Our House in the Last World by Oscar Hijuelos

Author:Oscar Hijuelos [Hijuelos, Oscar]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7953-3752-9
Publisher: RosettaBooks
Published: 2013-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

3

Alejo ran into his friend Gonzales on Broadway, just as he was leaving the subway kiosk. They often went to Gonzales’s apartment, which was in the basement of the building at the top of the hill, three buildings away from where Alejo lived. Gonzales was married to an old woman who, unlike Mercedes, spent most of her time in the kitchen, cooking. When they were together, Alejo and Gonzales always talked about going into some negocio together, a little grocery store. The one on the corner was run by Markowitz. Alejo had approached him a few times and made offers, but Markowitz was not ready to sell. But this day Alejo told Gonzales about the boss coming around, that he was worried about losing his job. “I work hard, but that’s not always enough,” he said. “I never miss a day, but they don’t consider that.”

It was in his mind, the fears. Everyone, including management, liked him at the hotel. They didn’t pay him much, but they liked him—as if that were compensation. In fact, to Alejo, it was. To be liked was enough. As Horacio would say, “He was a nice… chump.”

But Alejo always worried.

“They could fire me like that, Louie,” he told Gonzales. It was only a fear. At his wages they would let him work there forever.

“Don’t think about it, Alejo. The boss is always that way. He likes to keep the workers worried…”

They had a drink. Mrs. Gonzales was cooking plantain fritters and she set down a platter of them for the two men to eat as they belted down their whiskey.

“Come on, Alejo, stay for one more,” Gonzales said, pouring out another with his shaky hand.

***

A few hours later it was dark and Alejo was not yet home. So Mercedes sent Hector to bed and went to sit by the window and wait.

Hector could not sleep. The wall plastering was saggy and uneven. He kept seeing things in relief on the walls. In one patch he saw thorny flowers. In another he saw a speeding truck. A sick child. The devil. A woman with a knife, like Mama said she saw in dreams about Buita. These things had lives of their own; they were moving around on the wall. Something else was moving. It was inside the closet. A bird with evil eyes and withered feathers was crouching in the corner on a pile of clothes… and worst of all was her voice, Mercedes’s voice, calling him, “Hector, Hector,” but all the way in the back of his head. “Hector, Hector,” along with her laughter. And he would remember what she had once told him: “When I was a little girl in Cuba, I was a half medium. All little girls were like that. We could look into the future and hear people’s thoughts. So don’t ever lie to me.” That did not help him. He tried to sleep, rolled on his stomach, felt like pissing, turned on his back. He was an insomniac.

For an hour Mercedes hung out the window, looking for Alejo.

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