Heart of Scorpio Read online

  Julián

  Haekermann still hasn’t showed. You would think that being the son of the first Colombian world champion in history would do more for a guy than to get him a job in the sports promotion office in Cartagena. Basically, the fact that my father had been world champion wasn’t worth anything.

  I call Lucero. She doesn’t answer. She said that she wanted us to spend some time apart, wanted to give us some time. She says that she doesn’t have things clear, that she’s afraid of me. I don’t believe she’s got any reason to be afraid of me - it’s just something that happened once, that’s all. It wasn’t my fault; it was just a bad situation: a hard day and an argument with my father. I don’t think that’s a reason to be apart and “give us time.” I bet she’s with someone else. I’ll just say one thing, when someone’s with just one person there’s no room for confusion: they hit the sheets, they talk on the phone two or three times a week and when they’ve got money they get married. That’s it.

  Haeckermann, my boss, shows up. I’ll say one thing for him, he knows how to dress. Today’s he’s all Ralph Lauren from top to bottom. I’ll just tell you one thing: if you’ve got money, you’ve got to show it. Money is for people to see and the best way to do that is with clothes. Money’s not something to throw around on the ground as if it’s going to grow into a mango tree, like my father used to do. When people see you well dressed they know you have class. And that’s the kind of man a woman wants to hit the sheets with, one who’s well dressed.

  You’re here early, Olivella, says my boss.

  I have to leave for a little while in the morning and then again in the afternoon Mister Haekermann, I say.

  Yeah, you were telling me that yesterday, says my boss.

  It’s to sign some papers, I say.

  What papers, Olivella, asks my boss.

  Jews want to know everything. But at least they know how to make money.

  Some . . . some papers about the sale of my father’s property, I say.

  And your father still has something left, asks my boss, I thought he lost it all years ago. Excuse me for saying this to you, but blacks don’t know how to handle money.

  It’s true, he has nothing left, but I don’t say anything. The apartment was the last property my father had but that’s a story I don’t like to remember because if we would have had money it would all have been different, but we didn’t. And we were thrown out in the street like dogs.

  He’s still got what our family has helped him hang on to, I say.

  Haeckermann makes a face and turns around. He always does that when we’re talking too much on work time and he thinks we need to stop talking and get back to work. That’s OK but if he didn’t do that it would be an understandable mistake, it seems to me.

  I’ve already finished arranging everything for the intercollegiate championships, I say.

  Haeckermann turns around and starts to look at the papers. On his left wrist he’s got a little cloth bracelet that says, “I don’t gamble with this hand.” A year ago he almost lost everything. Mama said that nobody says anything about Haeckermann because he’s a Jew and everybody talks about Papa because he’s black. I say no, that the difference is that Haeckermann’s family still lives in Bocagrande and they didn’t throw them out in the street and Haeckermann didn’t wind up begging in the street so he could buy PCP, it seems to me. Because I remember when we moved, that Papa was the first black to live in Bocagrande and that everybody said that in a racist society like Cartagena, which had been one of the world’s primary slave ports, that it was an achievement, an example of how things were changing. But the truth is that the only thing that was important was that we were rich and everybody loved Papa and nobody cared that he was black. I always tell Mama that if we would have done things my way no one would talk bad about Papa and all the women would want to hit the sheets with me.

  That’s fine, says Haeckermann. Everything’s got to be done today for the delegations that are coming to the games.

  I’ll have it done in the afternoon, I say.

  That’s fine, says my boss.

  Johnny Pitalúa

  And then Efraim said, “Tell me about Milton Olivella when he was starting.”

  Efraim always wanted to eat lunch with Blackie Espinosa and me and he always wanted to hear about Milton while we ate.

  And Blackie Espinosa said, “You always go around asking the same stuff.”

  And then Efraim said, “I think I’m going to write a story about Olivella.”

  And I thought about how if someone wrote a story about the kid Miguel when he hits the bigtime they won’t say anything about me.

  And Efraim said, “It’ll be about the fight he had after he had retired.”

  And Blackie Espinosa said, “Aw, come on. So many beautiful moments in Milton’s career and you want to pick the worst one to write about.”

  And Efraim said, “A writer said one time that all the stories of winners are the same, but all the stories of losers are unique, something like that.”

  Then I said, “And why do you need to know how Milton was when he was starting out to tell about his last fight?”

  And Efraim said, “Because something probably happened to him when he was starting out that caused that fight.”

  And Blackie Espinosa said, “Ol’ Johnny, you better tell him to keep him straightened out.”

  And then I said, “This is how it went, cuz, we started training together. That was . . . let me see . . . in sixty-three . . . because in sixty-four we . . . ah yeah, in sixty-three. We went to Turk Samir’s gym because I liked that boxing stuff and somebody had told us that you could make money in that. Turk Samir told us to hit a sand bag and after that he put us to sparring and before we left he took me aside and told me keep bringing the black guy that had come with me, you know, Milton, you understand, cuz. That the guy had talent and I asked him how he knew and he said that you can see those things but didn’t I remember how he had moved that sandbag when he punched it and I said yeah, and he told me that he had moved it more than any other professional in that gym. And that’s how it is. If a guy has talent you can tell.”

  And then Efraim told me with a mouthful of rice, “But I read that Milton was a disaster at first.”

  And I said, “Oh, don’t misunderstand, cuz, Milton was always a hell of a good guy. He’d have never gone with those Venezuelans or none of that stuff, you understand. From the beginning he wanted to have famous friends, live the good life, eat exotic foods, and all that stuff, but you have to say that he never turned his back on his friends from before, never forgot about the poor. The fact is, cuz, no, never. You know he never forgot about his people, you understand, you know all the stuff he did for Palenque. I remember when we were working, cutting lawns at the houses in the Manga neighborhood, one time the owner of the house came out dressed in a coat and tie, really elegant, I thought, but Milton started telling me how when he was going to be rich he wasn’t going to dress like that, and I asked him how, and he said with a tie and shirt that don’t go together, and I said what the hell do you know about any of that, since he never in his life had worn either ties or dress shirts and he told me those were things he knew about. Turk Samir used to tell his wife that Milton had something no one else had and I understand that. It’s a rare thing and I don’t know how to define it but it’s like the time that the kid came up to us begging for money. Milton and I had been selling fish door to door, barefoot, out in a sun that’ll kill ya. You don’t know what that is, cuz, because you’re a kid that was born into money, but it’s something that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy: your feet breaking on that saltpeter and that hot ground, your head hurtin’ from the sun, the dry throat, the sweat, ugly stuff, cuz, ugly. What happened was that after being out there all day selling fish door to door we got enough money to get ourselves some plantains, rice and eggs to bring home, or well, some to my house and some to Milton’s house. Since it was getting dark we decided to knock on one more door. A la
dy came out and she told us that she didn’t need fish but she asked us if we had eaten anything and we told her that we hadn’t eaten anything since the morning and the lady brought us out plates with fried plantains with sauce and cheese for each of us and a cold drink. And just when we were starting to eat a little kid came up to the house to beg for money and the lady told him that she didn’t have money and she had just given us all the leftover food she had in the house. So when the little kid turned around to go Milton called him and he gave him his food. I told him to not give him anything, that he could work same as us and Milton told me, Let it go, brotha, that kid was hungry. You understand, cuz.”

  And Efraim said, “But I wasn’t talking about that Ol’ Johnny, I meant how he was as a boxer.”

  And then I, “Well, that’s another story.”

  And Efraim, “Tell me.”

  And so I told him, “Milton didn’t like to train and he didn’t give a shit about boxing. He had the longest losing streak of anybody you ever heard of, he would just stand there in the ring and he didn’t move, didn’t punch, didn’t protect, didn’t slip, like if the building fell on him it wasn’t nothing to him. The people hated him. There were only two types of black fighters that got people’s attention in those days, them that fought for the honor of their race, and so all the blacks in Cartagena went to see ‘em fight (and that’s what I wanted to be, you understand); or them niggers that thought they were something special, and every white guy in the city went hoping to see ‘em lose. Milton wasn’t either of the two. His fights were so boring that he had to change his name every bout because if people knew it was Milton that was one of the fighters they wouldn’t buy tickets. Before the fights he’d ask me to do him the favor of going and betting against him, and of course he always won the bet, you know, lost the fight, you understand. He had a streak of fifteen fights lost and not a single win: worse than me. Of course I trained like crazy, I wanted to be good, fight in the United States, meet Muhammad Ali, but the harder I tried the worse I got, and the only person I easily beat was Milton.”

  And Efraim asked with a chicken breast in his hand, “And what changed all that?”

  Blackie Espinosa chewed a piece of yuca dipped in sauce and looked at me. He had heard the stories about Olivella a thousand times but he always wanted to hear them again.

  And I said, “Well, it was an odd change, you understand. The first thing that happened was that he won his first fight. Turk Samir had lined him up to fight Blondie Higgins and so the people wouldn’t know it was him he called Milton the Black Menace. It just so happened that Blondie Higgins, who was also fighting under an assumed name and the result of the fight didn’t affect his fight record (that stuff was very common in those days, you can’t do it now), asked a cousin of his to go offer money to Milton to lose in the fifth round. Milton accepted without any idea that Blondie Higgins was playing a joke on him. The fight started and in the first round Higgins just laid out. Higgins had just barely hit the canvas when people started to whistle and boo. The referee started to count One, two, and Milton crouched down close to where Higgins was laying and told him to get up, that he hadn’t touched him, and the referee kept counting Three, Four, and Higgins on the canvas, and Milton told him, Get up, bro, it’s for a good cause, and the referee Five, Six, and Blondie Higgins on the canvas showing no signs of life and Milton worried because he was going to lose the money they had offered him to throw the fight in the fifth round. Get up, bro, seriously, you’re gonna make me lose the money on the deal I made, Eight, and Higgins, nothing, there on the canvas like he had been hit with the slobberknocker of all times, and Milton telling him, Get up, brotha, you’re making me look like a dumbass, and the referee Nine, and Milton shouted in this thunderous voice, Get up, stop screwin’ around, I didn’t touch you. Oh, people got so mad, cuz, I’m talking about so mad when they heard Milton yell that they wanted to lynch everybody. We had to run out of there, not just Milton and Higgins, but everybody, even those of us who hadn’t fought. We had to leave gloves, shorts, creams, and all that stuff in there and run for our lives. The Turk pitched a shitfit like you read about, you can’t even imagine, because he had lost all that money and all that stuff that we never recovered. They kicked them both out of the gym right there. Higgins went to Venezuela and did well over there and Milton went to sell fish and wash cars.”

  And Efraim interrupted, “But -”

  And I said, “Hang on, cuz, I’ll get to that. I told you it was an odd change. One day Milton showed up at the gym with a gentleman, you understand. The man went in behind closed doors with Turk Samir and Milton stayed outside the office with me. I asked him who he was and he told me it was his old man. The guy had abandoned them when Milton was six years old and he had gone to Venezuela with a neighbor that he had gotten pregnant. Milton never wanted to tell me what his old man had said, the only thing Turk Samir told me is that Milton’s daddy had asked him to take his son back in the gym, that he was sure things would be different and Milton’s father said he did it as a work of charity. Asking that favor for Milton was the only thing his father ever did for him in his entire life. That was the last time Milton saw his old man. From that point on he started to be, you know, disciplined and all that stuff.”

  And Efraim, “But what did the father tell Milton?”

  And I said, “Ah, that’s what I don’t know, cuz, because Milton never wanted to tell me.”

  And then Efraim asked, “And after that he never saw his father again?”

  And I said, “Never. When he fought in Venezuela we tried to find him and we got him on the phone, but the guy never wanted to see Milton.”

  And Efraim, “How’s that?”

  And I, “Well, Milton was able to talk with his old man on the phone and he told him he had brought a few gifts from Colombia and he was going to give him some money, but the guy said no, that he only had one family and he wanted to be left alone. That stuff hit him real hard, you understand, luckily it was after the fight because if it wasn’t, Milton would have been really low, but he never wanted to talk about that either.”

  Then Blackie Espinosa said, “It’s time, Ol’ Johnny,” and we got up to go back to the gym.

  * * *

  For a few days the image of Milton Olivella sitting on the floor leaning back against the hospital bed was a recurring theme in Avski’s dreams. The scene, always as clear as when Avski first saw it, never appeared through the gauzy filter of sleep and it was never populated with other characters. The dream was always just like he had seen on TV: Milton leaning back against the hospital bed in a patient’s gown crying like a helpless child. Joseph didn’t tell anyone about the nightly recurrence, sure as he was that it would disappear sooner or later. But his wife understood that the only way for Avski to exorcise the image was to find out how and why the great champion Milton Olivella had reached such a desperate situation. Just like everybody else in Colombia, Avski vaguely knew some of the reasons, but he didn’t know the fine details needed to break the dream’s hold on him.

  Avski’s wife woke him up one Sunday with coffee and a phone number written in blue marker on a ripped piece of cereal box. “It’s the phone number for Dr. Gerard Lefebvre,” she said, “from the San Pablo Psychiatric Hospital.” Avski looked at her, disconcerted. “He’s the doctor who treated Milton Olivella over there,” she explained. And thus was initiated the search that led Joseph to write this story.

  Avski looked through his notes for references of the interview with the doctor. He read and organized the ideas in his head before going back to the keyboard. He reread a little of what he had written and continued:

  “The first time that Dr. Lefebvre saw Milton Olivella in person was before he worked in the San Pablo Psychiatric Hospital: he was working in the emergency room in the Cartagena University Hospital. At that time Milton had been left at the door of the emergency room by a Hilux pickup truck that sped off into the night without waiting to see if someone came to get him. When the orderlie
s came to get the body stretched out on the sidewalk they realized he had a knife wound in the right buttocks that looked like it had been bleeding for several hours. Dr. Gerard Lefebvre came out and saw him and told the orderlies to pick him up and bring him inside. Lefebvre tried to take off the wounded man’s clothes to examine the wound but Milton woke up and grabbed the waistband of his pants, arguing that the only thing the doctor was trying to do was to rob him. Lefebvre had Milton sedated and when Olivella finally couldn’t resist, the nurses got his clothes off and found a paper sack full of little plastic bags of cocaine hidden under Olivella’s testicles. Milton still claims that the nurses stole a bunch of cash that he had on him while he was sedated, although he didn’t dare accuse Dr. Lefebvre, who saved his life. According to the nurses, if the wound had not been sutured in time Milton would have bled to death.

  Milton had been Dr. Gerard Lefebvre’s patient years before in the University Hospital in Cartagena and once again was his patient in the San Pablo Psychiatric Hospital. Andrés Pastrana, conservative candidate for the presidency of the republic, had called in the morning to tell Lefebvre he wanted to come see Olivella. Lefebvre responded that he didn’t mind, as long as the visit was secret and didn’t turn into a publicity stunt for political purposes. Dr. Lefebvre agreed to the visit but clarified that Olivella’s psychological state was delicate. He recommended that the visit be private, far from cameras and microphones and free from political pretensions.

  The friendship had been forged more than twenty years prior. In those days Misael Pastrana Borrero, Andrés’ father, was president of Colombia and Milton Olivella was the world champion junior welterweight. That was when the president invited him to the government palace, publicly praised him, and held him up as an example for all Colombians. Olivella thanked the president by putting his weight behind the president’s agenda, participating in public events and allowing his fame to be leveraged politically. In exchange, Milton requested help for his hometown, government attention that it had never received.