Giles Blunt - Breaking Lorca

“I have tickets,” he said, holding them up. “We can go right in.” He hurried her past the box office to the escalator. “So, you changed your mind after all. I’m glad you did.”

No smile. Just a glum nod.

Her silence felt like an accusation. “You want some popcorn? Something to drink?”

“No. Nothing.”

As they took their seats, Victor couldn’t think of a thing to say. Perhaps his shirt was to blame for her mood. Maybe she was embarrassed to be seen with him. He asked her what was the last movie she saw.

“I don’t remember. It was years ago. I was a little girl. I don’t go to movies.”

I should have thought of something else for us to do, he scolded himself, she hates movies.

The feature turned out to be a funny story about a man who believes, erroneously, that his wife is cheating on him. His jealousy drives him to ever more idiotic lengths-first to preserve his wife’s virtue, then to prove her false. One scene, involving an expensive restaurant and a mouse, had the audience howling with laughter. And yet, on Lorca’s face, there was not a flicker of a smile.

“Do you want to leave?” he whispered. “We can go, if you want. We don’t have to stay.”

Lorca just scowled and kept her gaze on the screen. His own enjoyment withered, the way it had with the shirt. Suddenly the trumped-up situations onscreen, the exaggerated faces, seemed juvenile, trivial, not remotely funny.

“I am sorry you hated it,” he said when it was over and they were heading through the lobby. “I thought it would be funny, but it wasn’t funny at all. Not after the beginning.”

Lorca shrugged. “I thought it was funny.”

“You did? But you didn’t laugh once. You didn’t even smile.”

“I don’t, Ignacio. Not anymore.”

They came out onto Fiftieth Street and turned east toward Eighth Avenue. Rain hung in the air in a fine mizzle, and Victor felt water seep into his shoes. As they waited for the traffic light to change, Lorca said, “It’s wonderful the movie only cost three dollars.”

Victor was plunged into gloom. They walked the next long block in silence. When they reached the subway entrance, Lorca touched his arm. “You are angry with me?”

“No, I am not angry with you.”

“Yes, you are.” The injured, disapproving eyes searched his. “Is it because I mentioned the three dollars? You’re embarrassed about this?”

“I’m just feeling quiet now, that’s all. Look at him,” he said desperately, pointing to a black man playing an electric guitar across the street.

But Lorca would not be distracted. “Why, Ignacio? You think I would like this movie better if it cost more money? I assure you, the opposite is true.” She grabbed his arm, squeezing hard. “You were smart to discover such a place. I am glad you took me there.”

Her gravity only increased his mortification. He wanted to dive into a manhole.

“It’s much better to be careful with money than to throw it away. It’s the difference between a husband and a clown.” She let go of his arm. “There. That’s the most conversation I’ve had with anyone since I left El Salvador. That’s good, yes? See, Ignacio? You’re very good for me.”

“Good for you? I just seem to upset you.”

“Everything upsets me. I can’t help it. Everything hurts , Ignacio. I’m always on the edge of crying or screaming-every minute of every day. It’s as if they peeled my skin off in that place. All my nerves are exposed.”

I’m sorry . The words rose to his throat and choked him. “I wish I-” He broke off.

“Wish you what? What do you wish?”

“I wish-I understood you better.”

“What is there to understand? There is nothing. I went to a school where they taught me how weak I am. How pathetic. How small. How afraid. Perhaps you learned something else in that school.”

“No. No, Lorca, I learned exactly the same things.” He looked away from her, toward the hurrying crowds on Broadway.

“But I feel better around you, Ignacio.” She pulled at his sleeve until he faced her again. “Maybe because you were there too. I know you understand. And that makes me feel better. So you are good for me, you see?”

“You really think so?”

“You really think so?” she mocked him, too harshly for it to be funny. “Yes, I think so. Even if you are so stupid.”

The rain had started up again. Pedestrians pushed by, cursing, hurrying down the subway stairs.

“Listen, are you in a hurry to go home?”

“Oh, yes. I miss my sister-in-law so much when I am not there.”

“You want to go somewhere cheerful and cheap for a Coca-Cola?”

“No, Ignacio. I would rather stay here and get soaking wet.”

They went to a McDonald’s, where they shared a Coke and french fries and talked for two hours, nearly three.

They talked about the strange and frightening city they had moved to-though not nearly as frightening as San Salvador. They talked of their experiences in North America: the confusing manner of the gringos-alternately so warm and then so cold-that made trust difficult, friendship impossible. They talked about the native Hispanics who seemed to look down on Latin people not born in the United States. They talked about the angry stares of store clerks when comprehension was not immediate. The sensation of complete mutual understanding was new to Victor, and it thrilled him.

When they stood once more at the top of the subway steps, the rain had stopped and a warm breeze blew out of the south, tossing Lorca’s hair into a tangle. “The air feels so good now,” she said. “So clean and fresh.”

Victor leaned close to kiss her.

“No,” she said, and with a sudden movement pushed him away. “I don’t want to be kissed.” Then she turned and hurried away from him down the subway stairs, her quick, light steps echoing after.

For days, Victor felt the imprint of her hand on his chest with a mixture of shame and anger. A kiss would have felt like forgiveness. I am in love with her, he told himself tentatively, testing the words.

He stood in front of the pay phone for a full half-hour before he managed to put a coin in.

“No, not a movie this time,” she said. “There is somewhere special I would like to take you.”

“Special? Special how? Where do you mean?”

“Don’t panic, Ignacio. It’s not expensive, and you don’t have to get dressed up.”

“But tell me what it is.”

“You will see.” That was all she would tell him, despite his repeated entreaties. “You will see soon enough.”

He asked her yet again when they met up, outside a dough nut shop in Penn Station. Victor had arrived twenty minutes early and had worked himself into a state of high anxiety by the time Lorca got there. She had taken some trouble over her appearance; she was wearing makeup and a light perfume. She smiled upon seeing him, and yet again he was shaken by the black spark of her broken tooth.

“Tell me now. Where is this secret place you are dragging me to?”

“It’s a church.”

“A church? You want to go to church on a Saturday night?”

“A special church. You will see when we get there.”

It certainly didn’t look special. Our Lady of the Assumption was hidden in a shabby block of West Thirtieth Street. The structure had once been white limestone, but a hundred and twenty years of New York soot clung to the facade in a black film. In a niche by the side entrance, a statue of the Blessed Virgin spread her arms in welcome, though one of her hands had been snapped off at the wrist.

Lorca opened the side door and waved him in.

The basement was all curling linoleum and water-stained walls. Alcoholics Anonymous posters hung next to childish drawings illustrating the alphabet. Another poster showed a cute little old lady raising her fist above the words, Seniors, Rock the Vote! A battered aluminum urn was set up on a trestle table, and the place stank of burnt coffee.