The Fugitivities, стр. 70

“Muchacho! Estas aquí para cenar?”

“Sí.”

“Sí, cómo no!”

The chef shook his head at the maître d’ and they exchanged a few more agitated words that Jonah couldn’t make out, but he gathered by the chef’s hand gestures toward the upstairs and back to the restaurant tables that he was arguing for Jonah to remain as a guest. Finally, the chef approached him, flashing a grin.

“Perdónanos. El restaurante no está abierto aún para la cena. Pero Miguel lo llevará a una habitación en la planta superior donde puede ducharse y cambiarse sus camisas. Alguna comida y bebida le estarán esperando cuando baja.”

Jonah was lost in the chef’s flurry of Spanish.

“Lo siento, pero mi español es muy pobre.”

The chef slightly raised his eyebrows. “Qué idioma hablas? Your language?”

“English or French.”

“Ah, bueno. Where you from?” the chef asked. “New York.”

“New York? New York! Newww Yawk Citayyyy! Qué suerte! Do you remember when we went to New York, Miguel? And now, New York, she has come to us! Welcome to Montevideo, Yankee! My name is Oscar, and this is my pareja, Miguel. I was saying to you that we are not yet open for the evening. But it’s okay. Miguel will take you to a room while I begin preparations for the dinner. After you shower and change your clothes, you will come back here, and there will be a table with food and drink waiting for you.”

“Que bueno. Gracias, Oscar.”

Oscar disappeared into the kitchen; with a lethargic flick of the wrist, Miguel gestured for Jonah to follow him upstairs.

Oscar’s partner had not entirely warmed to Jonah, but he was more welcoming after Jonah spruced himself up. They had laid out for him a platter of meats, cheeses, and bread, along with a glass of wine. Miguel left Jonah alone to eat, but he was prompt in suggesting and pouring more red. There was only one other diner in the room: a woman, who sat facing away from him. She and Miguel periodically exchanged chitchat, laughing under their breath. Only when Oscar himself came to check on Jonah’s satisfaction with the food did the woman turn to look at him. From her glance, he was able to discern that she was she was a little older than him, with features that lent her an enigmatic, foreign flair. From the kitchen doorway, Oscar appeared, and with a loud exclamation, greeted the woman, kissing both cheeks and exchanging pleasantries. Oscar asked if Jonah wanted anything further, but Jonah, apologetically declined, citing his exhaustion.

“Then tomorrow, we shall have a bigger meal. Something special for our Yankee friend.”

Jonah slept fitfully. He seemed to be the only guest and sat alone with a breakfast of toast, jam, and coffee, served by Miguel, who said that Oscar had departed early to get to the seafood markets. Jonah observed Miguel at his lectern, seemingly waiting for guests that showed no signs of coming. Other than the maître d’s distaste for colored folks, he wondered what it was about this particular pensión that caused people to avoid it. Certainly, in a city as generally pale-faced as Montevideo, his attitude wouldn’t be the problem. Besides, the place wasn’t without its old-timey charms. Jonah’s eyes settled on the photographs that littered the wall, pictures of fútbol players and local celebrities from bygone eras. He noticed a newspaper photograph of what appeared to be Fidel Castro wearing a blue suit and being served food at an expensive restaurant. He thought he recognized the waiter, and, giving him a closer look, realized it was none other than Miguel. When he came to clear Jonah’s plate, he asked about it.

“Oh yes, that really was something. I was chosen to be part of the wait-staff for the state dinner to honor Castro when he visited Montevideo in ’95. Naturally, I more or less detested the Castro regime, but some of my dear friends still tease me and call me a Communist because I once served El Caballo. What do you want? It was a job.”

Miguel gave a shrug much like the one he had given Jonah the night before. He seemed to be a man who kept his true opinions and those he shared in casual conversation in separately marked boxes. Jonah didn’t push him and instead inquired whether Miguel knew of any independent theaters in Montevideo.

“Independent. What do you mean?”

“A theater where I could watch local Uruguayan movies or art films.”

“I don’t know, but maybe Cinemateca Pocitos. At least, that’s the most famous one.”

Following Miguel’s rudimentary directions, Jonah walked all the way down to the waterfront. Cinemateca Pocitos was only a few blocks up from there. A film festival was under way, and people were congregating. He looked closely at what was being screened and was shocked to find him. Phineas stared back from a poster box. It was as if the places and cultures Jonah was from, that he had made all the effort he could to escape, were actually being reproduced everywhere he arrived. To move away from the center was to drag the center to the periphery. He had made efforts in that direction and what did he have to show for it? All too soon, he reflected, these circles would converge and there would be no outside, no elsewhere. No need for a future version of himself to travel at all. By then his failures would become like Phineas himself. Bowdlerized for passive consumption; languishing in the vast lot of the unfinished and unlamented. One more entry in the encyclopedia of black failure to achieve the greatness that black hope demands.

Spooked, he considered buying a ticket, but finally did not. Instead, in a kind of disoriented panic he picked a film called Tango Amoroso, the poster for which was peppered with award medallions. He settled down in his seat, wanting something to distract him from a creeping sense of anxiety, a dread that he was being followed, not by