The Book of Unknown Americans(55)

“It’s nothing,” I said.

“You’re lying.”

I shook my head, afraid to open my mouth.

“So it’s just my imagination, then? Am I going crazy?”

“You’re not going crazy.”

“So there is something?”

“It’s just the usual things—you being out of work, and the money. Maybe I’m homesick.”

“That’s not it,” he said.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

“I am telling you the truth!”

“Come on, Alma! You think I don’t know you? You think I don’t breathe you and dream you every single day of my life? You think I haven’t been inside you? I know when you’re lying to me. There’s something else.”

And again, for the briefest moment, I thought, How easy it would be. To say, Here. I’ve been holding on to this all this time, but here, if you want it you can have it. When I look back on it now, I see that I should have done it. In that split second, telling him might have changed our fates.

“There’s nothing else,” I said.

I gazed out across the pond, to the treeline and the soft wash of sky. I kept my eyes on Maribel, watching her with Mayor, the way she smiled when she was with him, the way he talked to her without judgment or expectation, how at ease she seemed when he was around. I was grateful for those things.

“Look at her,” I said.

Arturo turned, and together we watched as Maribel drew out a strand of hair that had blown into her mouth. Mayor said something, and she laughed.

Arturo walked to the edge of the frozen grass and stepped onto the ice again, tapping his boots against its marbled surface. He looked at me with a gentle expression.

“Come on,” he said, offering his hand.

I didn’t move.

“I’m here,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I took his hand, feeling his rough, warm skin against mine.

“I’m right here,” he said.

I lowered one foot onto the ice. He tugged gently, walking his fingers up to my elbows, easing me down. I picked up my other foot and planted it next to the first as I clung to Arturo’s coat sleeves. And then I was standing on the ice, which I was astonished to find felt as firm as the ground, all of me braced in Arturo’s arms.


THE SUNDAY AFTER we went skating, Arturo asked to borrow the Toros’ radio and we took it home with us after eating lunch at their apartment. Arturo set it on the kitchen table and tuned it to a station playing nothing but the Beatles, which had been his favorite band since he was a boy. He raised the volume and sang along with words he had memorized from a lifetime of listening—“La la la la life goes on!”—smiling wide and clapping. “?Va!” he shouted sometimes, at me or at Maribel, and he drummed his hands on the table, on the walls, on our rear ends. The Beatles sang in their English accents about the sun coming out after the winter. We sang along, even though we didn’t know what some of the words meant. “Little darling … It’s all right.”

And then, in the middle of the revelry, we heard a knock at the door.

“What was that?” Arturo asked.

“What?” I said.

A knock sounded again.

Arturo walked past me to the door and when he returned, he was trailed by Quisqueya.

“Alma,” she said, when she saw me. “Buenas.”

“Quisqueya says she needs to talk to us,” Arturo said.

“Have a seat. Can I get you something? A water?”

“Do you have coffee?”

I started to shake my head—we’d bought neither coffee nor tea in weeks—but then she said, “Oh, don’t go to any trouble on my behalf. I mean, if you have some made …” She craned her neck to scan the countertop for evidence of a coffeepot while she lowered herself into an empty chair.

“I’ll get you water,” I said. If it had been anyone else, I would have been embarrassed by not having something more to offer, but there was something strangely pleasurable about having to disappoint someone like Quisqueya.

“Only if it’s not too much trouble,” Quisqueya said, folding her small hands in her lap.

I took a glass from the cabinet and turned on the tap.

“Maribel, come say hello,” Arturo instructed, turning off the music and summoning her from the living room.

Dutifully, Maribel walked over, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Say hello,” Arturo urged.

Maribel stayed quiet.

“It’s fine,” Quisqueya said. “I understand.”

Arturo tightened his jaw. “She’s shy,” he said.

“Maribel, we need to talk to Quisqueya for a few minutes. Do you want to wait in the bedroom?” I asked.

After she left, Arturo settled himself across from Quisqueya at the kitchen table. I placed the glass of water in front of her. She took a sip and pushed it to the middle of the table. Then she sat, squeezing her fingers in her lap.

Arturo raised his eyebrows at me. I shook my head, as puzzled as him.

“Well,” Quisqueya began, “I hate to say anything.”

“Is everything all right?” I asked.