Giannina Braschi - Yo-Yo Boing!

— What’s its name?

— Brascho. When I saw this rabbit, I knew she was the reincarnation of Brascho. I was in love with him. He was a beautiful maricón . I must have been a maricón in another life. That’s why I’m called Okage, the rice that sticks to the bottom of the pot, a fag hag.

— Okage, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Wassila.

— Makiko, Makiko Nagano. Okage is the rice that sticks to the bottom of the pot.

— Her great-grandfather was Japan’s first ambassador to the United States under Commodore Perry. They called him Shorty.

— Not Shorty, Tommy. They named a polka after him, “Tommy’s Polka,” even though his name wasn’t Tommy. He used to hop off trains and run and jump back on them. I’m the reincarnation of my great-grandfather. That’s why I feel I belong in this country. If my father had been born in America, he would have been a maricón . He is very vain like Brascho. A whole collection of designer suits and shoes and ties. I illustrate children’s books. I don’t like children, but I love animals. This is Moi, a Schipperke, and this is Brascho, a Jersey Woolly. I lost my Chinese turtle, Ming, but I still have dozens of fish and an iguana which lives in a fish tank that Tess and I stole from Brascho’s apartment. I loved him. He was beautiful. Ugly people give me rashes. Hillary Clinton looks like Yoko Ono. Doesn’t she? We Japanese love to imitate, but when we imitate, like we sing salsa, the woman who is singing this song is Japanese, with a perfect Spanish accent even though she doesn’t know what she is saying. We Japanese are wackos. We always say yes, yes, yes, and you have to guess if it’s a yes or a no, and then you just have to confront our smile and laugh with us, with your hand over your mouth. Japanese are not supposed to show their teeth when they smile.

— Nor whistle at night, it’s bad luck. But they don’t believe that to dream of weddings means death.

— I can’t laugh and show my teeth. That’s low class. But to dream of teeth or white snakes is good luck, especially on New Year’s Day. And I know five bad words in Spanish: coño, pendejo, puta, maricón, carajo .

— Perfect pronunciation.

— Corzas, a Mexican painter, taught me. And Tess perfected my pronunciation. I’m an expert at breaking up relationships. But I’m a very generous person and I love to cook. What do you do?

— I worked with Martin Scorsese. But now I’m on my own. Scouting raw material.

— Where are you from?

— Canada. But my mother is from Chile. I am Jewish.

— Like Mona. You look like her.

— Very interesting. We are both Northern Europeans. I don’t know if it was because I grew up in boarding schools 3,000 miles away from my parents. My father was a diplomat, neither rich nor poor, but I grew up in boarding schools. I don’t know if it was because of that that I lost confidence in myself.

— Mona went to a boarding school in Belgium when she was four years old; it was a boys’ school, and the Beechnut girl and Mona were the only girls. Mona suffered because her mother never sent her Christmas gifts, so the school had to give her a plain ol’ dictionary wrapped up so she wouldn’t be the only one without a gift, but everybody knew it was just a plain ol’ dictionary. One year, her brother Benny got a sled. Mona got all excited thinking she’d get a sled. No such luck, just another plain ol’ dictionary. And she had to see all the boys receiving the holy communion, and she used to wonder:

— Why can’t I have it too?

— I used to read every book that fell in my hands. I’m an excellent letter writer. Maybe because I grew up in a boarding school 3,000 miles away from any blood relative. May I see your palm Amazing. A double lifeline. I see no sickness, but you actually live two lives. The 2nd longer and more prosperous than the first. Maybe a new career.

— I’m psychic.

— Can we talk? After Last Temptation of Christ , Martin Scorsese went belly-up. His agent sat him down, put both hands on his shoulders, and said:

— Look, Marty, my man, ya gotta bite da bullet. Ya gonna hafta do other people’s films ’til ya can afford to do ya own.

Which is what Marty did, or rather I did for him for three years, like The Grifters , which was milk and water except for the grace of Anjelica Huston. Well, as planned, he made enough money from Cape Fear so as not to have to produce other people’s films anymore, and that’s why I’m out of a job. I was too successful. Now, I’m thinking, I’m 42 years old and I have to go back to Vancouver and depend on my parents whom I don’t really know because I grew up in a boarding school 3,000 miles away.

— Stay in New York. This is your place.

— You think so? I was very happy in London, where I lived for 10 years as a literary agent. I have an apartment there which I am subletting. Plus I am not a citizen. Marty is writing letters for me so I can get a green card. I cannot ask him for more favors.

— I see you here.

— You think so? There is no business here. Ask Suzana, the movie industry is in California. That’s where I met Marty. I said, I’ll tell you a sad story and a happy story. If you think the sad story is sad, and the happy story is happy, then we can work together. And we did, swimmingly, for three years. Maybe all this is happening so I can get to know my parents before they die.

— You’ll make it. You need to fill your tanks in Canada and come back here and start scouting raw material.

— You think so? I’m tired of working for other people. I want to work for myself.

— They sound like frogs and chickens, ducks and hens.

— New York is a canister of echoes, a canister of sounds and sunsets — resounding — resounding — resounding.

— Crude is the word, raw.

— Like a carrot. A raw carrot.

— It’s the last great European city. And the first great American city.

— And the capital of Puerto Rico.

— On the verge of collapsing.

— This city has always been apocalyptic. Since the turn of the century, when the subways were laid, the streets were gutted, tunnels gorged, people leaping, anarchic steps from one muddy plank to another. Memory has few landmarks. Wear it down. Tear it down. Beethoven rolls around Central Park on rollerblades and motorcycles, and he’s a contemporary of Jackson and Madonna vis-à-vis Walkmans. Every pair of ears picks its own noise. The dead are alive, alive and rolling around like dice on Wall Street.

— Nobody is secure. Suing the president for sexual harassment. There is no authority that cannot go unchallenged. We could never have a queen. We would dethrone her. No respect. Not even for the dead.

— I was in a hurry. I took a cab. I was planning to walk, but I always leave everything for the last moment. Where are the keys? Always under my nose. But the moment I have to leave, I look at my watch, already five minutes late, oh, here they are. I rush out, but the elevator takes an eternity and stops on every floor. Traffic. Rush hour. The driver taking me the long way, the meter rolling. Why did he take the long way? We would be there already. What can I do? Sit back and relax. Out of the corner of my eye, I see out the window a drunkard has finished his bottle of rum, and he takes the bottle back over his shoulder, in slow motion — what is he going to do, throw it — where? I hear the crash of the bottle against the windshield. Freeze-frame. What happened? Am I dead? That sound. A bomb in my face. The window shattered, diamonds showering the driver and me — frozen, silent. Am I dead or alive and quaking? I asked the driver:

— Should we go to the police and report him?