Blue Eyes (11 page)

“I haven't been to Paris,” Coen said, intimidated by all the
glorietas
and the crisscross of traffic.

“Me too,” the Chinaman said.

They stopped at the Hotel Zagala across from the Alameda park, Chino paying the driver in U.S. coins and summoning a bellboy with the shout “Mozo, mozo.” Coen had his luggage swiped from his hands by a thin old man in a monkey cap who could hold six suitcases at a time. They were put on the third floor, in a narrow room that faced the wall of another hotel. Coen was ready to lie down but Chino wouldn't tolerate the room. He screamed into the telephone, berating the manager, the manager's wife, and the third-floor concierge. “You have to stick them in the head,” he assured Coen, “or you'll rot behind a wall.” They were transferred to a narrower room on the eighth floor, with a huge porcelain
bañadero
(tub) that overlooked the park. He dismissed the
mozo
with a pat on the shoulder and three dimes. Then he grew kinder to the old man and gave him a hat and a scarf out of his suitcase. “Coen, don't tip too hard. Otherwise they'll know you for a sucker.”

“Chino, you gave him a fifty-dollar hat.”

“That's nothing. I liked the size of his head. But no money.”

Sitting inside the great
bañadero
, with a bar of hotel soap on his knee, the Chinaman taught Coen a formula for changing dollars into pesos. Coen stalked the bedroom trying to memorize this formula. He was getting fond of the Chinaman. “Chino, what's your regular name?”

“Herman,” the Chinaman said, without hesitation. “Only my father could call it to me. You call it, I'll bite your face off. I promise you.”

Coen was anxious to deliver Jerónimo's candy but the Chinaman slept for an hour after his bath. He put on an embroidered shirt, tweaked his suspenders, tucked a fresh scarf into his pocket, and ordered strong tea in the lobby. Then they crossed the Alameda into an older part of town and went looking for Jerónimo. Chino passed up the taco stoves and the coconut vendors to buy Life Savers from an Indian woman in the street. He wouldn't let Coen watch two boys stamp out tortillas at a sidewalk factory. “Hurry,” he said. Away from the boulevards Coen felt the temperatures of the street bazaars, the vendors, and the press of faces near the curbs. Resisting Chino he ate cucumber slices (dusted with chile powder) on the fly. He goggled at shop signs—
Tom y Jerry; La Pequeña Lulu; Fabiola Falcon—
and bakery windows. Chino frowned at the bag Coen was holding for Jeronimo. “Fish?”

“Halvah. From Papa.”

They passed
pulquería
after
pulquería
(sidewalk taverns) along San Juan de Letran, the men inside staring at the chino and the blondo walking together. Coen saw fewer and fewer women in the streets. The Chinaman turned up Belisario Dominquez and stopped at a house with a grubby balcony and an inner court. “The chuetas live here,” he said. “The porkeaters. The Christian Jews.”

“Marranos?” Coen asked. “Is this a Marrano neighborhood?”

“Chuetas,” the Chinaman sneered at him. He entered the court, his body sinking into grayness after five steps. Coen stayed under the balcony. Accustoming himself to the soupy light between the walls he detected two smallish boys in nightshirts playing pelota near a bend in the court. They played with closed mouths, the thunks of the pelota the only noise coming from the walls. Coen couldn't make any sense to their game. They slapped at the ball like old men, prim in their nightshirts, stiff at the waist, with no energy to spare. He wondered whether all Marrano boys were born with tight knees. On Boston Road César and Alejandro kicked a pink ball with a fever, a twitch in their legs. Even Jorge, who couldn't stoop because of the quarters he carried for Papa from ten on, and Jerónimo, whose mind was occupied with sweets and the dying pigment in his hair, had more animation than these two boys. Just when Coen began to feel his abandonment, the Chinaman emerged with cousin Mordeckay, a fatter Guzmann in a nightshirt, with Alejandro's features and Jorge's disjointed eyes. Coen was introduced to Mordeckay as the Polander, “el polonés.” Mordeckay seemed pleased with the name. Chino wanted the candy from Coen. Mordeckay thanked “el polonés.” Then he went back inside. “Come on,” Chino said.

“Where's Jerónimo? Is he bringing him down? Didn't you see him?”

“The baby? No.” The Chinaman walked toward San Juan de Letran. “Imbécil. You can't meet here. The chuetas are crazy. They're superstitious about blue-eyed people. They're afraid of blond hair. Don't worry. It's been arranged. Jerónimo will come to you.”

He stationed Coen at the north end of the Alameda. “Wait. I'm going to get the hardware for tonight Smile, Coen. I said the baby will show.”

At forty, thirty, twenty, fifteen, Jerónimo had been
the baby.
Papa stuffed spinach sandwiches down his throat, Topal cleaned his fingernails with a safety pin, whoever found him in the street had to tie his shoes. The five other Guzmanns took their turns bathing him; no one could trust him alone in a tub. Yet Jerónimo had an infallible sense of direction, the ability to read red and green lights, the acumen to avoid the harsh yellow paint of the taxicabs, the boldness to clamp money into a busdriver's fist. He could sing louder than Jorge. He swallowed caramels faster than Topal or Alejandro. He consumed more chocolate than a covey of schoolgirls. He mourned the plucked chickens in butcher windows, his eyes following the hooked line of strangled necks, pitying the lack of feathers more than the loss of life. He had profounder silences than any of the Coens. Among the Guzmanns he had the strongest grip. He loved César best, then his father, then Topal, then Alejandro, then Jorge, then uncle Sheb. He missed the egg store, the blue-white aura of the candling machine, the pea soup of Jessica Coen. He was a manchild fixed in his devotions, his manners, his fears. He wouldn't step under a ladder but he could kiss the wormiest of dogs. He tore off chunks of halvah for toothless
abuelitas
(grandmas) and desperate nigger boys, not for young wives. He was kind to squirrels, mean to cats. He would climb fire escapes to mend a pigeon wing. He ignored birds with bloody eyes.

Coen saw him cross the park from Hidalgo Street, his shoelaces dragging, his trousers filled with candy, his forehead pocked from bewilderment; he hadn't spotted Coen. The marks deepened on his face as he searched the park. He pulled an ear out of frustration. Coen shouted, “Jerónimo, Jerónimo.” And Jerónimo went fat around his eyes. The webs disappeared. He ran to Coen, his fists slapping air. Coen tied Jerónimo's shoes. Then they embraced, Jerónimo squeezing Coen's ribs with an elbow. He had thick gray sideburns. The hairs in his nose were also gray. On his knuckles the color was Guzmann black. He wiped spit before he could talk. He mumbled Coen's first name, saying “Manfro.” He seized Coen by the hand and took him out of the park. But he wouldn't let Coen cross over until the traffic light switched to “Pase.” Then he led Coen straight to an ice cream parlor in a huge drugstore on Madero. He ordered hot tea for himself and a chocolate sundae for Coen. He crumbled halvah into the tea and softened his father's caramels with a heavy thumb (the baby had incredible fingers). The ice cream tasted like cheese. On tall stools with their thighs in a confidential position, Coen meant to pump the baby about Mordeckay, César, and the Mexican Marranos, and the trip from Boston Road to Belisario Dominquez via Manhattan. But he couldn't use his guile on Jerónimo, so he resigned himself to the sour chocolate in his sundae cup.

Walking with the baby up Madero, Coen sensed the incongruity of a Bronx boy in Mexico. His hand in Jerónimo's three-fingered grip, both of them with their eyes down, watching for puddles and cracks in the sidewalk, they could just as well have been on Boston Road. The baby turned left at the Zócalo, the main old square, and brought Coen into a district of bazaars. Jackets belonging to the house of Juan el Rojo hung inches from Coen's head. Salons
de belleza
(beauty parlors) and radio schools coexisted in the street. Stalls hugged the Avenida 5 de Febrero from end to end. Jerónimo and Coen stopped at a
pastelería
, where they collected a pair of metal pinchers and began loading cakes, buns, and rolls on a tray. Jerónimo operated the pinchers with his tongue out. Emulating the other patrons, Coen gripped an enormous wood shaker with a rounded head and sprinkled a polite amount of confectioner's sugar on Jerónimo's cakes but Jerónimo wanted more. So Coen dunned the rolls. He payed under five pesos (the equivalent of thirty-nine cents) for the sixteen pieces on the tray. They popped rolls into their mouths, ending up swollen-cheeked at the Zócalo, each with a moustache of sugar. Finally Coen said, “César worries about you, Jerónimo. Do you have enough? Are you close with Mordeckay?”

The baby flicked sugar off his lip.

“Jerónimo, what should I tell César?”

Jerónimo kissed Coen above the eyes and led him to the borders of the Alameda.

“Baby, should César come and get you?”

Coen tried to go above the park with Jerónimo, but the baby held his wrist and prevented him. “House,” he said, pointing beyond Madero Street. He walked away from Coen with the remains of the rolls in a stringed-up bag the woman at the
pastelería
had given him. He didn't wave. He didn't smile to Coen. He was absorbed in traffic signals. Crouching in the direction of San Juan de Letran, he picked at seams in the gutter with a shoe. Coen watched his crooked strides, thinking Jerónimo could make his Boston Road on Hidalgo Street. The halvah was a simple gratuity. The baby survived without the candy store.

Coen berated himself inside the lobby of the Hotel Zagala. He had forgotten to check Jerónimo's fly. He was so gloomy in the elevator, the
mozo
had to remind him of his own floor. He had no news for César. The baby was privy to secrets that Coen would never discover. He couldn't get between Jerónimo and Mordeckay; the Guzmanns were a close-mouthed people, sly, with vast, puckered foreheads and a reticence that was centuries old. They had played dumb in Lima, Peru, putting on the official uniform of beggar mutes to snatch a money pouch or burgle the summer homes of the
ricos.
Before that they mumbled Christianlike prayers in Holland, Portugal, and Spain, the quality of their voices depending on the season, the climate, and the local affinity for Marranos and other converts. Only Papa loved to talk, but he gave away nothing of himself in his blistered stories about raising five “pretzels” in America.

The Chinaman found Coen slouching on the bed. He opened his traveling bag and dumped out two 9mm. automatics with long, oily noses, two leather truncheons, a variety of badges, and a box of shells. Pleased with his loot, he walked around Coen with his knuckles in his sides. Coen wouldn't look at the badges or the guns.

“Why didn't Mordeckay come with Jerónimo? Can't he sit in the Alameda? Drink tea at a counter? Is he frightened of American cops? I wanted to talk to him about the boy.”

Chino dismissed Coen's bile with a flip of his hand. “The chuetas never leave their homes. Mordeckay is married to his porch. I promise, he couldn't tell you where the Zócalo is. No pigeater sits in the park. Who would watch the pork on their stove? Don't be scared for the baby. He has his address pinned to his shirt. He can't get lost.”

“Somebody ought to tell César about Jerónimo's solo walks. I thought the boy is supposed to be in hiding.”

“Hombre, you can't tell Zorro what Zorro already knows.” He herded the badges into Coen's lap. “We have other business here. I didn't come to mind the baby. Which one do you want? The Texas street cleaner's badge? The fireman's star? The hospital attendant? That's the shiny one. The park ranger? It doesn't matter. Just so it's in English. The cholos can't read. Imbécil, will you choose?”

“The fireman,” Coen said.

Now Chino could ignore him and attend to his own needs. He hefted both automatics, closed an eye over each barrel, and proceeded to fill the magazines. Coen saw the bullets pass between the Chinaman's fingers. With the hump of his palm Chino fed the loaded magazines into the hollow butts. Then he swabbed his ears with a damp cloth, changed his undershirt, and rubbed scented oil into his collarbone and his neck. Coen had met take-off artists in perfumed vests and tapered calfskin, but he hadn't expected the Chinaman to prepare himself so fine for an ordinary piece of work. The Chinaman wore a garter on his calf for one of the truncheons. He gave a similar garter and the other truncheon to Coen, who tried them on more out of amusement than anything else. But he wouldn't accept a gun.

“Blue-eyes,” Chino said, “you're going to walk into these gorillas, steal their wife, without a stick?”

Coen said yes. Then he quizzed the Chinaman. “Wife, what kind of wife? Chino, did they buy the girl off César? Does he doctor up marriage certificates in Mexican? Did you bring the girl here?”

“Come on,” Chino said, and he stuck both automatics into his belt. Buttoning his wrinkleproof jacket at the bottom, he walked without any bulge. Coen followed him into a sidewalk cafeteria on Juarez. The bulb in the window twitched out “Productos Idish” in bright green. The Chinaman ordered a bowl of sour pickles and hot pastrami on a plate. Coen had chicken soup.

“Not bad, eh Polish? They fly in the salamis from Chicago.”

“Who told you?”

“Zorro.”

“Christ,” Coen said. “César eats here too? Nobody but César orders pickles out of a bowl.”

“Schmuck,” the Chinaman said. “I can't learn? Shut up about César. You're messing with my appetite.”

They took a two-peso cab at the Reforma, riding with a party of Mexicans in shortsleeved shirts. “Bueno' noches,” Chino said, beguiling the Mexicans who were anxious to hear a Chinaman talking Spanish like a
capitalino.
“Noches,” they said. Sitting four in a row at the back of the cab, with their knees in a huddle, none of them noticed the gun butts under Chino's pockets or felt the truncheon at his calf. A flurry of introductions carried from seat to seat. “Hermano Reyes,” Chino said, using his Christian name for the Mexicans. He glowered at Coen, pinching him along the heel for being silent so long. “Noches,” Coen said. Chino introduced him as “un gran hombre,” Detective Manfredo Coen. The Mexicans blinked with respect when they discovered that Coen was a homicide man from New York. They wanted to know more about the Chinaman. He told them he was a merchant, a trader in horse meat and other perishables, and a specialist in the operation and maintenance of taxicabs. From the tight look on their faces and their attention to the Chinaman they must have considered horse meat and taxi-cabs more interesting than homicides. At the Mississippi circle they shook Coen's hand and assured the Chinaman that their city was
su casa
(his house). The Chinaman wanted some sucking candy before he would go for the girl. So they followed the boulevard to a hippopotamus drugstore made of tiles and glass. Coen saw a horde of blondish girls and boys in bleached outfits gabbing at one of the counters. He couldn't place their voices, their accents, or their stiff rumps. With their trunklines unbroken and their fingers in their pockets, they seemed to be posing in the drugstore. Coen didn't mention them until the Chinaman decided on his sour balls. Then he whispered, “Who are they? Pale freaks?”