Amo este país

By Mariah Healy

“The artist speaks only Spanish,” the woman told us, her eyebrows raised slightly. She studied our faces for a moment, then motioned to the paintings around the room with her near-empty wine glass. “They remind me of being on a carousel,” she said. “Are we moving, or are the paintings?” After a slight pause she laughed and turned back toward us. Her face was wrinkled and of a dignified pale shade. Her silver hair was twisted and pinned up on the back of her head, revealing large diamond earrings that caused her aged ear lobes to sag.

Joe nudged me with his elbow and pulled me away from the woman. “I don’t see him,” he said. I glanced back to see the woman watching us with interest. Upon meeting my eyes she nodded, then focused her attention on adjusting the cream-colored scarf swept gracefully around her shoulders.

“Calm down,” I said to Joe. “We just got here.”

He mumbled something about getting a drink and walked away. I watched as he disappeared behind clumps of suited men with women in shiny dresses on their arms. When a few moments had passed and Joe hadn’t come back, I wandered over to a painting near the gallery’s entrance. Before I could get a good look, though, the sound of accumulating applause pulled me away.

Near the back of the gallery, the crowd had gathered around a tall Hispanic man with thick, black-rimmed eyeglasses and a wide, childlike grin. He seemed incapable of stillness; his body moved elegantly and freely as he greeted the people. “Gracias, gracias,” he said, lifting his hands graciously to quiet them. He delivered a brief speech, line by line, the petite Hispanic woman beside him translating during his pauses.

“My name is Vidal Morales,” he began. “I was born in Salamanca, and never did what I was told.” Lofty laughter filled the gallery at this opening remark. “People will tell you what to do with your life, your career, your hairstyle, but it’s all yours. People told me to get a practical job. When I moved to the United States they told me to learn English. I do what I feel like. Do what you want. That’s all I have to say! Now drink up, enjoy the night. I love this country!” The crowd laughed again and applauded spiritedly.

I couldn’t help but laugh myself at his uninhibited manner. Forgetting my reason for coming to the gallery, I made my way to the table where bottles of red and white wine sat on a white tablecloth alongside rows of clean glasses. As the bartender poured my red, I felt an urgent hand on my arm.

“I’ve got it,” said Joe under his breath. I looked from him to my fresh glass of wine. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“I didn’t know how long you would be,” I said. “Can’t you wait a few minutes while I drink my wine?”

He shifted his weight slightly from foot to foot. “We need to go,” he said.

“Fine,” I said. “At least let me go to the bathroom before we leave.” I gave the bartender an apologetic smile and left Joe standing alone at the table.

The bathroom was surprisingly large, considering the size of the gallery. A pair of chairs and a ficus tree furnished the space outside the toilet stalls. On one of the chairs sat the woman with the cream-colored scarf, her hand spread on her chest.

“Are you alright?” I asked, sitting in the chair next to her.

“Oh, just a little short of breath,” she said. “It comes with getting old, you know.”

“Should I call someone?” I asked. “A doctor? Your husband?”

“Oh, no. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine in a minute. And my husband’s been dead for ages,” she said, the rising and falling of her chest gradually returning to a normal rhythm.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize, I mean, your rings…”

“Well if you had these, wouldn’t you wear them?” she said with a coy smile, flashing her left hand and wiggling her fingers. The oversized diamonds glimmered beautifully, even in the deficient fluorescent light of the bathroom. “The fact of the matter, though,” she said, “is that I still feel married. It’s what we silly women do. Thomas has been gone for thirty-two years and I feel more attached now than I ever did. Not that he was ever all that nice to me. But we all know how that is.”

She looked right at me then, and she saw me. I got out of the chair and went into one of the stalls. I lifted my skirt and sat on the toilet.

“My Joe has a problem,” I said finally.

“What kind of a problem?” the woman asked.

I leaned my head against one of the stall’s walls. “It’s illegal. And it’s changing him. He’s sick.”

“But you don’t want to leave him,” she said.

Though she couldn’t see me, I shook my head.

“Vidal Morales,” she said. “He’ll never be bothered to learn the language of this country he loves. He doesn’t want to tackle such a dramatic shift of mindset.”

We sat in silence for a few moments before I came out of the stall. “Are you feeling better?” I asked.

“Yes, thank you.” She stood up so our eyes were level, smoothed her hair, and pinched her cheeks for color. “It’s what we silly women do.”

I didn’t see Joe standing near the drink table when the woman and I left the bathroom. “Excuse me,” I said to the bartender. “Did you happen to see where the man I was with went?”

“I believe he left the gallery, ma’am,” he replied.

“Thanks,” I said, and headed for the exit. When I got to the parking lot we had used a few blocks from the gallery, I saw that our car was gone. I walked around the parking lot’s gate back to the sidewalk and sat down on the curb. I watched six or seven cabs drive by before I stood up and hailed one.

I gave the cab driver my sister Kate’s address. She lived in one of the nicer suburbs outside the city. She was married and had just had her second baby, a little girl. Her first child, Ben, was four. Ben would be thrilled to see me when he woke up in the morning, and I couldn’t get enough of the new baby.

When the cab pulled up to the house, someone inside turned the kitchen light on. Kate would be happy to see me, as would Jack, her husband. I could stay there as long as I needed. And Joe would know to look for me there.