The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

principle gets modified so that reality can now reflect a final aspect, the picking-up of big-assed girls and the taking of said to moteles; it’s one big party; one big party for everybody but the poor, the dark, the jobless, the sick, the Haitian, their children, the bateys, the kids that certain Canadian, American, German, and Italian tourists love to rape—yes, sir, nothing like a Santo Domingo summer. And so for the first time in years Oscar said, My elder spirits have been talking to me, Ma. I think I might accompany you. He was imagining himself in the middle of all that ass-getting, imagining himself in love with an Island girl. (A brother can’t be wrong forever, can he?)

So abrupt a change in policy was this that even Lola quizzed him about it. You never go to Santo Domingo. He shrugged. I guess I want to try something new.

THE CONDENSED NOTEBOOK OF A RETURN TO A NATIVELAND

Family de Leon flew down to the Island on the fifteenth of June. Oscar scared shitless and excited, but no one was funnier than their mother, who got done up like she was having an audience with King Juan Carlos of Spain himself: If she’d owned a fur she would have worn it, anything to communicate the distance she’d traveled, to emphasize how not like the rest of these dominicanos she was. Oscar, for one, had never seen her looking so dolled-up and elegante. Or acting so comparona.

Belicia giving everybody a hard time, from the check-in people to the flight attendants, and when they settled into their seats in first class (she was paying) she looked around as if scandalized: These are not gente de calidad!

It was also reported that Oscar drooled on himself and didn’t wake up for the meal or the movie, only when the plane touched down and everybody clapped.

What’s going on? he demanded, alarmed.

Relax, Mister. That just means we made it.

The beat-you-down heat was the same, and so was the fecund tropical smell that he had never forgotten, that to him was more evocative than any madeleine, and likewise the air pollution and the thousands of motos and cars and dilapidated trucks on the roads and the clusters of peddlers at every traffic light (so dark, he noticed, and his mother said, dismissively, Maldito haitianos) and people walking languidly with nothing to shade them from the sun and the buses that charged past so overflowing with passengers that from the outside they looked like they were making a rush delivery of spare limbs to some far-off war and the general ruination of so many of the buildings as if Santo Domingo was the place that crumbled crippled concrete shells came to die—and the hunger on some of the kids’ faces, can’t forget that—but also it seemed in many places like a whole new country was materializing atop the ruins of the old one: there were now better roads and nicer vehicles and brand-new luxury air-conditioned buses plying the longer routes to the Cibao and beyond and U.S. fast-food restaurants (Dunkin’ Donuts and Burger King) and local ones whose names and logos he did not recognize (Pollos Victorina and El Provocon NO.4) and traffic lights everywhere that nobody seemed to heed. Biggest change of all? A few years back La Inca had moved her entire operation to La Capital—we’re getting too big for Bani—and now the family had a new house in Mirador Norte and six bakeries throughout the city’s outer zones. We’re capitalenos, his cousin, Pedro Pablo (who had picked them up at the airport), announced proudly.

La Inca too had changed since Oscar’s last visit. She had always seemed ageless, the family’s very own Galadriel, but now he could see that it wasn’t true. Nearly all her hair had turned white, and despite her severe unbent carriage, her skin was finely crosshatched with wrinkles and she had to put on glasses to read anything. She was still spry and proud and when she saw him, first time in nearly seven years, she put her hands on his shoulders and said, Mi hijo, you have finally returned to us.

Hi, Abuela. And then, awkwardly: Bendicion.

(Nothing more moving, though, than La Inca and his mother. At first saying nothing and then his mother covering her face and breaking down, saying in this little-girl voice: Madre, I’m home. And then the both of them holding each other and crying and Lola joining them and Oscar not knowing what to do so he joined his cousin, Pedro Pablo, who was shuttling all the luggage from the van to the patio de atras.)

It really was astonishing how much he’d forgotten about the DR: the little lizards that were everywhere, and the roosters in the morning, followed shortly by the cries of the plataneros and the bacalao guy and his do Carlos Moya, who smashed him up that first night with shots of Brugal and who got all misty at the memories he had of him and his sister. But what he had forgotten most of all was how incredibly beautiful Dominican women were.

Duh, Lola said.

On the rides he took those first couple of days he almost threw his neck out. I’m in Heaven, he wrote in his journal. Heaven? His cousin Pedro Pablo sucked his teeth with exaggerated disdain. Esto aqui es un maldito infierno.

EVIDENCE OF A BROTHER’S PAST

In the pictures Lola brought home there are shots of Oscar in the back of the house reading Octavia Buder, shots of Oscar on the Malecon with a bottle of Presidente in his hand, shots of Oscar at the Columbus lighthouse, where half of Villa Duarte used to stand, shots of Oscar with Pedro Pablo in Villa Juana buying spark plugs, shots of Oscar trying on a hat on the Conde, shots of Oscar standing next to a burro in Bani, shots of Oscar next to his sister (she in a string bikini that could have blown your corneas out). You can tell he’s trying too. He’s smiling a lot, despite the bafflement in his eyes.

He’s also, you might notice, not wearing his fat-guy coat.

OSCAR GOES NATIVE

After his initial homecoming week, after he’d been taken to a bunch of sights by his cousins, after he’d gotten somewhat used to the scorching weather and the surprise of waking up to the roosters and being called Huascar by everybody (that was his Dominican name, something else he’d forgotten), after he refused to succumb to that whisper that all long-term immigrants carry inside themselves, the whisper that says You do not belong, after he’d gone to about fifty clubs and because he couldn’t dance salsa, merengue, or bachata had sat and drunk Presidentes while Lola and his cousins burned holes in the floor, after he’d explained to people a hundred times that he’d been separated from his sister at birth, after he spent a couple of quiet mornings on his own, writing, after he’d given out all his taxi money to beggars and had to call his cousin Pedro Pablo to pick him up, after he’d watched shirtless shoeless seven-year-olds fighting each other for the scraps he’d left on his plate at an outdoor cafe, after his mother took them all to dinner in the Zona Colonial and the waiters kept looking at their party askance (Watch out, Mom, Lola said, they probably think you’re Haitian—La unica haitiana aqui eres ru, mi amor, she retorted), after a skeletal vieja grabbed both his hands and begged him for a penny; after his sister had said, You think that’s bad, you should see the bateys, after he’d spent a day in Bani (the campo where La Inca had been raised) and he’d taken a dump in a latrine and wiped his ass with a com cob—now that’s entertainment, he wrote in his journal—after he’d gotten somewhat used to the surreal whirligig that was life in La Capital—the guaguas, the cops, the mind-boggling poverty, the Dunkin’ Donuts, the beggars, the Haitians selling roasted peanuts at the intersections, the mind-boggling poverty, the asshole tourists hogging up all the beaches, the Xica da Silva novelas where home-girl got naked every five seconds that Lola and his female cousins were cracked on, the afternoon walks on the Conde, the mind-boggling poverty, the snarl of streets and rusting zinc shacks that were the barrios populares, the masses of niggers he waded through every day who ran him over if he stood still, the skinny watchmen standing in front of stores with their broke-down shotguns, the music, the raunchy jokes heard on the streets, the mind-boggling poverty, being pile-drived into the comer of a concho by the combined weight off our other customers, the music, the new tunnels driving down into