2007 - The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (33 page)

And then finally Grod jumped down on his head with both his boots and right before it happened Oscar could have sworn that there was a third man with them and he was standing back behind some of the cane but before Oscar could see his face it was Good Night, Sweet Prince, and he felt like he was falling again, falling straight for Route 18, and there was nothing he could do, nothing at all, to stop it.

The only reason he didn’t layout in that rustling endless cane for the rest of his life was because Clives the evangelical taxista had had the guts, and the smarts, and yes, the goodness, to follow the cops on the sly, and when they broke out he turned on his headlights and pulled up to where they’d last been. He didn’t have a flashlight and after almost half an hour of stomping around in the dark he was about to abandon the search until the morning. And then he heard someone
singing
. A nice voice too, and Clives, who sang for his congregation, knew the difference. He headed toward the source full speed, and then, just as he was about to part the last stalks a tremendous wind ripped through the cane, nearly blew him off his feet, like the first slap of a hurricane, like the blast an angel might lay down on takeoff: and then, just as quickly as it had kicked up it was gone, leaving behind only the smell of burned cinnamon, and there just behind a couple stalks of cane lay Oscar. Unconscious and bleeding out of both ears and looking like he was one finger tap away from dead. Clives tried his best but he couldn’t drag Oscar back to the car alone, so he left him where he was — Just hold on! — drove to a nearby batey, and recruited a couple of Haitian braceros to help him, which took a while because the braceros were afraid to leave the batey lest they get whupped as bad as Oscar by their overseers. Finally Clives prevailed and back they raced to the scene of the crime. This is a big one, one of the braceros cracked. Mucho plátanos, another joked. Mucho mucho phitanos, said a third, and then they heaved him into the backseat. As soon as the door shut, Clives popped his car into gear and was off. Driving fast in the name of the Lord. The Haitians throwing rocks at him because he had promised to give them a ride back to their camp.

Oscar remembers having a dream where a mongoose was chatting with him. Except the mongoose was the Mongoose.

What will it be, muchacho? it demanded. More or less?

And for a moment he almost said less. So tired, and so muchpain — Less! Less! Less! — but then in the back of his head he remembered his family. Lola and his mother and Nena Inca. Remembered how he used to be when he was younger and more optimistic. The lunch box next to his bed, the first thing he saw in the morning.
Planet of the Apes
.

More, he croaked.

— — —, said the Mongoose, and then the wind swept him back into darkness.

Broken nose, shattered zygomatic arch, crushed seventh cranial nerve, three of his teeth snapped off at the gum, concussion.

But he’s still alive, isn’t he? his mother demanded.

Yes, the doctors conceded.

Let us pray, La Inca said grimly. She grabbed Beli’s hands and lowered her head. If they noticed the similarities between Past and Present they did not speak of it.

He was out for three days.

In that time he had the impression of having the most fantastic series of dreams, though by the time he had his first meal, a caldo de pollo, he could not, alas, remember them. All that remained was the image of an Aslan-like figure with golden eyes who kept trying to speak to him but Oscar couldn’t hear a word above the blare of the merengue coming from the neighbor’s house.

Only later, during his last days, would he actually remember one of those dreams. An old man was standing before him in a ruined bailey, holding up a book for him to read. The old man had a mask on. It took a while for Oscar’s eyes to focus, but then he saw that the book was blank.

The book is blank. Those were the words La Inca’s servant heard him say just before he broke through the plane of unconsciousness and into the universe of the Real.

That was the end of it. As soon as moms de León got a green light from the doctors she called the airlines. She wasn’t no fool; had her own experience with these kinds of things. Put it in the simplest of terms so that even in his addled condition he could understand. You, stupid worthless no-good hijo-de-la-gran-puta, are going home.

No, he said, through demolished lips. He wasn’t fooling, either. When he first woke up and realized that he was still alive, he asked for Ybón. I love her, he whispered, and his mother said, Shut up, you! Just shut up!

Why are you screaming at the boy? La Inca demanded.

Because he’s an idiot.

The family doctora ruled out epidural hematoma but couldn’t guarantee that Oscar didn’t have brain trauma. (She was a cop’s girlfriend? Tío Rudolfo whistled. I’ll vouch for the brain damage.) Send him home right now, the doctora said, but for four days Oscar resisted any attempt to pack him up in a plane, which says a lot about this fat kid’s fortitude; he was eating morphine by the handful and his grill was in
agony
, he had an around-the-clock quadruple migraine and couldn’t see squat out of his right eye; motherfucker’s head was so swolen he looked like John Merrick Junior and anytime he attempted to stand, the ground whisked right out from under him. Christ in a handbasket! he thought. So this is what it felt like to get your ass
kicked
. The pain just wouldn’t stop rolling, and no matter how hard he tried he could not command it. He swore never to write another fight scene as long as he lived. It wasn’t all bad, though; the beating granted him strange insights; he realized, rather unhelpfully, that had he and Ybón not been serious the capitán would probably never have fucked with him. Proof positive that he and Ybón had a relationship. Should I celebrate, he asked the dresser, or should I cry? Other insights? One day while watching his mother tear sheets off the beds it dawned on him that the family curse he’d heard about his whole life might actually be
true
.

Fukú.

He rolled the word experimentally in his mouth.
Fuck you
.

His mother raised her fist in a fury but La Inca intercepted it, their flesh slapping. Are you mad? La Inca said, and Oscar couldn’t tell if she was talking to his mother or to him.

As for Ybón, she didn’t answer her pager, and the few times he managed to limp to the window he saw that her Pathfinder wasn’t there. I love you, he shouted into the street. I love you! Once he made it to her door and buzzed before his tío realized that he was gone and dragged him back inside. At night all Oscar did was lie in bed and suffer, imagining all sorts of horrible
Sucesos-style
endings for Ybón. When his head felt like it was going to explode he tried to reach out to her with his telepathic powers.

And on day three she came. While she sat on the edge of his bed his mother banged pots in the kitchen and said
puta
loud enough for them to hear.

Forgive me if I don’t get up, Oscar whispered. I’m having slight difficulties with my cranium.

She was dressed in white, and her hair was still wet from the shower, a tumult of brownish curls. Of course the capitán had beaten the shit out of her too, of course she had two black eyes (he’d also put his.44 Magnum in her vagina and asked her who she
really
loved). And yet there was nothing about her that Oscar wouldn’t have gladly kissed. She put her fingers on his hand and told him that she could never be with him again. For some reason Oscar couldn’t see her face, it was a blur, she had retreated completely into that other plane of hers. Heard only the sorrow of her breathing. Where was the girl who had noticed him checking out a flaquita the week before and said, half joking, Only a dog likes a bone, Oscar. Where was the girl who had to try on five different outfits before she left the house? He tried to focus his eyes but what he saw was only his love for her.

He held out the pages he’d written. I have so much to talk to you about—

Me and — are getting married, she said curtly.

Ybón, he said, trying to form the words, but she was already gone.

Se acabó. His mother and his abuela and his tío delivered the ultimatum and that was that. Oscar didn’t look at the ocean or the scenery as they drove to the airport. He was trying to decipher something he’d written the night before, mouthing the words slowly. It’s beautiful today, Clives remarked. He looked up with tears in his eyes. Yes, it is.

On the flight over he sat between his tío and his moms. Jesus, Oscar, Rudolfo said nervously. You look like they put a shirt on a turd.

His sister met them at JFK and when she saw his face she cried and didn’t stop even when she got back to my apartment. You should see Mister, she sobbed. They tried to
kill
him.

What the fuck, Oscar, I said on the phone. I leave you alone for a couple days and you almost get yourself slabbed? His voice sounded muffled. I kissed a girl, Yunior. I finally kissed a girl.

But, O, you almost got yourself killed.

It wasn’t completely egregious, he said. I still had a few hit points left.

But then, two days later, I saw his face and was like: Holy shit, Oscar. Holy fucking shit.

He shook his head. Bigger game afoot than my appearances.

He wrote out the word for me:
fukú
.

Travel light. She extended her arms to embrace her house, maybe the whole world.

He returned home. He lay in bed, he healed. His mother so infuriated she wouldn’t look at him.

He was a complete and utter wreck. Knew he loved her like he’d never loved anyone. Knew what he should be doing making like a Lola and flying back. Fuck the capitán. Fuck Grundy and Grod. Fuck everybody. Easy to say in the rational day but at night his balls turned to ice water and ran down his fucking legs like piss. Dreamed again and again of the cane, the terrible cane, except now it wasn’t him at the receiving end of the beating, but his sister, his mother, heard them shrieking, begging for them to stop, please God
stop
, but instead of racing toward the voices, he
ran away!
Woke up
screaming
.
Not me
.
Not me
.

He watched
Virus
for the thousandth time and for the thousandth time teared up when the Japanese scientist finally reached Tierra del Fuego and the love of his life. He read
The Lord of the Rings
for what I’m estimating the millionth time, one of his greatest loves and greatest comforts since he’d first discovered it, back when he was nine and lost and lonely and his favorite librarian had said, Here, try this, and with one suggestion changed his life. Got through almost the whole trilogy, but then the line ‘and out of Far Harad black men like half-trolls’ and he had to stop, his head and heart hurting too much.

Six weeks after the Colossal Beat down he dreamed about the cane again. But instead of bolting when the cries began, when the bones started breaking, he summoned all the courage he ever had, would ever have, and forced himself to do the one thing he did not want to do, that he could not bear to do.

He listened.

This happened in January. Me and Lola were living up in the Heights, separate apartments — this was before the whitekids started their invasion, when you could walk the entire length of Upper Manhattan and see not a single yoga mat. Me and Lola weren’t doing that great. Plenty I could tell you, but that’s neither here nor there. All you need to know is that if we talked once a week we were lucky, even though we were nominally boyfriend and girlfriend. All my fault, of course. Couldn’t keep my rabo in my pants, even though she was the most beautiful fucking girl in the world.

Anyway, I was home that week, no call from the temp agency, when Oscar buzzed me from the street. Hadn’t seen his ass in weeks, since the first days of his return. Jesus, Oscar, I said. Come up, come up. I waited for him in the hall and when he stepped out of the elevator I put the mitts on him. How are you, bro? I’m copacetic, he said. We sat down and I broke up a dutch while he filled me in. I’m going back to Don Bosco soon.

Word? I said. Word, he said. His face was still fucked up, the left side a little droopy.

You wanna smoke?

I might partake. Just a little, though. I would not want to cloud my faculties.

That last day on our couch he looked like a man at peace with himself. A little distracted but at peace. I would tell Lola that night that it was because he’d finally decided to live, but the truth would turn out to be a little more complicated. You should have seen him. He was so thin, had lost all the weight and was still, still.

What had he been doing? Writing, of course, and reading. Also getting ready to move from Paterson. Wanting to put the past behind him, start a new life. Was trying to decide what he would take with him. Was allowing himself only ten of his books, the core of his canon (his words), was trying to pare it all down to what was necessary. Only what I can carry. It seemed like another odd Oscar thing, until later we would realize it wasn’t.

And then after an inhale he said: Please forgive me, Yunior, but I’m here with an ulterior motive. I wish to know if you could do me a favor.

Anything, bro. Just ask it.

He needed money for his security deposit, had a line on an apartment in Brooklyn. I should have thought about it — Oscar never asked anybody for money — but I didn’t, fell over myself to give it to him. My guilty conscience.

We smoked the dutch and talked about the problems me and Lola were having. You should never have had carnal relations with that Paraguayan girl, he pointed out. I know, I said, I know.

She loves you.

I know that.

Why do you cheat on her, then?

If I knew that, it wouldn’t be a problem.

Maybe you should try to find out.

He stood up.

You ain’t going to wait for Lola?