Ruins Page 6

  After days seeking her out—and learning she had two widowed sisters who also lived with her—he was growing impatient. Her windows and doors were shut whenever Usnavy made his way to and from work. When he asked about her, the neighbors shrugged, surprised that he hadn’t found her or one of her sisters at home. They seemed amazed that the sisters were so difficult for him to locate. After a few days, they began to eye him suspiciously, so that Usnavy realized he’d have to develop a different approach, he’d have to think more on how to engage Badagry or her sisters, how to win their trust so he could get invited in and examine the lamp for himself. After all, if their lamp had glass like his little one, it could solve a lot of problems. And Usnavy was only too happy to imagine them sharing in whatever he could procure for a fixed and shiny new lamp, no matter how modest. That was his way; whatever was available was for everyone equally.

  That was what he knew and understood.

  A few days later, on a whim, he decided to visit Lámparas Cubanas, a factory not far from his neighborhood that had been around long before the Revolution. After the collapse of the socialist bloc, the shop had fallen on hard times—like everything else in Cuba—but Usnavy had heard that in the last year a Portuguese investor had entered the picture and he’d noticed activity again. Perhaps he could get parts there (and then he wouldn’t have to depend on Badagry or on scavenging), or at least find out where they might be available.

  Lámparas Cubanas was a dingy place, anonymous from the outside. The entranceway had the grimy look of neglect. There were handprints on the wall, the unguinous traces of too many cigarettes, and the empty feel of boredom. Instead of showing off the factory’s own products, a fluorescent tube flickered on the ceiling, naked and white.

  The moment the young fellow at the battered front desk saw Usnavy trudging in with the injured lamp, he seemed dubious—less about the lamp than about Usnavy himself. “We don’t do repairs,” he sniffed. “And we only work for hotels and restaurants.”

  “Yes, yes,” Usnavy said as humbly as possible. “I was thinking, though, you could refer me to someone or some place that fixes lamps like this because, well, normally I repair everything myself but this—as you can see—this is a special lamp. I’m not sure my meager talents are up to it. That’s why I came here, because I figured you must be experts.”

  The clerk eyed him skeptically but Usnavy refused to understand that he was supposed to leave, the lamp cradled in his arms like a wounded animal.

  “Does the electricity on it work?” the clerk asked after Usnavy delicately deposited it on the desk. The clerk stood up, lighting a cigarette, and leaned against the stained wall, ignoring the display area to the side (closed off by locked mustard-colored gates that made the lamps—spider-armed pieces, torcheries, chandeliers, sconces, table lamps—all seem like prisoners).

  “I … I don’t know about the electricity,” Usnavy said. He’d forgotten all about that.

  The young man looked at him incredulously. “You mean you didn’t check?” He was in his early twenties, wearing a tight-fitting surely imported-from-Miami green Polo shirt, muscular underneath despite the shortages. Whenever he moved—out of obligation or indignation—he seemed to be taking on poses from the old Robert De Niro movies that were broadcast on government TV Saturday nights.

  “Well, I …” Usnavy began.

  “What is it, a Tiffany? A LaFarge? A Murano? Is there a foreigner who wants to buy it?” the impatient clerk asked. He dragged dramatically on his cigarette.

  Usnavy glanced around nervously. “No, no, of course not …”

  A foreigner! A week ago—before Obdulio’s departure, before the bike theft, before Nena’s soft weeping in the middle of the night—the suggestion would have flustered him because of its illicit implications, but now it had him positively shivering because of the prospects.

  “But … eh … do you—do you know a foreigner who might want to buy it?” he clumsily asked the young man. Even at that moment, Usnavy couldn’t believe his own words and his hand flew to his mouth, his fingertips trembling with remorse. Maybe the clerk could direct him to the Portuguese businessman who’d saved the factory.

  The brawny boy ignored him and bent over the lamp. “Let me see something,” he said, examining the base, which Usnavy considered the least interesting part. For a moment, as the clerk bowed his head, showing Usnavy his wiry locks, the young man had an unsettling resemblance to Frank’s money-changer, the fellow he had talked to under the tree while they played dominos. These were the kind of fresh guys, Usnavy immediately thought to himself, who he worried would come near his daughter. He recognized them as the sort who would try to cop a feel on a crowded bus and laugh if anybody yelled at them to stop.

  Finally, the clerk came back up, puffing on his cigarette, unhappy. Usnavy noticed there was a smattering of acne on his cheeks, like little scabbed pinpricks.

  “What do you think?” Usnavy asked nervously. “Can it be fixed?”

  The young man clicked his tongue, ignored him again, then screwed in a lightbulb and plugged the worn cord into the wall. After several tries, nothing happened.

  “It’s a piece of junk,” the clerk declared with unrestrained disdain, stepping away from the desk, his bloated arms across his chest as if the lamp—and Usnavy—might contaminate him with a common virus.

  “You mean the electricity …”

  “Of course the electricity!” The clerk rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. The ashes at the tip of his cigarette floated away.

  “But it’s so beautiful …” Usnavy said, reaching to touch the rainbowcolored shade. There was one tiny marine panel in particular, he’d noticed, that seemed to ripple, as if there were water inside it.

  “Beautiful?” the young man exclaimed. He slapped his free hand down on the desk in exasperation—startling Usnavy—then ground the cigarette into a dirty metal tray with the other.

  Usnavy noted that they were very big hands, like baseball mitts, with thick, meaty fingers. Clearly, this boy did not labor on lamps or in any craft that required the slightest precision. In the jungle, he would have broken wood, maybe carried prey—sumptuous deer, antelope—but never killed, never carved. His was a brute strength, a matter of bulk rather than skill. This boy could pillage, this boy could break bones without a thought to the meaning of marrow.

  “It’s irreparably damaged, and it’s not anything special—why would anybody want this lamp?” he asked scornfully.

  Usnavy couldn’t answer at first so he shrugged. “You’re right, you’re right,” he said.

  But when Usnavy went to take the lamp in his arms, the clerk didn’t move; instead his eyes scanned it with his own nervous twitching.

  “I’m … I’m sorry to have bothered you, compañero,” Usnavy added.

  The young man said nothing, just continued to stare as Usnavy reached around, winding the ragged cord about the base, embracing the lamp. In that acute spotlight, what should have been a simple chore became eternal and deliberate.

  “Listen …” the clerk said at last, his voice lowered in a conspiratorial tone. “What do you really want, huh, old man?”

  “What do I …?” It was now Usnavy’s turn to be disbelieving.

  “I mean …” The clerk glanced around the office, even though there was nobody else there; the hard, round biceps under the Polo shirt would have been enough to scare anybody. Usnavy wondered immediately if the guy didn’t have relatives in Miami sending him steroids, if his veins weren’t filled with chemicals that might, if badly administered, cause him to erupt. “Why are you so obsessed with the lamp?”

  “I’m not obsessed,” Usnavy said stiffly. He’d heard that word before, many times, but always about the lamp in his room, the magnificent one, or the Revolution. For anyone to use it now to describe whatever he felt for this lesser creature seemed an insult to him. “I resent the insinuation,” he added.

  The young man straightened up, a hint of a smile on his lips. “All right,” he said
. “I’ll tell you what … To help you out … I’ll give you five dollars for it.”

  Five dollars! What he could do with five dollars—he could buy meat at the farmer’s market, he could buy real soap! Usnavy’s heart almost popped from his chest.

  Five dollars! That was about 600 pesos!

  Or, he thought in a flash, he could save it and try to scrape up another ten or fifteen dollars and get a bicycle for Nena. Where he’d get the rest of the money was not an issue then, so enthralled was he by the mere thought of having dollars.

  This time, he promised himself and all the powers in the universe, the bike would be Nena’s—he could walk; it was okay. If he somehow got that money for a bike for her, he could easily walk!

  Desire was a new emotion for Usnavy: He had rarely coveted anything in his life. Even when he and Lidia made love, it was less a matter of yearning than an expression of gratitude, an antidote to loneliness. What was special with her was the selflessness, the security. They didn’t talk about whether it was good—they didn’t talk much at all—but rather purred or hiccupped, like cats or pigeons at the plaza.

  But now, suddenly, Obdulio’s presence in Usnavy’s life had been replaced by an inexplicable craving. He could admit it now: He wanted a bike for Nena, he wanted a radio or TV for Lidia—maybe Obdulio was right and he could wish for a bigger place to live. He was not a Christian, he reminded himself: He could wish freely. Wasn’t the Revolution about working for a better life for everyone—including himself? Didn’t he, after all that time and effort, deserve a little something too? Wasn’t it time for tomorrow to finally arrive?

  Usnavy was so caught up with his own thoughts and rationalizations that he did not notice when another man entered the desolate lamp factory office. He was about Usnavy’s age, but much worse for the wear: He walked with a serious limp, his hair was thinning, and he had a flat nose shaped like an upside down T, not the result of genetics but of a successful punch to the pug years ago. He was decked in overalls that suggested he worked with his hands—that he might perhaps even be employed by the factory assembling parts or whole fixtures—but there was something odd about him, strange little twinklings all over his chest and arms, as if he’d been dusted with a crushed star.

  “Yoandry,” the sparkly man said gruffly to the muscle boy at the desk. “Any luck? Did you get it?”

  “No, no, but I’m trying,” the clerk said, abruptly disregarding Usnavy and deferential, almost affectionate, toward the other client. “And how are you today, my friend?”

  The sparkly man puffed up his cheeks and sighed in an exaggerated fashion. “I’m not having any luck finding anything at all!” he declared.

  “What … what is it you’re looking for?” Usnavy asked shyly.

  “This American glass … Armstrong, stock number 2401, kind of chestnut brown on one side with very light white streaks on the other,” the sparkly man said. Usnavy noticed even his face seemed to glitter. “Got it once, can’t seem to find it again.”

  “Ah,” Usnavy said uselessly. He had no idea what the guy was talking about.

  “They’re sheets of glass,” the sparkly man said, taking in Usnavy’s bewilderment. “I’d prefer the darker reddish-brown part, if I could find it. When back-lit, it’s got a deep rust-brown color, with no red cast.” Suddenly, he noticed the lamp in Usnavy’s arms. “Hmm … a Tiffany?” he asked.

  “No, no,” Usnavy demurred, almost embarrassed. “I don’t know what it is, really.”

  “Let me see,” the man said, reaching for the base.

  This must be where lamps reveal themselves, thought Usnavy, though nothing he’d read at the library had mentioned that. He noticed Yoandry, the clerk, was now shaking his leg impatiently. The fluorescent tube above them seemed to flicker in time with his anxiety, creating a mild strobe affect.

  “Very splendid work,” said the sparkly man, a pair of reading glasses now barely gripping his flat nose.

  As the lamp was being probed, Usnavy felt the same way he did at the doctor’s office when he went in for even the most routine examination: slightly abashed, a little panicky that they might find something that could have been avoided if only he’d known better.

  “Is the lamp yours?” asked the sparkly man as he slipped off his reading glasses.

  “Well, yes, sort of—I found it,” Usnavy admitted, his head bowed.

  “Lucky find.”

  “Lucky … what do you mean?” Hadn’t the brawny boy said minutes ago that it was trash? In that moment of examination—while the sparkly man held the lamp upside down like a newborn—had his fortune turned?

  “Well, it’s a Tiffany, just like I thought, an original. See here? That’s the Tiffany seal.” He pointed to a T engraved at the base, with what looked like a couple of Ds and Cs clinging to it. “Sometimes Tiffany just signed LTC. There are a few paperweights—they’re really medallions he gave to friends—which have his whole signature etched on the back. Not that he signed them, mind you. It was signed by a worker, of course. But it doesn’t matter. Those—those are worth a mint.”

  “Really?” Usnavy asked, amazed.

  So there was a Mr. Tiffany, a person; he’d had no idea. Tiffany to him was a style or, like Coca-Cola, a trademark. The few people who had seen his lamp—the magnificent one—always asked him if it was a Tiffany but he had never really known what to say. Now, having seen the signature, he would check the lamp as soon as he got home! (And, he quickly reminded himself, when he won Badagry’s confidence, he would check her lamp too.)

  But this other lamp, the little one, the one he’d rescued, the injured one—there was no dispute here. This was a real Tiffany—not a price-less medallion but a Tiffany nonetheless.

  Realizing this, Usnavy’s head snapped toward Yoandry, the liar. He should have called him out right then, should have at least made him fidget and worry, but instead it was Yoandry who was glaring darkly at Usnavy, the threat of harm clear in the two fat fists he’d laid on the desk for the old man to appreciate. This caused Usnavy to quake slightly.

  “It’s in terrible shape but I could fix it,” said the sparkly man.

  “Really?” Usnavy responded, realizing he was repeating himself in his nervousness, that he was very likely coming off like an idiot now.

  “Yes, I could fix it. I mean, that’s what I do—I work for the Fondo de Bienes Culturales; I fix lamps … Are you all right, compañero?”

  “Yes, yes, quite. But the cost—”

  “Yes, that’s the thing. I could fix it, but I don’t think you could afford it. See, it needs everything, really, although the base … hmm …” The sparkly man started contemplating the lamp again. “Nah, it’ll cost too much.”

  Usnavy wanted to tell him that, in this case, he’d sell it for any price; he wanted to explain how, only minutes before, he had been pleased with the clerk’s five-dollar offer—if he wanted to, the guy could fix it himself and sell it at a profit later, it didn’t matter.

  But the sparkly man didn’t say a word about buying it and Yoandry, now sitting down and sporting a pout, was rolling his fists like cannon balls on the desktop.

  “If you got it fixed, it could be worth a nice little penny for you,” the artisan said. “But the cost …”

  “Yeah, probably not worth it—it’s not like this is a special or lost Tiffany or anything,” said a smug Yoandry. Had he just winked conspiratorially at the sparkly man? Usnavy couldn’t tell.

  “A lost Tiffany?” he asked, confused.

  “There are lots of uneditioned pieces,” said the older man. “Some are real, some are fakes. A lot have been lost; no one knows where they are. So sometimes they’re worth more, in a way, because of the mystique. But yours isn’t one of those; yours has a number and everything.”

  “How do you know about all this stuff?” asked a leery Usnavy.

  “My god!” exclaimed Yoandry from behind the counter, his meaty hands flying airless, propelled by the force of the insult embedded in Usnavy’s question.


  “It’s okay, it’s okay, compañero,” the sparkly man said, gently patting the disconcerted boy’s shoulder.

  “See? What have I told you about the level of ignorance of the people who come in this place, huh?” the boy pleaded, his eyes shiny.

  “Well, I apologize,” Usnavy said, collecting his Tiffany from the counter, but he was sharply sarcastic, as offended as the clerk. “How will anyone ever learn without asking questions?”

  “He’s absolutely right!” agreed the sparkly man.

  “Questions about lamps—yes!” the clerk implored. “But questions about your knowledge? How can you bear such stupid, disrespectful questions about your knowledge?”

  This was too much drama for Usnavy, who was now clutching the injured lamp to his chest.

  “Let me explain, compañero, let me explain,” said the sparkly man, sitting Usnavy and his lamp down in a dirty plastic chair the lamp factory offered its potential customers.

  Usnavy looked up at the flickering tube of light. He really needed to get to the bodega. People were waiting for him, people depended on him. But what choice did he have in any of this? Usnavy surrendered, his face in and out of the gentle strobe.

  The way the sparkly man told it, Louis Comfort Tiffany didn’t set out to make lamps; they were more of an accident. “He had this biography of himself commissioned at about the time his lamps were most popular and he only had them mentioned a couple of times. They couldn’t be ignored—but how he wanted to ignore them!”

  Usnavy rested his hands on the injured lamp. He could tell this could be awhile—this could, in fact, take longer than Frank and the guys’ storytelling during the domino games. Why couldn’t Mr. Tiffany be satisfied with the success of his lamps? If Mr. Tiffany had embraced his fate, Usnavy thought, he’d be free to walk away now, spared …

  His mind wandered back to the sea, to Obdulio and his family. Had they made it? Where were they? Surely someone at the domino game would know by now about the end of that story.

  But the sparkly man continued with his own narrative: Tiffany’s father was a jeweler but the son was enamored of stained-glass murals. He eventually created a few, including a massive mosaic in Philadelphia, an extraordinary glass theatrical curtain in Mexico City.