— Well, if he did transform your life then it’s not a frivolous question.
— You asked it in such a casual manner.
— Ask her, seriously, come on, with your chin high and a low voice. Not casual like: Do you want butter or cream cheese on your toast?
— Never ask a Cuban about Fidel. It’s like talking sex with your parents.
— You always talk nationalities.
— Because Chicanos don’t have a nation. Wherever I go, I am considered to be the maid of the world. When in Germany, I’m Turkish, when in France, I am Algerian, when in Puerto Rico, I am Dominican. You know, she’s not asking you a frivolous question. She honestly wants to know what you think of Fidel.
— I refuse to be baited by a flippant tongue.
— Do you have a gut feeling about him. If he transformed your life, you must have a gut feeling about him. That’s what I want to hear. But no, you are afraid I am going to judge you: reaccionaria o revolucionaria. But no, I just want honest, goddamn guts — do you have vísceras. Háblame desde tus vísceras, desde tu exilio, desde tu transformación.
— Don’t psychoanalyze me.
— I hate psychoanalysis.
— I don’t, it’s a very serious discipline.
— Then I’m going to tell you what you think of Fidel.
— It’s a complex issue.
— I’ll give you a complex answer: Es un Cabrón, con C mayúscula, pero ha hecho muchas cosas buenas por los cubanos. That’s what your guts say.
— Don’t speak for my guts. You don’t know me.
— Don’t pick on her. Let her finish her thoughts.
— She has no thoughts. And you, chicana mía, qué piensas de lo que está pasando en México.
— So far from God, so close to the United States. I am the maid of the world. I am married to a white man now, but I don’t reap the fruits of his privilege. When we go to a restaurant, they still seat us near the kitchen, now my white man has become red, because he married the maid of the world. I am the one who holds up the lines at airports and bus terminals. I am always the suspect, and my baby is strip-searched because he looks like me, he is the only baby who is busted.
— I want to know what this has to do with identities.
— Poets and Anarchists are always the first to go.
— Where.
— To the front line. Wherever it is.
— Me encanta cuando se va en un trance. I long for those stretches of glazed silence.
–¿Cómo es? Así.
— No, así. Wide open without blinking. Only then can I slip into bed and light up the set without any trepidation.
— No sé cómo la aguantas. Cómo no peleas por tus derechos. Hasta en la India, las mujeres ven televisión, si la tienen. No le amamantes el vicio de mecerse. Eso lo que hace es separarla más de la sociedad. No ve televisión. No lee los periódicos. How can she write if she doesn’t know what’s happening in the world. She should go to jury-duty. Or town hall. I bet she doesn’t even vote. If she would get a job. I offered her a job as a messenger. I need someone to run visas to Rockefeller Plaza. Fifty bucks a pop, under the table, papi. Pero no quiere trabajar tampoco. Es una dormilona, verdad. Se despierta tarde. A qué hora.
— Mumi, ella lee toda la noche.
— Eso no es trabajo, hun, eso es vagancia. Eso se hereda, como la borrachera. Mira a su padre, sentado en un sofá leyendo el periódico todo el día. Mientras que su esposa tiene que contar las habichuelas. Y además servirle el arroz.
— Rocking in children is a sign of loneliness.
— Es un peligro. She has to exercise her brain or she’ll end up como su tía Violeta, con Alzheimer’s porque eso se hereda también. Tú que hablas de sus trances, negrito, si no hay más que hablar con ella para saber que siempre está en Plutón. Cinco, verdad, son cinco. Es como Sybil. Si no le gusta lo que están diciendo, se desconecta y se agarra del próximo personaje. Shielding herself from la soledad que sufrió de niña. Pero yo estaba allí de testigo. Hace de una gotita una inundación.
— It doesn’t matter if it’s true, it only matters that she believes it’s true.
— You’re doing her no favor by humoring her. It’s all a lie. Encourage her to write about her past, but afterwards, show it to me, and I’ll chop her demons down to size. She has to confront reality in black and white. Look how she is always twirling her hair and rocking like a goosey girl. And yet, she is such a powerful public speaker. Perfectly calm. Sybil, verdad, papi. La culpa la tiene Doña Juanita que no la dejaba jugar con los otros niños. We used to break into their jardín and shoot los pajaritos with sling shots. I was the best shot. Ella nos miraba desde una ventana. Doña Juanita no la dejaba salir con nosotros. She used to dress in pastels and ruffles. Now look at her. I’m going to buy her a pink sweater from Ferragamo because she looks so pretty in cheerful colors. Why does she always dress in black, like Hamlet, mourning ghosts. Playing the role of a village artist. Insecurity. Why does she have to pay $100 for a haircut. Insecurity. I’ll pulverize her delusions. Calling Lourdes a lesbian. It’s a shame that she has to definirse a ella misma by projecting her sins onto others. She doesn’t like me. Because I tell her:
— Cachapera, ven acá, mírate a ti misma en mis ojos.
— No gracias, Mumi, tengo mi propio espejo.
— You could be free like me if you go to therapy.
— I don’t want to be like you.
— It’s not what you want to be. It’s what you are. You don’t want to accept yourself as you are.
— It is so if you think so.
— You think so. You think so.
— No, I don’t think so. But if you think so.
— I think so.
— Well, I am not if you think so. I am if I think so. Only, if I think so. Myself is not yourself. And it is not if you think so. Only if I think so. And I don’t think so. So, if you think so, in my book, it is not so. Not if you think so, it is not.
— Era un teatro, con una cortina de terciopelo roja. Tú estabas tocando una guitarra eléctrica. Era la primera vez que tú tocabas en el Radio City, y de las cuerdas de la guitarra salía una sinfonía de Mahler. Yo estaba sentada en la primera fila sola, y detrás de mí, en la segunda fila, no había nadie, excepto una mujer bajita. Había hordes of rockers desorientados detrás de ella. Era algo que nunca habían escuchado — estaban impacientes, no sabían qué hacer: abuchar o aplaudir. Yo estaba apretando mi buena energía, con los puños cerrados y pensando:
— Que todo salga bien, por favor, que vean las salchichas, el reguero, el torbellino, y que se metan dentro de la matriz del fuego. Ayúdanos, Dios, quiérenos. Danos universo, pan, arroz, habichuelas y duende, magia, fuego y el dinero de Allende.
De pronto la bajita en la segunda fila se levantó, y comenzó a cantar con la voz ruda de Mick Jagger. Tú tocabas la guitarra, con los ojos bajos, mirando al suelo, y ella, te dio la espalda, mirando al auditorio, y cantando con la voz de orégano, alzó la mano y los dirigió para que cantaran con ella.
— Vue — lo. Vue-e-e-lo.
Los rockers respondieron con gritos y aplausos:
— Look who it is!
— Vue-e-e-lo—repitió la cantante.
— Vue — lo. Vue-e-e-lo—cantaba el auditorio.
Yo estaba tocando mis sienes, mi cabeza estaba explotando:
— Llueve, llueve, y me mojo.
— Vue — lo. Vue-e-e-lo—she thumbed over her shoulder—Follow the music. Listen.
But, when she pointed at you, you dropped the guitar and ran backstage. The crowds were screaming for her to sing without you.