Boy for Sale: Brickmason No More
David and the Lion’s Den — Interlude 3
The boy felt the vibrations before he heard the powerful engine.
He looked up to see a long black car gliding to a halt in front of him. He sliced his hoe into the mortar one last time and tensed himself from the core to heave the heavy slurry over — twice, three times, four. Perfect!
He saw a shiny door start to open, caught a flash of silver from the corner of his eye, then dropped the hoe and grunted as he raced the fresh mud over to Roberto.
The wheelbarrow lurched when its front tire slammed into a broken brick, but the boy managed to wrestle it down before anything spilled. He was picking up a shovel to fill mortarboards when the hand clamped down on his shoulder.
“Roberto!” he called, but the mason kept slapping with his trowel, barely even turning his head.
His uncle’s grip tightened. “You’ve worked enough today, boy. Come.”
The ride into Manhattan was long.
His tio didn’t bother speaking to him, so the boy spent his time marveling at the sights. At least he was warm. His thin denim jacket was barely enough to cut the wind blowing through the construction site.
From the back seat of the long car, he watched the wind strip bright red leaves from browning trees. He’d forgotten all about winter, but it was almost back. Roberto had warned him that ice and snow were coming.
After a while the trees thinned out as brick buildings replaced wooden houses. The car merged onto an expressway, and all the boy had to look at were grey clouds racing across an angry sky.
He knew the City was close. This was the third time his tio had brought him in. He’d already spotted the bridge that would transport them into another world, one he’d first glimpsed from the bus almost a year ago.
He’d stood in the bus station that day for hours. A tall, elegant, angry man finally confronted him and confirmed his identity. The boy had been shocked at the cold welcome.
“What the devil am I supposed to do with you?” the man growled, holding him by the shoulders at arm’s length. “Jesús Cristos, you’re nothing but a scrawny child!”
“I’m 15, Tio. Almost.”
His uncle spun on his heels, beckoning the boy to follow him. He shoved him in the back of the black car and dumped him at the apartment with the construction crew.
“I don’t understand,” the boy remembered telling Roberto that evening. “My abuela told me I was coming to live with my tio.”
“Just be glad she was wrong,” the mason grunted, then showed him how to roll up his sleeping bag.
The boy gripped his seat as the car crossed onto the bridge. The violent metal clanking always scared him. They were so high above the water!
Roberto barely spoke to him anymore — not after his tio came for him about a month ago. The car had rolled up to the job site and whisked him away. Just like today. He’d been happy but confused.
They’d pulled up to a narrow building on a crowded street. The boy could see dozens of skyscrapers surrounding them in the distance, but all the nearby structures were old and brick, hardly tall at all.
“Work agrees with you, I see,” his uncle had commented after they stepped out of the car and into heavy pedestrian traffic. “You’re bigger.” The boy smiled, glad to have finally done something to win the man’s approval.
“Wipe that smirk off your face and follow me.”
The day had progressed oddly. The boy tried to understand, but nothing made sense. They’d walked up a creaky flight of wooden steps into a shiny apartment that took up two floors of the building.
The man opened a door to a vast bathroom. “Wash. You stink.”
After he’d showered and put on some used clothing, they left the apartment and — incredibly — went shopping. They walked up and down narrow streets that bent at crazy angles, and his tio bought him clothes. Trousers of warm wool and crisp cotton. New jeans. Colored t-shirts. White cotton dress shirts. Jackets and coats.
This was his fantasy come true! His dream of New York before he’d actually arrived. Only it was all wrong. His tio barely spoke to him. Curt commands and monosyllabic instructions were all he got. The man was ice.
After dumping all the bounty upstairs, his uncle walked him down to the restaurant on the ground floor. The man behind the polished bar jumped up and looked nervous when they walked in. A pretty girl behind a wooden stand gestured and said some things in English the boy couldn’t understand. She looked like she wanted to be helpful, but his tio brushed past her without a word and led the boy down a set of winding stairs.
His eyes opened wide. He knew they were indoors, but the fountain bubbling below his feet was larger than the one in the plaza back home. Daylight poured in from a roof made of glass. As they descended into the dining room, he gawked at green plants and vines growing everywhere.
They sat at a small table surrounded by tables of rich Americans, and his uncle ordered food for them. The boy had never been in a real restaurant, but his abuela had owned a small television, so he knew the man with the white apron must be a waiter.
Plates arrived covered with steaming food. Crunchy bread covered with butter and garlic, skinny noodles dripping with tomato sauce, round pieces of flat-fried chicken breast and fish.
He started to pick up a piece with his fingers, then looked around and thought better of it. He picked up a fork. For the first time, the man grunted at him in approval.
Lunch dragged out endlessly. Many people came to their table and spoke to his uncle, most of them spitting out fast streams of English the boy couldn’t hope to understand. Several times, though, he was sure the conversation was about him.
That first day in the City ended as abruptly as it began. Back up to the apartment. “Put your old work clothes back on. Quickly. I’m in a hurry.”
He got dressed and went to gather his bags of new clothes.
“Leave them. You won’t need them yet.”
They’d driven back to the construction crew’s apartment, and the boy walked in alone to discover that Roberto was giving him the cold shoulder. He didn’t understand why his friend wasn’t speaking to him or why his eyes seemed full of accusations.
A week later, the process had repeated itself, minus the shopping. They ate lunch at the restaurant that the boy came to realize his uncle must own. All the workers called him Patrón, and he didn’t pay for the food.
A string of guests appeared one by one. Each would sit while his uncle poured out a glass of white wine and talked — with big, animated gestures, telling stories in English that sounded dramatic. If only the boy could understand them. He was bored!
Several times he became uncomfortable when the talk clearly centered around him.
The second visit ended as abruptly as the first.
Now, the boy was sitting in the back seat of the car, knowing what to expect. As soon as his uncle parked, he jumped out and rushed up the stairs, anxious to shower and put on his nice clothes. The food smell from the restaurant excited him. So much better than rice and beans.
But the routine was off. His bags of clothes were lined up at the door, not tucked away in a closet like before. He showered quickly, the doorbell interrupting his thoughts as he toweled off.
He heard voices as he pulled on chinos and buttoned up a heavy blue cotton shirt. He admired himself in the mirror as he ran a comb through his black hair, slicking it down until it glistened. With his light skin and rich clothes, he knew he wouldn’t be out of place in the restaurant. He knew he could pass for an American.
He imagined Estrellita admiring his new look and his construction-swollen muscles. He fingered the soft beginnings of a moustache and thought that she’d be sure to kiss him if only he could find his way back to his village and pull her into his arms beside the fountain.
The daydream lit his face up as he turned the knob and stepped into the living room.
“Ah,” his tio exclaimed, turning toward him and away from a balding American standing by the sofa. “You see, Carl? He is as prompt as I promised. You won’t be disappointed.”
The boy had never heard his uncle use such a charming tone of voice, especially to compliment him, so he stopped and stared — wary.
His tio strode over, threw an arm over his shoulder, led him to the tall, bulky American, and conducted introductions in elegant Spanish. The boy felt like a prince.
Carl’s responses were halting, his Spanish obviously limited. The two men switched languages, and the boy listened to a senseless babble of rapid English while he pulled on dark socks and laced up shiny brown shoes.
“Are you ready, son?” The voice was so warm and friendly that the boy didn’t even look up. It couldn’t be directed at him.
Then a hand touched his shoulder , and he was staring into his uncles’s eyes — just inches from his own. “I asked if you were ready.”
The boy nodded, confused.
“Good. Go with Carl. You’ll be working for him. You’re to do everything he tells you, unless you want me to be angry with you. Do you understand?”
He didn’t understand, not at all, but he blinked and nodded silently.
“Carl will speak English with you and help you learn. Can you do that?” His uncle’s voice was warm, but his eyes were as icy as ever. The boy nodded again as a shiver lifted the hairs on his arms.
“Good, because you’re of little use to me without English. Study hard, Nephew, and don’t let me hear any complaints.
The boy swallowed, remembering Roberto’s ominous warnings. He knew something bad was happening. His uncle clapped his hands twice, sharply. “Very well, then. Pick up your bags. Let’s get a move on, shall we we? I have a busy afternoon planned.
“Time to get your new life started.”
You just read an “interlude” of a character-driven mystery set in Greenwich Village during the worst of the HIV Plague Years. We leave David, Jill, Hilda, Carla, and Howie to once again peek into the life of a mysterious Colombian immigrant boy. But are the stories starting to intersect? Just remember when reading this novel, and right up to the very last page, that sometimes what you’re looking at isn’t what you see.
