Preparatory notes for fu.., p.7
Preparatory Notes for Future Masterpieces, page 7
Sincerely,
—JJM
He spoke to me as no other person had before, with complete and utter understanding. Yes, Enrique would have nailed himself to a cross for me, such was his devotion, but how could he truly understand me if he didn’t know my process? But Monsieur Millet knew; he intuited, he empathized. He saw that I had a gift, and he saw that I had trouble unleashing that gift. He was offering to help me unleash it. He would guide the way. My preparatory notes would soon become the masterpieces they were destined to be.
I sent Monsieur Millet an immediate reply. On the back of a postcard we had lying around, which featured an old adobe village, I wrote the following: “You’re exactly right. I was beginning to lose hope. Your words have resurrected that hope. I am your humble and willing pupil. If I might add, the last true drawings I made were the result of a disastrous drawing lesson which led to my father’s murder followed by an attempt on my own life. Perhaps we can start sorting that out. I sense a breakthrough just around the corner!”
When I think back to those optimistic words, I am reminded of just how dangerous and damaging hope can be. A breakthrough did happen, but not “just around the corner,” unless you consider the phrase in generational terms. I was a young man when Mr. Millet and I embarked on overcoming my fear of setting pencil to paper, and I was still a young man when I finally did so. But it wasn’t because of Mr. Millet. It was also five years later. Yes, five long years I studied under Mr. Millet, and for five long years we traded ideas on art and draftsmanship and, above all, on the merits of preparatory notes. Reflecting on our correspondence, it seems that at some point Mr. Millet merely settled for treating my preparatory notes as the drawings themselves. In fact, our discussion of actual drawings and supposed drawings and intended drawings became so muddled that I don’t think either of us could’ve spotted a drawing if Michelangelo himself had taken one of his thousand actual drawings and shoved it in our faces.
I never got close to executing the billiard hall painting. I chose to live in fear, cautiously avoiding any workman I saw on the street. I was afraid I’d be dragged to the billiard hall and forced to pay back every dollar, which I kept untouched, sewed in my pants, in case that ever happened. Even with Enrique working like a dog, I felt that it wasn’t my money to spend. Five years slipped away like this, five years of tuition payments and countless stamps, and I had nothing to show for it. My correspondence with Millet’s grandson served only as a good cover when Enrique started to doubt that his round-the-clock sacrifice was paying off. “I’m tired,” he would say. And I would merely point to Monsieur Millet’s letter praising yet another finely rendered drawing, and say, “We’re getting closer, Enrique. We can’t stop now.” Of course, supportive and devoted friend that he was, he couldn’t help but wave the white flag of understanding.
Was I unfair to Enrique? Was his sacrifice of working three jobs that paid the rent, bought the food, covered my mail correspondence course as well as the occasional movie ticket greater than my sacrifice, that of peace of mind? Wasn’t life easier working and getting paid? As opposed to working and not getting paid. And when I did work, it wasn’t really considered work. Why? Because it was unconventionally executed, and by that, I mean it was written rather than drawn. I don’t know. I’m still conflicted. It’s easier to side with Enrique, to see the world in black and white, good and evil, exploiter and exploited, but what about Devoted Friend & Creative Patron in league with Struggling Artist? Far more nuanced, but also closer to the truth. Thankfully, Enrique agreed with me. For the most part. He whimpered a lot, and was always trying unsuccessfully to massage his aching muscles, but he never, not once, asked to see a finished drawing. He didn’t need proof. He simply believed. He worked and worked and encouraged me and even gave me updates on my mother and her growing family.
Yes, Enrique was in touch with my mother, or rather my mother was in touch with Enrique’s mother who asked Enrique news of me so that she could report back to my mother. After she abandoned me or I left her, or she made it clear that I was to pack my bags and go, life improved significantly for her and my baby sister. She married a successful businessman named Francisco Buenrostro, and he adopted my sister Lourdes. Then he proceeded to impregnate my mother three more times in as many years. She was too old to be having so many babies, and through Enrique, who told his mother who told my mother, I let her know just that, and my mother replied, through the same channels, that her new happiness had restored her youth. It made me want to throw up.
Some nights, unable to sleep, I would speak to my father’s memory and tell him that I would avenge his honor, but the truth is I didn’t have anything against Mr. Buenrostro. If anything, I was thankful that he took my mother and sister off my hands. I wasn’t ready to be a provider; Mr. Buenrostro clearly was. Also, for all I knew, he wasn’t aware of my existence. Maybe if he knew I existed, he would embrace me with open arms and tell me I was the grown son he never had. In fact, I used to bounce this idea off Enrique, who would remain quiet and give no indication whether he agreed or not. He would just mumble, “Maybe so,” but I could tell that there was more he wished to say. Eventually, I pressed him to confess his true thoughts.
“If you think your stepfather would embrace you with open arms,” he said, “then why don’t you ask him if he could give you some money? You know, to help with the rent, and then maybe I could work just the two jobs.”
I’m not sure what the expression on my face betrayed, but as soon as he said it, he apologized. He told me it was a horrible idea and insensitive to suggest that I should solicit help from the new husband of the mother who’d abandoned me. But despite my initial disgust, I knew I had to go. Enrique had asked very little of me over the years. If he thought my stepfather would help us financially, then I had to at least ask. I wanted to make life easier for my devoted friend. An artist was supposed to struggle, but Enrique was merely an artist’s best friend.10 For him, I would take this first step toward reuniting with my family.
* * *
10. Lorraine writes: “I find it hard to believe that this was an exclusively platonic friendship. They lived together five years! Enrique may have believed in his friend’s genius, but what’s more believable: he worked three jobs to put food on the table for his homie or for his lover? I’m just saying.” Lorraine’s observation is interesting, but we can only speculate. In John Rechy’s 1963 novel City of Night, about a half-Mexican gay hustler, there is no reading between the lines: gay sexuality is front and center. As a result, the novel was perceived to deal with non-Chicano themes and was left out of the Chicano canon. There has always been this factor in Chicano literature. Some themes count, some don’t. Who decides? Chicano scholars and educators? Editorial boards of small Latino presses? Compilers of anthologies? Chicano readers? To what extent are the themes determined by the white literary establishment—the particular tastes of literary agents and editors at commercial publishers answering to the all-important market? There’s no conspiracy here. My point is that our stories (those that get published, at least) are too often determined by factors outside the quality of the literature itself. In my experience, Chicano literature is expected to (1) teach outsiders about Chicanx/Latinx life, and (2) simultaneously reaffirm Chicanx/Latinx identity. Where does that leave our outliers and outcasts?
CHAPTER THREE
Enrique’s mother gave Enrique my mother’s new address. She now lived in a large white stucco home with a terracotta roof in the nice part of town. The quiet street was lined with trees and seemed devoid of dirt, which was the exact opposite of the dilapidated, dusty street I inhabited, always alive with workmen, screaming children, and the shouts of cart vendors. I imagined how much easier it would be to concentrate on my work on a street like this. I pictured a small bungalow studio in a shady backyard, nothing but peace and quiet, not a grease-covered mechanic in sight. I had to fight the urge to daydream about my mother bringing me ham sandwiches just like she used to. In this first encounter, I had to be tough, firm. I was asking for money, but I wasn’t begging for reconciliation. She had to know that I had struggled these last five years, survived but not without difficulties. I hadn’t bought a new shirt or pair of pants in all that time, mainly because Enrique swiped clothes from his father’s tailor shop, but I had been deprived of one of life’s supreme pleasures: entering a shop and purchasing something off the rack. My brown leather shoes were secondhand, and water seeped in through the soles. I wouldn’t have traded my gray wool fedora with burgundy band for any other hat in the world, but that wasn’t the point. The point was I lived in abject poverty while my mother lived the good life on the good side of Albuquerque, and somehow that just didn’t seem fair. It’s not what my father would’ve wanted.
I arrived at my mother’s home and found above the door a ceramic tile sign with the words, “Welcome to the Buenrostros.” Children’s toys were scattered about the front yard, and I had to walk around a bright red wagon in the walkway. I felt a lump in my throat as I pictured my sister and half siblings being pulled around in this shiny red wagon, laughing with delight, while I awoke every morning to the sound of scattering cockroaches and bleating car horns. I wondered if I would recognize my sister. The last time I saw her she was a shapeless infant whom I blamed for driving a wedge between my mother and me. I wondered if I would see a familial resemblance in my half siblings. If so, would that warm my heart to them? I preferred to imagine them as spoiled brats, arrogant and mischievous.
Just as I was about to knock on the door, a woman who was not my mother walked outside. She was small and dark and wore all white. She was pushing a stroller made for three, and there they were, my half siblings, staring up at me with frightened eyes. I also startled the woman, for she yelped and pressed her hand to her heart. “Who are you?” she asked. I explained that I was looking for my mother, Señora Buenrostro. The woman’s eyes grew wide before she poked her head back into the house and called out, “Hurry up, Lourdes!”
“My sister!” I told her.
“I didn’t realize Señora Buenrostro’s son was so grown up,” she said.
“Oh, well, yes,” I said, amazed that she knew I existed.
“Señora Buenrostro is not in right now—she’s at the market. But shall I call Don Francisco?”
At that point, my little sister rushed to the door, wearing a bright yellow dress and shiny red sandals and carrying a small plastic purse over her shoulder. “I’m reeeeady,” she said in a singsong voice. She wore sunglasses on top of her head, keeping her hair in place. She looked positively cosmopolitan, and for a six-year-old I was greatly impressed. She reminded me of myself as a child, always dapperly decked out and confident, secure of my place in the world. How my fortunes had changed since then, I thought, as I stood at the door like a hobo in tailored scraps, doubting my footing as an artist on the verge, and about to ask for money. What made matters worse was that my little sister didn’t even recognize me. I realize she was only an infant when we lived together, and even then I mainly gave her to the neighbors to watch; but still, the complete lack of recognition on her angelic face filled me with shame, knowing that in five short years I had become unrecognizable to my family.
I was ready to turn around and run back to my one-room hovel when I heard a deep friendly voice call out, “Now, don’t leave without giving Papá a kiss! All of you, and that means you, Lourdes. I don’t care how big you’ve gotten.” A large man appeared in the doorway, his body shaped like a pear. He wasn’t fat, but he had large womanly hips accentuated by brown wool slacks pulled well above his waist. His mustache was thin and groomed, as were his eyebrows, which looked almost unnatural. His hair was slicked back with plenty of pomade, except for a few stray curls. His large eyes were as friendly as his deep voice, and the second he saw me he broke into a wide smile that left me speechless.
“And who is this?” he asked in a goofy tone, directed more at his children than at the nanny or me. “He looks a bit lost, wouldn’t you say, kids?” Then he added, “Can we help this young man find his way?”
“He probably wants money,” my little sister said, her eyes narrowing. She crossed her arms as if to emphasize this assessment. Of all the people gathered in the doorway, Lourdes was the only one who should’ve known me and yet she was the wariest of my presence.
Finally, I found my voice. I introduced myself, explaining very quickly that I was the son of his wife, the brother of his adopted daughter, the half brother of his own children, and an artist. I thought that would be enough to assuage my little sister’s suspicions. I thought she would come rushing into my arms. Instead, she put her hand on her hip and again narrowed her eyes as though full of suspicion. Then she said, “I told you he came for money.”
This, a girl of six, and my own sister! Who had filled her head with such ideas? I could only assume my mother, and the thought made me want to flee. I wanted to run all the way home and wait for Enrique to arrive so that I could yell at him for his stupid idea. But then I realized that my sister was right—I had come to ask for money. My quarrel was with the tone of her voice. She, the little brat that had benefited from five years of Mr. Buenrostro’s wealth,11 was judging me for simply asking for my share. We were of the same flesh and blood. Why was she entitled to comfort and not me?
I ignored my sister’s glare, which was easy enough because Mr. Buenrostro was all smiles and joy. His eyes widened, and a grin spread over his face that flipped the arc of his thin mustache.
“What a miracle!” he boomed. “Oh, if only your mother were here right now. To see her surprise. Children, this is your brother. He has returned to us!”
Flattered and overwhelmed by his obvious joy, I was also somewhat perplexed by his triumphant hailing of my so-called return. I guess it was true: I had returned after being kicked out, abandoned, banished under threat of institutionalization. But something in his voice told me that what he meant was, “Children, your brother left of his own accord and has now returned.” It’s a minor distinction, and my half siblings and the little snot that was my sister couldn’t care less, but for me, it was important. Before I could quibble over the difference, Mr. Buenrostro stepped forward and embraced me. The strong smell of his cologne tickled my nose and made me lightheaded at the same time that it made me wish I had a bottle of my own.
Two of the babies began to cry.
Mr. Buenrostro let go and exclaimed, “The gardens will wait! We shall stay here until your mother returns.”
Immediately my sister clenched her little fists into balls and stomped her foot. “But I’ve been waiting to go all morning! You said we were going to the gardens.” And she stared at me with disgust as if for five years I had conspired to coincide my arrival with her morning jaunt. I tried to win her favor:
“Please, don’t wait for me. I arrived unannounced. I can return another time.”
“No, oh no, your brother has returned,” Señor Buenrostro said, grinning, leaning down to Lourdes’s eye level. Obviously, he saw my sister’s attitude as a child’s whim. The look on her face told me otherwise.
We sat in a large parlor with leather couches surrounding a wood-fired stove. Tapestries with Indian motifs hung on the walls. I wasted no time explaining my dire situation. I began by apologizing for my tattered clothes and beat-up shoes covered in automobile grease. “I live in a room above a mechanic’s garage, that’s why,” I said. I saw Mr. Buenrostro’s forehead crease in concern. “Oh my,” he said.
“What’s your job?” my sister asked. She was supposed to be playing with the other children, but she decided to stand at the front window and wait for my mother’s arrival.
“My job?”
“Yes, do you have a job?” Her arms were still crossed and her eyes still narrowed, and I thought that she resembled my mother, which would make sense, it was her daughter after all. But what I mean is that she looked not six but forty.
“Well . . .” I looked to Mr. Buenrostro with his creased forehead and sympathetic eyes. I didn’t want to lose that sympathy. “I sell newspapers,” I heard myself say. His brow creased even tighter, as though trying to imagine a life lived hawking papers. I continued, unable to stop myself, “And I bus dishes at a restaurant.” Mr. Buenrostro pursed his lips on hearing this and groaned, as though recalling his own days as a poor industrious young man. It was only natural that I continue. “I also . . . I work—I work at a coal factory.”
Mr. Buenrostro grimaced as if it actually pained him to hear this news. My sister, on the other hand, knit her little brow and asked, “Why aren’t you there now?”
“Where?” I said.
“At your jobs.”
It was a logical question, and I had a logical answer.
“It happens that I’ve been fired, just yesterday.”
“Fired!” Mr. Buenrostro exclaimed. “From which one?”
“From which one?” I repeated. I glanced in my sister’s direction. I detected a twinkle in her eye as she awaited my answer. She had also decided to start hopping on one foot, as though playing an imaginary game of hopscotch.
“Well, from all three,” I said.
“All three? Whatever could’ve happened?”
Before I could answer, my mother appeared in the entranceway. I didn’t even hear the door open. I just looked up and there she was, my mother, radiant and youthful and more beautiful than I remembered. If one’s health is any indicator of having made the right life decisions, then abandoning me to my fate and marrying Mr. Buenrostro had proven wise. The last time I saw my mother, she was pale and gaunt, her eyes lacked spirit, her hair was not exactly dirty but dull and limp, and if someone had told me that she was suffering from consumption I wouldn’t have doubted that someone. But now. . .now! My God, she looked like she’d emerged from a department store catalog.
