Interview with Ian Rose
Upon leaving Pro Bono’s office, Rose decided to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan instead of taking the subway. Very nice, the whole thing. A splendid view, impressive feat of engineering, gentle sunlight, and pretty girls who jogged past him and made it difficult for him to concentrate. “Look, Cleve,” he said, “look at all the lovely girls, and all about your age.” The warm breeze and the bright day partly mitigated the bad taste left by the hostile encounter, and, replaying it, Rose realized that the most difficult thing had not been to put up with the irritability or lack of understanding from the guy — after all, he had been able to draw out a good part of the information he needed. The hardest thing had been finding out María Paz was no longer in Manninpox. Up until that time he had not even considered going to visit her, at least not seriously, but the news made him feel as if he suddenly was losing her, that her trail was vanishing. In the manuscript, she had mentioned that despite everything it had been a relief to be taken into Manninpox with a number and a photograph, because it allowed her to exist anew on the face of the earth, have an identity once again, even as a prisoner, and a direction, even if in prison. Would leaving Manninpox then mean she was returning to the limbo of the disappeared? For Rose, losing her trail meant losing Cleve definitively.
He had a second appointment and the time was growing near. In the upper left-hand corner of the manila envelope from Mrs. Socorro Arias de Salmon was her address, 237 Castleton, Staten Island, NY 10031. Rose had sent her a brief note asking her if he could visit. A few days later, he received the response: Mrs. Salmon would receive him at her house. After the unpleasant experience with Pro Bono, Rose had to push himself to board the bright-orange Staten Island ferry on Whitehall Street in Lower Manhattan.
María Paz mentioned the landfill in her manuscript, recounting how she had been on Staten Island taking her surveys about cleaning habits. It was Mrs. Socorro Arias de Salmon who had agreed to introduce her to her neighbors, serving as a contact in the area, because someone who lived in the area and served as an introduction was priceless; otherwise, doors would be slammed in your face and it was impossible to accomplish anything.
Socorro’s home, built in the twenties, was made of weathered wood, with two stories and a gabled roof, a yellow canvas awning over the porch, and a small front garden with two bushes shaped like swans. Socorro, a short woman with a face hard to describe because it was so innocuous, wore a shiny beige polyester outfit with a white embroidered blouse. She reached out a small cold hand toward Rose, placing on a nearby table a can of floral room deodorizer she had just sprayed to try to hide the stench that still came from the Fresh Kills area. The inside was very clean, like a dollhouse that an industrious girl keeps neat and spotless, and it made Rose think about the contrast between the neatness inside, of the private, and the ubiquity of the former garbage dump, as if the opposing elements clean and dirty were just another expression of the tension between the public and the private.
“Did you see the Statue of Liberty?” she asked him.
Of course he had seen it, impossible not to, given that the ferry passed right in front of it. Huge, Miss Liberty, with her stiff tunic that was a green the color of time or a salt coating or whatever. Rose thought that one need not bother too much describing that color because there was probably no one in the world who had not seen it, whether in television or in postcards. Watching the profile of the huge monument as the ferry approached it, he found it sad and surreal amid the undulations of that slow-moving haze that surrounded it and at moments made it disappear. María Paz too, Rose imagined, had seen it, and maybe even visited it, buying souvenirs and perhaps paying the extra fee to go up to the crown. He asked himself what kind of symbols the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island and even the Twin Towers would have been for an immigrant who came to America only to end up being locked in a place such as Manninpox.
“Bolivia and I made an offering to Libita,” he heard Socorro say.
“I’m sorry, who?”
“Libita, that’s who, the Statue of Liberty; in my country we call women named Libertad Libita. Anyway, we made our offering to her during the first weeks of spring, tossing a pretty bouquet of Peruvian lilies into the water, because when it came down to it, Libita had treated us like daughters and opened the doors of America. But I never did it again after Bolivia and I grew apart; those things don’t make sense if you don’t share them with someone, depressing otherwise, don’t you think? That’s why you came to see me, right? To talk about Bolivia? That’s what I figured from the note you sent. Welcome to my home, Mr. Rose. Bolivia was a soul sister, my only sister, because I had no other. My family was all boys and one girl. Like sisters, yes sir, we were like sisters, Bolivia and I… till we grew apart, as things happen in life, what can you do? But come in, please, make yourself at home and sit in the living room. It’s a long story and you must be tired.”
“Well, the truth is that I came to talk to you about María Paz, Bolivia’s daughter…”
“Of course, María Paz… don’t tell me that they’re going to publish the book. I knew it! How exciting! I’m so glad I sent you all those pages. I had some reservations and that’s why I hesitated. The girl reveals things that are better left unknown. I imagined that Bolivia would turn over in her grave if she knew her family’s dirty laundry was being aired like that, especially in a book that everyone can read, because some of those bestsellers sell millions. Right? What if the girl hits that lottery? Who would have thought she could write? So they’re going to publish it? I’m so glad I finally decided to send it. She admired you very much. She said that your classes had opened her eyes, that you were marvelous not just as a teacher but as a writer.”
“Oh no, it wasn’t me she admired, it was my son, Cleve,” Rose managed to say. “Cleve died a few months ago. I’m his father. He was a writer, not me, and you sent the manuscript to him, but, well, it came to my house.”
“So you’re not the author of those famous novels?”
“Like I said, that was my son, Cleve, but he passed away.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry, I’ve never had children. Maybe it’s for the best. I could not have withstood the pain of seeing them die. I’m so sorry, please excuse me. But then you didn’t know María Paz?”
“My son is the one who met her, and unfortunately, I’m the one who is alive.”
“Those things happen, Mr. Rose, so sorry. But if you are here, it is because you intend to help her with the book. Or am I mistaken?”
“Not sure I can. I’m actually interested in—”
“Of course, of course,” Socorro said, “you have the right to think it over. How rude of me, you just told me your son died, and I hardly offered my condolences. You must be heartbroken, poor man. I know what the death of a loved one does to you. You should have seen how much I cried at Bolivia’s passing, may she rest in peace, and I’m not supposed to cry because my eyes get very swollen and red. Come, let me truly express my condolences, for a man to die so young. Don’t get me wrong, you’re young yourself, it’s just that…”
“Hold on one second, Mrs. Salmon, hold on. First tell me why you had the manuscript.”
“Because María Paz gave it to me, naturally. I visited her in jail once, with my husband’s approval, of course. He had warned me not to get involved in such things. So what if Bolivia’s oldest daughter wanted to live the life of an outlaw, that was her decision, this was a free country. But my husband insisted that I shouldn’t go sticking my nose into such things. Besides, as a foreigner, it didn’t make sense because they could nab me. ‘Who knows what could happen if they associate you with such scum?’ he grumbled. Anyway, she gave me the packet the one time I visited her; or I should say, they gave it to me on the way out, after closely inspecting it. I should also tell you that she was sad because she could no longer see you, Mr. Rose, she told me so outright, that she was very sad about it. Something had happened in the jail and they had suspended the classes.”