Heart of Scorpio Read online

  I’ll just tell you one thing: you’re worth what you have. That’s how it is and everybody knows it. Don’t come to me with stories about how he’s a great person when he’s sober and how he brought electricity to Palenque and how he’s admired and respected in the world of boxing, nobody cares if he was world champion or was richer than the Pope, it seems to me if you don’t have anything now, you’re worth nothing now.

  Mama comes out of the kitchen with her big multi-colored robe that she bought at the market with a rag wrapped around her head, she brings me a black coffee. I don’t understand why she’s got to dress like a black woman, like people don’t already know. Anyway, those robes are for poor people and to dress like a poor person is just asking to be poor.

  She took a long time bringing me the coffee but I don’t say anything. Mama is a sensitive woman so it’s best to treat her delicately and not point out her faults. She’s got them, like everybody, but in reality they’re excusable.

  I’ll bring your breakfast in just a minute, she says, and disappears into the kitchen again.

  I light a cigarette to go with the black coffee. The breakfast should have already been ready, but I don’t say anything. Sometimes it’s not easy to be so patient but it gets easier with practice.

  You shouldn’t be smoking so early, says Mama, sticking her head out of the kitchen door.

  I don’t say anything and I keep smoking for a while. The coffee’s not that good. I’ve told her a million times that you have to heat the water before putting it in the coffee maker. But since she doesn’t get up early enough she doesn’t have enough time. And she still takes forever to make the coffee and bring out my breakfast. In spite of all that I keep my mouth shut. Mama comes out of the kitchen, passes by me, and opens the window behind me. As she comes back she puts her hand on my shoulder.

  Is it ready? I ask.

  Just about, she says.

  I told you I’ve got a meeting with the lawyer and I’ve got to get to the office earlier than usual, I say.

  I know, son, it’s just about ready, says Mama.

  It’s like an everyday thing, this waiting for breakfast. Of course, if it were up to me I’d have one woman hired right now to ask us what we want for breakfast and another in charge of making the breakfast. That and lots of other things. But Papa never let me take charge of things and Mama always said it was his money.

  Finally Mama comes out with the plates and puts them on the table.

  I need silverware, I say.

  She goes to the kitchen to get silverware and comes back and sits down. We eat for a little while without saying anything. I think about how it would be if we would have done things my way: everything would be very different.

  He didn’t come home to sleep last night, Mama says

  like it’s something new.

  All the better, I say.

  No, son, I don’t sleep well when Milton doesn’t come home to sleep.

  And you don’t sleep well when he does come home, I think. I’m sure you sleep better when he stays away than when he hits you.

  Well, I sleep better when he doesn’t come home for the night, I say.

  Son, don’t say that, he’s your father and his place is here with us in the house, says Mama.

  This isn’t his house, I say.

  This is too his house, if it’s not his house then it’s not mine, either, says Mama.

  Whatever, I say. I sleep better when I don’t have to get up in the middle of the night to calm somebody down.

  Son, you just want to look on the bad side of everything, put yourself on the same level as your father when he’s had too much to drink or he’s taken something, but the only way to help your Papa get better is through prayer.

  Prayer hasn’t done anything for all these years, I think, but I don’t say anything. I’ll tell you what, though: if we had done things differently we’d all be singing a different tune right now.

  This afternoon I’ve got a meeting with him, I hope he shows, I say.

  It’s about the money? asks Mama.

  Yeah, I say, this morning I meet with the lawyer to get the papers drawn up, so Papa’s pension can be administered between you and me, and then I meet with Papa this afternoon so he can sign them.

  Oh, son, says Mama, I don’t know how I feel about leaving your papa without money to eat.

  He’s never spent a dime of his pension on food, I say.

  Don’t talk like that, son, says Mama trying not to sound indignant. She knows I don’t like people raising their voices at me.

  That money, I say, isn’t enough to pay for all the things he breaks every time he shows up here coked out.

  It’s his money, son, says Mama. We live well on what we have.

  We live well because I work, I say.

  She knows that what I make isn’t enough to maintain this house. She made more when she was a maid for rich women in Cartagena. They paid more just to be able to say that the woman that was cleaning the bathrooms or washing the clothes or making lunch was none other than Ángela Iguarán, Milton Olivella’s wife.

  Now, not only does she make less money working as a maid, she works practically for free as a volunteer at the church. I’ve told her a thousand times that this situation of working with the church isn’t going to cut it or at the least the priest could send us one of his maids to make sure breakfast isn’t late every morning, but I don’t say anything. I’d rather she went back to cleaning houses as a maid because she’s not going to find a better paying job and it’s all she knows how to do – work is work and it’s all worth doing. She says she doesn’t need to because we live well, like she doesn’t remember how we lived before.

  I always finish my breakfast before she does. I light a cigarette.

  Don’t smoke so much, son, she says.

  Is there more black coffee? I ask.

  Yes, she says.

  Bring me more, I say.

  Mama gets up and disappears into the kitchen. She comes back with a cup of coffee and puts it in front of me. I smoke and she keeps eating her breakfast for a while.

  Johnny Pitalúa

  And I said, “It was the first advice I gave him, man, to not trust anyone, everybody here either wants to rip you off or to see you go down because they’re jealous.”

  And Blackie Espinosa said, “That’s it, Ol’ Johnny, you can’t even trust your mama, not even your own mama. But that’s how it is, Ol’ Johnny, you know they was never gonna hand over all that money they offered him.”

  And I said, “I’m going to get more fried plantains and another juice. You want something else?”

  And Blackie said, “No, I’m OK right now.”

  And the lady who sold the beans said, “Here you go,” and she gave me a little wrapped up order of fried plantains and a plastic cup of mango juice.

  I paid her and we started walking to the gym.

  They had already told me. I was talking to my wife about this yesterday. I knew they would try to trick the kid, I already know these people, I saw everything they did to Milton, I said. This kid Miguel is really good, a natural athlete, one in a million and he’s white, you understand, educated, and I know that if he does everything I say and lets me teach him everything I know, he’s going to be a world champion. My wife didn’t say anything. The problem with these people is that they want to get you there as rapidly as possible, which ain’t right because they’ll put you in a title fight before you’re ready, look at Milton, when he fought for the first time against the Argentine in . . . let me see . . . seventy one, I was telling my wife . . . he lost. Aha, there in Luna Park, I was with him and he lost, not because the Argentine was better than him, but because he wasn’t ready, you understand, Milton could have beaten him but he couldn’t beat the way those people supported the Argentine. To fight the guy in Argentina was like nothing we had never felt. Milton mentioned it to me and I agreed with him, that the support that guy had in Argentina was something Milton never felt, not even when he was th
e richest black guy in Colombia, the cat that slept with the beauty queens and ate lunch with the presidents. Because the difference is that there were ten thousand Argentines coming to see their guy win. And if there were ten thousand Colombians coming to see Milton fight there were ten thousand hoping to see him lose. That’s why when Milton was a world champion and he fought against the Argentine in Caracas, Venezuela and the guys in the Argentine’s corner threw in the towel because their guy was just suffering for no reason, you understand, I was telling my wife, and the fight had been lost two rounds before and there was no way to come back and win, the guy cried from shame in the ring, like a baby, you understand, cried from shame because it wasn’t just him, it was a country. My wife still didn’t say anything. But that’s what I was telling this kid Miguel, that I would put him on the list of aspiring title holders because I didn’t want to what happened to Milton the first time to happen to him, because getting a second shot ain’t easy, you understand, I was telling my wife that I told this kid Miguel, and the important thing is to arrive at the title fight ready to win. That’s what I told him. It’s a shame that the kid picked dangerous people to represent him. They don’t give a flip about his career, they just want to make money off him, you understand. But my wife didn’t say anything because when I rolled over to look at her she was already asleep.

  And I said, “And what does the kid plan to do?”

  And Blackie said, “I don’t know, Johnny, I really don’t know.”

  And I said, “It really bugs me, you know, because the kid was a natural athlete, like Milton, really something special.”

  We got to the gym and while I looked for my keys to open up, Blackie opened up with his keys. We went around hanging up the heavy bags, adjusting the ropes in the ring, taking out the headgear, organizing the jump ropes and gloves, checking the sandbags, etc. What happened with the kid is that some Venezuelan showed up offering him much more money per fight and a trainer with more experience, you understand, but one thing’s for sure, bro, I don’t buy the part about more experience, maybe better opportunities, but more experience, no way. I’ve seen it all, bro, with Milton I learned it all. And sure, cuz, the kid left, you understand. It’s disrespectful, it’s like a betrayal to be left like that, that easily, but I understand that the kid Miguel is young and he believed he had a straight, easy shot to the title and all the money that goes with it.

  The first who comes to train is Efraim, a rich kid who wants to be a writer and thinks that since Edgar Hemingway, or whoever he was, was a boxer and then a writer that he’s going to do the same. One thing’s for sure, though, nobody gets smarter from being smacked upside the head.

  And Efraim shouts when he enters the gym, “Johnny Pitalúa, the coach.”

  And I say, “There’s ol’ Fren, the smart guy.”

  And Efraim says, “Herman Espinosa, named for a great writer.”

  And Blackie says, “Efraim, named after a queer.”

  And Efraim says, “Or a hairdresser, maybe.”

  And Efraim goes to the locker room to change clothes.

  I always told that kid Miguel, don’t waste your best years, don’t make the same mistakes Milton made. I told him that because I knew that at some point someone was going to come try to take my place and I was wanting to keep going with him, to the top, you understand, as part of the team, not as a friend or even as the guy who discovered him, but as his trainer, you understand.

  And Blackie yells at Efraim when he comes out of the locker room, “Warm up and then two-minute bouts with the heavy bag with one-minute rests for forty minutes.”

  Then I see the Kid Óscar “Hands of yams” Manzur.

  So I say, “Kid Óscar ‘Hands of yams’ Manzur, how’s your mama?”

  And Kid Óscar “Hands of yams” Manzur says, “Good, Mista Johnny, she’s back at home.”

  And I say, “I’m glad, cuz, I’m really glad to hear that.”

  And Kid Óscar “Hands of yams” Manzur says, “Thanks for your concern, Mista Johnny.”

  Milton discovered the kid Miguel when he was working here in the gym. One day he saw him fighting in the street because someone had said something about his mama, or no, let me see, it was because they both liked the same girl. Whatever it was, Milton told him to go to the gym and train because he had potential. Milton used to say that he was his student and that he would be a world champion, but that was when he asked me for twenty-five dollars to buy the kid some gloves and he never showed his face at the gym again.

  And Blackie said hello to Manzur, “It’s the man from Ciénaga de Oro.”

  And Kid Óscar “Hands of yams” Manzur said, “The best dressed, richest black man in Cartagena.”

  And Blackie said, “All right, Manzur, all right.”

  And Efraim said, “Hey Espinosa, somebody told me something about the dudes from over there Ciénaga de Oro, in Manzur’s town.”

  And Blackie, “Yeah, what’d they tell you?”

  And Efraim, “That the men over there are such a bunch of queers that the only thing straight over there was a little mango tree in the plaza that had long since flowered.”

  And everybody laughed except me because I was thinking about the kid Miguel and about how he betrayed us by just up and leaving with those Venezuelans like that.

  And Kid Óscar “Hands of yams” Manzur said, “Now, if you want we can spar in a little bit so you see how a queer can knock your ass out.”

  And Efraim laughed again.

  And I said, “Manzur, a little bit of weights and then the heavy bag.”

  And Kid Óscar “Hands of yams” Manzur said, “I’m not doing weights, Mista Johnny, because of that thing with my shoulder.”

  And I said, “Oh, that’s right, cuz, I forgot. Jump rope for forty minutes and then shadowbox with the weighted gloves and that’ll help your shoulder.”

  * * *

  Milton Olivella raised his gaze toward the bar to check to see if he still had the attention of all the surrounding tables. He looked back at the customers seated behind their drinks and took a step backwards between two tables. Milton glanced at the writer who looked at him in rapt attention and then he squared up in a fighting stance.

  “The fight started for real in the second round,” he repeated. “King came out of his corner straight at me as soon as the bell rang. He was young, you understand, and while I had to fight smart, he had energy to spare. I stood like this; you know how it is, looking straight into his eyes, to make him believe I wasn’t running from him anymore and that I was going to throw hands now. But it was pure acting, a bluff, brotha. I already knew I wasn’t going to be able to just go to punchin’, that I’d have to wait for the right moment. And it worked, you understand, because he was a big dude, you know, he had more reach than me and after I stopped him he didn’t dare come at me straight on.”

  Milton Olivella came closer to the table but he didn’t sit down. He downed a double shot of rum and then he squared up again, this time with his right hand forward squeezing a fist and his left back near his chin. He was as thin as a whisper.

  “Ol’ King threw me a weak overhand and I did a little fake with the body.” Milton took two steps back and stayed close to the table. “So he came at me again and I hit him with an overhand right over his guard and made him step back. He threw me a straight left and I threw another right, but neither of us connected. He came at me and I let him clinch me so I could rest and I waited for the referee to separate us. Plus, I knew that King would be distracted and as soon as he let me go I threw him a straight right to the face and I connected. He took two steps back and I took two forward.”

  Milton sent three consecutive straight punches, alternating hands that shot through the bar’s smoky air and he finished with a hook to an invisible man. The people in the bar smiled when they saw the combination. Milton could hear the roar of the crowd and the shouts of his seconds telling him to keep his distance after the punch. In front of him he saw King throw himself over the r
opes to maintain his balance. The crowd shouted euphorically after the combination. Milton heard the trainer shout, “Cut him off, cut him off, he’s hurt! The right!” Milton got to King again at the ropes with his hands up. Milton fired a straight-uppercut combination that exploded against the gloves of his opponent. He readied a punch looking for an opening in his opponent’s defense, but when he was ready to throw it King was almost behind him. Milton was disgusted with himself for having missed the opportunity and having lost the money that they had promised him if he won the fight.

  “In the ropes he got by me on one side, bro, and when I turned around he was on top of me and he clinched me. Ol’ King was slick, he would hit with his elbows and with his head, you know how it is. This time he didn’t get me because they yelled at me to keep my face back and because I’m no fool I kept my head away until the referee separated us.” The bell rang and Milton went to his corner where his seconds were ready with a folding chair. He sat down and rested his arms on the ropes. His chest went up and down as his lungs fought to fill themselves with what felt like thin air. Avski detected a melancholy smile that momentarily crossed his disfigured face. He also remembered him seated, in another scene, one where he and his wife had seen Olivella on television.

  Olivella circled his cell in the mental hospital like a caged animal. His bloodshot eyes vacantly panned the cameras that fought for a place on the front row. Some reporters asked questions of Olivella to which he barely responded with signs of astonishment. Suddenly his eyes came alive and he started to speak. He spoke an otherworldly tongue that some say comes from the black spells pronounced in African languages. In Palenque only those who are initiated in the magic arts or sciences can speak them.

  The cameramen snapped photos of the fallen angel as fast as their equipment would let them. A staff member, a bearded man in his forties with round glasses and wearing a white lab coat, intervened to save Olivella from the gang of vampires who fed off of his disgrace. While the reporters left the room thanks to the shoves of the doctor, Milton sunk to the floor and leaned back against the bed. There he covered his face and started to cry, alone, orphaned by his glory. Outside Orion shined with the full splendor of a cloudless night. It shined for others, not for the heart of the Scorpio who sat hunched over, sobbing with bloodshot eyes yellow with his own poison.