NICHOLAS COURSEL
Nicholas Coursel is an awardwinning French-Canadian writer. Originally from Chicago, he鈥檚 lived and written from ten countries to date. His work aims to celebrate the forgotten and shed light on his workingclass roots. You can find him on Twitter/X @nicholascoursel or on his YouTube channel, The Literary Nomad.
La Romita
ficiton
by: Nicholas Coursel
Borges was God and my colonia was suddenly full of men who looked like him. Fifteen years old in the beautiful smog of Mexico City with nothing but a tattered copy of Ficciones to get me through the slow times at my parents鈥 cafe on the corner of Monterrey and Chihuahua while they went through the same old routine about the bar across the street and how busy it was.
Some gringo writer moved down from the States with his wife and drank them dry every night. Apparently he was a real nightmare for the owners, getting drunk and fighting and doing all sorts of things he couldn鈥檛 get away with back home, but the dollar was strong at the time and he always paid in full, so their door remained open and the drinks kept pouring strong.
Mom complained every time his revolving door of hippie buddies stumbled past our cafe. Dad just wanted them to stop and buy something, but they hardly ever did. Nobody did during those times. If we were lucky, we would get a few live ones stumbling in around five or six in the morning, still half-drunk looking to take the edge off before they did whatever it was they were going to do that day.
It wasn鈥檛 until much later in my life that I understood the subdued apprehension my parents had toward them, treating them nice to their faces and doing the dance, but cornering me as soon as they left and warning me to stay far, far away because of the way they lived, well, it was just plain wrong. Don鈥檛 get any ideas, Raul. That life鈥檚 not real. It鈥檚 not for us. Things are different for Americans. They always have. They always will be.
I remained unconvinced. Their smiles were always bigger than ours and they roared with laughter that shook the tables, scribbling feverishly in their notebooks for hours no matter where they were or what they鈥檇 drank that night. Coffee, booze, whatever. It was irrelevant. They were always crazy. Crazy for life. And they were always drunk when I saw them鈥攃oming down or rising up鈥攁nd they were always writing something or reading something, but most importantly they were always moving.
Whenever they鈥檇 come into the cafe, I would move to the closest possible table and act like I was reading to hopefully catch a word or two of their conversation. That鈥檚 how I learned my first few years of English, and why I curse much more than most PhDs. Fuck it, pour another. Did you see that girl? I鈥檓 still feeling it from last night. Those were the words in my textbook.
My favorite character of their ragtag group was the funny-talking one who always tried speaking to us in Spanish but hardly ever found much success. His friends laughed at him for saying hola to Mom when he walked in the door and adios when he left. She laughed too and waved him away back to his table, but I noticed his coffee was always a little fuller than the others, and when he ordered food it came out a few seconds earlier.
Sometimes, when he was especially drunk and his friends were laughing harder than usual, he鈥檇 look to the ground and curse in another language. Putain. At the time, I thought he was Portuguese or maybe even Italian. Once I got to university, I finally understood. Putain truly was the best way to describe their time in La Roma.
One day, however, the funny-talking man and his band of writer poet buddies came into the cafe just before closing. He said hola like he always did but something was different. There was something off about all of them. Their movements were jagged. Their voices were sharp, almost accusatory. I still moved closer but left an empty chair between.
鈥淓speranza鈥斺 he said, but I couldn鈥檛 understand the rest. He was talking too fast and his accent was too strong.
鈥淔uck her,鈥 said the other man, jittering as they approached Dad. That was my favorite English word, and the only one I knew before they arrived in the colonia. So diverse, so many different ways to use it. 鈥溾斺! 鈥斺.鈥
They threw a wad of pesos on the table and Dad returned with a bottle of whiskey. Mom grabbed his arm near the door and tried pulling him back, but he shook her off and told her to stay back and stop getting in the way of man鈥檚 business.
This continued. Round after round until the bottle was empty. Then they鈥檇 furiously wave Dad over and throw more pesos on the table at him and demand another bottle and demand it be delivered quickly. I could tell from his face that he resented every second of it, but it鈥檇 been a slow month and rent was always behind, so that next bottle always came and it always came quickly like they asked.
Two, three, four. I still don鈥檛 understand how they put it all away. They were only four men, after all, and none of them overly large.
Mom stepped in on the fifth. 鈥淣o more,鈥 she said as they ordered Dad to go fetch them another bottle.
Three of the four drinking men, all but the funny-talking one, roared with laughter. The one with the money reached deep in his pocket and pulled out another wad of pesos. He threw them on the floor at her feet, laughing and shaking in his seat as he did.
鈥淥ne more,鈥 he said through gritted teeth. His grip on the empty glass was so tight I worried it might break. 鈥Uno mas鈥攏ow!鈥
Dad stepped forward but Mom put her arm out and stopped him. Her eyes fell and she looked to the funny-talking man but he just slouched down in his chair and looked away. His face was bright red, but he didn鈥檛 say a word as Mom got on her hands and knees and began picking up the bills. All he did was sigh and shake his head and run his hands through his hair before pulling out his notebook and scribbling away.
鈥淕et him what he wants!鈥 Dad barked. 鈥隆Dale lo que quiere! Don鈥檛 just sit there! Put that goddamn book away and do something for once!鈥
He jumped forward, snatched the book out of my hand, and threw it out the open door. The gringos roared with laughter and pointing. 鈥溾斺! 鈥斺!鈥 their laughter swelled and the pointing continued.
鈥溾赌斺赌!鈥
鈥溾斺! 鈥斺!鈥
Mom caressed my knee later that night and told me he didn鈥檛 mean it. 鈥淭hose gringos drive him crazy,鈥 she said, but I already knew. Still, knowing didn鈥檛 make me feel any better. I hated him for it, making us all look like such fools, and wished I was at the table so he couldn鈥檛 tell me what to do any more. 鈥淗e can鈥檛 stand not being able to turn them away.鈥
I held the tears in and told her I understood. It didn鈥檛 matter. I knew he had a lot of stress running the cafe and keeping our bellies full. La Roma was home but it wasn鈥檛 ours.
* * *
Darkness floats through La Ciudad and anything is possible in the world between the lines. The fountains bubble, the taquerias long closed. Even the young footballers have disappeared from the streets, fast asleep, dreaming of Madrid. All that remains are the freaks and misfits and the bandits out hunting. They鈥檙e all looking for a quick score. It鈥檚 why they came South. Junk has always been cheap in the darkest back alleys. But you don鈥檛 notice these things, not here. The rules are different between the lines. You simply drift through the endless black until the tamale lady shouts you back to consciousness.
Drifting, drifting, drifting. You鈥檙e weightless and invincible. Nobody can tell you no, not here. Anything can happen, yet for some reason nothing ever does. I鈥檓 one with the gringo men, drifting. The picture is blurry, but I can understand! Finally, I can understand! We鈥檙e all together somewhere but I don鈥檛 know where it is. It鈥檚 far too blurry and it鈥檚 only getting worse. But we鈥檙e together, that much I know. We鈥檙e together and when they laugh I laugh too.
We walk together and end up in the cafe like they always do but this time I鈥檓 with them and four is five. I don鈥檛 have to sit at my usual table five or six feet away, looking and straining and wanting but never being able to stand up and listen and join in.
Mom is laughing and smiling and Dad鈥檚 pouring the drinks full for all of us and his usual grimace is nowhere to be found. We all continue roaring around the table with journey鈥檚 from nights before鈥擨 think, at least, but truly have no idea鈥攁s down another and call it fuel for our next adventure.
The newfound quintet roams through the winding streets and alleys of La Roma and howl wild into the endless possibility night provides. They, no we, tell stories of New York City and London and the funny-talking man tells me about his former life in Milan or Lisbon鈥攚henever he says the city鈥檚 name I can鈥檛 hear clearly for some reason and there鈥檚 always something unseen in the way鈥攁nd how he left because Mexico is the greatest adventure left in North America.
鈥淭his is everything America promises to be,鈥 the funny-talking man exclaims over a freshly empty bottle of whiskey. 鈥淣ever leave. This, this!鈥 this is where it鈥檚 at! There鈥檚 no place better than Mexico City!鈥
I speak English and they speak English too. So does everyone else around us. A white light flashes then it鈥檚 gone again and everything returns to black, deeper black, encapsulating black and I鈥檓 all alone once more.
* * *
When loud bangs in the night are fireworks you learn a lot about who you are and where you live. You learn even more when they鈥檙e not. They came in a short burst of three鈥BANG, BANG, BANG!鈥攁nd sent me upright in my bed. My forehead was doused with cold, clammy sweat as I got up and went over to the window to survey the streets beneath.
The street was calm beneath my window. A couple of old men sat out on their porch a few blocks down drinking and playing cards, but that was all. The laughter coming from their direction was soft, as was the Spanish.
鈥溾擣UUUUUCK鈥斺 cut suddenly from the opposite direction. There was more being said, all in English, but I couldn鈥檛 understand. The reverberation of the curse rang through my ears. It was obvious who it was, but why? What was happening? What adventures were they having that I was missing out on?
I opened the window and stuck my head out, but the English had dissipated. The two old men drinking looked up at me and shouted to go inside and stop being so noisy. I was too young to be awake, and they were too drunk to care about my age.
All I had to do was make it past my parents鈥 bedrooms and into the cafe undetected and I鈥檇 be in the clear. Once I was outside, it didn鈥檛 matter. Any noise they鈥檇 chalk up to raccoons in the trash or drunks stumbling home to the bar. Nothing worth waking up for. They wouldn鈥檛 even check the window.
The air was much colder than when I鈥檇 gone to bed. Wind lashed my exposed neck and ankles. It felt how I imagined Dostoevsky鈥檚 Siberia. I pulled my socks up as far as they would go and continued forward. Years had passed since my last set of new pajamas, many many inches ago. After making it half a block I doubled back and started the other way to avoid the old men drinking and playing cards. They were too loud and didn鈥檛 look familiar and frankly the hassle just wasn鈥檛 worth it. I could afford a few more blocks.
Just as I began to lose hope of finding the voice who鈥檇 shouted FUCK into the black of night at maximum volume, the English started again. This time it was much closer and easier to understand. They were talking鈥攖wo of them if not more鈥攂ut I couldn鈥檛 figure out where their voices were coming from. But it was close, very close. I slowed to a stop and ducked into the alleyway. I couldn鈥檛 risk being seen.
鈥淲h鈥攚h鈥攚hat 鈥斺 I do?鈥 trembled the stern, aggressive voice from the cafe. 鈥溾斺. Today. I 鈥斺 the police. No 鈥斺!鈥
鈥淣othing,鈥 responded another. I couldn鈥檛 believe my ears. It was the funny-talking man. Something was off. His accent was thicker than ever. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 do nothing at all.鈥 鈥淚 can鈥檛 鈥斺 nothing!鈥 the other man exclaimed. 鈥溾斺. I loved her.鈥
鈥淭hat means nothing now!鈥
Anger pulsated through his voice and it was almost tangible. I leaned forward to steal a glance around the corner and get a better look at them and what they were doing and hopefully figure out whatever it all was.
On the other side of the street, three and a half blocks down, the two of them huddled on the stoop in front of one of the old mansions of La Roma. The funny-talking man had something loosely wrapped in a brown paper bag in one hand and a bottle of whiskey or rum in the other. I squinted but couldn鈥檛 make out what it was. It was far too dark.
I crept forward another block, still away from their line of sight. 鈥溾斺. It was an accident. I 鈥斺 her to get hurt.鈥
The funny-talking man reached both arms out and shook his friend by the shoulders. His neck rolled drunk circles. 鈥淪top!鈥 he shouted. 鈥溾斺 out of it! Esperanza has 鈥斺 her house. We 鈥斺 go 鈥斺!鈥
It wasn鈥檛 until many years later, standing outside Kirkland House in my first year living in Cambridge, that I learned the word heroin and finally did the math in reverse.
* * *
The metro had always been hot and it had always been crowded, and it still was, but the smiles were lighter now and so was everything else. I looked up and down the moving car toward the people. Some were old, yes, but most weren鈥檛. Most were new. It was exactly how I remembered Los Angeles to be when I gave my guest lecture at UCLA, only the opposite. Everything in a constant state of change, always moving. And so were we. Such is life in the big city.
I could hear pockets of English being spoken through the falling tide of our Chilango mother tongue, and, finally, I could understand what was being said. Younger me at the cafe would鈥檝e never believed it. Instagram. Tacos. Roma鈥擭orte, not Sur鈥攖hat point they made abundantly clear. I smiled while a seat opened up and it grew melancholic as they stood aside and motioned for me to have a seat. That was a first. How things had changed. Kids were kids and Cambridge was all around me.
My life and career had been spent molding the greatest minds of their generation and when I looked right and left I saw them all smiling and laughing but doing it hollowly. Smile, click, snap鈥攂ack to zero. It was programmatic. They knew no better. This was the life they鈥檇 been raised for. We all were the pigs, we just never knew it.
One of the guest speakers at a conference in Barcelona taught me that. The boiling frog theory applies to everyone and everything all the time. If you heat up the pot slowly enough they won鈥檛 even realize they鈥檙e burning alive. They鈥檒l be soup and glad for it! There鈥檚 no avoiding it, only embracing. When he told me I laughed and shook my head and dismissed him, but I never got that thought out of my mind. It didn鈥檛 come up often, but when it did it hit hard. The world moves in cycles and we鈥檝e got no say in what happens. Our lives are determined at birth if not before, as were our parents and their parents, too.
My students never liked that outlook, said it was far too nihilistic but I couldn鈥檛 help but feel certain it was true. And what could truly be nihilistic about the truth? Evidence sometimes points opposite to where we want it to. Clean lines are almost impossible to find. Life remains beautiful either way. So what鈥檚 the problem? It鈥檚 just the way things are. Good or bad, we refuse to change, humans. I was always going to Cambridge. I was always coming back.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and watched the city race past through the polluted heat of the monta帽as all around. What was I doing, getting so caught up in thought? Those days were over for me. Too many years had passed. All the new thoughts I would ever think, any chance I ever had at originality, was long gone. That dream had died and buried and grass grew over the plot. Back in Cambridge, I might have hoped, but probably Paris if I was honest with myself. I still thought I might鈥檝e been on to something in those days. My final satori, but oh well. What鈥檚 done is done. I closed my eyes and relaxed comfortably into the sweltering blanket of seventy-one years lived.
The train rolled to a stop at Insurgentes and I was awoken by the feeling of movement all around. Getting up, sitting down, jostling left, pushing right, coming, going鈥攊t didn鈥檛 matter the direction, they were all moving. They were all going someplace other than where they were, and I was too. I pushed myself off my seat and squeezed through the gap in the living organism that was the crowd and only just made it out before the whistle blew and the doors slid shut.
Insurgentes station was the same as I鈥檇 left it, yet nothing was the same. Time had passed and the world had changed. Such is inevitable. They always say it鈥檚 a bad thing but maybe it鈥檚 simply an inevitable thing, yet another uncomfortable aspect of the human experience. Adapt or move on. It鈥檚 simple evolution. I walked slowly down the familiar streets, grateful our city grid hadn鈥檛 altered. The route was the route it had always been. But of course none of the businesses remained.
The streets, practically speaking, were untouched. Left remained left, right was right, and all the parks and trees remained. Yet the essence had changed. Corporate art covered all the walls of the restaurants and the bricks were no better. They were beautiful, of course鈥攖hat much was undeniable鈥攂ut it was all too orderly, too planned, too concentrated. Gringas and fresas lined up just the same. Maybe it made me old and jaded, shaking my head as I passed, but I couldn鈥檛 help it. I cared and Ididn鈥檛 like it. All I wanted was to roll back the time, but if afforded the chance I don鈥檛 think I would have. In sentiment, maybe, but not much else.
Our cafe made it all the way until 2002 the landlord said enough was enough and shut us down. The last ten years had been a struggle. My parents didn鈥檛 say much whenever I called home, but it was obvious when I visited. Still, they remained adamant that my money was my money throughout it all and insisted that Cambridge might not last forever, so save it for when my luck ran out. 鈥淪ave it, Raul. Save every penny of it. You never know how things will change, only that they surely will.鈥
We did what we did so you could do what you鈥檙e doing. Our job is helping you, yours is to help yourself and whoever comes next. Unfortunately, I never got around to much of that. And even more unfortunately, their stubbornness couldn鈥檛 pay the bills. Their song played long and beautiful but in the end of course the tune ran out and accounts went to zero or at least got close and then, only then, was I allowed to help. Streets or extend your hand a bit, so reluctantly they picked up the phone and that was that. I was fifteen years into tenure at the time.
I was glad to take over the mortgage but we talked less and less after I did and we all knew why. Dad couldn鈥檛 stomach the failure of seeing his son鈥檚 name on the checks he sent out. The first of the month killed him every time. Mom tried her best to keep our family鈥檚 candle burning and alive but there was only so much she could do. That鈥檇 always been the problem.
So when Dad finally died and the university said I was free to go whenever I pleased I realized enough was enough and it was time to go home and try and make things right. Mexico City didn鈥檛 really feel like La Ciudad anymore but it was still my home and a hell of a lot better than Boston or Cambridge, and Mom was only a few blocks away. Dad鈥檚 funeral was the first time I鈥檇 seen her in years. We called every Sunday after church when he was busy watching the football, but that was the extent of our relationship. I kept walking forward and even walked faster knowing she was just around the corner, three streets deeper in La Roma. It all would be fixed soon, I hoped. Everything would be okay.
There was a new cafe on the corner of Monterrey and Chihuahua and it looked warm and inviting. A young, pale-skinned Mexican man covered in tattoos worked the espresso machine tirelessly and I couldn鈥檛 help but smile. That was me, or at least how I imagined myself growing up. I glanced around and ducked inside. Mom wasn鈥檛 expecting me for another hour or so and a coffee sounded nice after the flight. Anything to turn back to how it was.
I ducked into the cafe that used to be my home and ordered the first thing on the menu, a horchata latte. That sounded interesting. My eyes lingered on the stairs leading up to where my bedroom used to be. The young man asked for seventy pesos鈥攕eventy pesos!鈥攁nd my eyes widened as I asked him to say it one more time.
鈥淪eventy pesos, porfa,鈥 the barista said, and I dug into my pockets with a wayward grin wondering what had happened to the colonia. Her face may not have changed much but her insides surely had. The university gave me a good retirement, more than enough, but still, I could hardly believe it. Mom and Dad would have been grateful to get three or four. If they had, our lives would鈥檝e turned out much different. I handed over the money and went to my seat and waited for my drink to come as mi Romita continued moving on without me.
God had died but there was a young man sitting across the street who looked remarkably like him. I leaned forward and grabbed my horchata latte from the tattooed man and took a deep drink from it鈥攚hy hadn鈥檛 my parents thought of this?鈥攁nd tried to make out the title of the book in his hand, but couldn鈥檛. Something in English. That鈥檚 all I could make out. I leaned back again and swallowed. At least it tasted good.