Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

Firsts

2018; Duke University Press; Volume: 22; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1215/07990537-6985678

0799-0537

Angie Cruz,

Latin American and Latino Studies

WITH JUAN THERE ARE MANY FIRSTS. He opens the car door for me to sit in the front, on the passenger side. I always have to sit in the back with Yohnny, Lenny, and Teresa: cramped. Just this, I’m sure, impresses Mamá. Marrying Juan is like going to the moon. Up front, I have the best view of the road, of the world passing me by as Juan accelerates the car, switching gears.On our way to the hotel we stop at the Ruiz restaurant that sits right outside the city. Of course, everyone knows Juan there. The women especially. He doesn’t introduce me. He sits me at a table that reeks of Clorox. No tablecloths. No walls. Just a slab of cement on the ground and sheets of zinc held up by a few poles, to protect the few customers eating at the table or sitting at the makeshift bar if it rains. I wait. The lights make my hands and arms look green. The waitress serves me a morir soñando with a straw. I don’t have to share it with anybody. I sip it with my eyes lowered and listen to the familiar song playing from the radio. I had danced to that song with my brother Yohnny after the chores were done and dinner had been eaten.Juan carries over a tray with two pressed sandwiches. Behind him, El Cojo, a funny-looking man, limps toward us, his shirt off by one button.So you’re the one, El Cojo says to me, then catches a fly with his index finger and thumb and flicks it to the floor. He wants me to fear him, that’s why he shows off with the fly.So what do you think of the place?The restaurant?You can call it that, El Cojo says.Juan fake punches him, then says, Don’t worry, pajarita. One day, people’ll travel from all over to eat here. We’re gonna make it real nice, you and me.Really? I had never thought I would own a restaurant before.Don’t get ahead of yourself. You don’t even have the papers for the land yet, El Cojo says.Money. Papers. Always the main subject.El Cojo pulls out papers for us to sign. He studies the series of 2″×2″ photos of different women and picks one.She looks like you.El Cojo squints his eyes, considers the photo from arm’s distance.Juan takes a look. I take a look.It’s perfect, Juan agrees, comparing my face against the woman in the photograph.I bite my tongue. Mamá’s right, men don’t know anything.All right then, I’ll be back.El Cojo hobbles over behind the bar and acts as if all the work he has to do is one big favor, a real nuisance.Juan takes a large bite of his sandwich. He catches all the drippings with his tongue. Eats quickly and voraciously. Mamá says you could read a man by the way he eats.You not hungry?Not really, I lie, too nervous to eat. The women at the counter stare at me or maybe my dress. They aren’t much older, but nothing seems new to them.Juan takes my sandwich and eats it too. He could’ve insisted, like Mamá does when we have guests over. Even when they say they aren’t hungry, she sets a place at the table and makes them eat. And when their plate is empty, she adds seconds, even if they claim to be full.El Cojo returns and hands Juan a passport. Juan studies it. He looks through the papers. They shake hands and do small talk.Congratulations, El Cojo says.For what.You’re married!Was that it? No ceremony? No guests or cake or you may kiss the bride or do you take this man? All this fuss Mamá made for a new dress and no party to go to?Can I see?I reach for the large yellow envelope filled with papers.The woman in the photograph, an older version of me.Ana Canción Ruiz of birthday December twenty-fifth, 1946.Nineteen years old?Original Certificate of Marriage.I hereby certify that on the thirty-first of December, nineteen-sixty-four, at the courthouse of Santo Domingo, Juan Ruiz and Ana Canción were married by an illegible signature.This is not a court. This is not a church. And who are you? Within minutes the documents erase everything I am and present what I have become.Airline tickets: PanAm, SDQ to JFK. January first, 1965.Teresa will call it bad luck to travel on the first day of the year because it’s like entering a room without going through a door. We are to arrive to New York City early early so the officers will be too tired to notice that I’m not the girl in the photo. I see my reflection behind the counter. There are some girls huddled over each other whispering and giggling. Surely about me. My flaming pink dress becomes brighter and more apparent. The white lace barely covers my chest. Juan stares at my hair tied up with curled ribbons, a present to be undone.WE DRIVE TO THE HOTEL. Juan turns on the radio. I have nothing to say. My dress hikes up when I sit in the car. He looks and tries not to look. His fingers shift gears inches away from my thigh. He reeks of rum and cigarettes. The brown paper bag Mamá gave me sits on my lap. Along with the botella, she packed an extra pair of underwear, a bar of Jabón de Cuaba, and a lipstick.Ask Juan for new clothes. It’s his duty. Men don’t know their heads from their feet. Demand. Demand. Demand, she said.At a stoplight he caresses my cheek. I try not to cringe. I don’t want to disrespect. His hand drops on my lap, a dead rat.You’re too skinny, he says. That’s got to change.He taps my nose and says, Don’t worry. I’m a good man.Always worry when someone says don’t worry, were my father’s words.Juan stops at a gas station and gets out of the car.A panic enters my body. Worse than the day Lenny threw up tapeworm and his face turned red because they were caught in his throat. I thought he would die in front of me. Worse than the panic that entered me when I last saw Gabriel at the school and he had to save me from myself.I’m all alone with Juan. And now I belong to him. In less than an hour, I’ve lost four years of my life. Ana Ruiz is nineteen. Ana Canción was fifteen. I clamp my legs together. My ankles crossed. My hands woven shut.If I run I might be able to find my way back home. It’s dark outside.Juan returns and flicks on the overhead lamp inside the car to get a better look at me. His mustache is a shadow over his lips.You’re so damn beautiful. You can kill me. You know that?He drives through the dark roads. We can see only as far as the headlights. And far beyond I see lights appear like fireflies.La capital? I ask.The house of Columbus is right over there, he points, a real tourist guide. Have you been?I have never visited the capital or any other part of the country besides San Pedro de Macorís.He spews out names: the Fortress of Colón, the Ozama Fort. The greatest capital in the world: Santo Domingo, the heart of América, where it all started.His talking overwhelms me. The honking of cars, the festive nighttime atmosphere, as if all the city is inside a disco. Everyone’s celebrating.Do you want me to take you?His proud voice pleads for adoration and gratitude. I do feel lucky to be in the car with him, but should I give him the satisfaction? He doesn’t have to know I’m so backward I’ve never been to a proper city. So I say nothing. Nothing at all.JUAN PULLS IN AT EL HOTEL EMBAJADOR. I stick my head out the window to get a better look, my eyes and mouth wide open. The fountains shoot water into the air. Flocks of flamingos gather and disperse. Fancy cars line up in the parking lot.You like it? Juan beams.I step out of the car and spin around, taking in the shiny sequined dresses. Men in fitted suits, their hair greased and slicked back like movie stars. The large chandeliers, the buffed marble floors, the high ceilings, the arranged flowers, the lit-up pool, the air conditioning, the cloth-covered sofas, the hundreds of people chatting, clinking glasses, smoking.At the check-in counter, Juan orders champagne.Send it to the room, he says to the bellboy. Fourth floor. There he goes with his charming confidence. All the world is there to serve him.I hesitate before stepping into the elevator. He grips my hand and I close my eyes.You better get used to it. There’s an elevator in our building.Our building? When we arrive at the fourth floor he lifts me up over his shoulder and laughs, carries me down the hall. I kick open the door of our room, huge with a double bed. Large windows overlook the pool. A chill climbs around my neck from the air conditioner. I’ve never been inside a room so cold. I’m afraid to look at his face. It’s too much. Too much.Someone’s at the door. Champagne arrives. Juan pops the cork. I jump back when it shoots across the room. He hands me a glass.Drink the first one fast, he says.I don’t drink.It’ll help relax you.I gulp it like medicine. It goes straight to my head. I press my nose on the windowpane and look below. Women linger at the edge of the pool in string bikinis; men chase after them.Come here. Juan lies on the bed, his shoes on the floor. His blazer hangs on the chair. In minutes he makes himself at home as if he stays in hotels all the time. I pretend not to hear him, not to see his reflection off the window. I lean on it, the cold glass on my cheek.Juan walks over to stand behind me. He unzips my dress. I need more time. I don’t even have a bra. Mamá said bras are to hold something up. I stand there, my back to him. He unties the ribbons from my hair, one by one and lets them fall down my back. The hair around my neck makes me feel more protected, less cold.He combs through it, his fingers catch inside the knots. He places his palm on my back, his hands clammy and cold from holding the champagne bottle.He slips the dress off my shoulders, it gathers around my ankles. He tries to get a look at my face. I resist. He pulls me toward him. I stiffen further, my stomach hard and tight.Please don’t, I want to say. Let’s wait.I see him see me, my naked body reflected on the window. He steps back for a better look.What’s so funny? I say.Everything about you is so new.He sticks his hands under my armpits.So new. So soft.He presses his bulge against my back. I start to cry. He turns me around so I face him.I want to go home. Please.This is your home. Me and you are a family now. Don’t you see?The crying comes faster and harder. It can’t be true. I have a family. I have a home.I just want to go home, I repeat, my voice smaller, broken.Your parents were the ones who called me so I could take you away.I will never love you, I say. I throw myself on the bed and curl up as small as possible. I can no longer feel my body. I am no longer in the room.I’m sorry, Ana. But we’ll have to make this work.Juan turns on the radio. He lies on the bed next to me, against my back. He spoons me. The woolly fabric of his pants against my bare skin, warm and comforting.He says, Don’t worry little bird, I’m going to take care of you. He wraps his arm around me. He is still wearing his shirt, his tie undone.He combs my hair back from my face and sings along with the radio.Solamente una vez . . .His voice thunders against my body. So warm, so rich, a glaze on my skin. Suddenly we’re in my backyard. Ramón’s on the guitar. Papá tends to the fire. Beer bottles clink, my brothers giggle. Mamá’s full of dreams for me.Una vez nada másSe entrega el almaCon la dulce y totalRenunciaciónWe listen to song after song, the words amplify with loss and sadness. He turns me to face him and I see his eyes, bruised, tired, and hopeful. He grabs the champagne bottle on the nightstand, hands it to me and says, Drink some more. It’ll make it easier.I hesitate, overwhelmed by the rancid flowery scent. I gulp it like the medicinal juices Mamá makes, straight from the bottle; the sour-grape taste sits on my tongue.I lay on the bed, stiff, turn my head, look toward the window. Watch the reflection of his legs and my legs, his clothed, mine naked.He unbuttons his shirt. Exposes his plump hairy chest and stomach. Presses it against mine, sticky but warm. He kisses my cheek, my ear, my neck, wet and lingering. His fingers like a clothespin on my nipples. Stop. It hurts.He unbuckles his pants. I don’t look when he grabs it, hard and wide like a pestle. Chirping. Croaking. Screeching. The explosive mating song of frogs. The pain, short and sharp.After, he gets out of bed and tucks in his shirt, zips his pants, puts on his vest.The room is cold, so cold.Clean yourself up and try to sleep. We leave in a few hours. I’m out of cigarettes, he says, and walks out of the room.