“Yes, Nestor,” she said. “On Wednesday, a las dos de la tarde.”
“So I will see you then. Now, forgive me, María, but I have to go.”
They said their good-byes, and then that was all. María headed up the stairs to rejoin the family.
Chapter THIRTY-THREE
Two days later, at the appointed time, María, in a delicate blouse with mother-of-pearl buttons, a floridly embroidered vest, and a tight pair of toreador pants, stood waiting inside the entryway of the cathedral. After having given herself plenty of time for the nerve-racking train ride from the Bronx and the negotiation of the streets, she’d arrived early, and by two thirty, having watched people coming and going through those doors without any sign of him, she had been on the verge of feeling abandoned, when breathlessly Nestor Castillo came bounding up the steps, his face contorted, dabbing the sweat off his handsome brow with a handkerchief. She had been looking inside, and had thought that she might sit for a while taking in the solemn comforts of the nave, but then she heard his voice-“María!” It surprised her to see how he had changed-his face had filled out somewhat, she supposed from all those home-cooked meals, and yes, he seemed prosperous. He wore a fine watch, a gold bracelet, and, she also noticed, a simple wedding band. Dressed casually enough for a mildly warm day in late June, he had turned up in a crisp white guayabera, a pair of pleated pantalones, and laceless shoes of Spanish leather, the sort he had favored in Havana. With his hand clasped over his chest, for he had practically run over from the West Side, he poured forth an explanation about a stalled subway, begging her forgiveness. Somehow, as María smiled meekly at the glorious sight of him, they hadn’t even managed a salutatory kiss on the cheek, but stood facing one another, briefly taking hold of each other’s hands.
“Oh, but María,” he said. “It’s so good to see you.”
Soon enough they were inside the cathedral. Maybe a nostalgia had informed Nestor’s choice, or perhaps he had thought to set a restrained tone for their reunion, but it wasn’t long before they were a few pews back from the altar, kneeling in prayer, like they used to back in Havana before they’d go off to ravish each other like the sinners they became. He had put on enough cologne for her to notice, despite the smell of burning candles and incense that floated in clouds through the nave; and though he seemed intent on his incantations to El Señor, which he whispered with his eyes closed, now and then he’d turn to look at her and smile. After a few minutes, he moved a little closer. Then, in the manner of their earlier times together, Nestor, in the sight of God and his saints and all the angels of heaven, couldn’t help but reach down, while in the midst of his prayers, to feel her leg, his hand moving from above her knee towards where her thigh wouldn’t give way anymore, murmuring, “Oh, but mi María.”
With just his touch she felt her undergarment dampening, God forgive her. And some scent must have risen off her skin, a distinctly female aroma, somewhere between burning sugar and raw meat. His nostrils flared-and they both knew what was bound to happen sooner or later that afternoon. Nestor turned to her and said, “Some things no man can ever forget,” and then he kissed her, and with that they made the sign of the cross and he took hold of her hand, and they went off together.
HE MADE NO MENTION OF HIS WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN, THOUGH she knew that, when he fell into a silence, that’s who he was really thinking about; but he told her much about the fortunes of the Castillo brothers’ orchestra, the Mambo Kings-“I wish you could hear us. We’re sounding fantastic and get crowds everywhere we play.” There was some talk about that television show and how nicely his fellow cubano Desi Arnaz had treated the brothers in California, first class all the way: some real good breaks had come about because of that song-“The one I wrote about you, and only you, María…” Walking downtown towards Macy’s, where she had thought to buy some gifts for la señora Matilda in Havana and her hostess in the Bronx-it was just an excuse, a way of passing time-María was tempted to ask him if he really thought she had treated him cruelly. But she knew the answer. In fact, as they were crossing Sixth Avenue, María being María, which is to say still a poor guajira at heart, no matter how well she now dressed and comported herself, she couldn’t help but ask Nestor: “With such a successful song, you must be making money, yes?”
She meant to pry; or perhaps didn’t mean to, but whatever the case, he laughed and, in a slip, told her: “Some money, María, but I’ve been putting it all away for my kids,” the only time he brought them up. And that inspired a period of glacial silence, which María broke with a simple question.
He turned, trying to pull her towards him, even as she backed off.
“So you have a family now, verdad?”
“Yes, good children and a wife.”
“I’m so happy for you, Nestor,” she told him, looking off, to nowhere.
Changing the subject, she talked about her dancer’s career; nothing about the fact that she was still with Ignacio, or about wanting a child of her own, or of the men she sometimes went off with-for fun, or to forget herself, or to be cruel, María didn’t know why. Occasionally, she’d think about something the older women at the clubs had always told her: “It’s fine to have the memory of a love, but it’s a fairy tale to think that one can ever go back there again.” She ignored that, of course, enjoying the way that Nestor, even for all the miércoles of their small talk, looked at her, so sadly, so priestly, so filled with desire. She loved it when he squeezed her hand and smiled. She loved to think, for that afternoon at least, they could both pretend no one else existed in the world, though he soon shattered that impression. “I am enjoying seeing you again,” he told her, “but one thing. I have an obligation, una cita, this evening, and I must be leaving you by six.”
That offended her, but María smiled anyway.
They went to Macy’s. She bought an Italian silk scarf for Gladys’s sister, a few other items for the rest of that family, a half dozen packages of nylons for la señora Matilda. Afterwards, just past four, Nestor suggested that they might go somewhere for a sandwich and a drink, and that’s how they ended up in the bar of the New Yorker Hotel, just across from the Eighth Avenue subway on Thirty-fourth Street. As a musician, Nestor knew just about every hotel manager, concierge, and bartender in the city, the Cubans among them at least, and so, when they walked in, they were treated royally and seated at a corner table. They ordered two grilled steak sandwiches on toast (though she only picked at hers) and a bottle of red wine, but before that arrived, Nestor asked for a glass of rum, and so did María, mainly to calm their nerves, because they both knew what was bound to happen. Outside the bar doorway, the floor was covered by a red carpet that led to an elevator, a conveyance, which, with the press of a button, could take them to any number of rooms. In one of them, both María and Nestor knew, there would be a bed which destiny had surely intended for them. Neither said as much, at first, but after a few rums, they started holding hands again, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes, and whispering endearments. That’s when Nestor, like some fellow out of a bolero, reached over and, touching her face, said: “You must know, María, how much I still love you.”
And María told him the same, though she wasn’t sure she believed it herself. Nevertheless, after a while, it seemed inevitable that Nestor would have a certain conversation with the barroom manager, who, after going off, came back from a lobby office with a small black tray on which he had set a bill, presumably for their meal and drinks. On the bill he had written, “habitación 223. Buen provecho,” and under it, he had left a room key.