Beautiful Maria of My Soul - By Oscar Hijuelos Page 0,9
ever be proud of, but she would do it out of hunger, her stomach prevailing over her pride, may God please forgive her.
Of course, he wanted to see what she had to offer. When María, trembling, disrobed, at first just down to her slip and undies—she wore no brassiere, didn’t own one—the Catalán, having watched her carefully, told María, “Now off with the slip.” And when only one stitch of clothing remained, that was too much as well—“Quítalo, todo,” he demanded. Sighing, she did as he had asked and was soon standing naked before him, one hand placed over her breasts, the other over what cubanos euphemistically called the papayún. Tilting her head back, in shame, she closed her eyes, as if to pray. “Don’t be afraid, mi guapita,” he said. “It’s perfectly natural to feel a little shy the first time—but just remember, you have to start somewhere, after all.” Courteously and with an almost avuncular manner, he handed her a black silk robe, reeking of perfume, its fabric covered with falling purple blossoms, and told her, “Now, come with me.”
Why she somehow trusted him was beyond her future understanding; perhaps she felt protected by God—she had “la fe” then, and strongly so. Or, as she often also thought, she just wasn’t thinking too clearly: being young and alone and hoping naïvely for the best, as if people were naturally good, will do that to you, sabes? Sighing, her stomach twisted into knots, she followed him into that bar, which, in the style of Spanish taverns, lacked windows, its interior hazy with shifting plains of smoke. Some big band danzóns blared from a jukebox. The room itself (in memory) smelled vaguely of urine and spilled beer, sawdust, stale fritters, and flatulence (perhaps), and was so dimly lit that its darkness almost came as a relief to her. Patiently (and out of hunger) she waited beside the Catalán, who, banging on a pot to gain his patrons’ attention, made a quick introduction in what she took as English—“What’s your name anyway?” he asked her. And then, without further adieu, once she had climbed atop the long table, he yanked off her robe, and María, tottering in high heels, revealed her naked graces before a room filled with men, mainly Americans, who, in their cups, whistled and hooted at her.
How did she feel? Slightly humiliated, and certainly ashamed; as María would confess to a priest a few days later, she had never sunk so low in her life. But as she strode unsteadily across that long table, from one end of the room to the other, she didn’t falter, thinking of those men as no better than animals, whose desires and anonymous expressions would, at least, put a few dollars in her pocket. And so forgive me, she told herself, for I have no one to look after me and I am hungry, amen.
What happened? After those strangers had gotten their fill of what no man had ever seen so closely before, María, covering herself with that robe, sat off in a corner daydreaming about what she would do with her pay. (She’d buy a plate of fried chuletas—pork chops—and rice and beans for twenty-five cents, along with some plantain fritters from a stand near the hotel, a new blouse from one of the corner stores, and perhaps take in a Barbara Stanwyck movie in the center for another quarter, and still have enough left to give her señora some rent money, so that she wouldn’t have to keep on scrubbing floors.) That’s when the Catalán, who had gone from table to table speaking with his patrons, came over to María and, in a rather pleasant tone of voice, told her to come back into his office so that they might discuss some matters of business.
What followed, she never cared to talk about—she’d never tell her daughter, not even during their most earnest talks about her rough beginnings in Havana—only that, once upon a time, it had been her misfortune to have stumbled, and stupidly so, for the sake of earning a few dollars, into a shadowy place. What was it that she’d remember? Back in his office, the Catalán offered her a drink, but she didn’t like her rum in those days—“I was an innocent”—and then he sat her down and told María about how everyone in the club had been much taken by her little performance and that, if she so wanted to, there would be other ways that