You sound strange, she said.
I remember Cassandra pressing the hot cleft of her pussy against my leg and me saying, I just miss you.
—
ANOTHER PERFECT SUNNY CARIBBEAN DAY, and the only thing Magda has said is Give me the lotion. Tonight the resort is throwing a party. All guests are invited. Attire’s semiformal, but I don’t have the clothes or the energy to dress up. Magda, though, has both. She pulls on these super-tight gold lamé pants and a matching halter that shows off her belly ring. Her hair is shiny and as dark as night and I can remember the first time I kissed those curls, asking her, Where are the stars? And she said, They’re a little lower, papi.
We both end up in front of the mirror. I’m in slacks and a wrinkled chacabana. She’s applying her lipstick; I’ve always believed that the universe invented the color red solely for Latinas.
We look good, she says.
It’s true. My optimism is starting to come back. I’m thinking, This is the night for reconciliation. I put my arms around her, but she drops her bomb without blinking a fucking eye: tonight, she says, she needs space.
My arms drop.
I knew you’d be pissed, she says.
You’re a real bitch, you know that.
I didn’t want to come here. You made me.
If you didn’t want to come, why didn’t you have the fucking guts to say so?
And on and on and on, until finally I just say, Fuck this, and head out. I feel unmoored and don’t have a clue of what comes next. This is the endgame, and instead of pulling out all the stops, instead of pongándome más chivo que un chivo, I’m feeling sorry for myself, como un parigüayo sin suerte. I’m thinking over and over, I’m not a bad guy, I’m not a bad guy.
Club Cacique is jammed. I’m looking for that girl Lucy. I find the Vice-President and Bárbaro instead. At the quiet end of the bar, they’re drinking cognac and arguing about whether there are fifty-six Dominicans in the major leagues or fifty-seven. They clear out a space for me and clap me on the shoulder.
This place is killing me, I say.
How dramatic. The Vice-President reaches into his suit for his keys. He’s wearing those Italian leather shoes that look like braided slippers. Are you inclined to ride with us?
Sure, I say. Why the fuck not?
I wish to show you the birthplace of our nation.
Before we leave I check out the crowd. Lucy has arrived. She’s alone at the edge of the bar in a fly black dress. Smiles excitedly, lifts her arm, and I can see the dark stubbled spot in her armpit. She’s got sweat patches over her outfit and mosquito bites on her beautiful arms. I think, I should stay, but my legs carry me right out of the club.
We pile in a diplomat’s black BMW. I’m in the backseat with Bárbaro; the Vice-President’s up front driving. We leave Casa de Campo behind and the frenzy of La Romana, and soon everything starts smelling of processed cane. The roads are dark — I’m talking no fucking lights — and in our beams the bugs swarm like a biblical plague. We’re passing the cognac around. I’m with a vice-president, I figure what the fuck.
He’s talking — about his time in upstate New York — but so is Bárbaro. The bodyguard’s suit’s rumpled and his hand shakes as he smokes his cigarettes. Some fucking bodyguard. He’s telling me about his childhood in San Juan, near the border of Haiti. Liborio’s country. I wanted to be an engineer, he tells me. I wanted to build schools and hospitals for the pueblo. I’m not really listening to him; I’m thinking about Magda, how I’ll probably never taste her chocha again.
And then we’re out of the car, stumbling up a slope, through bushes and guineo and bamboo, and the mosquitoes are chewing us up like we’re the special of the day. Bárbaro’s got a huge flashlight, a darkness obliterator. The Vice-President’s cursing, trampling through the underbrush, saying, It’s around here somewhere. This is what I get for being in office so long. It’s only then I notice that Bárbaro’s holding a huge fucking machine gun and his hand ain’t shaking no more. He isn’t watching me or the Vice-President — he’s listening. I’m not scared, but this is getting a little too freaky for me.
What kind of gun is that? I ask, by way of conversation.
A P-90.
What the fuck is that?
Something old made new.
Great, I’m thinking, a philosopher.
It’s here, the Vice-President calls out.
I creep over and see that he’s standing over a hole in the ground. The earth is red. Bauxite. And the hole is blacker than any of us.
This is the Cave of the Jagua, the Vice-President announces in a deep, respectful voice. The birthplace of the Taínos.