THE STATUE OF LIBERTY (A short story)
© Amparo Jaramillo-Restrepo
America! America! He couldn’t believe his luck. Now all his
suffering: hunger, thirst, terror and despair, his scorched naked body
while he lay adrift on that small raft, had paid off. He was finally a
free man, and, most important, he had his boots on: those old military
boots where he’d hidden his grandmother’s jewelry and the three hundred
dollars his mother had saved over the years, from selling rag dolls to
occasional tourists.
“José Muñoz, Portorican”. That’s how he’d registered at the hotel
in upper Manhattan, holding his breath for fear the receptionist might
be from Puerto Rico, and she’d begin asking him questions about the
island. Thank God she was from Pakistan and the only thing she was
interested in was the money: two hundred dollars up front for two
weeks. Then, she began reciting her litany, in a monotonous tone: no
drugs, or alcohol, or guns or women. No cooking on the premises either.
However, there was a good cafeteria around the corner, and a
Laundromat. Laundromats were a very important part of American life his
cousin Gabriel had told him in one of his letters. There, in Cuba,
where you had only two pairs of pants, two shirts, a few socks and one
towel, laundry wasn’t a big concern. But here, in the United States,
where time was limited and people bought clothes like there was no
tomorrow, you could have a pile of dirty clothes in no time at all.
The first day in America! He looked at the old clock on the
dresser: 7:30. The first boat to The Statue of Liberty will depart at
9:30. It was in the book. All he knew about New York was written in the
yellowing pages of his old book, “New York for Lovers”. It had been his
favorite reading for the last eighteen months, since his father finally
agreed to let him go, and helped him to carry out his secret plan.
“Freedom? Baloney.” He remarked sarcastically, each time José
started daydreaming about The States.
“Freedom can never go further than one’s money! Freedom is a dream,
a fool’s dream,” he kept hammering until the last moment.
“So, you say you’re going to “America,” parroting the word like
people in The United States do. Wake up José. They are not the only
Americans in the world. We live in the Caribbean, and last time a
checked the map we were still part of the American Continent. So we have
the same right to call ourselves Americans. Don’t you ever forget that!”
“I have to rush,” he said in English in front of the broken moon
of the mirror in the tiny bathroom, savoring his words, amazed of how
well he sounded. After all, his father had been an English teacher in
Miami, many years ago, one of the few who came back to Cuba island,
disillusioned with the American system.
“I’d wish you’d open your eyes before you go,” he insisted. But
Jose didn’t want to listen. Freedom for him was as important as air.
After all, his father was aging and all he wanted from life were his
books and the tropical breeze circulating through his veins. One pair of
shoes a year, some rice and beans were more than enough for him, for he
was a dreamer…and a vegetarian.
8:30. He had to take the subway to Battery Park.
He closed the dirty door and ran down the stairs to the street, to
discover it was littered with cracked glass, scattered filthy clothes
and newspapers. “This neighborhood has gone to the dogs,” he said to
himself, remembering one of his favorite English idioms. And then,
conciliatory: “Maybe Sunday is garbage day in New York” he reasoned, his
eyes flickering over the debris. As soon as he’d found a job he’d get a
room in a nicer barrio.
There, on the island, he had the biggest collection of Statues of
Liberty: golden, silver, copper, wood, plastic, cardboard statues. On
plates, towels, shirts, coins, you name it. Each time somebody came to
The States he begged them to bring him a replica of The Statue of
Liberty. He even had one baked from marzipan. It was his girlfriend
Maricela’s gift. She didn’t approve of his trip.
“Freedom? don’t give me that; you are a pig, just like the others,
wanting only material things: a car, a closet packed with clothes, a
stereo, the biggest money could buy, no matter if they have to sell
their souls to the “gringos” and loose their dignity. And then, after
awhile, they’ll become a number, “living by themselves like the eagles,”
she said that last night on the beach, tears streaming down her cheeks,
her black, shiny hair wrapped in a red bandana and her golden ear loops
dancing in an angry, desperate gesture.
“It’s just like those women cursing the revolution because they
don’t have nail polish. I’d wish they’d choke on nail polish.” Las
Malditas!”
Maricela! If he could have her now sharing the wonderful smell of
freedom, the spotless sky of New York, in this, his first day in
America... Maybe some day!
“This has to be the place,” he said when he arrived at the park
running toward the water. There, across the bay, he could see The
Statue of Liberty gleaming against the silky sky. José wanted to sing,
to dance, to tell everybody this was the moment he’d been dreaming of
for years, but he was speechless. Besides, the place was almost
deserted, except for a few seagulls and pigeons. Maybe his watch was
wrong. He sat on a bench, his heart still pounding with exhilaration,
and decided to take his boots off, for the side pocket with the jewelry
and the money was pressing against his ankle and hurting him.
. Suddenly, out of nowhere, came a tall, dark figure. He grabbed
José’s boots and ran away accompanied by two other youngsters, while the
newcomer, just a small, frail, terrorized boy, tried to follow them
screaming his lungs out: “Police! Police! Help, help…” After a few
moments one of the attackers stopped and facing José fired a gunshot
which broke the heavy calm of the park.
The subway’s huge mouth near by had begun to throw up masses of
anonymous people, but most of them looked the other way or didn’t know
what to do. There was panic and disbelief while the boy fell to the
ground praying:
“God! Virgencita de la Caridad del Cobre, help! He…help!” And then:
“This can’t be true, I have to be dreaming.”
His face had turned reddish purple, his mouth wide open, and his
wounded chest heaved with effort. He was hallucinating and began to
whisper:
“Hi Maricela…you look sooo beautiful!”
Maricela was wearing a white translucent robe and The Statue of
Liberty’s crown on her head. She held the torch on her hand, and was
waving her long, long, long arm in a frantic movement to direct the
traffic, so the ambulance could come closer.
In a final, futile and excruciating effort José raised his hands
and mumbled:
“Let me touch The Statue, let me touch The Statue, let me… let...meee.”
A deadly silence trapped the morning air. José’s first day in America,
the land of freedom, was over.
New York, January l3, l990
