Mario's Father
It was a warm, sunny day in the city of Campbell when I arrived at the coffee shop. I had gone on a long walk and now wanted to sit, drink something cold, and jot down some story ideas.
I got the iced coffee, but all the tables were full. One table though had an empty seat, with the other being occupied by an elderly man who was staring off in the distance.
“May I sit?” I asked.
The man nodded and made a gesture toward the seat without saying a word.
I took the seat and pulled out my little notebook and pen. The pen touched the paper when the man suddenly spoke.
"A Japanese model, very beautiful."
“Excuse me?” I responded.
Ignoring me, he continued, “I met her in Japan. I was in the Air Force. They sent me there. When I saw her I decided I was going to marry her. Then I did.”
And then silence. His weary, pale blue eyes stared out the window once more.
Assuming the conversation was over, I once again put pen to paper.
"I taught her to dance... Foxtrot, Tango, Samba, Waltz, Rumba... Everyone would stare whenever we danced. She was beautiful."
He looked at me again, his soft, aged face showing no emotion, “It was a good job, a good life. Then I became a dental hygienist."
It occurred to me then that I may not be able to get any writing done given the timing of his interludes. So I asked his name and why he joined the Air Force.
“My name is Mario. I needed to do something after I left the orphanage, so I joined."
Mario spoke with an accent, it was subtle, but there, and I could not quite place the origin. So I asked where this orphanage was.
"It was in Van Nuys, California, a home for boys."
I then pointed out that I was born in Van Nuys, but he clearly couldn't care less.
"I was born in Cuba.” he stated, “My mother was a prostitute.”
The abruptness of his statement caught me off guard. I was about to ask if I misheard him, but he just kept on talking.
“My grandfather... I say grandfather but he was also my father, I'm a product of incest... When he saw how we were living, my brother and I, he sent us to Van Nuys to the orphanage.”
“What the fuck is going on?” I thought to myself. This had to be a joke. Mario must be pulling my leg. No one just tells a story like this. But he continued.
“When I turned eighteen I left, joined the Air Force, married my wife, taught her to speak English and to dance... the Foxtrot, Tango, Samba, Waltz, Rumba..."
He paused for a moment and looked out the window again. I was processing what he told me so that I could ask a question, but he began once more.
"My father was Harvard educated. An American. He came to Cuba to be a civil engineer. He married, but she died giving birth to my aunt. He didn't know how to take care of his kids. He used her. My mom, like she was his wife. And so my mom became a prostitute then she got a brain disease and was sent to the asylum. That’s where she died"
“Did you ever see your father/grandfather again?”
"I introduced him to my wife. I thought he wouldn't like her, because of who he was... because she's Japanese. But they got along. He said I found a good woman. Not like my brother. He married a white woman; nothing but problems. My wife is a good woman, beautiful. I taught her to dance... the Foxtrot, Tango, Samba, Waltz, Rumba..."
I listened as Mario repeated his love of dance to me a third time then asked if his brother’s father was the same as his.
"She was with a lot of men," he answered, trailing off.
After this, the conversation began to wind down. He began to look out the window again, contemplating something. I began carefully jotting notes assuming this was the end of the story.
He smiled warmly, sadly.
“We have two kids, a boy and a girl, and five grand-kids. We raised them good, Christian... no Jew in them."
I wanted to ask if he was Jewish, or if he simply disliked Jews. I wanted to ask Mario so much more. But instead, he stood up, shook my hand then said:
"I'm eighty-four, I had a good, long life. I don't think I'll reach eighty-five. A few more months and I'll be gone."
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