Many people live by the book. They grow up, study, get married, have children. They live happily ever after. Comfortable lives of complacency.
We don’t all have to do that. Some of us follow our hearts. It’s not just a right. It’s a duty. Never live a life of quiet acceptance. That’s what losers do. We aren’t losers.
In the beginning, when we began dating, Marcus loved the idea of Colombia.
He loved the idea of a Colombian girlfriend, the exoticness it awarded him in a city where the only Latinos his friends came into contact with were busboys and gardeners.
I didn’t mean to be exotic, either. I simply was what I was.
But the moment it dawned on me that there was a race card I could play, I started to use it, subtly but decidedly.
I surprised him with a mariachi for his birthday, a quintet I picked up at Mariachi Plaza in Boyle Heights.
It stunned the hell out of his parents, who fidgeted nervously when I joined in the chorus of “El Rey,” belting it out with my roommate Carolina, the only other Colombian I knew in Los Angeles.
I gave Marcus a leather-bound collection of Gabriel García Márquez’s works as a gift, with a dedication in each one of the books. In the last one, Love in the Time of Cholera, I wrote: “Beyond countries, beyond time, some things are meant to be. Te adoro, Helena.” I meant it, too.
I never pretended to be anything I wasn’t.
I thought implicitly, from the photographs I showed him of my parents and my brother, from the education I had, and the English I spoke, that he understood exactly where I came from.
One day, during a luncheon at Marcus’s parents’ house, I overheard his mother, Kitty—a thin, elegant-looking blonde with a permanent tan—talking about me to her friends.
“She’s Latin American,” I heard her say. “From Colombia. She’s very exotic looking, don’t you think?” They were sitting at a corner table on the balcony, and I could see only the tops of their heads from the open window in the studio.
“Colombia! Isn’t that where all the drugs come from?” asked a woman, slightly horrified.
“Well, yes, but of course, I’m certain the entire country isn’t dealing drugs, sweetie,” Kitty replied calmly. “At any rate, I find Helena a very simple, down-to-earth girl. Marcus tells me she lives in a little apartment near USC. I can’t imagine she’s involved in anything remotely like that.”
“She must be so grateful to Marcus,” said another of Kitty’s friends. “Imagine”—I saw only the suntanned hand, glistening with gold rings, gesturing grandly toward the garden, the pool, the tennis court—“she’s probably never been to a house like this in her life.”
“Of course, she’s grateful,” Kitty said with assurance. “I mean, Marcus says her family is very decent. Her father is a physician, I believe. But she does come from a little country in South America! This must all be very exciting for her.”
I felt my cheeks grow warm. That someone would even question my place in life was just completely alien to me. But worse still was the outright condescension. I had been dating Marcus now for five months and had felt comfortable in his parents’ company. I had no inkling that I was regarded as an extension of the hired help. The lack of understanding, and more than that, my failure in conveying who I was, infuriated me.
“Is Marcus very serious about her, Kitty?” asked the voice belonging to the woman with the gestures and the golden rings. “She’s quite darling, actually, but I wouldn’t have thought she was his type.”
Kitty had laughed, the proud laugh of a mother who knows her son can get any girl he chooses to.
“Oh, you know Marcus,” she cooed. “He doesn’t like to stay anywhere for too long. But in the meantime, she’s a nice girl. And to be quite honest with you, at least she’s not Hindu or Muslim or something like that. ”
Sometimes, you need a serious jolt to get started. I didn’t know for certain if I was just a pastime for Marcus. What I did know was that he wasn’t a pastime for me. I made up my mind then. What Kitty never knew is that she lost her son to me that day.
We’d been planning a spring break getaway. The next morning, I booked two plane tickets, and that evening, after we made love, I placed them on his bare chest.
“This is your bonus birthday present, my gringuito,” I said. “We’re going to Colombia for a week.”
He couldn’t say no.