“Because you’ll understand that nothing more can be done.”
I understand her.
This halfway house was, originally, a six-room house. Perhaps it was once inhabited by one of those typical American families who fled Miami when the Cubans fleeing communism began to arrive. Now the halfway house has twelve tiny rooms, with two beds in each room. In addition, it has an ancient television set that’s always broken, and a kind of living room with twenty folding chairs that are falling apart. There are three bathrooms, but one of these (the best one) is reserved for the boss, Mr. Curbelo. The toilets in the other two are always clogged since some of the residents stick in them old shirts, sheets, curtains and other cloth materials that they use to wipe their behinds. Mr. Curbelo does not give us toilet paper, although he is supposed to by law. There is a dining room, outside the house, tended by a Cuban mulata with scores of religious necklaces and bracelets whose name is Caridad. But she doesn’t cook. If she were to cook, Mr. Curbelo would have to pay her an additional thirty dollars per week, and that’s something Mr. Curbelo would never do. So Mr. Curbelo himself, with his bourgeois little face, is the one who makes the stew every day. He makes it in the simplest way, by taking a handful of peas or lentils and dropping them (plop!) in a pressure cooker. Maybe he adds a little garlic powder. The rest, rice and a main dish, comes from a home delivery service called “Sazón,” whose owners, knowing they’re dealing with a nut house, pick the worst they have and send it over any which way in two huge greasy pots. They should send enough food to feed twenty-three people, but they only send enough for eleven. Mr. Curbelo thinks this is enough and no one complains. But if a complaint does arise, then Mr. Curbelo, without even looking at the person, says, “You don’t like it? Well if you don’t like it, leave!” But … who’s going to leave? Life on the streets is hard. Even for crazy people whose brains are on the moon. And Mr. Curbelo knows this and repeats, “Leave, quickly!” But nobody leaves. The complainer lowers his eyes, grabs his spoon and goes back to swallowing his raw lentils silently.
Because in the halfway house, no one has anyone. Old Ida has two kids in Massachusetts who want nothing to do with her. Quiet Pino is all alone and doesn’t have anyone at all in this huge country. René and Pepe, the two mentally retarded guys, could never live with their weary relatives. Old one-eyed Reyes has a daughter in Newport that he hasn’t seen in fifteen years. Hilda, the old lady with cystitis, doesn’t even know her own last name. I have an aunt … but “nothing more can be done.” Mr. Curbelo knows all of this. He knows it well. That’s why he is so sure that no one will leave the halfway house and that he will continue to receive the checks for $314 that the American government sends for each one of the crazy people in his hospice. There are twenty-three nuts: $7,222. Plus, with another $3,000 that comes from I don’t know what supplemental source, it comes to $10,222 a month. That’s why Mr. Curbelo has a well-appointed house in Coral Gables and a farm with racehorses. That’s why he spends his weekends perfecting the fine art of deep-sea fishing. That’s why his kids’ photos appear in the local paper on their birthdays, and he goes to society parties wearing tails and a bow tie. Now that my aunt is gone, his face, once warm, eyes me with cold indifference.
“Come along,” he says dryly. He takes me down a narrow hallway to a room, number four, where another crazy guy is sleeping with a snore that reminds me of an electric saw.
“This is your bed,” he says, without looking at me. “This is your towel,” and he points at a threadbare towel full of yellowish stains. “This is your closet, and this is your soap,” and he takes half a piece of white soap from his pocket and hands it to me. He doesn’t say another word. He looks at his watch, realizes how late it is and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Then I put my suitcase on the floor, place my small television set on top of the armoire, open the window wide and sit on the bed assigned to me with the book of English poets in my hands. I open it at random, to a poem by Coleridge:
God save thee, ancient mariner!
From the fiends that plague thee thus! —
“Why look’st thou so?” —With my cross bow
I shot the Albatross.
The door to the room suddenly opens and a robust figure, with skin as dirty as puddle water, comes in. He has a can of beer in his hand and takes several sips from it while giving me the once-over out of the corner of his eye.
“You’re the new guy?” he asks after a while. “Yes.”
“I’m Arsenio, the guy who takes care of things when Curbelo leaves.”
“Okay.”
He looks at my suitcase, my books and stops at my small black-and-white TV set.
“Does it work?”
“Yes.”
“How much did it cost you?"
“Sixty dollars.”
He takes another swig, without taking the corner of his eye off of my TV set. Then he says, “Are you going to eat?”
“Yes.”
“Then get going. The food’s ready.”
He turns around and leaves the room, still drinking from his can. I’m not hungry, but I should eat. I only weigh 115 pounds, and I tend to get woozy. People on the street sometimes yell “Worm!” at me. I throw the book of English poets on the bed and button up my shirt. My pants swim around my waist. I should eat.
I head toward the dining room.
Miss Caridad, the one in charge of distributing food to the crazy people, points out the only open spot to me. It’s a seat next to old one-eyed Reyes, and across from Hilda, the decrepit old hag whose clothes reek of urine, and Pepe, the older of the two mentally retarded men. They call this table “the untouchables’ table,” since no one wants to be with them when it’s time to eat. Reyes eats with his hands, and his enormous glass eye, as big as a shark’s eye, constantly oozes watery pus that falls down to his chin like a large yellow tear. Hilda also eats with her hands and does so reclined in her chair, like a marchioness eating delicacies, so that half of the food ends up on her clothes. Pepe, the retarded guy, eats with an enormous spoon that looks like a spade. He chews slowly and loudly with his toothless jaw, and his whole face, up to his large popping eyes, is full of peas and rice. I bring the first spoonful to my mouth and chew slowly. I chew once, three times, and then I realize that I can’t swallow it. I spit everything out onto my plate and leave. When I get to my room, I notice that my TV set is missing. I look for it in my closet and under the bed, but it’s not there. I go in search of Mr. Curbelo, but the person sitting at his desk now is Arsenio, the second in command. He takes a swig from his can of beer and informs me,
“Curbelo’s not here. What’s up?”
“My TV set has been stolen.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he moves his head in despair. “That was Louie,” he then says. “He’s the thief.”
“Where’s Louie?”
“In room number three.”
I go to room number three and find Louie the American, who howls like a wolf when he sees me come in.
“TV?” I say.
“Go to hell!” He exclaims, furious. He howls again. He throws himself at me and pushes me out of the room. Then he shuts the door with a loud slam.
I look at Arsenio. He smiles. But he hides it quickly, covering his face with the beer can.
“A sip?” he asks, holding the can out to me.
“No thanks, I don’t drink. When will Mr. Curbelo be in?”
“Tomorrow.”