animal characters. The Assembly and the Paris Commune became the pigs barricaded in a hut made of hay and hats, defending themselves with their tusks and with bombs made of smelly little farts. Otto transformed Monsieur Thiers, a royalist statesman in charge of crushing the uprising, into an evil wolf who wanted to tear down the house and eat the pigs with the help of his foreign army of Prussian bears and the blessing of the pontifical greedy slob Pope Zouaves the lion . . .
Then one day Aisha phoned Otto from work and said, Pack the kid’s suitcase, his mother is back.
When Linda showed up at the door with Aisha, she was skinny and had only a plastic bag of clothes in her hand. Tammer stood looking at her from a distance, and with a distance in his eyes he watched his mother cry.
Come here, baby, she said. Come, I am taking you home. The kid looked at Otto, then his mother, and stood motionless. Linda cried and said, You remember Mommy. Come, baby, come, and then she walked towards him and knelt down and hugged him hard, and he looked over her shoulder and out of the little window and into the sky.
Aisha held the kid’s suitcase with tears in her eyes. She handed it to Otto and Otto opened the door and followed the family out into the hallway.
Linda, he said, please call us if Tammer needs anything. He is a special kid, and him being in our lives . . . bring him here anytime, our door is always open.
I might, Linda said, taking the small suitcase. I just might. You are good people.
BOLERO
ON MONDAY, I was outside the man’s house by eight. I was tired and my eye was still red from the sports fan’s punch in the face, and after ten minutes of waiting I was ready to leave. But at exactly eight fifteen I saw the man swaggering towards me.
You’re good with roads? he asked.
I am the best around.
That is what I want to hear, the man said. Take me to the Financial District.
Before each stop he gave me a corner, never an address. He’d ask me to wait, then he’d disappear for a few minutes and come back. Once in a while I saw him shake hands quickly with a bureaucrat in a suit or some other variety of shady character.
Sometimes I took a shortcut and drove through back streets, between buildings, and down alleys, and he was impressed with that. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was collecting money and checking on his dealers and I was driving him around.
At one point he asked my name.
I said, Call me Fly.
He laughed. I like this guy, he is careful. And then he said to me, You are a man of contradictions, Fly. You are sometimes honest and other times not.
I smiled.
Why didn’t you keep the bags the other day, man? There was some good, expensive clothing in there.
I have no girlfriend, I said.
He laughed again and handed me a large bill. Yeah, a real fly you are. I’ll call you when I need you. You’re okay with that?
Yes, I am.
Cool. Now fly, Fly.
I WAS HUNGRY, so I decided to stop at Café Bolero. I sat, ate, and joined the spiders’ tables and heard them discussing their rides, their catches in between the swinging of the car doors. I like to listen to them when they are dreaming of houses back in the mountains and overseas. They lace, twist, knit, intertwine schemes; they braid, plait, loop their stories in chains of truth and lies; and then they point, signal, motion, gesticulate, wave, indicate roads, long and short ways, clients who sat, talked, shouted, cried, and escaped.
There was music coming from the ceiling or from somewhere above the tables.
Number 53, the Dancing Spider, as I call him, was standing in the line for food and swaying lightly to the sound of knives and forks. Every year on Carnival nights, the Dancing Spider retires his car around eleven and goes down to Club Ballayou. He dances the balla balla and the bachata and the rumba with contingents of women. These ladies, who live in remote areas of the countryside, have bused in from far and wide to dance at the notorious
Then one day Aisha phoned Otto from work and said, Pack the kid’s suitcase, his mother is back.
When Linda showed up at the door with Aisha, she was skinny and had only a plastic bag of clothes in her hand. Tammer stood looking at her from a distance, and with a distance in his eyes he watched his mother cry.
Come here, baby, she said. Come, I am taking you home. The kid looked at Otto, then his mother, and stood motionless. Linda cried and said, You remember Mommy. Come, baby, come, and then she walked towards him and knelt down and hugged him hard, and he looked over her shoulder and out of the little window and into the sky.
Aisha held the kid’s suitcase with tears in her eyes. She handed it to Otto and Otto opened the door and followed the family out into the hallway.
Linda, he said, please call us if Tammer needs anything. He is a special kid, and him being in our lives . . . bring him here anytime, our door is always open.
I might, Linda said, taking the small suitcase. I just might. You are good people.
BOLERO
ON MONDAY, I was outside the man’s house by eight. I was tired and my eye was still red from the sports fan’s punch in the face, and after ten minutes of waiting I was ready to leave. But at exactly eight fifteen I saw the man swaggering towards me.
You’re good with roads? he asked.
I am the best around.
That is what I want to hear, the man said. Take me to the Financial District.
Before each stop he gave me a corner, never an address. He’d ask me to wait, then he’d disappear for a few minutes and come back. Once in a while I saw him shake hands quickly with a bureaucrat in a suit or some other variety of shady character.
Sometimes I took a shortcut and drove through back streets, between buildings, and down alleys, and he was impressed with that. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was collecting money and checking on his dealers and I was driving him around.
At one point he asked my name.
I said, Call me Fly.
He laughed. I like this guy, he is careful. And then he said to me, You are a man of contradictions, Fly. You are sometimes honest and other times not.
I smiled.
Why didn’t you keep the bags the other day, man? There was some good, expensive clothing in there.
I have no girlfriend, I said.
He laughed again and handed me a large bill. Yeah, a real fly you are. I’ll call you when I need you. You’re okay with that?
Yes, I am.
Cool. Now fly, Fly.
I WAS HUNGRY, so I decided to stop at Café Bolero. I sat, ate, and joined the spiders’ tables and heard them discussing their rides, their catches in between the swinging of the car doors. I like to listen to them when they are dreaming of houses back in the mountains and overseas. They lace, twist, knit, intertwine schemes; they braid, plait, loop their stories in chains of truth and lies; and then they point, signal, motion, gesticulate, wave, indicate roads, long and short ways, clients who sat, talked, shouted, cried, and escaped.
There was music coming from the ceiling or from somewhere above the tables.
Number 53, the Dancing Spider, as I call him, was standing in the line for food and swaying lightly to the sound of knives and forks. Every year on Carnival nights, the Dancing Spider retires his car around eleven and goes down to Club Ballayou. He dances the balla balla and the bachata and the rumba with contingents of women. These ladies, who live in remote areas of the countryside, have bused in from far and wide to dance at the notorious
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