The Accidental Native Read online

  Something in what she did at work—packaging perfume or soap made from some edible substance in cute, clever ways to baby boomers—must have made her horny. At first, my young adult male brain thought, “wow, great.” But after a while, it got scary. There were always bruises, hickies, scratches, teeth marks. I don’t think you should have to up your health insurance to cover good sex. Anyway, she didn’t think I would break away from the relationship. She believed men were weak that way, that we all thought with our penises. I had never seriously considered our differences before, but they began to irritate me. I left without an explanation other than “this is something I have to do.” And I found myself back on a plane headed to Puerto Rico in a flash; this time, the ticket paid by Julia, my biological mother.

  My parents had left me a charming chalet tucked away in the idyllic mountains. At least, that’s what I got from my parents’ description. They considered it a beautiful, airy house—they always emphasized how cool it was up in the mountains, in Baná. The lawyer informed me that it formed part of the “estate.” I laughed at the word. My parents had worked so hard as college professors their entire lives, and what they had saved up did not invoke ideas of wealth and legal battles. None of those for me. My parents left me an orphan and the sole heir of their legacy, however minor, and the mourning that follows any loss, which is always huge.

  The more I thought about the house, though, the more I actually considered moving down there, especially with Julia’s constant pleading. I was adrift. Everything in New York now belonged to a past haunted by phantom memories. Puerto Rico felt like the future, full of the unknown, waiting, calling me, to be discovered.

  Getting a teaching job in Puerto Rico pushed me over. After years working as freelance writer, string reporter, wannabe screenwriter and actor, bartender and other odd jobs, I applied and got accepted to an MFA program in creative writing. Now, having earned this fool’s degree, I was headed to a tenth-tier college to teach English in a predominately, and later I would find out, resistant to English, Spanish-speaking country. People told me to be thankful I had found a college teaching job, especially in the same town where my parents’ had bought their house, on such short notice, right before classes began. It was less about fortune than about contacts and reality. The English department there had a desperate need for teachers, and it didn’t hurt that Julia knew one of the deans. I received a tenure-track position without having the hoops others had to jump. But honestly, to the majority of my job-hunting colleagues, Puerto Rico translated to sun, surf and drinks with little umbrellas, not the beginning of a successful academic career.

  When I boarded that plane, with only one other suitcase beside a carry-on, I felt new and clean. But I had never taken a noisier, raunchier flight. The Americans on board set the tone. The men with their shorts and T-shirts proclaiming “life was a beach” or some other “I’m on vacation”-type comment. Bikini bottoms jutting out of some of the women’s shorts. Lots of flip flops exposing ugly, fungus-ridden toes.

  The two young men in front had consumed several rum and Cokes and kept pressing the attendant’s button to mess with her. Across the aisle, newlyweds groped and kissed. Pointing to them with her lips, the religious lady with hairy legs sitting next to me whispered, “casi pornográfico.” In front of me, a young woman with a freaky haircut talked to a middle-aged bald guy about her philandering husband. Her son, ten or so, slanted his head against the window, his mind drifting with the clouds.

  The fat guy in the aisle seat complained about diabetes and blood pressure as he wolfed down a Whopper and big fries. I turned down his offer to share, nauseous at the greasy, prefab chemical smell, and shoved the earphones over my ears to numb the loud laughter, constant chattering and baby crying coming from the crowded plane and to tune out the monotonous preaching of the zealot next to me.

  We passed the rawhide-colored beach meeting the opal blue Caribbean water, and soon were flying over dense gray-topped buildings, with only a sliver of green here and there. Inside the plane it was church quiet. The lady next to me had closed her eyes and begun praying. When we touched ground, applause exploded throughout the 757. Seeing my confused face, the diabetic smiled. “Tradition—to celebrate the landing.” He had known from the beginning I was not from “here.” “Nuyorican?” he asked.

  It took close to a half hour to get off that plane, more to retrieve my bags. As I grew agitated, people around me talked and laughed like the delay was no big deal. From the baggage claim area, through large glass panels, I saw relatives and friends picking up passengers. Some pressed against the glass, expectant. Lots of hugging, kissing, crying. Across from me an old woman sat in a wheelchair, probably wearing one of her best dresses. She sat, hands clasped on her lap, eyes scouring, her face full of so much love and hope. Close by, the young woman with freaky hair waited for her bag. She was attractive, although her many tattoos and piercings made her stand out in the middle of conservative Puerto Ricans. Her son sat on their carry-on, chin on fists.

  After minutes of waiting for the conveyor belt to start the parade of suitcases, I decided to step into the bathroom. The garbage receptacles were full, and paper towels lay scattered on the floor; puddles of water everywhere, one of the toilets overflowed. I tossed some water on my face. It was getting warmer, and the air conditioning wasn’t on very high. In the mirror, the face that stared back at me appeared almost unrecognizable. Damn, I’ve lost too much weight. I tapped the puffy miniature pillows under my eyes, passed a hand through my thick, wavy hair. Needed a haircut. I didn’t shave in the morning, so from my carry-on I took out the electric shaver my mother had given me.

  She usually gave me really crappy gifts—ugly ties, too many briefs, fancy pens I never used, more cologne than I could use. But this last Christmas, I thought with some heartache, she got it right. I started on the wiry stubble. I wasn’t a big fan of facial hair. My father owned a mustache his whole adult life—or maybe it owned him. He once kidded that a real Puerto Rican man always wore one. I finished shaving and splashed more water on my face.

  Outside, it felt like I was wearing an invisible, heavy coat. A few steps and I began sweating, rivulets running down my sides, stains spreading on my shirt. I made my way past the crowd, dragging two bags behind me. Illegally parked cars held up traffic even as police officers tried to move people on. The taxi drivers cursed and screamed, waving their hands in frustration.

  I spotted Julia, her hands clasped in front of her. She wore a flowery, pleated dress; and I noticed, really noticed, for the first time, her lush hair tumbling down to her shoulders. Noticed a strong proportional, curvy frame. Firm, strong hands with delicately painted fingernails. Her flaming red lips broke into a smile, revealing big, white teeth.

  Scanning the airport, I thought how in another time, my parents would have picked me up. They would have made a big deal about my arrival, would have made me feel like a native son. Mami would have been holding balloons.

  “Don Marco,” Julia said, pointing to my bags. A short skinny guy with lemur eyes and a shaggy mustache covering his lips jumped for my bags. Surprised that I shook his hand, he nodded and grinned, then tossed my bags in the trunk. Julia sat in the back, staring at me for what seemed eternity, grasping my hand. I peeked at the manicured hand at times as if it wasn’t touching me but somebody else. She looked away as Don Marco maneuvered his way through frenetic San Juan traffic.

  When we left the congested metropolitan area and started passing less denser areas, Julia broke my reverie. She asked, kind of late I thought, how my trip had been. A bit bumpy, I said, and she smiled. She told me that she would have driven to the airport and picked me up alone.

  “But this allows me to talk to you easier,” she said.

  We talked about stupid shit: the weather, sights rolling by. Sometimes she’d respond to a news item on the radio, switching from Spanish and English, almost lecturing, and directed at the driver. To my surprise, he would respond, sometimes heatedly. The topic
s would turn to politics, even our conversation about sports, their opinions clashing every time. Halfway through, I wished Julia had not come.

  As we drove closer to our destination, the landscape became greener. We had left the last major city heading toward the heart of the island, and although impossible to escape the cement, less urban sprawl confronted us as the elevation rose. The car sped into an expanse of small green mountains and abundant flora, and I breathed freely again. Fifteen minutes later, we passed the last toll booth before exiting the autopista into the town of Baná.

  Straight out of the exit, at the light, giant billboards advertised housing units. Not cheap at all, considering the location. To our right, a mall had recently sprung up, the driver informed me. He was a local and beamed with pride at the growth of his hometown. I told him that both my parents claimed this as their hometown, too, and he asked me their names. Julia remained quiet, her gaze set on the horizon. He knew the families. Equally surprising, he did not know what had happened to them. I didn’t have the heart or energy to tell him.

  Julia asked him to stop at a wooden kiosk near the highway exit and bought me a coffee, which I accepted and sipped as I scanned the surroundings. Around me, middle-aged men huddled at the bar, in this weird wooden shack, drank their midday coffee or beer. The television emitted canned laughter as two on-screen mustached comedians in drag and rollers gossiped.

  As towns go, Baná appeared busy and desperate to grow. In the distance, housing developments spotted the green hills. Closer, trucks clogged the feeder road that ran parallel to the autopista; these merged with dozens of cars meandering around orange traffic cones and barrels as they herded traffic toward the new mall. A crane loomed over the scene, swinging to finish the emerging multiplex.

  “The air is cooler up here,” I told Julia.

  “Well, that’s at least one good thing about it,” she said. “Take a hard look. Sure you don’t want to live in San Juan?”

  She had tempted me with buying me a car so I could drive to and from the capital to Baná. She insisted a young man needed a livelier place. I declined. I was not going to take anything as luxurious as a car from her.

  We rushed back into the car and within minutes were on campus. They deposited me in front of a fading white cement house. “It’s the guest house,” Don Marco informed me, giving me the keys. I thanked him and extended my hand. He hugged me.

  “Bienvenido,” he said. Julia hugged me too, and I draped my arms around her.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispered, embracing me harder as if to make sure. She kissed my cheek and looked like she was going to cry, but she wiped the lipstick off with spit and patted my chest. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

  They sped off, Julia waving her arm out of the window. She wanted to stay and help me unpack, invited me to dinner. But the sudden maternal outpouring put me off. Too soon, I thought.

  When I entered the house, I noticed the television. Someone else would have looked for the remote. Instead, I turned it around, making the screen face the wall. Then I sat down.

  On any trip, I move to other business, start unpacking or just plop on the bed. But I was in Baná, my parents’ hometown, where every sense would have elicited a vibrant memory with every morning, each rainfall, any walk into town, had they attained their dream of returning. I threw myself back on the bed and closed my eyes.

  “Come with us,” my parents had begged. We had not taken a trip together in a while. They handed me the brochure and I contemplated it, knowing I would not go. Milk and Honey Israel Tours, it said. “Experience Israel in a unique way you will never forget.” Late in life, my parents had become more serious about religion—the apprehension of approaching retirement, I guess. We were in such different places. I had lost my religion a long time ago and with certainty knew that it would not be rekindled or rediscovered, especially not with some cheesy tour of the Holy Land. I gave back the brochure, which contained an itinerary of various spiritual and sacred landmarks.

  One evening when they were still on their trip, the news came on. I watched scenes of screaming people, the disembodied correspondent with hurried stricken voice reporting as officials wearing green vinyl ponchos pushed onlookers away and attempted to drag bodies from smoking, scarred vehicles. A shot repeated over and over of a white rosary atop a pool of blood.

  I paced the apartment, nauseous, my heart racing, holding my hand to my forehead, not knowing what to do. I hoped my parents were not involved. But then the news trickled in: The Popular Democratic Jihad taking responsibility for the attack … three simultaneous car bombings in the city of Jerusalem … detonated in heavy traffic … 32 dead … 117 wounded … a tourist bus partially blown up by one of the suicide car bombers … a religious group from the United States on pilgrimage to the Holy Land among the dead and wounded … one of the worst terrorist attacks in that troubled part of the world.

  Late that night, a young low-level official from the State Department confirmed my fears. I sat dazed, the cell phone clutched in my hand. The silence in the apartment eerie, taunting me toward reflection. My mouth dry, heartburn and anger rising in my chest. Anger and hatred for Israelis and Palestinians alike. With a wrenching wail, I hurled the phone across the room and it smashed against a lithograph of Puerto Rican patriot Albizu Campos waving an angry fist. A gift from them, now shattered, too.

  I lay down recalling moments with my parents, trying hard to recall their voices, becoming frustrated I could not faithfully conjure them—having to accept the significance of their loss. I’m all alone, I thought. The thought paralyzed me, exhausted me, until I fell into a light sleep on the couch, the ongoing news bulletins streaming from a neighbor’s apartment, my machine taking a steady string of messages from family, friends; only to wake to the door opening and Erin’s scented body running to me, crying “Oh, baby, sweet baby, I heard.”

  Three

  * * *

  The doorbell rang. I dried my eyes, blew my nose and ran to open the door. A woman in her mid-thirties tilted her head and grinned. Had dyed reddish, she wore sharp-looking shoes from where glossy red polished toe nails appeared. Her tight dress revealed dazzling wavy shapes. She leaned over and stuck out her hand for me to shake while placing her other hand on her thigh.

  “My name is Marisol Santerreguí. Welcome to La Universidad de Baná.” We exchanged nods and smiles. “I’m here to pick you up and accompany you to Dr. Roque’s office.”

  I looked around the furnished room for an excuse, but realized this was scheduled, so I’d better go. I thought we were going to walk, but in Puerto Rico people drive their cars everywhere. We drove less than a tenth of a mile in her car, which was so immaculate I asked her if it was new. “No,” she replied, laughing. “If it was new, I’d still have the seats covered in factory plastic.”

  “Puerto Ricans take care of their wheels,” she asserted. Then, after a beat: “They love to toss garbage out the window as they speed down the highways in spotless cars.” She shrugged, and I nodded.

  Marisol drove the long way to show me the campus, small compared to American counterparts. It held three academic buildings, just as many administrative structures. No dormitories. Most students lived in housing provided by town residents, who supplemented their living by gouging rents for no frills, crowded quarters.

  On the roof of the student center stood a huge statue of Cano the Coquí, the college mascot, overlooking the well-kept lawns and flowerbeds. The coquí was a tiny tree frog unique to Puerto Rico. Cano stood on two legs and waved an arm in welcome—the other arm held the school flag. The mascot wore a silly cap with the school initials, which I’m sure nobody in Puerto Rico had ever worn.

  In the middle of the rotary leading to the college proper stood a replica of Evgeniy Vuchetich’s famous United Nations statue, the one with the muscular nude man beating a sword into a plowshare with a hammer. This version had been sculpted to look “native,” which meant it wore clothes. Marisol explain
ed the college had once been an American army base. When it closed in the early sixties, the citizens of Baná had petitioned for its transformation into a college campus. With few exceptions, these were the original facilities used by the U.S. Army, including the swimming pool, now closed for repairs.

  We drove around the rotary, past an open structure with cement tables and benches. Two stray dogs slept in the shadows of a large ceiba. Along the way, we passed several new BMWs, Mercedes, Volvos, a couple of Lexuses. For a minute, I thought the salaries for professors might compensate for any ill feelings about teaching here.

  “Student vehicles,” Marisol said, with raised eyebrows. “What their parents were spending on private school tuition they can now spend on new toys.”

  She parked in the professors’ area, with the Hyundais and Toyotas, I knew a teaching gig in Puerto Rico was definitely not the same as in Saudi Arabia or Dubai.

  Dr. Roque’s office was in The New Academic Building, so named because after six years the college community couldn’t agree on someone to name it after. We walked down the English wing, with offices shared by professors. An open area begged for furniture. The architect had that in mind, but the administration didn’t want to furnish sofas and armchairs because it promoted student loitering. It remained a big, unused space. As perspiration ran down my face and spotted my clothing, I noticed the building had no air conditioning.

  Dr. Pedro Roque’s office had the austerity befitting a monk. His working space was sparse and ascetic. Nothing on the walls. A faux wooden bookcase held mostly folders and binders. On top he had three miniature knickknacks, souvenirs really: a porcelain coquí, a güiro musical scraper and bookends resembling hands in prayer.

  He extended a large, but soft hand with manicured, unpolished nails. A crisp, long green folder, my personnel file, graced his otherwise clean blotter and empty desktop.