A Handbook to Luck (21 page)

Last year, the prayer leader in Tehran had denounced all forms of music as evil. Leila had been forced to stop Mehri's piano lessons on the grounds that Mozart was too provocative for a good Muslim girl. In the ensuing confusion, Sadegh had managed to buy a Steinway grand piano for next to nothing. (He easily rationalized breaking the government's rules when it suited his interests.) But it wasn't just the musicians who'd become refugees. In Iran, nearly everyone was a refugee in one way or another.

With a mischievous look, Farideh turned down the lights, thrust out her small breasts, and threw back her shoulders. She began to dance, eyes hooded, lips parted, hands twitching and sweeping like a pair of butterflies. As she undulated her way among the customers, her bangles tinkled and her prominent buttocks lifted and dipped. The women hooted as if she were a belly dancer. Two more got up, including the
bazaari
's wife, who sensuously shook her round belly. Leila longed to join the women, but she couldn't force her body to move.

When the music stopped, the women clapped and cheered. But the sound of a distant explosion stopped their merriment. The war with Iraq was dragging on. So many young martyrs were dying with “keys” to heaven—cardboard cutouts, in fact—pressed to their chests. Thousands of ordinary citizens were also dying. Funeral processions ensnarled the already nightmarish traffic in Tehran. People were moonlighting as professional mourners to make extra money. (There was no shortage of this type of work.) Red tulips, symbol of the martyrs, were planted everywhere.

Others lost their minds from the blasts. One bomb had leveled an apartment building in Leila's father's neighborhood. Baba's colleague and close friend Dr. Ali Houshmand had been killed, along with his entire family. Baba was inconsolable. A week after the attack, their dog, Zozo, who'd been lost on a trip to the mountains, reappeared. Zozo stood guard at the rubble, whining and growing thinner, waiting for the Houshmands to return. Nobody had the heart to take the dog away. Leila didn't understand its persistence. She understood much better the pull of the grave.

Silence fell over the beauty salon like the sadness of winter. These past few days, the winds had blown red dust everywhere, upending trees and knocking out the electricity in the southern part of the city. Odd blue centipedes were infesting the flowering trees. People nervously predicted an earthquake but the winds kept howling and the earthquake never came. Leila looked around at the other women in the salon, partly obscured by the cigarette smoke. By next summer, she decided, her life would be nothing like theirs.

(1987)

May 25

Marta

M
arta changed the bandage on her son's forehead. Part of the oozing crust of the wound was stuck to the gauze, but at least it wasn't bleeding anymore. Yesterday José Antonio had fallen in preschool during a game of hide-and-seek and broken open his forehead. The nurse showed Marta how to change the dressing and bandage his forehead, not too tightly or it would cut off the circulation. Marta took her son home early and put him to bed. She wanted him strong for today. Today of all days, because José Antonio was becoming an American citizen.

“Does it still hurt,
mi amor
? Let me get you some breakfast. You hardly had any soup last night.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“You have to eat something. I don't want you fainting in front of everyone. What will people say? That I'm a bad mother and don't feed you breakfast?”

The swearing-in ceremony was at ten o'clock. For the occasion, Marta had bought José Antonio a linen suit, two-toned shoes, and a miniature Panama hat. The outfit had cost $61.34 with tax. Exorbitant, but Marta decided it was worth it because from this day forward they could live their lives in peace.

Marta had gotten permission from Señora Delia to take the day off and Frankie planned to close the factory early to prepare for the festivities. The women from Back-to-Heaven were coming over with casseroles (Vilma Colón was making her famous beef-and-plantain stew) and Dinora had promised to bring along her collection of records from the 1940s and '50s. With a couple of drinks in her, she might be persuaded to serenade them with a bolero. Marta had invited everyone she knew to the party: the Florits, José Antonio's classmates, the nannies from the park, her neighbors, the many vendors she'd befriended over the years. This would be a celebration that no one would soon forget.

A breeze stirred the kitchen curtains. Marta made herself a cup of coffee, sweetening it with a wedge of sugarcane. For breakfast, she fixed quesadillas and served them to her son with black beans and cream. For a while, they'd tried those overpriced American cereals but they turned out to be made of nothing but sugar and air. An hour later, they were hungry again. The same went for that Wonder Bread, which left them all constipated. So much of the supermarket food here was like that—colorful packages with only emptiness inside.

“Hurry up. We need to go to church before the ceremony.” Marta yawned as she pinned an evil eye charm inside her son's jacket. It was important to take precautions against any possible misfortune. Though she'd slept soundly last night, Marta still felt tired. No doubt all the emotion from yesterday had left her spent.

“I want to watch
Mary Poppins.
”

“We don't have time now.” Marta loved the movie as much as her son. After renting it twice, she'd finally bought a copy of the video. She finished dressing José Antonio, then rubbed lightening cream onto his neck.

Señora Delia disapproved of Marta using lightening cream but how could she understand what a difference a few shades of brown might mean? There was no hiding the prejudice in Los Angeles. At school, one of her son's playmates had told him that nobody but maids spoke Spanish. Then his teacher had instructed Marta to speak only English at home so José Antonio wouldn't get confused. It surprised her that a teacher could be so ignorant.

Outside, the neighborhood was quiet. The German shepherd had trapped the same alley cat up the oak tree. That crazy Mr. Haley was painting his porch a bright yellow. A bird Marta hadn't seen before fussed on her gate. It reminded her of the
tortolitas
back home, cinnamon-colored with their white-striped wings. They liked to flutter in the tamarind trees, making a
rumm-rumm
sound like a motor running, calling to each other from great distances to warn of danger.

On the eight-block drive to church, Marta let her son sit in the front with his seat belt fastened tight. “This is a special day,
hijo.
Don't ask to sit up here tomorrow, or the police will put me in jail.”

On
¡Salvado!,
the tearful testimony of Evangelina Huerta, a former Costa Rican beauty queen, was under way. Evangelina confessed that she'd tried to hold up a doughnut shop with her young son's toy gun. In the middle of the robbery—the clerks were so scared that they gave her all the money in the cash register, plus a sack of chocolate glazed doughnuts—she heard the voice of the Lord ordering her to put down the gun. Evangelina fell to her knees in fear and remorse. After handcuffing Evangelina, the arresting officer, who was also Costa Rican, asked for her autograph.

Marta and José Antonio crossed themselves with holy water before entering Saint Cecilia's church. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dim light. The same
viejitas
occupied the front pews: Doña Filomena, whose eldest was awaiting trial in Houston for killing his girlfriend, and Doña Anselma, who, though childless, prayed for everyone else's wayward children. Nearby the three widowed sisters—Leoncia, Eugenia, and Saturnina—sat in their identical black shawls. The sisters had been married to carpenter triplets from Tegucigalpa who, tragically, had been killed on Highway 60 when their truck was hit by an eighteen-wheeler filled with porcelain sinks.

A scent of sandalwood incense filled the air. Marta nodded to the women, who blinked with astonishment at their fancy clothes. Then she led José Antonio to La Virgen's alcove, where they offered her red tulips from their garden. Marta wound her old rosary around her son's clasped hands and together they prayed for the great blessing of José Antonio's impending citizenship. “We couldn't have done it without you,
Virgencita.
”

José Antonio pointed to the stained-glass window showing a distraught Saint Cecilia imploring God for salvation. Saint Cecilia had made a vow of chastity as a young girl, Marta told her son, and she'd kept it in spite of her parents marrying her off to a nobleman. “I want you to think of Saint Cecilia when the girls start coming around and wanting you to do this and that.”

“I don't like girls,” José Antonio said, sticking out his tongue.

“That's right. And remember that nobody but Mami is allowed to touch you down there or give you a bath.
¿Me entiendes bien?
”

“Sí, Mami.”

“Whenever you're tempted to do something bad, you'll feel the hot breath of the devil on your neck. Do you know what to do then?”

“Step on his tail!” José Antonio shouted and stamped his foot.

“Just like that. Then if you're very quiet, you'll feel the flutter of your guardian angel on your cheek, just like a butterfly. That's the brush of his wings, letting you know that you're safe again.”

It pleased Marta to see the votive candles burning so cheerfully. She gave her son a dollar for the offerings box, seventy-five cents more than her usual. José Antonio stared at the flames. His eyes looked translucent, as though light were shining through them. How could there be enough room in her heart to hold all the love she felt?

Frankie adored him, too. He was teaching José Antonio to speak Korean and cut his steak into tiny pieces so he wouldn't choke. Each day their love grew, embroidered with tender efforts. What would it be like to love their son five years from now, or ten? Marta felt sorry for the women who expended all their emotions on husbands and lovers. Men came and went—this was a law of the universe—but children were forever.

Marta lit a candle and watched the gray, petaled smoke rise to heaven. As she pulled the stick from the flame, a drop of wax landed on her thumb. She thought of Dinora's candles, stuck with straight pins, foretelling the future. A single red-hot pin meant unrequited love. Wax that melted into the shape of a foot warned of a straying husband (no surprise there). A cascade of wax on the candle's right side signaled a windfall of money.

Confessions were under way on the other side of the church. Marta left José Antonio sitting with the widowed sisters and entered the booth of Padre Ramón, the young priest recently ordained in Guatemala. Everyone said that Padre Ramón was understanding, certainly more so than that doomsday Irish pastor, who warned every penitent that they were on the brink of eternal damnation.

“This is embarrassing for me to admit, Padre, but lately I've been thinking of another man when my husband makes love to me.”

“Who do you think of,
hija
?”

“Well, you know that actor Félix Curbela? The one who plays the evil brother on
Mala Sangre
?”

“I'm afraid I don't.”

“
Ay,
he's very, very handsome. All the women love him.
Bueno,
every time I picture him smoothing his mustache, I feel something inside me I can't explain. Is this adultery, Padre?”

“No,
hija.
But perhaps you can try to think of something less, shall we say, inflammatory?”

“I'll try, Padre.”

“Now, is there anything else?”

“I lied to the immigration officials so that my son could become a citizen.”

“Have you prayed to our Lord Jesus Christ for guidance?”

“
Sí,
Padre, but I haven't received an answer yet.”

“Has the matter been settled?”

“
Primero Dios,
this morning he becomes a
yanqui.
”

“Then God's will be done.”

Outside the immigration office, a jacaranda tree was in full bloom. Marta took this as a good omen. A cluster of aloe plants girded the entrance of the building. With her pocketknife, Marta cut off a thick leaf. A bit of aloe sap would help heal her son's forehead better than any nurse's ointments, and the cut wouldn't leave a scar.

A woman wearing the traditional apron of Oaxaca sold chicken tamales and churros from her cart. Marta was hungry again, but she didn't want to risk staining her clothes before the ceremony. Instead she bought an American flag from a Chinese vendor and gave it to José Antonio, who waved it as if he were in a parade. With the little flag and the bandage on his head, he looked like a tiny war veteran.

In the government building, over three hundred people were gathered in their Sunday best to take their vows of citizenship. The air was close and thick as wool. Marta removed her son's Panama hat. She looked around and recognized a few faces from her previous visits. She was glad to see that Willi Piedra, the composer from Veracruz, had made it this far. And Cresencia Ortíz was here with her two teenaged sons, whom she'd managed to bring over from Chiapas. They were handsome boys, quiet and malnourished looking. A year from now, they would be fluent in English and each twenty pounds heavier.

A sense of excitement pervaded the hall as the judge entered. Everyone was trying to stay calm until they were sworn in. It wasn't an easy thing to become an American citizen if you were poor and came from a little country like El Salvador. It took lawyers and more money than anybody had. It took patience and prayers and a willingness to wait and wait and possibly still lose everything. Marta rubbed the evil eye charm pinned inside José Antonio's jacket. When he became a citizen, it would be a matter of public record that he was Marta's son. Then they could shout to the skies: “We belong here!” And nobody, nobody could take that away.