still trembling as I dialed his
number.
"Hello, Simon."
"Hi, Dad. You in New York?"
"Yeah." It was soothing to hear his voice,
grounding.
"How is it'?"
" Adventurous. How's school?"
" I dunno."
"Not so great, huh? What is it? Math again?
Negative numbers? I'll help you when I get back."
"Yeah. I was by your apartment. There was a
woman there. She says she's working with you. Not bad, Dad."
"Chantal."
"She's a good cook, too. Made me some chocolate
stuff. Profit rolls? She said she used to be a chef."
"Profiteroles. Look, Simon, I need your help on
something. Ever hear of a graffiti artist named Kid Siena?"
" Oh, yeah, Dad. He's fresh. Kid Siena—wow. He
did some bad burners on the Woodlawn Line by the 180th Street
station. It all got buffed, though. You know—erased. You met him?"
" No. But I'm looking for him. Do you know where
he lives?"
"Un-unh. Those guys, you know. They move around
a lot."
"Yeah. I know. How about his real name? Do you
know that?"
"Kid Siena? ... I think . .. no."
"What about that book you have, The Lords of
Hip-Hop? Maybe it's in there?"
"Yeah, yeah. Right. Hold on."
While Simon went for his book, I glanced over at the
bulletin board of coming club events. Thursday night they offered a
sushi bar, a retrospective of Godard films, and a lecture on
debentures. Something for everyone. In a second Simon was back on the
line. "Here it is, Dad. I got it. Kid Siena . . . Jorge
Mariposa."
"George Butterfly," I said.
"What?"
"That's what it means. Jorge Mariposa is George
Butterfly in Spanish. No wonder he changed it to Kid Siena."
"Yeah. That's weak," said Simon. "Anything
else you wanna know?"
"That's about it," I said, already thumbing
through the M's in the Bronx directory.
"Guess I gotta do that math now, huh?" He
sounded as if he were headed for forty years in the gulag. I thought
of his brother, who ripped through his homework in about fifteen
minutes, and felt bad for him.
"Guess you do."
I said good-bye and hung up just as a group of alums
from what looked like the Class of aught-seven shuffled through the
lobby from the main dining room. They exited the front door to reveal
my friend from the van standing in an alcove about fifty feet away
from me. He didn't say anything, but nodded to me with the apparent
warning that, at least in this city, there was no escaping him, and
walked out. I continued to search the directories, finally finding a
Jorge Mariposa in Manhattan on Columbus Avenue. Judging by the
address, it must have been in the Nineties.
"What it like in there?" said Fouad as we
drove uptown along Central Park West.
"Lot of old farts nodding out, lot of young
farts on the hustle. Pretty dull in all, but it does have a good
cigar stand. Anyway, it's safe."
' 'Don't take it amiss, but in Beirut that the first
kind of place we blow up."
"We? I thought you were with the Red Cross."
He said something in reply, but I was too busy
checking behind me for the guy in the van, trying to figure which
vehicle he was driving now and who his accomplice was, because I
doubted he was working alone. Or maybe that was just paranoia. But
then I remembered the wry definition of a paranoid Nathanson had once
given me in therapy: someone who knew all the facts. Therapy. I
hadn't thought of it in a couple of days. If what it lead to was
having visions of my father hanging from the wall of the Harvard
Club, maybe it wasn't such a great idea.
The address on Columbus Avenue turned out to be a
middling housing development on Ninety-fifth Street, the kind of
place that brought together junior Columbia faculty and upwardly
mobile Puerto Rican accountants in a common devotion to rent control.
Apparently Jorge Mariposa wasn't doing too badly for a graffiti
artist. Maybe he was one of those I had read about who had gone
big-time with museum sales, gallery representation, and dinner at
Elaine's. Or perhaps it was something else.
I found him listed as apartment 9F on the building
register, but
number.
"Hello, Simon."
"Hi, Dad. You in New York?"
"Yeah." It was soothing to hear his voice,
grounding.
"How is it'?"
" Adventurous. How's school?"
" I dunno."
"Not so great, huh? What is it? Math again?
Negative numbers? I'll help you when I get back."
"Yeah. I was by your apartment. There was a
woman there. She says she's working with you. Not bad, Dad."
"Chantal."
"She's a good cook, too. Made me some chocolate
stuff. Profit rolls? She said she used to be a chef."
"Profiteroles. Look, Simon, I need your help on
something. Ever hear of a graffiti artist named Kid Siena?"
" Oh, yeah, Dad. He's fresh. Kid Siena—wow. He
did some bad burners on the Woodlawn Line by the 180th Street
station. It all got buffed, though. You know—erased. You met him?"
" No. But I'm looking for him. Do you know where
he lives?"
"Un-unh. Those guys, you know. They move around
a lot."
"Yeah. I know. How about his real name? Do you
know that?"
"Kid Siena? ... I think . .. no."
"What about that book you have, The Lords of
Hip-Hop? Maybe it's in there?"
"Yeah, yeah. Right. Hold on."
While Simon went for his book, I glanced over at the
bulletin board of coming club events. Thursday night they offered a
sushi bar, a retrospective of Godard films, and a lecture on
debentures. Something for everyone. In a second Simon was back on the
line. "Here it is, Dad. I got it. Kid Siena . . . Jorge
Mariposa."
"George Butterfly," I said.
"What?"
"That's what it means. Jorge Mariposa is George
Butterfly in Spanish. No wonder he changed it to Kid Siena."
"Yeah. That's weak," said Simon. "Anything
else you wanna know?"
"That's about it," I said, already thumbing
through the M's in the Bronx directory.
"Guess I gotta do that math now, huh?" He
sounded as if he were headed for forty years in the gulag. I thought
of his brother, who ripped through his homework in about fifteen
minutes, and felt bad for him.
"Guess you do."
I said good-bye and hung up just as a group of alums
from what looked like the Class of aught-seven shuffled through the
lobby from the main dining room. They exited the front door to reveal
my friend from the van standing in an alcove about fifty feet away
from me. He didn't say anything, but nodded to me with the apparent
warning that, at least in this city, there was no escaping him, and
walked out. I continued to search the directories, finally finding a
Jorge Mariposa in Manhattan on Columbus Avenue. Judging by the
address, it must have been in the Nineties.
"What it like in there?" said Fouad as we
drove uptown along Central Park West.
"Lot of old farts nodding out, lot of young
farts on the hustle. Pretty dull in all, but it does have a good
cigar stand. Anyway, it's safe."
' 'Don't take it amiss, but in Beirut that the first
kind of place we blow up."
"We? I thought you were with the Red Cross."
He said something in reply, but I was too busy
checking behind me for the guy in the van, trying to figure which
vehicle he was driving now and who his accomplice was, because I
doubted he was working alone. Or maybe that was just paranoia. But
then I remembered the wry definition of a paranoid Nathanson had once
given me in therapy: someone who knew all the facts. Therapy. I
hadn't thought of it in a couple of days. If what it lead to was
having visions of my father hanging from the wall of the Harvard
Club, maybe it wasn't such a great idea.
The address on Columbus Avenue turned out to be a
middling housing development on Ninety-fifth Street, the kind of
place that brought together junior Columbia faculty and upwardly
mobile Puerto Rican accountants in a common devotion to rent control.
Apparently Jorge Mariposa wasn't doing too badly for a graffiti
artist. Maybe he was one of those I had read about who had gone
big-time with museum sales, gallery representation, and dinner at
Elaine's. Or perhaps it was something else.
I found him listed as apartment 9F on the building
register, but
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