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the night sky. Even the Big Dipper, which was As for Manuel Gustavo, I met up with him
5
so easy to spot in New England, seemed to a few years ago on a visit to the Island. My hus-
/
be misplaced here. Tonight, it lay on its side, band, a gringo from Nebraska, and I were driv-
14
right above us. I was going to point it out to ing down the two-lane autopista on our way
Mangú — in part to distract him, but I could not up to the mountains on a land search. A pickup
Narrative
remember the word for dipper — la cuchara roared past us. Suddenly, it slowed and pulled
grande, the big spoon? onto the shoulder. As we drove by, the driver
But Mangú would not have been interested started honking. “What does he want me to do?”
in the stars anyway. Once it was clear that we did my husband shouted at me. I looked over and
not share the same feelings, there was nothing saw that the driver was still on the shoulder, try-
much left to say. We drove back to Mamacán’s ing to catch up with us. I gestured, what do you
house in silence. want?
I don’t know if that experience made Mangú “Soy yo,” the man called out, “Manuel 35
forever wary with half-breed Dominican-York Gustavo.”
girls, gringuitas, who seemed to be talking out of Almost thirty years had passed. He had
both sides of their mouths, and in two different gotten heavier; his hairline had receded; there
languages, to boot. I myself never had a Spanish- was gray in his hair. But the dimples were
only boyfriend again. Maybe the opportunity still there. Beside him sat a boy about seven
never presented itself, or maybe it was that as or eight, a young duplicate of the boy I had
English became my dominant tongue, too many known. “Mangú!” I called out. “Is that really
parts of me were left out in Spanish for me to be you?”
able to be intimate with a potential life partner By this time my husband was angry about
in only that language. the insanity of this pickup trying to keep up with
Still, the yearning remained. How won- us on the narrow shoulder while Mack trucks
derful to love someone whose skin was the roared by on the other lane. “Tell him we’ll stop
same honey-dipped, sallow-based color; who ahead, and you guys can talk.”
11
said concho when he was mad and cielito
12
linda when he wanted to butter you up! “¡Ay!
to make love in Spanish . . . ,” the Latina nar-
rator of Sandra Cisneros’s story, “Bien Pretty,”
exclaims. “To have a lover . . . whisper things in
that language crooned to babies, that language
murmured by grandmothers, those words that
smelled like your house . . .” But I wonder if © Harry Gruyaert/Magnum Photos
after the Latina protagonist makes love with
her novio, she doesn’t sit up in bed and tell him
the story of her life in English with a few pal-
13
abritas thrown in to capture the rhythm of her How might this photograph of a young girl on
Latin heartbeat? the beach in the Dominican Republic capture
the “old yearning” that Alvarez writes about?

11 Concho: a Spanish expletive. —Eds.
12 Cielito linda: a Spanish phrase, roughly translated to mean “lovely
sweet one.” —Eds.
13 Palabritas: “little words” in Spanish. —Eds. 14 Autopista: “freeway” in Spanish. —Eds.
182
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