So we skip.
"Another day, and the only thing Magda has said is,
give me the lotion.
Tonight the resort is throwing a party and all guests
are invited.
Attire is formal but I don't have the clothes or the energy
to dress up.
Magda though has both.
She puts on these super tight gold lame pants
and a matching halter that shows off her belly ring.
Her hair is shiny and dark as night.
And I can remember the first time
I kissed those curls asking her, "where are the stars?"
And she said, "They're a little lower, Papi."
We ended up in front of a mirror.
I'm in slacks and a wrinkled guayabera,
and she's applying her lipstick.
And I always believe that the universe invented the color red
solely for Latinos.
"We look good," she says.
It's true.
My optimism is starting to come back.
I'm thinking this is a night for reconciliation.
I put my arms around her but she drops her bomb
without blinking her fucking eye.
Tonight she says she needs her space.
My arm drops.
"I knew you'd be pissed," she says.
"You're a real bitch, you know that."
"I didn't want to come here.
You made me."
"If it didn't want to come why didn't you
have the guts to say so."
And on, and on.
Until finally I say, "Fuck this."
And I head out.
I feel unmoored and don't have a clue what comes next.
This is the end game.
And instead of pulling out all stops,
instead of pongándome más chivo que un chivo,
I'm feeling sorry for myself, como un parigüayo sin suerte.
And I'm thinking I'm not a bad guy.
Club Cacique is jammed.
I'm looking for Lucy and I find the vice president and Barbaro
instead.
At the quiet end of the bar they're
drinking cognac and arguing about
whether there are 56 Dominicans in the major leagues or 57.
They clear out a space for me and clap me on the shoulder.
"This place is killing me," I say.
"How dramatic."
The vice president reaches into his suit for his keys.
"Are you inclined to ride with us," he says.
"Why not," I say.
"I want to show you the birthplace of our nation."
Before we leave I check out the crowd.
Lucy has arrived.
She's alone at the edge of the bar in a fly black dress.
She lifts her arms up and I can see the stark double spot
in her armpit.
I think I should stay but my legs carry me
right out of the club."
And this is it, last section.
"We pile into the diplomats black BMW.
I'm in the back seat with Barbaro.
The vise president's up front driving.
We leave Casa de Campo behind and the frenzy
of La Romana and soon everything starts smelling
of processed sugar cane.
The roads are dark.
I'm talking no fucking lights.
And in our beams the bug swarm like a biblical plague.
We're passing the cognac around.
I'm with the vice president, so I figure what the fuck.
He's talking about his time in upstate New York
but so is Barbaro.
The bodyguard suit is rumpled and his hand
shakes as he smokes his cigarettes.
Some fucking bodyguard, I think.
He's telling me about his childhood in San Juan,
near the border of Haiti, Liborio's country.
I wanted to be an engineer he tells me.
I wanted to build schools and hospitals for the Pueblo.
I'm not really listening to him I'm thinking about Magda
and how I'll probably never taste her chocha again.
And then we're out of the car stumbling up a slope
through bushes, and guineo, and bamboo.
And the mosquitoes are chewing us up
like we're the special of the day.
And Barbaro has got a huge flashlight.
A darkness obliterater out.
The vise president is cursing and trampling
through the underbrush saying, "It's around here somewhere.
This is what I get for being in office so long."
It's only then that I noticed that Barbaro
is holding a huge fucking machine gun
and his hand ain't shaking no more.
He isn't watching me or the vise president.
He's listening.
I'm not scared but this is getting a little too freaky
for me.
"What kind of gun is that?"
I ask by way of conversation.
"A P90," he says.
"What the fuck is that?"
"Something old made new."
And I'm thinking great, a fucking philosopher.
"It's here," the vice president says.
I creep over and see he's standing
over a hole in the ground.
The Earth is red bauxite.
"This is the cave of the Jagua," the vice president
announces in a deep respectful voice.
"The birthplace of the Taínos."
I raise my eyebrow.
"I thought they were from South America."
"We're speaking," he says, "Mythically here."
Barbaro points the light down in the hole
but it doesn't improve anything.
"Would you like to see inside?"
the vice president asks me.
And I must have said, yes, because Barbaro gives me
the flashlight and the two of them grabbed me by my ankles
and lower me into the hole.
All my coins fly out of my pockets.
Bendiciones.
I don't see much just some odd colors on the eroded wall.
And the vice president's calling down, "Isn't it beautiful?
This is a perfect place for insight, for a person
to become somebody better."
The vice president probably saw his future self
hanging in this darkness bulldozing
the poor out of their shanties.
And Barbaro too.
Buying a concrete house for his mother,
showing her how to work the air conditioner.
But me, all I can manage is a memory
of the first time me and Magda talked back at Rutgers.
We were waiting for an E bus together on George Street
and she was wearing purple, all sorts of purple.
And that's when I know it's over.
As soon as you start thinking about the beginning,
it's the end.
I cry.
And when they pull me up the vice president
says indignantly, "God, you don't have
to be such a pussy about it."
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]