10
I spent most of Friday morning doing calculations for my
new client, the writer. It turned out that he and his wife had made agreements,
with respect to each joint piece of writing, about their respective shares of
the work. It was as if they had been anticipating an eventual divorce.
After
lunch I drove to the Civic Center, parked in the underground garage, and
dropped off Libbys petition at the Courthouse. With Labor Day coming up, it
would not be processed for submission to a judge before Tuesday, but that was
fine with me. I then wended my way through the downtown streets to the Wells
Fargo building at Montgomery and California to meet with the trust officer,
whose name was Walter Cantelli. I gave him a copy of the petition, and after
examining it he agreed to give me some information.
It
turned out that the estate, or at least the part of it probably the lions
share that was managed by the bank, was almost entirely held by Peter Hart as
sole owner, with no specified beneficiary. A copy of the deed to the house was
on hand, and it showed the same thing. There were two exceptions: an investment
account whose beneficiary was the Randall Museum Association, and another such
account that was held in joint tenancy with right of survivorship by Peter M.
Hart and Thomas A. Stone. The current value of this account was a little over
three hundred thousand dollars, of which some fifty thousand was in cash. This
was, in all likelihood, the source of the money with which Andy was paying the
cost of his rescue operation. Unless, of course, he had some other funds of his
own.
I
took copious notes, and by the time I was done at the bank there was no point
in going back to the office. I walked back to the Civic Center, using the most
direct route along Market Street, and drove home. When I got there I checked my
office voicemail. There was another message from Rose Bargallo.
More
news, Gary. There may not be any need to go to Africa. I called the Namibian
embassy in Washington, and I got a lead to someone who may have known Andy
there. No need to call me back. Ill tell you more about it tomorrow.
I
had a snack, trimmed my beard, showered and changed. By six-twenty-five I was
ready. I set myself down on the sofa with The New Yorker.
My
doorbell rang at ten to seven. Evidently Chris had overestimated the time it
would take her to get to my house.
She
was wearing a long-sleeved white jacket, open in front, over a low-cut black
sundress, which may have been the same one that she wore at Ann and Jeffs
party. Her hair was black, long and straight, and she was very pretty in a way
that I think of as Mediterranean southern Spanish or southern Italian which
just enough of an indigenous tinge to mark her unmistakably as the Latina
that she called herself. Despite her very high heels she did not stand very
tall; at least in this regard she was not a pseudo-Libby. Her breasts, by what
she displayed of them, did not have the sculptural perfection of Libbys, and
were larger. Her hips were fuller. Overall she was quite shapely. I found her
very desirable.
Hi,
Gary, she said as I opened the door.
Hi,
Chris. Its nice that youre a little early, so we dont need to rush. Would
you like something to drink before we go?
Sure,
thanks. A little white wine would be nice.
She followed
me into the kitchen. Youve got a nice house, she said. As I opened the
refrigerator door she looked inside and said, Oh, youve got Charles Shaw
chardonnay. My favorite! She laughed, just as I had expected.
While
we were sipping the wine, I said to her, Theres something you told me that
intrigued me. You said that your kids were Latinos, but Ann told me that
youd been married to someone named Lynch. Would you care to explain?
She
laughed again. Anns all mixed up. Either she misunderstood Jeff, or Jeff told
her wrong. Lets see. First of all, Ive never been married, but the father of
my kids, who I lived with for years, is named Herrera, and my kids are named
Herrera Martínez, in the Spanish way, though my son prefers to use just Martínez,
with H as his middle initial. He doesnt like his dad. My daughter, on the
other hand, uses just Herrera. It gets confusing, trying to explain to people
that they are full siblings. Sometimes
a veces no es tan fácil ser latino.
Lo
comprendo bien.
Gracias
por tu comprensión. Second, my full name is Cristina Martínez Lynch,
because my moms descended from an Irishman named Lynch who went to Argentina,
like, more than two hundred years ago, and then about a hundred years ago
someone from that family moved to Peru, where my mom was born. And, just to
complete the picture, my dad was born in Spain but moved to Peru with his
parents when he was a kid, after the Civil War. So, you see, my kids are one
hundred percent Latino. And they speak perfect Spanglish, she said with
a laugh.
And
where were you born?
In
Peru, but my parents moved here when I was three. How about you?
Im
a Californian, born in LA. My parents were from New York and New Jersey, but
they moved to LA because my father worked in television.
Jewish?
By
ancestry, but there was nothing of Jewish culture in my family.
You
said they were from New York and New Jersey.
My
mom died when I was eighteen. Ovarian cancer. Shed been diagnosed when I was
eight, so she held on, against all odds, long enough to be at my high-school
graduation.
So
your dad took care of you and your mom?
Yes.
No
wonder youve been protective of your son. Her insight, offered so
matter-of-factly, struck me deeply, but she gave me no time to respond. What
about your dad?
He
had a heart attack five years ago. She said nothing. Its seven oclock, I
said. Perhaps we should go.
In
the car she asked me, Did your dad every remarry?
Yes,
eventually, when I was already married and a lawyer. But it didnt last. He
tried it again, and it was the same thing. He never got over my mother.
Since
Chris was silent, I chose to ask her a question. Why did you and your kids
father never marry?
She
laughed. Its the Latino thing again. He was divorced, but hed been
married in the Church, and as far as my mom was concerned, if it wasnt going
to be a Catholic marriage then it didnt count.
How
about you?
I
didnt care. I loved him. But when we split up it was easier that we werent
married.
Thats
not a nice thing to say to a divorce lawyer, I said. We need the business!
Chris
laughed. Her laughter was growing on me, as I had suspected it might.
You
wouldnt have gotten much business from Gus and me, she said. We were too
poor.
Ive
got a sliding scale.
With
us, you would have slid all the way to the bottom.
We
call that pro bono.
As
opposed to Sonny Bono. By this time we were both laughing heartily.
And
cui bono. Since I wasnt sure if she was familiar with that expression,
I went on. You know, Ive been to Peru, and I ate cuy.
Youre
kidding!
No,
Im not. I really did eat guinea pig there, and found it delicious. There was
an Italian tourist there, and he wanted to say that the cuy was good, so
he said cui bono! Now Im kidding. I hope you dont mind bad puns.
The
badder the better, Chris said while I was parking.
As
we were walking into the dining room, Chris said, The problem with this place
is that theres no Peruvian food, which is the best food in Latin America, as
Im sure youll agree.
Tonight
Ill agree to anything, I said as we sat at our table. Chris took off her
jacket, and her shoulders came into view. Each was crossed by three thin
straps, two of which belonged to the dress and one to the bra, but I was not
sure which was which. I was beginning to feel excited. Even to drinking
pisco, I added.
Chris
laughed again. Youre just as funny when youre sober, she said, taking my
hand across the table and squeezing it. I squeezed back and held on to her
hand, but she withdrew it.
Its
not whats in me, I said. Its who Im with.
Youre
sweet, she said, but the softly sexy expression with which she said it
vanished as soon as I countered with So are you.
We
ordered piscos and toasted with cui bono! We then agreed that we would
order a series of appetizers as our dinner. Some of the aperitivos,
Caribbean in style, also bore the names of musical genres (guaracha,
merengue, montuno), but most of them were the usual antojitos mexicanos
that I grew up on, what with our Mexican housekeeper, Elena, from whom I
learned colloquial Spanish (and from whom my father received physical solace,
with my mothers mediation, once she herself could no longer give it to him).
If I worked here, Chris said, there would be papas a la huancaína,
which they could call huayno. But she relished the Mexican dishes,
showing none of the disdain toward Mexican cuisine that I have seen in other
South Americans.
You
like Mexican food, I said to her as we each took an enchilada.
I
like all Latino food, she said between bites. Or Hispanic, or whatever
you want to call it.
In
LA, when I was a kid, Mexican food was called Spanish food by a lot of people.
Even now there are people who say Spanish rice when they mean Mexican
rice.
Its
like a Spanish omelet. Its got nothing to do with a tortilla española.
You know what that is, dont you?
Yes.
I
thought so. My Spanish grandma makes the best tortilla española in the
world. Do you know why?
Peruvian
potatoes? I ventured.
Youre
smart. Another hand squeeze followed by a quick withdrawal.
The
salsa dance lesson was announced. We stayed at our table, taking little
spoonfuls of flan and sipping chardonnay. I told her some details about myself
about law school and Margo and Greg and Margo and Joyce and she told me
about her family. As with most Latin American families I have known, beginning
with Elenas, her tale had a decided telenovela quality, this one of the
political sort. Her paternal grandparents had been republicanos in Spain
and became apristas in Peru, remaining firmly leftist and anticlerical,
while the Lynches were conservative upper-crust Catholics. Her parents met and
fell in love at the university. Her father, a leftist like his parents,
reluctantly agreed to a Catholic wedding, but when Chris was born he balked at
having her baptized. Finally her parents decided to emigrate to the United
States in order to escape the family conflict. After their arrival in San
Francisco they had twins, a boy and a girl. Chris was not particularly close to
her siblings, both of whom lived in the East Bay and were married, the sister
to an Anglo and the brother to a Chicana.
I
was going to ask her about the background of Gus Herrera, the father of her
children, but the band suddenly started, brassy and relentless. Conversation
was out of the question. Chris and I smiled at each other, and we got up to
dance.
It
was a long number, and well before it was over I was sweating. Chriss skin was
also glistening, and she looked even more attractive.
I took
the lead in the dance for some of the time, but for the most part she danced on
her own, turning and spinning with seemingly wild abandon. I could not tell
whether her moves were learned or improvised, but it didnt matter.
Youre
a great dancer, I said when we sat down and I took a sip of wine.
Thanks.
Youre pretty good too.
We
danced another number, similar to the first but not quite so long. As soon as
we returned to our table, even before sitting down, a tall, thin dark-skinned
man who seemed to know Chris, if only by sight, wordlessly asked her to dance.
She gave me an eye signal that I took to represent asking me for approval, and
I gave it with a smile. She went off to the dance floor and danced while hardly
ever looking at her partner, though she threw a few glances at me, as though to
say, Id rather be dancing with you. I entertained myself by looking
around at the dancers.
The
next number was a bolero, sung by the man who had played bongos in the fast
numbers. It was an old song that I remembered from my fathers record
collection, played even slower than I remembered it. I held Chris fairly
closely, but when I tried to close the gap between us even more I felt
resistance.
In
the course of the dance I felt the cell phone in my pants pocket vibrate. When
the number ended Chris was immediately asked to dance again by another man, and
I sat down to check my phone. The missed call was from Greg, and there was no
message.
Looking
around me, I noticed that when a man would ask a woman to dance and she
declined, he would simply, and with no seeming embarrassment, go on to the next
one, until he found a willing partner.
Chris
and I danced again, and once again she was asked to dance and accepted. She
really was a good dancer, and the men there seemed to know it. I decided that
this time, instead of sitting and watching I would dance with someone else. I
set my sights on an extremely pretty blonde who was sitting, with two other
young women, a few tables away. I asked her to dance, and to my surprise she
accepted eagerly. Unfortunately she was not a good dancer. I tried my best to
guide her through some simple moves, but she had trouble catching the rhythm. I
decided that if I were to dance again with a woman other than Chris, it would
be with someone that I had observed on the floor.
When
the bands set was over, recorded music was played, and it was far more varied
than the bands repertoire. It included merengue, cumbia, and cha-cha-cha, and
Chris seemed delighted that I knew the dances. And when another bolero was
played, I sensed less resistance on her part than in the previous one.
By
the time the band came back for the second set I was very tired. Estoy
agotado, I said to Chris. Lets go then, she said simply.
During
the ride back to my house I finally asked her about Gus Herrera. His name is
César Augusto, she said with a laugh, and hes Colombian. Hes married again,
and has another kid, so hes a little tight with the child support.
Would
you like some help with that? I asked.
No,
thanks, Gary. I dont think I want to be your client.
Okay,
I said, not wanting to pursue the matter. By the way, did César Augusto have
any kids with his first wife?
No,
she couldnt have any, and thats why they split up. At least thats what he
told me.
We
arrived at my house, and I parked in my driveway. She seemed in no hurry to get
out of the car, so I went around and opened the passenger door for her. She
took my right hand with her left as she got out, and with her right she pointed
at a Honda Civic that was parked two houses away.
Thats
my car, she said. Id better go home.
I
see the question never came up.
Oh,
it did, in my mind. But its like this. I really like you, Gary, and it could
get serious, but we need some time to find out if it does or doesnt. Either
way I want to sleep with you, but for me it would be two different things
just sex, or a relationship and I need to know which is which. Im going on
forty, and I dont want to make the same mistakes over and over. Do you understand?
Completely,
I said. I really like you too, Chris. Me gustas mucho.
She
came up to me and kissed me briefly on the mouth, putting her left arm around
my neck as she unlocked her car with the remote key that she held in her right
hand. She then scurried off to the car, her high heels clacking on the
sidewalk. She gave me a last look with a smile before letting herself and
starting the engine.
I
turned around and walked into my house. I felt simultaneously let down,
encouraged and confused. I had been looking forward to going to bed with Chris,
but I did not feel as if she had led me on. She had given me numerous gestures
of a cautious backing away after timid initial plunges.
The
confusion was over whether I wanted it to get serious. The issue had not
arisen in my three years of dating.
But
as I got ready for bed, the feeling of having been led on grew. I had not
counted on going to bed alone that night.
It
was Chris who had said more than just dinner. Who had brought up the
question of your place or mine. Conditionally, to be sure, but still a
tease if ever there was one.
On
my way to bed I noticed that there was a message on the answering machine. I
surmised that the call was from Greg. By now it was too late to return anyones
call. I would listen to the message in the morning.