburg was never simply Williamsburg but “motley Williamsburg.” Ineluctably, an explanation would follow. Like “the neighborhood’s packed with innumerable different peoples and cultures—to give just one example, there
are twenty different sects of Hasidic Jew within a few square miles,” and so on and so forth. He usually concluded his stories with some solemn aphorism. My favorite was this one: “In one word, each neighborhood is a world unto itself, and Brooklyn the whole universe.” We didn’t agree on everything, of course. He had his preferences and I had mine, but there was one thing on which we were always in agreement: the best neighborhood in Brooklyn, light years beyond all the rest, was Coney Island.
The trip on the subway took around an hour and a half, in those days. David came to pick me up very early. Right before we left the first day, he took out a map and, putting his index finger on top of an orange strip that was shaped like an upside-down bicycle seat, dragged it slowly over the name, revealing the letters one by one.
C - O - N - E - Y I - S - L - A - N - D
After passing the Seventh Avenue stop, the train emerged from under the ground. The view of the city from the elevated tracks was amazing. At Brighton Beach, the train made a sharp turn, leaving the sea on our left. The view of the beach was impressive, thousands and thousands of bathers milling around on the sand, a restless mass that pushed into the waves like lava. The most thrilling moment was after we crossed a stone bridge and the visionary architecture of the amusement parks rose before us: domes, needles, minarets, the gigantic Ferris wheels, the silhouette of the roller coasters, and the metallic structure of the Parachute Jump presiding over everything
Normally, my first reaction once we had arrived was one of terror. To get out of the subway we had to cross a long unlit passageway where the diabolic laughter of one of the automatons could be heard. I would squeeze my grandfather’s hand. Turning to Greek mythology, as he always did, he would tell me: Have no fear, Iacchus. This is just the Mouth of Hades, there’s nothing to worry about. We were at the entrance of an artificial cave that had once been part of a ride called Hell Gate. A gigantic devil spread its wings several yards wide, standing guard and watching over the people waiting in line to get in. No matter how my grandfather contextualized it, to know that we were about to enter hell wasn’t especially reassuring, but when we came out of the cave the explosion of life and color changed everything.