Havana Noir by Achy Obejas Read Free Book Online Page B

described himself physically. Not seriously anyway. One night, I asked him what he looked like, only to see what he’d come up with, because I never thought he’d be honest about it. (People who describe themselves physically on the phone, or on the Internet, generally don’t tell you what they look like but what they’d like to look like.) Then the guy quite delightedly swore that he was basically green, that he had three fluorescent yellow eyes, two reddish antennae, and a few exquisitely violet dots.
    “Oh, and a twelve-inch cock,” he added, with great pride. “You want some…?”
    “Hey, stop that. I’ve told you, I can’t right now. But don’t worry, Daddy, I’ll let you know. And watch that flying saucer so they don’t steal it, okay? The streets are nasty these days.” “The flying…? Ha! Ha! Very funny! I looooove it when you try to be sly, foxy, all-powerful! Trying that with me…Ha! Ha! As if I didn’t know you!”
    “That’s right, I love you too.” I blew him a kiss. “You’re my favorite martian.”
    “Really? Then tell me what you’re wearing right now. Tell me! I need to know before I go out to…well, you know. C’mon, whore, tell me!”
    “What I’m wearing…hmm. Quite the little question. Let’s see…”
    I imagined him younger than me. Not an adolescent, but almost. Let’s say, some young thing in his twenties terrified of growing old. Somebody who’s, say, a miserable twenty-three but gets totally offended if you miscalculate and suggest twentyfour. Of course, when I asked him how old he was—and, let it be said, I did so with the utmost care—he told me I was a crone—ha! ha!—and old enough to be his great grandmother. That’s how he was, a vile clown. He hardly ever answered anything seriously, maybe out of self-importance, or to come off like a tough guy, or to compensate for the utter dismay he felt because I wasn’t afraid of him.
    I imagined he was white. Not white in that apocryphal fashion in which so many Cubans are white, but really white, from the roots, with all European ancestors. Immaculately white, maybe blond or red-haired. I also imagined him college-educated, or at least well-read and well-traveled, with a comfortable economic situation (not like me, because I struggle and work, but something of a fortunate son. Everybody knows what I mean: nomenclature, upper class, elite. In other words, the truly privileged in this country—those people who manage mixed enterprises, hotels, and franchise stores, who have Swiss bank accounts and spend their vacations in the Bahamas), and the look of every mother’s son, the face of an angel, and a pianist’s hands, very clean, a bit shy, elegant, with impeccable table manners, a genuine gold Rolex on his wrist, without a police record—except, perhaps, a little fine for speeding like a madman—a loner, nocturnal, bored, and a habitual user of cocaine and hardcore porn.
    I said I imagined him , but that’s not very exact. Back in the days when we talked freely on the telephone, before they arrested him, I didn’t imagine anything. No, that’s how I knew things were, no more, no less, and there was no way they could be any different. I didn’t need him to explicitly confirm anything for me to be certain of it all, regardless of prior promises in the service of truth. I mean, his way of speaking, his allusions, even the slightly faggy way he pronounced certain words, the insults and the threats, as if he were trying to be the wicked wise guy or the neighborhood tough guy, the big spender, street expert, and supreme connoisseur of women of the night— everything about him seemed to indicate unequivocally that I was right.
    He never told me his name. When I asked him during one of those telephonic chitchats, he assured me in his unique style that his name was Ted Bundy. Ha! Ha! He also said I needed to become a police inspector, since I obviously enjoyed interrogating sinister suspects. I didn’t pursue it.