A Handbook to Luck (17 page)

Leila lit a cigarette and lay in bed thinking. She needed to find peace here, if only for her daughter's sake. To everyone in their social circles, she and Sadegh were the perfect couple: educated, enviable, with key protectors in the government. Not even her father suspected how unhappy she was. Leila didn't want to worry him, and it was unthinkable to confide in her mother.

Last year Sadegh had bought a country house for them two hours from the city. Mehri rode her donkey there and picked lemons in the orchard. Now Sadegh was building a villa overlooking the Caspian Sea. Leila was excited to return to its shores, but she feared that the memories of her family's one happy summer there might be ruined forever. When Leila told Sadegh that she wanted to start scuba diving again, he laughed at her: “Scuba diving in your chador? That would be a sight.”

At first, Leila attributed her husband's black moods to Ahmed's suicide. After his burial in Zahir-o-dowleh Cemetery, Sadegh never mentioned his brother again. Then Leila blamed his depression on his opium smoking. Whenever his parents visited, they cozily smoked their hookah and pipes together. (Leila had to bribe Mehri with video games to stay away from them while they smoked.) After they left, the sweet, sickly smell permeated the house for days.

It seemed to Leila that Sadegh's family had willed themselves into a state of amnesia after Ahmed's death. Sadegh's father hadn't finish high school but he started insisting that everyone—family, servants, bank tellers, friends—call him Dr. Bakhtiar. (Only Leila's father called him by his first name, Hassan.) Sadegh had a double Ph.D. in nuclear and accelerator physics and wore his degrees like a suit of armor. He complained that he should be called
Doctor Doctor,
but nobody paid him this respect.

Leila tossed and turned but she couldn't sleep. She had an urge for hot beetroots and porridge, like when she was pregnant. She got out of bed and rummaged in the cupboard for her bathing suit, the navy blue one with the transparent midriff, and put it on. There was a tan suitcase in the back of her closet. Inside was the wet suit Enrique had sent her for her twenty-second birthday, a present she'd never acknowledged. Leila pulled out the wet suit now. It was black, and sleek, and musty as old rubber.

It was chilly when she opened the glass-paneled doors to the downstairs patio. The flowers were just beginning their spring bloom. Leila was proud of her courtyard garden, its redolent whispers, the refuge it provided to weary birds. The sky was muddy looking. There were no stars to speak of and the moon had disappeared hours ago. The leaves of the fig tree waved to her like a thousand hands in the dark. Without a sound Leila dove into the deep end of the pool. When she was a girl, she'd wanted to dive into pools with barely a ripple. She practiced and practiced but never got it right. Now she could do it without effort, erasing herself completely.

Leila opened her eyes and swam the length of the pool underwater, counting the turquoise tiles. Her body felt muted and cool. She came up for air, long enough to breathe in the night jasmine. Her mouth was filled with old names, dead numbers, a taste of fried eggs and toast. Could she describe her life to Enrique? Would he understand what she'd become? It began to rain lightly, more promising drops after the winter drought. Leila recalled again those pure afternoons in her mother's walled garden, how the ecstasy of each bird's flight had begun and ended in stillness.

(1984)

Marta Claros

I
t was her tenth swimming lesson in a month and Marta was weak from ingesting so much pool water. In the nearby bottlebrush tree, three sparrows noisily hopped from branch to branch. Marta found it difficult to concentrate. She regretted the day the Florits had moved into their new house in Santa Monica Canyon. It wasn't so much that there were four more rooms to clean (with no accompanying raise) but the fact of the pool: it was like having another child to take care of, only without the rewards.

“You must put face in water and exhale!” Mr. Karpov shouted impatiently.

Señora Delia had hired the Russian swimming instructor to give Marta and the twins private lessons. The baby, Fernandito, was still too little to swim. Marta adjusted her bathing cap with the rubber sunflowers and thought about how the lesson was costing her employers $1.25 a minute. Breathe in, sixty-three cents. Breathe out, sixty-two. How could she focus throwing away money like that? Marta had bought her bathing suit for six dollars on sale downtown. Orange wasn't her favorite color but she'd refused to pay twice as much for the navy blue one. When she'd tried it on at home, topped with her fifty-cent bathing cap, Frankie had pronounced her beautiful.

Marta felt guilty that it was taking her so long to learn how to swim. Señora Delia had told her not to worry about the cost of the lessons, that she wanted her to be a good swimmer by summer so everyone would be safe in the pool. But it wouldn't end there. After she learned to swim, Marta was supposed to take a lifesaving course at the YMCA. She'd gone to see the lessons in progress. The students had to drag each other, gasping, from the biggest pool she'd ever seen. Then they took turns blowing air into the mouth of a discolored, inflatable dummy. She'd signed up to be a nanny, not a dolphin, Marta thought miserably, dunking her head in the water once more.

What if some people weren't meant to swim, their bodies unfit for anything but land? She'd consulted a
curandera
on Normandie Avenue, who'd prescribed ground fish powder to help her float. The stuff tasted awful and hadn't helped her one bit. On the black sand beaches near San Salvador, the currents were so strong that they whisked even excellent swimmers out to sea. The rivers were no better, treacherous and unpredictable, mainly good for washing clothes. That was why she'd never learned how to swim—it was much too dangerous. Why take unnecessary risks?

“Now move arms like this,” Mr. Karpov said, vigorously demonstrating his windmill technique.

Marta imitated him, paddling her arms like the old-fashioned boat she once saw churning its way across Lake Ilopango. Mr. Karpov was arrogant and made swimming seem like a matter of intelligence. If he was so smart, what was he doing teaching swimming to the children of the rich? It was true that the Russian made a fortune, though. Mr. Karpov earned in four hours what it took Marta forty hours to make. Maybe she
should
learn how to swim and give him a little competition.

Already, God had granted her so much. Didn't she have a good husband and work she loved? Wasn't her brother in the States? It was heartbreaking that Evaristo might be deported but this was his own fault. If she prayed hard enough, perhaps He would forgive Evaristo, soften the heart of the judge, give her brother one last chance. Yes, Marta was confident he would be saved. Only her wish for a child hadn't been granted. But you couldn't always be asking, asking, asking God for everything. He needed to see that you were ready to suffer for Him, that you prayed regardless of His response. Marta tried to remember the name of that saint who'd survived an entire season of Lent eating sixteen Moroccan figs. Now,
that
was sacrifice.

Caring for the Florit children had made Marta want a baby all the more. On the weekends especially, when she couldn't revel in their sweet flesh. Marta felt as if she was living her own childhood through them; not reliving it, but living it for the first time. She enjoyed their toys more than they did. She loved playing dress-up and hide-and-seek, things she'd rarely done as a girl. She made up stories to go with the picture books, acting out every part. Her favorite was
The Cat in the Hat.

Marta took to babying Frankie on Sundays, when she missed the children most. She gave him bubble baths, splashed him with violet water, sprinkled his bottom with talcum powder, read to him before bed. Some nights she dreamed that he was an infant journeying past the soft pinks of her insides to her barren female parts. Then she would cry at the emptiness inside her, and nothing consoled her; not Frankie's soothing hand, not praying, not counting her blessings one by one.

“I want you open eyes underwater,” Mr. Karpov insisted, submerging his head in the pool. His eyes appeared enlarged, like a toad's.

Marta tentatively dipped her face in the water. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't open her eyes. If by some miracle she could see through her eyelids, she might finally learn to swim.

“Okay, forget for now,” Mr. Karpov said with disgust. “Just float on back. Lie down on water like bed.”

Marta didn't sleep so well in her own bed, much less a pretend one of pool water. She remembered what her mother used to say: Get out of the corn or you'll be covered with
ajuate
pollen. What did this have to do with swimming?

“Float! Float!” Mr. Karpov screamed. “Everybody can float! Not one person cannot float! Watch me!” He swooned backward toward the deep end of the pool.

For a moment, Mr. Karpov seemed content. Had he looked like this as a baby? What was his first name, anyway? Marta laughed to think of his mother calling him “my sweet little Mr. Karpov.” Had she inspected his every last inch of skin? The curve of his ears? His every toe?

“Okay, lesson over,” Mr. Karpov barked, consulting his waterproof wristwatch. “This won't be snap-the-fingers case. I will tell this to Mrs. Florit. I cannot guarantee.”

Marta climbed out of the pool, dripping rivulets of water. Her hands felt stiff and cold. Dark clouds stampeded across the skies. The sun was nowhere to be seen. Pale petals from the tulip tree fluttered through the air. Marta grabbed a towel and dried off to avoid a chill. Inside, she made herself a cup of cinnamon tea to warm up.

As soon as Señora Delia left for her yoga class, the children crowded onto Marta's lap to watch a video. Once Marta had accompanied La Señora to yoga and was surprised to hear the teacher, a turbaned woman in flowing orange robes, repeatedly telling the women to breathe. Did they really need to be reminded? That day Marta went home and asked Frankie whether he thought she breathed enough. Frankie laughed:
¿Estás loca, mujer?
Sometimes Marta forgot that Señora Delia was Cuban, she resembled her American neighbors so much.

Marta fixed salmon and baked potatoes for lunch and put a little of both in the blender for Fernandito. She steamed some spinach, too, though she knew the children wouldn't touch it. Señora Delia was a fanatic about nutrition and hinted that because Marta was fat, her children might also grow fat. Marta weighed two hundred and twenty-three pounds. She was big-bosomed and had shapely legs, like her mother. She didn't know why she was so fat because she ate next to nothing. A single meringue could take her ten minutes to eat.

After lunch, Marta settled the children in for their naps. She sang them the same lullaby:
Había una vez un barquito chiquitito…
The twins fell asleep clutching their stuffed bears, but Fernandito wasn't the least bit sleepy. He was playing with the toy rabbit his grandfather had given him. He kept dropping it into a hat, pulling it out, and yelling, “Ta-da!”—just like his Abuelo Fernando had taught him.

On his last trip to Los Angeles, Don Fernando had spent hours trying to teach his grandson magic tricks. “
Por Dios,
Papi, he's only eleven months old!” Señor Enrique complained when he returned home early one day to see his son dressed in a miniature tuxedo and velvet cape. But Don Fernando couldn't be dissuaded. “It's never too soon to introduce my grandson into the great mysteries of magic. Who else will condition his little hands for illusions?”

That same night Don Fernando kept Fernandito up past midnight so that they could watch the Ching Ling Foo Magic Kit commercials on television. “
Mira, mira!
There's your
abuelo
!” Don Fernando shouted, pointing to himself on the screen. Fernandito looked back and forth between his grandfather and the TV, confused that he could be in two places at once. Then, suddenly afraid, Fernandito screamed and bit his grandfather on the cheek. Don Fernando was on the verge of making the boy disappear (temporarily, he swore) when Señor Enrique showed up and separated them.

The next day Don Fernando told Marta the story, more wounded than chagrined. He petted his bandaged cheek as if it were an injured bird. Marta felt sorry for him. It didn't surprise her that women still found him irresistible. Even in his Chinese disguise, he oozed a Cuban charm. Each time he saw her, Don Fernando found an excuse to reach behind her ear or inside her apron for a gift. Last time, it was a pair of beaded earrings; the time before, a refrigerator magnet of La Virgen de Guadalupe. When Marta marveled at his tricks, Don Fernando said, “My dear, a wondrous show of illusion can be created with a few simple elements.”

Marta finished tidying up the house and waited for La Señora to return from her yoga class. She turned on the soap opera
Pobre Gente.
The name was misleading because the show wasn't about poor people but about rich people whom you grew to feel sorry for because they were always so unhappy. It seemed to Marta that the richer people were, the more they nursed their small miseries. Take Señora Delia, for example. She wanted to be a dancer, but nobody would hire her. A luxury, this problem. Since she couldn't agonize over basic things—like no money for food, or medicine for a dying baby—she drowned in a drop of water.

The traffic home was terrible. Marta was in no mood to take the overnight bus to visit her brother in Nogales. To distract herself, she tuned in to the rush-hour edition of
Pregunta a la psicóloga.
The topic of the day was sex, as if there was ever any other subject on the show. Anyone listening in for the first time would think that the only thing human beings did was fornicate, and usually not with their spouses either. Why was everyone so obsessed with sex?

At the house, Marta found Frankie settled in his leather recliner (she'd bought one on sale from that discount furniture clerk on
¡Salvado!
). Frankie was listening to one of his Korean operas, a fly swatter in each hand. Despite the screeching and pounding drums, the operas relaxed her husband, transported him far away. Frankie showed Marta the dragon's blood he'd procured at an herbal shop. It was supposed to tighten his gums and bind fast the roots of a troublesome molar, his very last. Why was he clinging so desperately to this tooth?

The chickens were loose in the backyard, pecking at invisible specks. Marta reached into a sack of feed and showered the hens with dried corn. Feathers drifted skyward in slow motion. A squabble broke out near the coop. The chickens were getting crankier by the day, old ladies every one. Marta was partial to her newest, a bluish bird she called Miss Penelope after a character in one of the twins' picture books. Miss Penelope flaunted her beauty, tormenting the local cats from the safety of the wire-mesh enclosure. Now and then, she shot Marta a conspiratorial look.

The phone rang after dinner and Marta had half a mind not to pick it up. She wanted an hour of peace to herself before Frankie drove her to the bus station. But she was afraid to miss a call from her brother. He'd been sounding so miserable lately. Last time they spoke, Evaristo had complained that the light in the prison yard was brutal.
The sun is reducing us to ashes. There isn't a tree for miles around.
Nothing Marta said comforted him. Last week he was put in a cell by himself for fighting with a fellow prisoner, a gunrunner from Jalisco who banged his head against the metal bunks all night long.

The static from the long-distance connection made it difficult to hear the voice on the other end of the line. Marta guessed that it was her Tía Matilde in San Salvador, dialing from the corner grocery store, the one that charged exorbitant long-distance rates for terrible service.

“Bendito sea Dios, ¿quién se murió?”
Marta shouted. It took another minute for the connection to clear. “Is Mamá still alive?”

“
Sí, niña.
Everyone is fine here except for me.” Her aunt wasted no time telling Marta the news: she was pregnant and couldn't keep the baby.

Marta held her breath and listened. Tía Matilde said that she'd had an affair with a fifteen-year-old delivery boy. Yes, it was his child because she and her husband hadn't had relations in years. His thing didn't work anymore, although Tía Matilde suspected that it worked fine elsewhere, just not with her. She was keeping the pregnancy a secret, hiding it under a big gingham smock. She had a premonition that the baby was a boy and would be born on Christmas Day. Would Marta come down to receive him?

By the time she hung up, Marta was in tears. She rushed over to Frankie, asleep in the leather recliner, and kissed his eyes until they blinked open.

“Listen to me.” She brought her lips to his, a perfect fit. “You're going to be a father.”

Frankie boxed the air with his fly swatters, swept up in an opera-inspired dream. “I'll teach you to defile my family's honor!”

“Cálmate,”
Marta crooned, holding down his arms. “I have important news.”

“Coño carajo, ¿qué pasó?”
he sputtered awake.

“My aunt called from El Salvador and is giving us a baby!” Marta sat in Frankie's lap, catapulting the recliner into a horizontal position. Then she peppered his face with kisses until he begged her to stop. “I'm going to be a mother at last!”