Waiting in Vain Read online

  They had lunch in a paladar. Over gallina vieja and yellow rice she learned that he’d been living in Cuba for three years, had gone there to study with the famous muralist Francisco Irtubbe after receiving a fine art degree at Yale. He was twenty-four and Jamaican, and his favorite uncle, I-nelik, had toured and recorded with The Wailers.

  She asked if he was a communist and he told her no. Said he was a socialist. Then they began to talk about art and she said there wasn’t any money in murals. Money isn’t all, he replied. What is? she asked. Love, he said … all you need is love. She said that was a crock of shit. He liked her directness. It was hard to find that in women his own age.

  He offered her a drink when they left the restaurant. She looked at him … cocked her head … seemed unsure. He smiled, as I-nelik had taught him, and led her home without discussion.

  They sipped mojitos in the courtyard, a moldering square of tiles around an almond tree, and shared a macanudo and talked and listened and argued, entangling their minds in a wrestling match which she won with ease, for she was wiser and more worldly. She’d lived in five countries, including Morocco and India, and spoke Arabic, Farsi, French, and Hindi.

  They went inside when the night brought rain. Setting cans to catch the leaks in the parlor, they talked some more, leaning against each other on the swaybacked sofa with their feet propped up on a milk crate.

  At some point—he could never remember when, because it had been so unexpected—she pointed to the record changer, a hefty old thing from Albania, and asked if he had any jazz. The question felt like a test, a requirement for entry to her finishing school. He knew this by the way she smiled when he asked her, like a bartender at a good hotel, “What can I get for you?” She smiled from the inside, happy for the both of them.

  They listened to Johnny Hartman, giggled each time the record changer fell asleep. Then he put on The Wailers—Kaya—and the bass began to lick them like a curious tongue … and nothing was funny anymore.

  “Would you like to dance?” he asked. She said yes, and he held her by the waist, which was soft even then, and sank his hips into the sweet spot. She shook when he started to stir it up, then answered his circumlocutions with inquiries of her own. They continued to dub after the last track had faded like the paint on the wall she was cotched against. Her legs were apart. Her dress hiked up. Her body clammy with their mingled sweat. What to do? They weren’t quite sure. Then there was a power cut, and it was inevitable.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “That I want you to stay the night.”

  She slipped a hand down his thigh. “Why?”

  “I want to see you naked.”

  She coaxed his hand into the pulpy split. “See me through your fingers,” she said. “Let’s pretend to be blind.”

  “I want to see you,” he replied, “to keep a piece of you with me forever. We might have the night and lose the day.”

  “But I only need today,” she whispered.

  “But I need tomorrow … I’m just that kinda guy. Share a little tomorrow with me.”

  She kissed him.

  “Before I say yes,” she said, “I should tell you something. I am woman … I am water. You are man … you are stone. Water will wear down stone.”

  They stayed in touch through letters. Phone calls sometimes. But those were harder, requiring a connection through a third country. Then she came to visit three months after leaving and he began to smell molasses. One night, as they biked along the Malecón, she asked if he was dating. She hopped off the handlebars and they sat with their backs to the sea. He told the truth.

  “You must get rid of them,” she said. “I love you too much to share you.”

  “And you,” he asked, “are you involved?”

  “The very question,” she replied, “insults me.”

  They wrote once a week for the next two years—soppy letters that made them laugh—and saw each other twice, each time for three months during her summer break. He wanted to see her more, but couldn’t. He was routinely denied U.S. entry because he was labeled a communist.

  Then twenty-six months, three weeks, and two days after they met, he got a three-day visa through luck and bribery, and went to New York to surprise her. He found out she was married—with a mortgage, a dog, and three children.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, as they cried in her office. “Just give me time … I’m just waiting on the right time to leave.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Soon,” she said. “Soon as things are right … it’s all in the timing.”

  book one

  chapter one

  Chinatown collides with SoHo and Tribeca at Canal and West Broadway, chucking chi-chi bistros against hardware stores, stereo shops, and purveyors of fake Chanel. As the clock closed in on midnight, Fire stepped out of the subway here and strayed through the gates of love. Dressed in a red T-shirt and slack-fitting jeans, he forded Canal and strode up West Broadway in his tough, scuffed boots past cafés and bars whose faces were pressed together like a Polaroid of friends from prep school. His destination was the Marie Rose Galleries, where his friend Ian Gore was having his first show in five years. By the note in his pocket, the opening had been over for two hours. But this didn’t bother him. After twenty-five years, Ian was used to his lateness, and he understood Ian’s mood swings.

  I wonder how he looks, he thought, as a doorway caught his eye. For all its pretensions, he liked SoHo. The brickwork reminded him of London and the ironwork reminded him of older parts of Kingston. He liked the scale of it. It was low. One could see the sky without trying.

  As he walked along Spring Street, contemplating Ian’s life, he saw a woman walking toward him in a navy blazer with buttons shaped like sunflowers.

  She was tallish and slender, with short, curly hair. And like a dancer, she walked with her toes pointed outward and her neck held loose.

  Trailing behind her in the coltish breeze was a light silk scarf whose flutter he thought was romantic. As she passed, he turned around and sent her a smile, an unsigned thank-you card for having a nice vibe.

  He hadn’t been to New York in a couple of years. And at Greene it struck him that the gallery had moved. Ian had forgotten to remind him.

  From a phone up the block by a parking lot, across from a store named Jekyll & Hyde, he called Information for the new address. But what if they were gone? He glanced at his watch and decided to call, and as he angled to dig for pocket change, he saw the woman in the navy blazer waiting for the phone.

  She had lashes like the bristles of a paintbrush and strong, rougeless cheeks.

  “Are you through?” she asked. Her voice was warm but girlie—honey mixed with ashes.

  “No,” he replied. “But you can go if you want.”

  She accepted politely. A smile hissed across her face—a sparked explosive fuse.

  His mouth was suddenly dry. He felt an urge to wet his lips. He didn’t, though, unsure of how she’d take it.

  She struggled with a shopping bag.

  “You want me to hold that?”

  She refused politely. Then it slipped. And he grabbed it.

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Thank you.” And placed the bag between her feet.

  A piece of paper fell to the sidewalk. From where, he wasn’t sure. He picked it up and read it as he leaned against a car. It was a shopping list for music: Toni Braxton, Babyface, and Gal Costa. Gal Costa? Tropicalismo … nice.

  She was his age, he figured, and worked in the arts. Not music though. She would’ve been more determinedly stylish. Not fashion either—her taste would’ve had more edge. Design? Maybe. She could be an art director. But for a big firm. Not a boutique. Now where was she from? Her accent was American, but not from New York. The Midwest maybe, or California. California? Hollywood. She had the trained articulation of an actress.

  In the middle of his reverie she grabbed her bag and left, and he w
alked to the corner, warmed by the encounter. Gal Costa. He thought of Brazil, its pungent food and sensuous music, and turned to smile again. To his surprise she was smiling after him.

  “Was that your smile or the reflection of mine?” he asked, slowing down. She was about ten yards away.

  She shrugged her shoulders to mean “whatever.”

  “I hope it was the reflection of mine,” he said. “I wouldn’t like you to smile at me like that before you get to know me. When you get to know me I’ll know what it means. Right now I might have the wrong idea.”

  She shrugged again.

  “If I asked you your name, would you tell me?”

  “No.”

  “I promise not to laugh if it’s ugly. I’ll just refuse to use it.”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Try me.”

  “No.”

  He took her coolness as a challenge … vowed to make her laugh.

  “Try-y-y meeee!” he sang, mimicking James Brown. “You know that song?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, you like Bob Marley?”

  “That’s not Bob Marley,” she said. “That’s James Brown.”

  “I knew that,” he said, steadying her eyes with a stare. “Just checking.”

  “Checking what?”

  “To see if you’re truly monosyllabic or just faking it.”

  She chuckled, which encouraged him.

  “Will you tell me your name now?”

  “No.”

  Her answer did not convince him.

  “Well, I won’t ask you then. I’ll just make one up for you. I’ll just call you the woman-with-the-unique-buttons-on-the-navy-blazer-with-the-cute-nose-with-something-hanging-from-it.”

  She wiped her nose quickly.

  “That one hold you!”

  She laughed.

  “Well, I guess I’m not doing so badly.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I got you to laugh.”

  “Maybe I’m easy,” she countered.

  He caught a flash of tongue, a bit of pink against her teeth. He liked her more now. She knew dalliance from harassment. Many women had lost that, had sacrificed good sense for politics.

  “I’ll flatter myself and say you’re not,” he said, taking a careful step toward her.

  “Why flatter yourself when I could do it for you?”

  “If you really want to flatter me, call me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Then I won’t give you my number.”

  A smile brewed behind her lips. A chuckle bubbled out. The light changed and he thought he would lose her … but she waited … stood there staring at him, studying his face … his clothes … his boots. There was mud on them. On the way to the airport he’d helped to pull a car from a ditch.

  “The light changed, y’know, Miss No Name. You coulda crossed.”

  He took another step toward her. She didn’t back away.

  “And you have another call to make”—she looked at his shoes again—“Muddy Waters.”

  “No, I don’t,” he replied, concocting a story. “I lied to get a chance to talk to you.”

  “Lying?” she said. “An admirable trait.”

  “And as we speak,” he replied, “I’m composing grand epics … about how you wrestled me to the ground and forced me to take your number.”

  She laughed like a higgler.

  “Is someone waiting for the stuff in that bag?” he asked. “I hope not.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” she replied.

  “Unfortunate for her? For you? For me?”

  “Why do you think it’s a her?” She smiled awkwardly.

  “If a man was waiting for you, you’d be gone already.”

  “Oh! That is so sexist.”

  “Sexy?”

  She bit her lip and looked away. “Maybe I’m here because he’s patient.”

  “Is he?”

  “Not really.”

  He raised his brows. She laughed again.

  “So he’s probably missing you, then.”

  She shifted the bag to her other hand. “I hope so.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I mean … I mean … you can’t swear for people.”

  He lowered his voice. “Are you missing him?”

  “Not really … I mean …” She checked her watch. “He should be pulling up around the corner any minute now.” She laughed nervously. “Maybe I miss him … I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking about it.”

  “How long you been together?”

  She calculated quickly. “Going on two years.”

  “Nice,” he said.

  “I guess,” she replied.

  “And you don’t know if you’re missing him? You know. You just don’t want to tell me.”

  She suddenly became distant.

  “By the way,” he said, trying to reconnect, “can I call you to tell you I’d like to see you again?”

  “Sure,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Who should I ask for?”

  “The-woman-with-the-man-she-doesn’t-miss. People are waiting for me. I’ve gotta go.”

  She began to back away. He asked for her number again and she told him no.

  “It was nice to have met you, Miss No Name.”

  “It was nice to have met you too, Muddy Waters.”

  He stopped. She stopped as well. A passing car side-lit her face. She was a portrait framed by Gordon Parks.

  “It would be nice to see you again.”

  “I don’t feel the same way.”

  “Why?”

  She glanced at his shoes. “I could fall for a man like you.”

  “What kinda man is that?”

  “One who makes me laugh.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s the point. It’s wrong … so wrong for me to have these …” She aborted the word.

  “Feelings,” he said.

  “Yeah … feelings, like I know you from somewhere … or that you’d be nice to know.”

  “Yeah? You like me then?”

  “I think that’s obvious.”

  “Why you like me?”

  “Because you’re smart.”

  “Actually, I’m retarded.” He crossed his eyes … made her laugh again.

  “And on top of being smart you have nice teeth—a man should have nice teeth. Not necessarily perfect teeth. But nice ones—and you’re bow-legged. You remind me of a cowboy. You’re my high plains drifter. And I like your nose.”

  “My nose?”

  “It’s very sleek … like a jaguar.”

  “The car?”

  “The cat,” she said, ignoring him. “You’re very feline, you know. Your hair is like a lion’s. Plus you have really nice skin. I wish I were as dark as you.”

  “It rubs off, y’know.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  They stared at each other, unsure what to say.

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Go about our business,” she said, “and wonder, what if?”

  “What if what?”

  “What if, what if … you know …”

  “It would be really nice to see you again, Miss Sweet Words.”

  “That would break the rules of flirting. I’m sure you know them. You do it so well.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said, trying to stall her.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Okay … take care then.”

  “Okay, Clint.”

  She whistled the theme from the The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, smiled, and walked away. He watched as the night consumed her. Then he called the gallery, and headed east to Crosby.

  The street was dark and lonely. Grungy. Gloom seeped out of the ground like tar. In the nearground, beneath a scaffold, a red flame bloomed and withered, and a voice cut through: “Yow, faggot.”

  He trailed it across the cracked sidewalk into the shadows of what he saw was a doorway
. His first thought was, He hasn’t gone, he’s still here. Then he thought about the last time he’d seen him, how badly that had ended, and wondered if this time would be different.

  Am I still upset? he asked himself. He thought about the money, forty thousand pounds. He wasn’t sure. But it had never been the money. It had always been the treachery and the lies.

  He formed the face in his mind, saw its decay, saw the beauty that remained insistent. When Ian was young he’d resembled Haile Selassie, especially in the forehead and the eyes.

  “Yow,” Fire said as Ian stepped into the light. “Good to see you.”

  They hugged and parted quickly.

  “Tink you miss this,” Ian said, glancing into Fire’s eyes. He killed the cigarette on the heel of his shoe—his black loafers looked expensive. His pants fit loosely. He’d lost some weight. His hollow cheeks were rutted, and he’d chipped a tooth. Through his shirt, his joints were knots of rope. Miss Gita would be sad to see her boy.

  “So how everything?”

  “Yuh nuh know … cyaah keep a good man down.” He held his face low. “Can I ask you something? How it feel to be a six-footer?” He looked up again, his eyes set close like the barrels of a shotgun.

  This is shit, Fire thought. Is this all you have to say after all this time? And how should I reply? The opposite of being five-seven?

  What about your mother Miss Gita? The one that lives with me now—that works for me as a maid because her son, the famous sculptor who made the cover of Time magazine, bought a car with the money I lent him to buy her a house so she could have somewhere to live in case an overdose killed him. And where is the Benz now, Ian? Repossessed … like the house in Paris and the Prince Street loft and the beachfront villa in Barbados.

  “You want a cigarette?” Ian asked.

  “I done smoke eight years now. You know that.”

  “Yeah … I forgot.”

  They fell into silence.

  “So where’s Claire?”

  Fire began to blame his anger on fatigue. It wasn’t fair, he thought, to be mad at him, after all that he’d been through.

  “She’s inside.”

  “So what you doing out here? Just come for a smoke?”

  “That … and waiting for some beer. We was playing some poker upstairs and run out.” He glanced at his TAG. “The fuck a-take so long?” He glared at Fire. “And why you take so long?” Fire began to answer but he cut him off. “Y’always have a rassclaat reason.”