Have You Seen Luis Velez?(29)

The longer they sat there enjoying their brunch, the easier it would be to call it a day. To go home without crossing any more names off his list. Ever again.

“I will ask you a personal question,” she said, cutting off a piece of egg with her fork. “But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. Did you do the research on your computer the way we spoke about yesterday?”

Then she took a big bite and chewed slowly—almost dreamily—clearly savoring the flavors.

“I did. Before I went to bed last night.”

“And are you happier because of what you learned?”

“Yeah. Actually. I am. You were right. There are lots of people.”

“Good.”

They ate in silence for a time. He was waiting for her to do that typical grown-up thing. The one where grown-ups asked him to mark the fact that they were right, so as to never doubt their rightness again. She never said anything of the sort. In fact, she offered nothing more on the subject.

“It’s an actual orientation,” he said, surprised to hear himself still volunteering information.

“An orientation?”

“Right. Like, gay is an orientation, and so is straight. And there’s bisexual. And there’s asexual.”

It troubled him to use the word “sexual” in front of her, even if only as a suffix. It didn’t seem to trouble her to hear it.

“We are never so very different as we think we are,” she said, her mouth still full of omelet. She swallowed. Sipped her champagne. “I’m sorry, I am terribly rude to speak with my mouth full, but I can’t bring myself to stop eating because it is too good.”

“It’s okay,” he said.

For several minutes they both seemed to agree to focus on the food.



“I want to ask you a personal question, too,” he said after a time.

“Go right ahead.”

“When you first met me . . . you didn’t see me. You didn’t know I’m black. What if you had?”

“What if I had? Are you asking if it would have changed anything?”

“I guess I am.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have never been so sure of anything in my life.”

“I always figure people have a little bit of feelings about it in there somewhere. Whether they know it or not. Like my stepdad. He never really says or does anything bad, so I don’t even know why I think so. He just seems a little uneasy around me. Even after all these years. Probably a combination of things, but . . . I just figure it gets trained into people, and they don’t even know it’s there.”

“This is very true,” she said. “It is a thing in their life that has always been there. They are white, and there is much privilege that comes with being so, but they don’t see it, because there’s never been a day in their life when it wasn’t there. So you ask them if ethnicity makes a difference to them, and they say no. And in many cases they think they are telling the truth. It becomes like asking a fish to tell you about the water. It’s all around him. He swims in it at every moment. But he will likely say, ‘Water? What is this water of which you speak?’ So often this is true.”

Raymond poked his remaining omelet with his fork. He was feeling like he might not be able to eat any more.

“I thought it was everybody,” he said. “But you think it’s not true for you.”

“Well, I hope it is not. I started out just like everybody else, but the world changed me.”

“Everybody else, though?”

“Many, many people.”

“What’s the difference? How do some people get around it?”

“I don’t think anyone gets around it. I don’t think it ever bypasses a person completely. But I do think some of us have experiences that wake us up—when we see the horror that eventually comes of such judgments, or when we find ourselves on the wrong end of them, and feel how powerful that hate can grow to become. It can shake you to the very core of your being. And here is the thing about experiences that wake you up, Raymond: You try to get back to sleep, but it’s easier said than done. Once you’re awake, you’re awake. Good luck hitting the snooze button, my friend.”

He waited, thinking she would eventually tell him what experiences had awakened her.

She never did.



While they were riding home on the subway together, he watched her face. Just observed her in a moment of silence. The fragile vulnerability of her. The wrinkled, nearly translucent skin over her cheekbones. The fine haze of individual white hairs that had sprung loose from her braid. The milky appearance in the corneas of her eyes.

He realized, to his disappointment, that he would not—could not—abandon the Luis Project. Because she was someone he could not bear to disappoint. And because now he needed to know what had happened to Luis Velez, too. It was a mystery his mind needed to solve. It was a challenge he had taken on and needed to see through, both for himself and for her.

And he knew if he was going to go out knocking on doors again, it had better be soon. Right away. Right after he got her home so she could safely tuck herself in for an afternoon nap.

If he waited too long he was in danger of losing his nerve.

He dug his money out of his pocket and counted it. He had twelve dollars and seventy-five cents left out of the hundred dollars. Probably just enough for that Spanish phrasebook he would be needing. Because this afternoon he would be knocking on more doors. Seeking out more men named Luis Velez. And he would likely have to do the same the following day. And the day after that. After the dictionary was back at the school library as promised.