The Halfway House (New Directions Paperbook) by Guillermo Rosales Page B
Authors: Guillermo Rosales
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see a public telephone. I take a quarter out of my pocket and insert it. I dial the number of the halfway house. I wait. Arsenio answers on the third ring.
“Mafia?” he says to me. “Is that you?”
“It’s me,” I say. “Get Frances on the line.”
“She’s in her room,” Arsenio says. “Curbelo injected her with two doses of chlorpromazine and put her to bed. She was screaming. She didn’t want to eat. She tore her dress in half with her own hands. Mafia … what did you do to that woman? She’s crazy about you.”
“Never mind,” I say. “I’ll call again tomorrow.”
“Your books are here.” Arsenio says. “The policeman brought them. Mafia, I’m telling you this man to man, you know why you went nuts? From reading.”
“Never mind,” I say. “Keep hoping number 38 comes up.”
“Sure thing,” says Arsenio. “You’ll see me around Miami. You’ll see me!”
“Talk to you later,” I say.
“Later,” Arsenio says.
As soon as I hang up, from the main hall I hear someone yelling my name. I go there. A man in a white coat is waiting for me.
“Are you William Figueras?”
“I am.”
“Come inside. I want to talk to you. I am Dr. Paredes.”
I walk into a small windowless office. There’s a desk and three chairs. The walls are decorated with pictures of the writer Ernest Hemingway.
“Are you a fan of Hemingway?” I ask, taking a seat.
“I’ve read him,” Dr. Paredes says. “A lot.” “Have you read
Islands in the Stream
?”
“Yes,” he says. “Have you read
Death in the Afternoon
?”
“No,” I say, “but I read
A Moveable Feast
.”
“Excellent,” the doctor says. “Maybe now we’ll understand each other better. All right, William, what happened to you?”
“I wanted to be free again,” I say. “I wanted to escape the home where I was living and start a new life.”
“You took a girl with you?”
“Yes,” I say. “Frances, my future wife. She was coming with me.”
“The policeman said you were abducting her.”
“The policeman is lying,” I say. “He’s just repeating what he heard from Mr. Curbelo, the owner of the home. That woman and I love each other.”
“Love love?” Dr. Paredes asks.
“Love,” I say. “Maybe it wasn’t a great love yet. But it was blossoming.”
“Do you hear voices, William?”
“I used to,” I say. “I don’t hear them anymore.” “Do you have visions?”
“I used to. I don’t see them anymore.”
“What cured you?”
“Frances,” I say. “Having her by my side made me a new man.”
“If what you’re saying is true, I’ll help you.” Dr. Paredes says. “You’ll spend a few days here and I will personally try to fix this problem. I’ll talk to Curbelo.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of him?”
“He’s a businessman. Nothing more than a businessman.”
“Exactly,” I say. “And a son of a bitch, besides.”
“Okay,” Dr. Paredes says to me, “now you can go. We’ll speak again tomorrow.”
“Do you have a cigarette?”
“Yes,” he says. “Keep the pack.”
He hands me a full pack of Winstons. I pocket it. I leave the office. I go back to the room with the other nuts. I arrive at the exact moment that the man who was reciting Zarathustra has trapped a black woman in a corner and has begun to lift her dress forcefully. The woman tries to slap him away. The Zarathustra guy throws the woman to the floor and starts to touch her thighs and her sex. While he’s doing it, he says with a voice from beyond the grave:
I have walked through valleys and mountains.
And I have had the world at my feet.
O man who atoneth: suffer!
O man believeth: have faith!
O rebellious man: attack and kill!
I leave and head toward the room with the iron beds. I get to one of these beds and let myself fall on it. I think of Frances. I remember her next to me, in the entryway of that Baptist church, her shoulder pressing into my ribs.
“My angel … were you
“Mafia?” he says to me. “Is that you?”
“It’s me,” I say. “Get Frances on the line.”
“She’s in her room,” Arsenio says. “Curbelo injected her with two doses of chlorpromazine and put her to bed. She was screaming. She didn’t want to eat. She tore her dress in half with her own hands. Mafia … what did you do to that woman? She’s crazy about you.”
“Never mind,” I say. “I’ll call again tomorrow.”
“Your books are here.” Arsenio says. “The policeman brought them. Mafia, I’m telling you this man to man, you know why you went nuts? From reading.”
“Never mind,” I say. “Keep hoping number 38 comes up.”
“Sure thing,” says Arsenio. “You’ll see me around Miami. You’ll see me!”
“Talk to you later,” I say.
“Later,” Arsenio says.
As soon as I hang up, from the main hall I hear someone yelling my name. I go there. A man in a white coat is waiting for me.
“Are you William Figueras?”
“I am.”
“Come inside. I want to talk to you. I am Dr. Paredes.”
I walk into a small windowless office. There’s a desk and three chairs. The walls are decorated with pictures of the writer Ernest Hemingway.
“Are you a fan of Hemingway?” I ask, taking a seat.
“I’ve read him,” Dr. Paredes says. “A lot.” “Have you read
Islands in the Stream
?”
“Yes,” he says. “Have you read
Death in the Afternoon
?”
“No,” I say, “but I read
A Moveable Feast
.”
“Excellent,” the doctor says. “Maybe now we’ll understand each other better. All right, William, what happened to you?”
“I wanted to be free again,” I say. “I wanted to escape the home where I was living and start a new life.”
“You took a girl with you?”
“Yes,” I say. “Frances, my future wife. She was coming with me.”
“The policeman said you were abducting her.”
“The policeman is lying,” I say. “He’s just repeating what he heard from Mr. Curbelo, the owner of the home. That woman and I love each other.”
“Love love?” Dr. Paredes asks.
“Love,” I say. “Maybe it wasn’t a great love yet. But it was blossoming.”
“Do you hear voices, William?”
“I used to,” I say. “I don’t hear them anymore.” “Do you have visions?”
“I used to. I don’t see them anymore.”
“What cured you?”
“Frances,” I say. “Having her by my side made me a new man.”
“If what you’re saying is true, I’ll help you.” Dr. Paredes says. “You’ll spend a few days here and I will personally try to fix this problem. I’ll talk to Curbelo.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of him?”
“He’s a businessman. Nothing more than a businessman.”
“Exactly,” I say. “And a son of a bitch, besides.”
“Okay,” Dr. Paredes says to me, “now you can go. We’ll speak again tomorrow.”
“Do you have a cigarette?”
“Yes,” he says. “Keep the pack.”
He hands me a full pack of Winstons. I pocket it. I leave the office. I go back to the room with the other nuts. I arrive at the exact moment that the man who was reciting Zarathustra has trapped a black woman in a corner and has begun to lift her dress forcefully. The woman tries to slap him away. The Zarathustra guy throws the woman to the floor and starts to touch her thighs and her sex. While he’s doing it, he says with a voice from beyond the grave:
I have walked through valleys and mountains.
And I have had the world at my feet.
O man who atoneth: suffer!
O man believeth: have faith!
O rebellious man: attack and kill!
I leave and head toward the room with the iron beds. I get to one of these beds and let myself fall on it. I think of Frances. I remember her next to me, in the entryway of that Baptist church, her shoulder pressing into my ribs.
“My angel … were you
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