The Empanada Brotherhood Read online

  Carlos the Artist eagerly grabbed the book and opened it. Luigi and I also gave it our undivided attention. Carlos turned a page and my heart stopped. There was a girl wearing a flamenco dress with a ruffled hem and poufy shoulders; a flower decorated her dark hair. She was young and pretty and insolent. The hands raised over her head were twisted dramatically and she glared at the camera with sexy anger.

  Chuy noticed my expression. “That’s Cathy Escudero, blondie. Do you like her?”

  Luigi wondered, “How can such a precious kid wind up in a book like this?”

  Chuy said, “She’s a foul-mouthed guttersnipe but one heck of a dancer. If you want to meet her just say the word. She’s only nineteen.”

  He devoured his empanada with exaggerated gusto, licking his manicured fingers, and promptly ordered another for himself and also for the accountant. That was too much for the professor who demanded to be let free of the alley. When we emptied onto the sidewalk he stormed off in a huff, completely humiliated.

  Chuy wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Mirá, che, that was a good empanada!” he called after Alfonso. “Gracias!”

  “Mine was great also!” yelled Greta Garbo.

  4. Horns for Eduardo

  Eduardo worked on documentary films and commercials for a local Spanish-language television station. He wore a Brooks Brothers suit and a gold stickpin in his tie. The shirt was button-down and striped, very elegant. Shiny patent-leather shoes completed the uptown outfit. But tonight he seemed loaded and his eyes were red from smoking marijuana. He stood on the sidewalk at the window sipping hot coffee as he complained angrily: “I think my wife, Adriana, is seeing another guy. If she is I’ll kill her.”

  Roldán said, “Excuse me, but aren’t you two divorced?”

  “Of course. I couldn’t stand her. I’m glad to be rid of her. But that doesn’t mean the slut can go around making me look bad by dating other guys. I’m not going to wear the horns because of that bitch.”

  “They aren’t horns if you’re not married,” Popeye pointed out from the alley. “Relax, nene. Babes are a dime a dozen.”

  “If it feels like horns to me it’s horns,” Eduardo insisted. “And it feels like horns. So I am going to kill her.”

  Luigi said, “They’ll put you in jail. This is America. You can’t erase your ex-wife for a crime of passion and get away with it.”

  “I don’t care. All of New York City is laughing at me. I saw them enter her apartment building yesterday. He’s fat and ugly, a real pimp. Her bad taste is a personal insult to me.”

  Alfonso said, “You’re wasting your time, man. You divorced her so forget her.”

  “I can’t forget her,” Eduardo groaned. “Before we got divorced she bored me to tears. I couldn’t stand the sight of her. All I wanted to do was be with other women. But the minute that judge signed our divorce decree Adriana became like a cancer in my heart. It’s eating me alive. I’m going to strangle her with my own hands.”

  Roldán laughed. “If you do, blondie here will write a book about it. And you’ll become a famous buffoon in the United States.”

  Eduardo glowered in my direction. “If blondie writes a book about me I’ll strangle him with my own hands.”

  Hastily, I said, “I’m not going to write a book about you, I promise.”

  Luigi said, “She isn’t worth it. You’re lucky to be free.”

  Eduardo sneered, “What the hell would a burnt face like you know about women?”

  Luigi eyed Eduardo thoughtfully for a moment but decided not to hit him. Instead, he told Roldán, “Give this moron another cup of black coffee.” He clacked a quarter onto the counter:

  “I’m paying for it.”

  5. Smitten

  On Halloween night I arrived at the empanada stand around eleven P.M. after my stint washing dishes at the Night Owl Café. Half a dozen customers were eating pies while leaning against parked cars nearby. Werewolves, hobgoblins, and Frankensteins still crowded the Village sidewalks. The air smelled like Neapolitan pizza and Italian sausages. Taxicabs honked impatiently in the traffic jams on Bleecker and Mac-Dougal. Roldán wore a Lone Ranger mask and a cowboy hat. He had taped black cardboard bats and orange jack-o’-lanterns to the walls inside the kiosk. A record was playing on the portable Victrola he often brought down from his apartment, which was three floors above the kiosk in the same building. The cook owned a vast collection of tangos on old 78s featuring Argentina’s legendary crooner, Carlos Gardel.

  I opened the door to the stand and slipped into the alley beside Luigi. He had on a beautiful face mask that he must have made himself. His cheeks were unblemished and rosy, his forehead white as snow, his chin sweet and clean. I ordered a coffee and splurged on a pastelito. Roldán gave me a lollipop skull from Mexico for free. Luigi was already sucking on one.

  Carlos the Artist came by wearing an atomic bomb costume fashioned from painted cardboard. Beside him Alfonso looked nutty in a beret, oversized vertigo spectacles, and a pair of plastic buckteeth. They carried shopping bags full of goodies obtained from trick-or-treating in Times Square.

  “Eduardo was with us,” Carlos said. He took off his nose cone, ordered a mate and a beef empanada, and snatched a lollipop skull from the box which was almost empty. His handlebar mustache was dyed bright red.

  Alfonso removed his teeth and zany eyewear. He fetched his real glasses from a pocket and fitted them on carefully, blinking at us, focusing. Then he jumped back, startled, but only in jest. “Yikes, Luigi, you scared me.”

  “Eduardo can’t stop bitching about Adriana,” Carlos said. “He’s going nuts over a woman he hates and isn’t even married to anymore.”

  “Have a little sympathy, man.” Alfonso quoted Pascal: “‘The heart has its reasons which even reason does not understand.’”

  Carlos said, “It’s not his heart, it’s the ego attached to his penis.”

  Alfonso said, “So what? I myself have a comparable dilemma. I’m torn between two women in Argentina who wish to be hitched to me. Renata is glamorous, passionate, and very unstable. I love her but she’s crazy. Sofía is an even-keeled lady, a longtime friend whom I like but do not love. Yet I think it’s her I will wind up with, much to my personal dismay.”

  Carlos scoffed, “That makes about as much sense as Eduardo’s attitude toward Adriana.”

  “Not so fast, amigo.” Alfonso dipped a wooden ice cream spoon into his little dulce de leche cup and licked off the caramel paste. “If I marry beautiful, tempestuous Renata, I am doomed. We’ll end up in a loony bin together. But if I marry Sofía, I’ll have a comfortable house and somebody to bring me my pipe and slippers. I’ll eat well, live longer, and be a better mathematician. And eventually I’ll forget Renata and learn to love Sofía.”

  I drummed up the courage to venture this opinion: “I think passion is more important than security.”

  Alfonso laughed and threw an arm around my shoulders. “Blondie, what could you possibly know about passion or security?”

  Suddenly those boys had things to do and they disappeared, leaving me alone with Roldán. But before we could start a conversation a white limousine double-parked nearby and Chuy hopped out dressed in a red velvet devil suit. He ran to the kiosk, shouting, “Four chicken pies, chubby, and make it snappy! I’ve got three pibas in that meat wagon and we’re late for a fiesta.” He put a twenty on the window ledge. “Throw in four Cokes and straws and keep the change.”

  Chuy yanked a bunch of napkins from the aluminum dispenser and grabbed one of the Cokes Roldán had slapped onto the window ledge. “Help me, Hemingway, I’ve only got one hand,” Chuy ordered. I picked up the other sodas and followed him to the limo.

  Two of the girls wore full costumes; one was a tiger outfit, the other a black panther. The third girl was Cathy Escudero. She had on a flowery blue flamenco dress and no face mask. One hand held an open pink fan and she was smoking a cigarette.

  “Apurate, manco,” Cathy snapped at Chuy. “We can’t be late.
I do my number at midnight.”

  “Hold your water, kid, we’ll get there.”

  I went back to the kiosk, wrapped three empanadas carefully in napkins, and carried them to the girls.

  “Gracias,” said the tiger, “muy amable.”

  “Te agradezco, Yankee,” said the panther.

  Cathy growled, “If this drips grease on my dress I’ll strangle somebody.”

  Chuy hopped into the limo, shouted “Vámonos!” to the chauffeur, and they took off.

  Roldán wiped his pudgy fingers on his apron and said, “That guy puts me in a black mood.” He was huffing from exertion.

  “Did you see the flamenco dancer?” I asked.

  “How could I see her?” he grumbled. “I was cooking.”

  6. La Petisa

  During the second week of November, Gino showed up for his night of work at the kiosk accompanied by a girl he introduced as his girlfriend, a half-pint ebullient chatterbox with dimples who wore slacks and a green Swiss hat with a badger brush in the band. Because she was small everyone called her La Petisa—which means “shorty.”

  “I’m a wanderer,” she said. “I speak Spanish, French, English, and Italian, so you can see I have been around the block. My favorite, however, is French. I love Gino, of course, but his home is a pigsty.”

  Paying no attention to her, Gino prepared some empanadas for three elderly Italians smoking cigars while standing at the window: each of them wore a gray fedora.

  “I do not understand how one who is as handsome as Gino could let his apartment become such a quilombo,” La Petisa continued. “Look how well he dresses. Yet at home his clothes are lying everywhere, hanging over the radiators, slung under the bed, fallen off hangers onto the closet floor. The only furniture in his dump is a single mattress, no sheets, and the sink is always full of dirty dishes. The first thing I did when I arrived last week was buy a broom. I am going to whip that hellhole into shape.”

  “I’m going to whip you into shape if you don’t shut up.” Gino dropped three more beef and quince empanadas into the sizzling bin of fat.

  “Hah.” La Petisa jutted her tiny chin at him. “He who cannot even speak English is telling moi to ferme ma gueule? Tu peux bien te taire toi-même, Gino, gros oeuf.”

  Alfonso said, “Hey, that’s impolite.”

  “Relax, the fool doesn’t mind,” she replied in English. “He can’t understand French. Or English. He is completely vacant between the ears. But he’s pretty, n’est-ce pas?”

  Alfonso said, “What does it accomplish to speak one language or ten if you remain a barbarian in every lingo?”

  “I’m not a barbarian, profe, I’m a lover.”

  “Then why do you talk crap to Gino in a foreign language when you know he only speaks Spanish?”

  “It’s a joke and he’s a grown-up,” La Petisa answered.

  “No, it’s not such a joke. To a kid it would be funny and he might understand. But adults are really sub-children and much too sensitive to absorb the mocking you give Gino.”

  “Oh hush, you’re way too serious.” La Petisa kissed Alfonso’s cheek. “Truce, profe, I can’t bear enemies. Please shake my hand.”

  They shook hands. Gino gave her a glower so she wouldn’t kiss me, too. La Petisa said, “As soon as I get our crib cleaned up we’ll have a big party with mate, empanadas, vino, and a parrilla. I’m a great chef. I can cook in five languages, you know.”

  “She can do something else in five languages, too.” Gino winked at us as he set the dripping empanadas onto a paper towel on the window ledge for the Italians. They paid, bit off the pie tops, shook in Tabasco sauce, tipped their fedoras politely, and wandered north on MacDougal weaving calmly through the tourists.

  Alfonso and I trailed after them. We ambled past shabby trinket shops and Johnny’s Italian Newsstand. In front of us a guy with a guitar entered the Gaslight to play for tips. Standing under the Washington Square arch we gazed at the stormy sky for a minute. Leaves had fallen off all the trees.

  “Dammit, friend, I’m horny,” Alfonso admitted. “I envy Gino. I can’t stand it that Renata and Sofía are so far away in Argentina. I wish I had a woman.”

  “Me too,” I said bravely, thinking about Cathy Escudero.

  A cold rain began to fall and pedestrians ran by shielding their heads with folded newspapers.

  Alfonso groaned: “Qué soledad sin descanso!”

  What a loneliness without end.

  7. Apologies

  Luigi couldn’t bear it that Gino was screwing La Petisa.

  Alfonso did not understand. “What’s it to you?”

  “She should be with me because I like her. I can’t help it. If only she could see beyond my burnt face, I know that she’d love my soul.”

  “Gino’s good-looking,” Alfonso pointed out realistically. “He’s big and strong. A natural magnet for women.”

  “I was more handsome than that dumb ox. He’s a papiermâché human being who is empty inside. I am the real thing. I read books, I go to movies, I can talk about Sartre and Miguel Ángel Asturias. I am a passionate and relevant man. Gino is a putz.”

  Alfonso draped an arm around Luigi’s shoulders. “But you’re short and you have a scary face. One day you’ll land your woman, but she will be a rare specimen, and you’ll have to watch out she doesn’t bore you to death with compassion.”

  “No,” Luigi said. “I want this one. Right now.”

  “You can’t have her,” Alfonso said. “God doesn’t hate you enough.”

  Popeye was growing bored with Luigi’s rant. “Che, calm down, boludo. There’s not a máquina on the globe that’s worth blowing a gasket over.”

  Luigi spit at him.

  Popeye looked down at the front of his shirt, horrified. Then he looked up at Luigi, who was looking at Popeye, appalled by what he’d done. Popeye looked over at Roldán, who shrugged and rolled his eyes. So the sailor man looked at me.

  “Did you see that, blondie?”

  Paralyzed, I did not know what to say.

  Popeye appealed to Alfonso: “What did he do that for?”

  “I don’t know,” the professor said. “Ask Luigi.”

  Popeye said, “Why did you do that, Luigi?”

  “Because I’m an asshole,” Luigi replied, thoroughly contrite. “I’ll buy you a new shirt, marinero. I’m sorry. I apologize.”

  “It’s okay,” Popeye said. “I didn’t mean to be so obnoxious, quemado. It was really my fault.”

  Luigi said, “No, no, I’m the guy who is ashamed and needs to make amends. I lost control. There’s no excuse …”

  Alfonso hoisted an imaginary violin and began to play it.

  8. A Desperate Request

  I typed all morning and half the afternoon on Thanksgiving, then went for a walk up West Broadway. It was a cold, windy day beneath an overcast sky. On Bleecker Street I turned left and headed past the Village Gate and the Greenwich Hotel, a flophouse. The empanada stand was closed and Roldán had taped an announcement in Spanish to the plywood window shutter:

  DAY OF THANKS

  Come upstairs if you are hungry.

  There is safety in numbers.

  I climbed three flights to his door and knocked loudly. Presently the fat man opened up, saying, “Bienvenido, blondie. Mi casa es tu casa.”

  He wore a filthy T-shirt, baggy boxer shorts, old blue flip-flops. The apartment was very hot; I began perspiring like an empanada in the grease bin. I followed him to the kitchen where an enormous turkey sat on a platter on the table. He indicated a chair for me and settled down on the other side with the bird between us. There was an open bottle of wine and he poured me some.

  “Take whatever meat you need, muchacho. It’s a big bird. Want me to cut a chunk for you?”

  “No. I can handle it.” Being alone with Roldán made me uncomfortable. His TV was tuned to a football game.

  “Have any of the patota been by?” I asked.

  “No, nobody from the gang. T
hey’re all out eating with Pilgrims who intend to shoot them later on.” He chuckled.

  I felt tongue-tied. Roldán was vaguely soused and had a slight lisp. His clothes were soaked through with sweat. Huge droplets of salty moisture had gathered across his forehead, creating rivulets down to his cheeks. I filled my plate with turkey and stuffing, cranberry sauce, a sweet potato. Then I raised my glass in a toast:

  “Salud, amor, dinero—”

  “—y muchisimo tiempo para gastarlos.”

  Health, love, money … and all the time in the world to spend them.

  The cook proffered his own glass with awkward gusto, slopping out a few drops. Then we consumed food quietly until he asked me, “Why aren’t you eating with your family?”

  “They live far away in California.”

  I asked him about his own family.

  “My mother died when I was three. My father shot himself with an antique firearm. I lived with my grandmother until she tossed me out. They are all dead and buried, rest in peace.”

  “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “Eleven. We split up early. Seven of us survived, but I lost track when I was still very young. You know, during the Depression.”

  When I inquired, “Have you ever been married?” Roldán laughed, saying, “Good God, no.” Yet he dug into a back pocket for his wallet, removing from it a tattered arcade photograph rubbed almost illegible. He handed it over to me. I could barely make out a youngster with an angelic face framed by curly blonde hair.

  “A long time ago I fell in love with that girl. We lived in my room at a boardinghouse for six months. Then she left and never returned.”

  He reached for the picture and I gave it back to him. “If she had stuck around I would have married her.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  “I don’t know.” He studied the picture thoughtfully. “We screwed each other like babies and she cuddled every night in my arms. She could fall asleep in ten seconds, and I watched her snooze for hours completely relaxed like a puppy.”