Papi goes so fast that whoever goes after him is always late. He goes so fast the only thing you see is the cloud of smoke he leaves behind. But I go faster than Papi, and when I hear his voice calling me from the parking lot to hurry up, I yell back that I just have to put on my shoes even though I’m still blinded by the shampoo and in the shower.
Papi’s girlfriends are faster than everybody and they’ve set up an office to organize themselves so they can coordinate their dates with Papi. They now have their own secretary who communicates with Papi’s secretary (cuz secretaries understand each other best) and they’re all beautiful and there are so many of them (both secretaries and girlfriends) that they sometimes have to rent out a hotel to get to know each other and trade business cards, which, besides the girlfriend’s name, profession, and telephone number, also shows her turn on the long list of dates with Papi. The list is so long they soon have to update the system, computerize it, and bring in foreign technicians to offer training for the girlfriends so they’ll be ready when the new system is activated.
Of course, Papi pays for everything.
The media soon finds out about the updates being made to the installation. It’s first on a long list of steps to modernize the system, say two foreign technicians in the newspaper photo who look like they could be Colombian or German, or twins with fake mustaches. The day finally arrives and the system is activated in a glamorous reception at which Papi and his girlfriend of the day cut a ribbon (with Papi’s colors) for the cameras. In the meantime somebody opens a bottle of champagne but all we can see is the crest of foam. After the photo is taken, the girlfriend of the day cedes the spotlight to the next girlfriend, who is currently sitting in the makeup chair having her cheekbones retouched. The people at home, the guests and the girlfriends themselves, confirm the system’s high efficiency. For three days, a radio and television network transmits news bulletins every half hour that explain the enrollment process, the correct way to fill out the application, how to present yourself to the right offices to solicit the list of necessary documents, and the deadline for turning them in. Between news bulletins they show movies starring Joselito, Marisol, or Marcelino, pan y vino.
We’ve lost sight of Papi. There’s no cloud of smoke or anything. There are just photos from three or four years ago that pop up now and again in the newspaper when his name is mentioned in some mix-up, always cuz of one of his damned girlfriends.
By the time the technicians realized the system wasn’t programmed according to the country’s protocols for electricity (rushed and scarce), it was already too late. With each blackout the system began to weaken and the small delays began to create a curtain of residual time behind which Papi could hide and disappear, which he did for months at a time. Poor guy, he was just so tired.
Finally a group of women whose turn had been denied various times got together and renounced the system, saying it was fraudulent and demanding an open and immediate meeting with Papi, and the dismissal of the central committee (which had, until now, been in charge of the administration and maintenance of the internal and external structure of the system). They questioned Papi’s very existence, that of the system, and of the list itself.
But nobody could find Papi. The women recited manifestos from their own radio network, demanding direct contact, a more equitable agreement, and lined up in front of Papi’s office. The line grew very quickly, reaching Calle 27 de Febrero just minutes before the first woman got to the door. In an hour the line reached Avenida Kennedy and the next day it was in the dead zone between the capital and the nearby provinces.
There were too many women. I think some didn’t even know what they were doing there. Some just happened to be passing by with their husbands, walking their dog or in a car, and without even saying good-bye, they threw themselves from the moving vehicles, got in line, and were immediately absorbed into the conversation about how nail strengthener is made from a garlic base.
The line continues to grow, attracting those giant flies that follow the vendors with their roasted peanuts, boiled corn, fried plantains, tripe, bofe, mofongo, hot dogs, pork sandwiches, rice and beans, coconut sweets, tamarind juice, frío-fríos, yun-yuns, and little empanadas. Some are quite clever and park their pickup trucks every two blocks loaded with T-shirts, posters, caps, scapulars, and all kinds of propaganda featuring Papi’s photo. Some even have photocopies of Papi’s birth certificate and green card, framed in fake gold, with the Virgin of Altagracia in the center. Some of the women come up and buy and the merchandise looks great on them, but others come up carrying scissors and lighters to put the buyers on trial cuz, after all, What are we doing here?
The merchants have their own line parallel to that of the women. They see this could be good business so they set up a little stand made of sticks and plywood. Soon there’s a long line of stands that extends to the mountain range on either side of the river of people.
At night those who can sleep hug one another or a stuffed animal and lie down on cardboard and mats, protected by the two lines of stands, carts, and posts that the peddlers cover with a tarp or sky-blue plastic when they go home. There’s always one vendor who stays twenty-four hours to offer coffee, Guardia mints, and bananas to those who suffer from insomnia. They gather around a battery-operated fan somebody has managed to get, or around a little television to see if anybody has seen Papi, or to see how the line is doing, or to see Papi in those photos from three years ago that sometimes show up on the news whenever his name is mentioned in some mix-up. A union organizer pleads for a place in line so he and Papi can meet and discuss the state of things: the line itself, its extension, the women who won’t even listen to God and interfere with traffic at certain hours, who bite each other, who tear each other’s nails cuz somebody cut in front of them, who fall on the asphalt and break their necks and need an ambulance to pick them up and take them straight to Papi.
Some of the women are pregnant. Since no one will make them leave the line and lose their turns while getting a checkup, the government has brought in various mobile gynecological clinics to dispense prenatal vitamins, creams to eliminate stretch marks, and free exams during daylight hours. The mobile clinics are even equipped with ultrasounds so the mothers can see how their babies are developing, and in general, it’s true that they look like Papi. The pregnant women are given priority in line, which means the others, seeing their own position imperiled, make them miscarry by putting two Situtex in their breakfast. And if that doesn’t work, they grab them and take them behind a tree and use a hanger. Many bleed to death in the ditches. It’s very ugly.
When the survivors first began to give birth, they brought the babies to my abuela Cilí, believing she’d intervene with my father. But Cilí is very old and really can’t deal with any of that, so I answered the phone like a secretary and organized the appointments. To those I didn’t like over the phone, or who didn’t recognize me right away, I’d say, Yes, yes, this Sunday at such-and-such an hour, and when they arrived I’d say I didn’t see their names in the book and they’d have to leave. Later I’d see them going down the stairs with their rag-doll baby drooling milk and I’d feel sorry for them and say, Wait, wait, I think I can find you a slot, and I’d run my hand over the pages of the book and lick the tip of my index finger with my tongue to turn the page.
Cilí bathes early. She wears a dress that makes her look like she’s kind of in mourning and pulls out the plastic bag in which she keeps our money in moist wads; I don’t know if it’s sweat or water or what. She gives me five pesos and says, Buy yourself a soda. I go down the stairs and buy a pack of Constanza cigarettes and go up to the roof and stick one in my mouth but I don’t light it, instead pretending to blow smoke through my nose the way Milly taught me. That’s when Cilí calls me cuz the mothers have started to arrive. Leysi offers them coffee on the stairway and carries the little kids around and cries and hugs each one of the mothers cuz Tía Leysi loves a scene. When she comes back in the house she pulls the curtain shut and says, What a bunch of sluts!
My abuela sits the babies on her lap and, smiling, checks their ears, checks their toes, and their penises with a magnifying glass. She looks for a little birthmark in the form of a crab that might match Papi’s. Some of the babies have two birthmarks, one in the form of a crab and the other shaped like a pipe, just like the one on Papi’s dad’s dad. Some of the kids look exactly like me, and in fact there is a long line of women with kids wearing knitted wool socks or miniature Nike-brand shoes who look exactly like me; it extends from Cilí’s door all the way to the Malecón. At some point they realize Cilí isn’t gonna get them a car, or a meeting with Papi, or monthly support, and they go back to the line at the dealership, with their kids and all, many of them already grown.