Yelena Moskovich - Virtuoso

The man hit the wall again. The seashell watercolour swivelled on its hook.

“I ain’t ’fraid of you, Mitch.”

There was some pacing, then the room became quiet. The bed next door creaked shyly as each person got in it. Not long after, the couple was asleep.

Zorka got up, fixed the seashell painting and got back into bed.

In the morning, they checked out, got back on the road, past Birmingham, stopping at Denny’s for a late breakfast. Zorka got extra hash browns and covered them with a thick, swirling layer of ketchup. They continued on the 59, crossed into Mississippi, past Laurel, past Hattiesburg, right to the tip where they could see the water, then drove on the 12 into Louisiana, Baton Rouge, Big Head’s Bar-BQ, Goodwill, then the 10 to Lafayette, Beaumont, straight to that southern tip of Texas, into Houston.

“Home Sweet Home,” Rico said and parked the car in the driveway.

When Rico and Zorka came through the door, Rico’s mum was spraying vinegar on the countertop and wiping.

“Oh take off your shoes,” Rico pointed to the neat row of shoes by the door.

“Honeyboy!” Rico’s mum came running into the hallway with her arms wide, her right hand still holding the vinegar spray.

“Hi Mom,” Rico said and gave her a hug.

“This is Zorka.”

“Khello,” Zorka said awkwardly.

“Come here, honey.”

Rico’s mum pulled Zorka down to her level and gave her a squeeze.

“Are you hungry? I hope you’re hungry.”

Dinner reminded Zorka of those New Year parties she’d had in her building as a child, with the long table of plates of food, and her and Jana sitting under the table, whispering.

On this table: a ceramic pan of beef in a thick brown sauce with sliced green peppers, plates of cold cuts, ham, turkey, pastrami, a large aluminium pan filled with slices of pork belly, cubes of crispy fried pork, a square plate of sweetened cured pork, piles of glass noodles, dishes topped with halves of boiled eggs, shrimp, a macaroni chicken salad, bright indigo rolls, pastries in all colours, pink and yellow and green, rows of meatballs, and finger-sized fried rolls with bright orange dipping sauce, white rice with sliced chives, glistening barbecue skewers, white bread puffs splitting at the top…

She wondered if she lifted the tablecloth and crawled underneath – would Jana be waiting for her?

“You can call me Perla,” Rico’s mum said.

She went around the table, “…and that’s Tita Karen, that’s Tita Baby, that’s Weng-Weng, that’s Pinky, that’s Joseph, that’s Bongbong, that’s JJ, and this is my husband Bruce.”

Everyone waved as she said their name.

There were photos of Rico and JJ, his younger brother, in frames all over the walls, around which looped silver and gold tinsel and vines of Christmas lights. There were two stuffed Santa Clauses hanging from each corner, and a lit-up snowflake the size of a head in the window.

Perla said something to JJ in a different language and JJ picked up the cellophane-covered remote control and turned off the wide-screen TV and came back to the table.

“Your language is nice sounding,” Zorka said.

“Thank you, honey, that’s a nice thing to say,” Perla replied.

“Rico, why you never speak your language?”

“Rico doesn’t really speak Tagalog,” JJ said.

Rico pinched his lips. “Wish I did… I mean I understand it. I just can’t really reply in it.”

“You know when we came to America, Rico was baby,” Bruce said. “Two years old. I was veteran and Perla work nursing… Well, we were too busy. We didn’t take time for Rico. We try to make life here as quickly as we can. By the time JJ come, we were settled. JJ go to Sunday school, and we take time with him. That’s how it was.”

“Oh, honeyboy looking so handsome!” Perla said, admiring Rico from across the table.

Rico’s insurance wouldn’t pay for his hormones or top surgery, but his family passed around the hat, so to speak, and two Christmases ago, his present was a thin envelope wrapped in forest green paper with gold stars, and a big sparkling blue ribbon. When he opened it, it was a cheque.

“You still playing Pac-Man?” Rico asked.

JJ pushed Rico on the shoulder.

“That was like 1,000 years ago!”

JJ showed Rico and Zorka the new Grand Theft Auto on the widescreen.

“It’s a game where you steal cars and drive them…” Rico explained to Zorka.

“That legal?” Zorka asked.

“Only in video game,” Bruce interjected looking at JJ.

While Rico and JJ played Grand Theft Auto together, Zorka walked around the wall of photos and stopped in front of a middle-school photo, Rico had to be nine years old, he had sleek black hair in two long plaits, and a boat-neck purple shirt with a purple bow on the shoulder, and wide lip-gloss-covered smile. There was a banner on the bottom of the photo that read “Erica Joy Yee”.

“Oh, that’s a funny photo,” Perla said behind Zorka. “Rico wanted to wear his favourite blue T-shirt and big red shorts, but I kept saying wear this dress, please, you look so beautiful in it, please – so he do it for me and he let me brush his hair out and braid it nice and neat like this. I just wanted him to look so beautiful for his school photo, you know. That was, of course, when we all call Rico “she”, when we not yet understand, you know…

“Anyway, he did it to make mama happy, and mama was happy…! But then I see Rico come home and he take off his backpack and he undo the braids and he change real quick into his blue T-shirt and his big shorts and he run around like a cloud, so free and light. I tell you, I took my two hands and I put them to my face and I say, ‘Perla Perla Perla, are you blind?’ Rico was happy in his blue T-shirt and his wild hair. Why I want him otherwise, I ask myself. I want Rico like this all time, running around so happy and comfortable and proud.”

“My ma is fuck-up,” Zorka said. “And my Pa is dead.”

“I’m sorry, honey,” Perla patted Zorka’s back.

Zorka shrugged, then looked away as if waiting for Perla to take her hand off.

“I want for you to be like a cloud also, Zorka,” Perla continued, her hand still on Zorka, “for you to be happy and comfortable, and proud.”

Perla hugged Zorka and Zorka let herself be taken and held and her eyes looked around the room not knowing where to rest. As Perla held her, Zorka looked at that middle-school photo of Rico in his purple dress and long braids, then she saw Ray-Ray running in the background like the Messiah, and behind them a clearing, and in the clearing a circle of poles with carved wooden horses stuck in mid-air, then a voice so devoted and reaching that it used to scare Zorka, the voice beneath the earth, behind the door, from the sky, whispering, “Zorka… it’s me…!”

Before they left, Bruce said, “Hold on,” and Perla came down the stairs in a rush, holding a twenty-dollar bill.

“Honeyboy,” she handed the bill to Rico. “Treat yourself.”

Whenever Rico came home, his parents always gave him a twenty as a parting gift. Rico took the bill and kissed his mother, then his father, then gave them a hug each.

“See ya, Rico!” JJ yelled from upstairs, then ran downstairs and stood in front of Zorka.

“See ya, Zorka.”

Zorka lifted her hand to her chest and awkwardly waved to the boy. Just as she was getting ready to put her hand back in her jean pocket, Perla held out a twenty-dollar bill towards her.