The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

endless. Man, Gorilla Grod said, this kid is making me sweat. Most of the time they took turns striking him, but sometimes they got into it together and there were moments Oscar was sure that he was being beaten by three men, not two, that the faceless man from in front of the colmado was joining them. Toward the end, as all life began to slip away, Oscar found himself facing his abuela; she was sitting in her rocking chair, and when she saw him she snarled, What did I tell you about those putas? Didn’t I tell you you were going to die?

And then finally Grod jumped down on his head with both his boots and right before it happened Oscar could have sworn that there was a third man with them and he was standing back behind some of the cane but before Oscar could see his face it was Good Night, Sweet Prince, and he felt like he was falling again, falling straight for Route 18, and there was nothing he could do, nothing at all, to stop it.

CLIVES TO THE RESCUE

The only reason he didn’t layout in that rustling endless cane for the rest of his life was because Clives the evangelical taxista had had the guts, and the smarts, and yes, the goodness, to follow the cops on the sly, and when they broke out he turned on his headlights and pulled up to where they’d last been. He didn’t have a flashlight and after almost half an hour of stomping around in the dark he was about to abandon the search until the morning. And then he heard someone singing. A nice voice too, and Clives, who sang for his congregation, knew the difference. He headed toward the source full speed, and then, just as he was about to part the last stalks a tremendous wind ripped through the cane, nearly blew him off his feet, like the first slap of a hurricane, like the blast an angel might lay down on takeoff: and then, just as quickly as it had kicked up it was gone, leaving behind only the smell of burned cinnamon, and there just behind a couple stalks of cane lay Oscar. Unconscious and bleeding out of both ears and looking like he was one finger tap away from dead. Clives tried his best but he couldn’t drag Oscar back to the car alone, so he left him where he was—Just hold on!—drove to a nearby batey, and recruited a couple of Haitian braceros to help him, which took a while because the braceros were afraid to leave the batey lest they get whupped as bad as Oscar by their overseers. Finally Clives prevailed and back they raced to the scene of the crime. This is a big one, one of the braceros cracked. Mucho platanos, another joked. Mucho mucho phitanos, said a third, and then they heaved him into the backseat. As soon as the door shut, Clives popped his car into gear and was off. Driving fast in the name of the Lord. The Haitians throwing rocks at him because he had promised to give them a ride back to their camp.

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE CARIBBEAN KIND

Oscar remembers having a dream where a mongoose was chatting with him. Except the mongoose was the Mongoose.

What will it be, muchacho? it demanded. More or less?

And for a moment he almost said less. So tired, and so muchpain—Less! Less! Less!—but then in the back of his head he remembered his family. Lola and his mother and Nena Inca. Remembered how he used to be when he was younger and more optimistic. The lunch box next to his bed, the first thing he saw in the morning. Planet of the Apes.

More, he croaked.

———, said the Mongoose, and then the wind swept him back into darkness.

DEAD OR ALIVE

Broken nose, shattered zygomatic arch, crushed seventh cranial nerve, three of his teeth snapped off at the gum, concussion.

But he’s still alive, isn’t he? his mother demanded.

Yes, the doctors conceded.

Let us pray, La Inca said grimly. She grabbed Beli’s hands and lowered her head. If they noticed the similarities between Past and Present they did not speak of it.

BRIEFING FOR A DESCENT INTO HELL

He was out for three days.

In that time he had the impression of having the most fantastic series of dreams, though by the time he had his first meal, a caldo de pollo, he could not, alas, remember them. All that remained was the image of an Aslan- like figure with golden eyes who kept trying to speak to him but Oscar couldn’t hear a word above the blare of the merengue coming from the neighbor’s house.

Only later, during his last days, would he actually remember one of those dreams. An old man was standing before him in a ruined bailey, holding up a book for him to read. The old man had a mask on. It took a while for Oscar’s eyes to focus, but then he saw that the book was blank.

The book is blank. Those were the words La Inca’s servant heard him say just before he broke through the plane of unconsciousness and into the universe of the Real.

ALIVE

That was the end of it. As soon as moms de Leon got a green light from the doctors she called the airlines. She wasn’t no fool; had her own experience with these kinds of things. Put it in the simplest of terms so that even in his addled condition he could understand. You, stupid worthless no-good hijo-de-la-gran-puta, are going home.

No, he said, through demolished lips. He wasn’t fooling, either. When he first woke up and realized that he was still alive, he asked for Ybon. I love her, he whispered, and his mother said, Shut up, you! Just shut up!

Why are you screaming at the boy? La Inca demanded.

Because he’s an idiot.

The family doctora ruled out epidural hematoma but couldn’t guarantee that Oscar didn’t have brain trauma. (She was a cop’s girlfriend? Tio Rudolfo whistled. I’ll vouch for the brain damage.) Send him home right now, the doctora said, but for four days Oscar resisted any attempt to pack him up in a plane, which says a lot about this fat kid’s fortitude; he was eating morphine by the handful and his grill was in agony, he had an around-the-clock quadruple migraine and couldn’t see squat out of his right eye; motherfucker’s head was so swolen he looked like John Merrick Junior and anytime he attempted to stand, the ground whisked right out from under him. Christ in a handbasket! he thought. So this is what it felt like to get your ass kicked. The pain just wouldn’t stop rolling, and no matter how hard he tried he could not command it. He swore never to write another fight scene as long as he lived. It wasn’t all bad, though; the beating granted him strange insights; he realized, rather unhelpfully, that had he and Ybon not been serious the capitan would probably never have fucked with him. Proof positive that he and Ybon had a relationship. Should I celebrate, he asked the dresser, or should I cry? Other insights? One day while watching his mother tear sheets off the beds it dawned on him that the family curse he’d heard about his whole life might actually be true.