Mosquito Page 26

  No thanks, really I gotta . . . I rise.

  I got some salsa verde. You want some salsa verde?

  No thanks.

  I know what you like. I got some salad with nuts, with green tomatoes, with cheddar cheese, with corn kernels, with green onions, with red chilies, with green chilies, and with garlic too. You like that?

  Probably her version of my trail mix. No thanks, really.

  Jalapeños too. I know you like jalapeños. You no like habanero, that too hot even for Mosquito.

  No thank you. Muy bueno. I mean, muchas gracias.

  Almond and cucumber ice cream?

  Say what?

  We both laugh.

  You know I read they makes jalapeño paint?

  What?

  Paint they make with jalapeño. Barnaby Ban.

  What?

  Barnaby Ban. No, Barnacle Ban. It supposed to keep barnacles off the hulls of ships. Not cause pollution. I read about that in newspaper. I read the newspaper to learn the English too. About this industrious designer he discover you can make a paint out of jalapeños and put it on the hulls of the ships to keep the barnacles away. Say it repel the barnacles but don’t pollute the water. Hot chocolate?

  Hot chocolate?

  I know you like hot chocolate.

  Maybe I’ll take a little hot chocolate, I say. I sit on the couch and watch S.J. play with his whirligigs. He a pretty baby. Little darker than Maria, like I said, with curly black hair. Indio, I think that mean Indian. Maria returns with the hot chocolate and a plate of what look like little green tomatoes spread with cream cheese. I nibble one of them. It tastes a little like apples. These are good.

  You want some banana shortcake?

  No thanks. I finish the hot chocolate and rise. You make very good hot chocolate.

  I see you again?

  Yeah, sure.

  I name him Journal, she say. He a real good baby. Muy bueno.

  Sí, sí, muy bueno.

  You learn from muñecos, verdad? You have telephone? Can I have your telephone number?

  Yeah, sure.

  Muy bueno. You are mujer buena. Father Raimundo will want to know that I have seen you.

  Who is Father Raimundo?

  Padre Raimundo, the priest you brought me to. We talk all the time of Mosquito. You know Padre Raimundo. Sacerdote.

  Oh, yeah.

  But I do not name my baby after Mosquito. I name him after your true name.

  I go over to Journal and say his name, Journal. He look at me like he know that his name. He look at me like he know that his true name. I kisses him. He put his little hand around my finger, then he reaches towards some of the colorful mobiles above him. Maria got them colorful mobiles dancing above him.

  Do you have baby, Mosquito? I think you seem madre. Do you have baby?

  Do I have baby? No, I don’t have any babies. I don’t have any babies of my own.

  I know she waiting for me to tell her what I thinks about babies in general, ’cause I know she know what I thinks about her baby in particular, us Journal. I know I ain’t have to tell her what I thinks of us Journal.

  Sí, sí, muy bueno, I says. Hombrecito.

  I buy one of the dolls from Maria in addition to the one she give me ’cause this one reminds me of the gringa, and when I go back to the cantina gives it to Miguelita. At first she looks at the doll like she’s afraid of dolls, and then she says that the doll looks just like Sophie, exactly like Sophie, and I’m thinking the doll looks exactly like Miguelita.

  She looks just like Sophie, says Miguelita.

  I started to buy a doll for Delgadina, but she too inquisitive, and the next thing I know I be telling her about that Maria, maybe even taking her to the barrio to meet that Maria and that S.J.

  CHAPTER 8

  IT AIN’T NO FANCY GOURMET RESTAURANT AND ain’t no greasy spoon either. Actually, it’s one of them pizza joints with a miniature jukebox at every table. Italian food, but it a Mexican that owns the joint, though. Delgadina and me been in this restaurant after that poetry reading so I know it’s a Mexican that owns the joint, ’cause she be talking to him and be asking him why he don’t serve Mexican food and he be saying that he didn’t start making a profit till he start serving that Italian food, though she be saying he could serve Italian and Mexican food, but he be saying he prefer to specialize in Italian food, plus he be saying he prefer Italian food to Mexican food, and he makes better pizzas than he does tacos, but most people when they come in the Italian restaurant they be thinking it a Italian that own the restaurant and he kinda look like a Italian if you don’t know he Mexican. Anyway, he take a couple of napkins from the dispenser and give me a couple. I tell him about it being a Mexican that own this Italian restaurant and not a Italian. Oh, yeah? he say. Well, they’ve got pretty good Italian food. I’m wondering if I should play one of them jukebox times. Ain’t no rap on ’em, though. Ain’t no Italian music either, or Mexican music. Mostly 1970s disco music. Donna Summer on there. Disco cowgirl? Somebody be saying she like that country music and supposed to be making her a country music album. Me and Delgadina seen her on one of them talk shows and she an artist too. Delgadina say she like her art, but say it kinda remind her of German art, and then she be looking through one of her art books and show me some of that German art that look kinda like that Donna Summer art. I ain’t remember the name of that German art, though, but it look a lot like that Donna Summer art, so I be thinking she must be a real artist if her art look like that German art. I starts to play me some of that Donna Summer, then I looks at the menu, decide what I wants, then glances up at him. I don’t want any pizza or lasagna or none of them Italian sandwiches, them hero sandwiches, though I likes Italian food. I be wondering why they calls them hero sandwiches. When he called me about us meeting he asking me whether I likes that Chinese food. Then he ask if I likes that French food. Then he ask me if I likes Mexican food. Then he asks me if I likes Greek food. Then he ask me if I likes Japanese food. Then he ask, What about pizza? So I says sure. I likes all them foods, but he the one keep suggesting one food after another. That Chinese food, that Mexican food, that Greek food, that French food, that Japanese food, everything but that African food. I know in that Paris, France, they supposed to have a lot of North African restaurants, a lot of them Moroccan restaurants, ’cause that Miguelita she been to Paris told me about them, but I don’t think they even got any North African restaurants in South Texas. He invited me to lunch, but we comes a little bit after lunchtime, though, so the pizza joint ain’t so crowded. Few people sitting at scattered tables and booths chewing on them pizzas or that lasagna or them sausage and cheese submarine sandwiches which is a specialty of the place. Mostly students from the local college. Seem like for them college students they be putting that new music on them jukeboxes. One of them chomping on a pizza wearing one of them nose rings. Seem like them college students be demanding that they update them jukeboxes with that rap music, but they don’t. Or maybe that because nowadays they carry they own jukeboxes in they ears, them Walkman radios and even got them miniature CD players.

  Father Raymond. Is it Raymond or Raimundo? I asks, leaning towards him. Like I told you, he got them hieroglyphic eyes.

  Raymond, he say. Actually, it’s Frederick Raymond. Frederico Raimundo I’m also called.

  Oh, yeah. I ain’t never had lunch with no padre before, you know. No real padre. I was at this costume party once this dude dressed up like a padre. You know, you couldn’t imagine somebody coming to a costume party dressed up like a nun, but here this dude dressed up like a padre. Frederico Raimundo. I been studying a little of that Spanish. ’Cept that Mexican Spanish it different from that Spanish Spanish, so the person teaching me is teaching me that Mexican Spanish. I grabs me another napkin, ’cause with that Italian food you needs more than a few napkins.

  I’m impressed. You got a good accent. Actually, a lot of people think I’m Mexican. I’m part Filipino and part African American. The more mixed up you are
the more you discover, as someone said, that race is a myth. He peeking at them times on that jukebox too, but he don’t put no quarter in to play none of them tunes. And I be wondering if he know the difference between disco and rap music anyhow. I start to ask him what he think about that rap music, which supposed to be a controversy. Then he look at me, his thumb riding his jaw. Then he scratch his mustache. And then he kinda tug on his mustache, again like he making sure I knows it a real mustache.

  Oh, yeah? Race don’t seem like much of a myth to me, I says. Somebody say pure race a myth, say racial purity a myth or some shit, but race ain’t no myth. It seems pretty real.

  In the U.S., I guess. But the more you travel . . . especially in Europe and the Caribbean and even Africa. In even Africa you learn the myth of race, and all of those islands off the coast of Africa.

  You been to Africa?

  He nod before he answer, then he glance around at them college students, notice that girl with the nose ring. I thinks he going to comment on that nose ring, Africa in the New World, but he don’t. In fact, I start to say Africa in the New World, but he’s talking about the other Africa. Yeah. It’s rather disillusioning, modern African I mean. I have this Caribbean friend, though, a school chum actually, who whenever she comes to the States is always pointing people out to me and is asking what race they are. People whose race would be unquestioned here in the United States, you know, in the Caribbean are considered white. And it always surprises her that I don’t identify myself as white, as “colored” as I am. It’s really enlightening, actually. Especially when you see people who look like you but would never imagine they have any connection to Africa. Like in Brazil, for example. Or even people who look like Europeans but would never imagine that they have any connection to Europe. Sorta like in New Orleans. Go to New Orleans and you’ll learn the myth of race.

  I don’t tell him I’ve been to New Orleans to one of them trade shows. I even got me one of them brochures for an international trade fair in Brazil, though I ain’t been to Brazil. My friend Monkey Bread, though, she been to Brazil with her movie star. And though she ain’t said race a myth she be saying she don’t know who white and who ain’t in Brazil. And don’t you be coming to Brazil assuming that colored people is colored, ’cause here a lot of colored people is white and a lot of white people is colored. I just ask, What’s the Spanish word for race?

  La raza.

  Everybody got a word for race, I bet. If everybody got a word for race it can’t be no myth.

  I don’t know if everybody’s got a word for it. I spent most of the time in the African cities, among detribalized Africans, but I’m sure among certain remote tribes, they probably don’t have a word for race.

  Just tribe, I says.

  He lifts an eyebrow and looks at me but don’t say nothing.

  Yeah, maybe some of them people that ain’t never seen no other race. Maybe they ain’t got a word for race, I says. And maybe where they just got one tribe, they ain’t got a word for tribe.

  He play with them condiments on the table and glance out the window. I think he’s going to talk more about them African cities, but he don’t. I try to imagine us in one of them African cities, ’cause they don’t show that many African cities even on them educational channels, but that white girl with the nose ring at the other table let me know I’m in America. I be wanting to ask him if he been to the Ivory Coast, ’cause I heard that the Ivory Coast ain’t as disillusioning as some of them other parts of Africa, that they supposed to be really progressive economically and politically on the Ivory Coast, but he don’t talk no more about that Africa. He look at that girl with that nose ring, though, and I be thinking he going to comment about her but he don’t. I starts to ask him whether he got a lot of African friends, maybe them intellectuals, and starts to tell him about a African I met once, except up in Canada. I even starts to tell him about Delgadina, ’cause she comes the closest I know to a intellectual, besides hisself. ’Cept when you thinks of intellectuals you usually thinks of the elite and I don’t think that Delgadina would consider herself one of the elite working in that cantina, though that Miguelita she supposed to be elite, I think from one of them New England states, though she’s spent a lot of time in Europe, and always be talking about Europe and know all them European languages, so probably that why Delgadina be calling her a gringa rebel when she be selling them slave bracelets and that biker jewelry. ’Cause I be wondering why she call her a rebel ’cause she don’t seem rebellious, but somebody said that insanity supposed to be a form of rebellion and maybe her psychosis is a form of rebellion. We’s sitting at a table by the window. I’m imagining us in New Orleans or Brazil or Africa, then I’m watching the waitress at the woman with the nose ring’s table treating her like she just any ordinary girl, ’cause she probably used to them college crowd, even that exotic-looking college crowd, then the waitress come to our table, take the pen from behind her ear and ask us what we want to order. She even behave like she used to us, and don’t even seem to notice he a priest and all, except maybe she think that he in costume. Neither one of us orders pizzas. I orders a burger and fries and so do he.

  This ain’t none of them fancy sandwich hamburgers is it, with them little toothpicks?

  The waitress, she chewing gum. She chew her gum a little bit, scratch behind her ear with that pen, and then say, No, ma’am. She wearing one of them slave bracelets and some of that biker jewelry. I be thinking she bought that biker shit and that slave shit from that Miguelita when she were selling that shit on the boulevards. Speaking of stereotype, I guess that waitress she a stereotype waitress of that younger generation. She ain’t Mexican or Italian. She look kind of Irish maybe, with them green eyes and reddish-blond hair. She smells kinda like chicory or it the odor from the kitchen. Here you can order chicory instead of coffee. And a lot of the college crowd they orders that chicory.

  Then I’ll have one of them hamburgers, I says. I don’t much like them fancy hamburgers, you know, that they put on rye bread and different-type breads and serves with them little fancy toothpicks. I prefers them hamburgers on a bun, you know, just the common hamburger. I been to a lot of these little pizza joints and can’t remember if this one serves them fancy hamburgers or the regular hamburgers. But she assure me that they don’t have none of them fancy hamburgers.

  You got any of that new salsa-style ketchup? I know it a Italian restaurant, but I be thinking ’cause a Mexican own it maybe he got that new salsa-style ketchup. But that hamburger, ain’t that American food? Or maybe in a Italian restaurant they be serving Italianized hamburgers. But this probably ain’t real Italian pizzas either, though, probably Americanized pizzas or maybe even Mexicanized pizzas, since it a Mexican that owns this pizza joint. I don’t think the hamburger is American anyhow though. Ain’t that hamburger German? ’Cause they got that Hamburg, Germany. I know in them German restaurants you can buy you them hamburger steaks and they supposed to be named after Hamburg, Germany. Maybe even them hot dogs is German food, though America claims them.

  No, ma’am, just regular ketchup. We got some of that new salsa style salad dressing, though, ma’am, if you orders you a salad. That ma’am that ain’t too stereotype for someone wearing biker jewelry though.

  I just have the regular ketchup. You can bring me a salad, though with salsa-style salad dressing.

  Ketchup and mustard’s on the table, ma’am. She pop her gum.

  Oh, yeah. I shoulda known that, fool, ’cause he been sitting here playing with the ketchup and mustard.

  Rare, medium, well done?

  Well done.

  Him, he order medium rare and order him a salad but with Italian dressing. Both of us orders that Coca-Cola, gotta have that Coca-Cola. Even in them Chinese restaurants you can order you that Coca-Cola. Still, it strange to be having lunch with a priest, like I said. I ain’t no Catholic or nothing, but still it strange to be having lunch with a priest. ’Cause whether you Catholic or not a padre a padre, and I guess t
hey’s a whole mythology about them padres too. A padre a padre. Course I don’t know if they’s as much mythology about them padres these days with all them scandals and shit about them padre—like there was in them old days, and all them romanticized movies about them priests, and you wouldn’ta imagined none of that shit they be talking about them priests in them days, and not just them priests. Course you don’t know if all them tales about them priests is the truth, ’cause I heard one of them Catholics be saying it kinda like a modern-day witch-hunt. Delgadina, she explained to me about that romanticized, though, ’cause me I thought it was the same thing as romantic. ’Cause she be talking about how she didn’t want her stories to romanticize the Chicano and me I be saying I like to read a Chicano love story too ’cause I likes me them love stories and be saying that not just Anglos—I be calling ’em Anglos ’cause she be saying Anglos—has love stories and I be interested in other people love stories too and then she explain to me that romanticize that ain’t the same thing as romantic, though a lot of them scandals be saying they romantic priest too, that not just them ordinary men is romantic, but them priest too, though that supposed to be a contradiction in terms. And I told that to my girlfriend in Hollywood, ’bout Delgadina always gotta explain shit like that to me, and she be saying I shouldna oughta let that Delgadina patronize me like that, and I be trying to explain to her about that Delgadina, ’cause with that Delgadina it ain’t patronization. I don’t have to go to that Community Center to improve my mind—you improving my mind, I be telling Delgadina. Signifying, you know. And my friend in California, though, she be saying I shouldn’t show my ignorance in front of that Delgadina, ’cause no wonder people thinks colored people is ignorant—she say colored people—cause one colored person show they ignorance people be thinking every colored person is ignorant and the smart and intelligent colored people they always supposed to be the exception rather than the rule, and be saying how if she don’t know something in front of her movie star, she don’t show her ignorance, she just look it up in the dictionary or the encyclopedia, ’cause that’s what the dictionary and the encyclopedia is for. She be saying all that shit, you know, just on account of me saying Delgadina explained me that romanticism.