Making Love in Spanish

Hola, cómo te llamas? (Hello, what’s your name?) New York. Now.Guido. He’s definitely a Guido, I think. With that head of dark, close-shaved hair and lash-fringed eyes, skin tinged the slightest hint of olive, and an easy, insouciant manner that suggests that he walks with the self-confident swagger of an alpha male, he is a wife-beater and black leather jacket away from being Tony Manero in Saturday Night Fever, version 2.0. Yes, there’s Guido written all over his face. Possibly all over his abs, too. Besides, he’s from Brooklyn. He has to be Italian. Maybe his family even has a pizza place or something. Maybe he’s with the Mafia. Maybe I’m pandering to outdated racial stereotypes. “So you from around here?” I ask, tearing my eyes away from him for a split-second to take in the tree-lined avenue. I chuckle at the Irish setter on a lead, leaping down the steps of a genteel brownstone, dragging its owner comically behind it. Duh, yeah, I expect him to say. By way of Sicily. “Yo? Pues, soy Dominicano,” he says instead, and adds, just in case I don’t understand what that means, “from the Dominican Republic, you know?” Ay Caribe, tierra de mi gente hermosa … Blame it on the bossanova, perhaps, but what is it with me and Latinos? There must be a sign plastered on my forehead. A sign that says, in big bold letters, SPANISH SPEAKERS APPLY HERE.A parade of flags unfurl in my brain. Next to the flags is a form, like a visa waiver program of sorts that asks, Have you ever known, gone out with, dated, or been involved with a man from any of these countries? Please tick as appropriate: From the looks of it, I may just have the necessary network for a job with a drug cartel. Pablo Escobar, is that you? Or I may have just covered more ground than Che Guevara during his motorcycle tour of South America. And clearly I am inching my way toward the border. Next stop: Juarez, Mexico? “The Dominican Republic?” I repeat. The land of Rafael Trujillo, Porfirio Rubirosa, Oscar de la Renta and … “Have you read The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao?” “Who? No, what’s that?” “Oh, it’s this brilliant novel I read recently, written by a Dominican. Junot Diaz. That’s how you say it, right? With a hard ‘J’, silent ‘T’?” “I guess so.” He shoots me a quick look, his face registering confusion and amusement at the same time. “I don’t know, it’s not so common, but Dominicans, you know, sometimes they choose these crazy-ass names for their kids.” Stranger sounding than Junot? The name sounds distinctly French to me. Where I’m from, people have way weirder names than that, with a markedly bizarre preference for the alliterative, the reverential and the ridiculous. Bong Bong. Bing Bing. Dingdong. Totoy. John F. Kenneth Dee. Girls called Girlie and boys called Boyet. A world-famous boxing champion from our shores named his two daughters Queen Elizabeth and Princess, also known as Mary Divine Grace, for heaven’s sake. We could spend the whole afternoon playing “Bet My People Are Stranger Than Your People.” After all, we’re considered the Latinos of Asia, though I prefer to think of my country as the love child of Borat and Kafka. “So what about this Junot guy?” “Oh, yes, I was telling you about this Dominican author. He lives right here, in New York, I think.” I shake my head, trying to remember what I’d read recently in a magazine article, but really, it doesn’t matter where he lives. “Anyway, he’s a brilliant writer. I love his work. Apparently he takes, like, ten years to finish a book.” Inner geek, would you please shut up? Yes, yes, you were bookworm of the month for two years running in junior school, but really … “Oh yeah? That long, huh? What’s the book about, since you say it’s so good?” Basically it’s about a loser named Oscar Wao who’s seriously obese, speaks Elvish, and is desperate to get laid. Will he actually read the book if I put it that way? Instead I say, “It’s kind of a story about the whole immigrant experience, told through the life of Oscar Wao … What he and his family left behind, the violence they fled, you know, whether physical, historical, or metaphorical … and the violence they continue to face, in a way.” “Oh yeah? Never heard of it.” He shrugs, and then smiles. He has surprisingly small teeth for someone so tall. Small, but perfectly symmetrical. And white. “But you say it’s about the DR? The DR’s really beautiful. The best beaches in the world. You should go there.” Okay, so he’s not a reader. Not that it really matters. I’m never going to see him again. But he clearly is a looker. Because he keeps looking at me. Stealing glances here and there. I’d catch him looking, and then he’d smile. Not a sheepish you-caught-me-out kind of grin, but an I-know-you’re-watching-me-watching-you kind of smile. I like that. “So,” the Dominicano says, “how long are you in New York for?” “Been here four days. A week more to go.” “That quick? You here for vacation?” “Half and half. A few work-related meetings lined up.” I twitch when I feel my phone vibrate. “Just a second. Sorry.” I shake my head at the message and sigh as I put my phone away. He looks at me curiously. “Everything okay?” “Yes, yes. Everything’s fine.” Even as I smile, I feel a tug at my heart. “So what sort of work do you do?” “I freelance, actually. As a media consultant. Public relations. Building brand awareness. Image management. That sort of thing.” God, I sound like such a bore. “Seems pretty cool.” “Sometimes.” The truth is, I whine a lot about having so much on my plate, but I love my job. I have great clients—a start-up skin care company, an interior design showroom, a small art consultancy. That means that I am awash in moisturizers, Italian lighting purchased at landed cost, and monographs of obscure artists who are doing weird and wonderful things with various parts of their bodies. On the plus side, I’m not chained to a nine-to-five existence; however, I’m never NOT working. Especially now, while I’m supposed to be on holiday. We’re both silent as the car sputters along the gridlocked streets of Midtown Manhattan. In the awkward minutes that follow, I reply quickly to the text on my phone. It’s our code, XYZ. It stands for Xee You Zoon. It’s silly, I know, but it’s sweet and it works perfectly for us. We get it. The Dominican suddenly turns to face me. “I know this sounds a bit forward and all, but I think you’re really hot. And I’d—” He falters for a second. I regard him expectantly, my breath caught somewhere in the back of my throat. “I’d really love to take you out one night. If you have the time. Like, if you want to. I mean, if you’re not too busy. For a drink. Maybe dinner. What do you think?” Jesus, you can’t be serious, how old are you anyway, is my first thought, followed immediately by, you’re pretty hot yourself. “Pues, llamame.” I smile, with enough assurance, I pray, to mask the flush in my cheeks. I hand him a twenty-dollar bill and slide out of his car. “Call me.” Oh, and his name isn’t Guido. It’s Emilio.