Ghosts of the Alhambra

“And what would you like to do?” Bob Barker asked Marisol Malaret. “I understand that you hope to be married. Is that right?”

La Nena, Güicho, and I, sat on large blue, red, and yellow bean bags in front of the TV set of the Fraternal Association of Friends, the AFDA Club’s air-conditioned family room. The bean bags made a half-moon of primary colors. Children splashed in the swimming pool, on the other side of the sliding doors.

The TV room was an annex in the back of the AFDA, a concrete box facing the Atlantic Ocean, built to survive a Category 4 hurricane.

Mami and Papi brought us to the Saturday buffet after mass, for lunch with Abuelo Carlos and Abuela Vicki, and to say hello to their friends.

Güicho and I wore a jacket and tie, but the shirt coming out of my brother’s pants showed he rebelled against the uniform. La Nena wore a white flounce dress embroidered with red flowers that Mami had bought in Mexico for her.

We watched Marisol Malaret, as she stepped up to the microphone and answered the last questions for the Miss Universe contest.

“Oh yes sir!”

My eyes were glued to the set. Marisol had a round face framed by bangs and a flowing mane of auburn hair. She was tall and slim and wore a low-cut sleeveless baby blue dress. Long eyelashes, long nails, and long and sparkling ear pendants, rounded out her costume. Miss Puerto Rico was ready for a coronation.

“How old do you think you should be to be married?”

“I don’t know, I’m just waiting for it. When love comes, that will be perfect. No special age at all.”

La Nena turned to me, “She’s beautiful. Do you think she can win?”

My sister wore braces and a retainer. She mastered the art of speaking clearly, although it took a big effort with no small amount of talent to talk through the hardware. You could count on La Nena doing everything perfectly when she set her mind to it.

Marisol had an overbite but a beautiful smile. I wondered if she had to wear braces growing up. She said she came from Puerto Nuevo, a working-class neighborhood at the outskirts of San Juan, and her family probably had little money for luxuries like orthodontic work.

The dental work on our rebellious teeth was a necessary investment, Abuela Vicki had said. She prepared La Nena for her quinceañero. They’d celebrate the coming out party in the AFDA Club.

We all knew La Nena wasn’t the type to enjoy coronations or balls, but Abuela Vicki hoped to change that. She wanted to arrange a match to a buena familia for her granddaughter.

“Maybe Miss Puerto Rico should wait before she gets married,” La Nena said.

Abuela Vicki came into the room through the sliding doors and interrupted us.

“Follow me children, our table is ready.”

We followed Abuela Vicki through a set of heavy glass double doors into the main building, past a set of stairs.

They were off limits to the children. My spying had revealed a bar at the top. Also, a pool room, with a panoramic view of the beach, and a large telescope on a tripod aimed at the beachcombers.

I half-expected to see Pinnochio’s delinquent boy, Lampwick, coming down, holding a billiards cue and smoking a cigar.

We stepped into the first-floor, smoky, reception room. There was a long mahogany bar on one side and a Steinway piano on the other. Couples sat in circles around small tables nursing their drinks, murmuring. They waited for their names to be called into the dining room.

Their children were either in the TV room or swimming in the pool.

Abuela Vicki hurried us through the room, weaving us swiftly through the tables, skirting the cigarette smoke, and cutting through the noise of ice against cut-glass tumblers.

“Quick children, this way.”

We entered the dining room through another set of double doors, and made a beeline to our table, leaving the drinkers behind, and joining the diners in the light.

The north wall of the AFDA’s dining room opened to the blue and green vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. The afternoon light would have made the room unbearably hot, but for the picture windows tinted a shade of diamond blue. The blue glass gave the room a softness that was matched by the twinkling of silverware and jewelry. The glazed walls were clean of the salty surf.

Mami sat at a table facing the ocean view. Abuela Vicki pointed to our places. I went behind La Nena’s chair and pulled it back. Güicho and I sat on both sides of her. Abuela Vicki looked approvingly.

Mami waited for Papi and Abuelo Carlos to finish working the room.

Saturday lunches at the AFDA were long affairs.

Papi and Abuelo Carlos had to say hello to everybody. Then, we had to wait to receive greetings from their friends, which struck me as repetitive and insincere.

Every time a person approached the table, Güicho and I had to stand up, put our napkins down, and wait next to our chairs for Mami’s signal to sit down again.

Up and down, up and down, actors in a well-rehearsed play.

After a while, we all got up and walked single file to the buffet, led by Abuela Vicki.

White-gloved, uniformed servants reached into antique gold and silver chafing dishes for generous portions of steaming roasted pork, fried chicken, sweet plantain, rice and beans, and escabeche of yucca in onion and oil marinade.

By the time we got back to our table, I was as hungry as Augustus Gloop in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

“Did you know that the famous exiled Spanish poet Pedro Salinas came to the AFDA to work every morning during his three-year stay in Puerto Rico?” Mami looked at Papi, but she clearly meant the history lesson for us.

“He wrote his most famous poems sitting right here.” She unfolded her napkin and placed it carefully on her lap. “The book is El contemplado. The title is a reference to the Atlantic Ocean.”

Abuelo Carlos clinked the ice in his tumbler of Black and White. He disapproved of poets and took a sip in protest. He looked down on the intellectuals who fled from the Franco regime.

His father, my great grandfather, had been the unofficial representative of the Generalísimo in Puerto Rico during the Spanish Civil War. He had died suddenly during a visit to General Franco’s headquarters in Spain.

The story was that the Luftwaffe had flown his remains back to the Island. He was buried long ago in the family plot, but he cast a long shadow.

“Poets are a bunch of cowards and communists if you ask me,” Abuelo Carlos complained.

Abuela Vicki changed the subject. “Salinas’ poetic contemplations were prior to our membership in the AFDA club. We never met him.”

Turning to Papi, she said, “Back then, we were members of the Casino de Puerto Rico.”

She let her hand, decorated with shiny rings and manicured pink nails, rest softly on Papi’s. “Do you remember, Puchi, when you were the escort of the juvenile Queen at the Carnaval of the Casino Club?”

Abuela Vicki was looking at us now. “Your Papi was about your age, and he looked so handsome in his tuxedo.”

I straightened my tie, pulled down my shirt, and made sure it was tucked inside my pants.

I had heard stories of Papi playing baseball with his friends in the open fields of Condado, and of the chauffeur arriving during half time with a silver pitcher of lemonade for the home team. But I didn’t know he had been the Prince of the Casino.

The Casino de Puerto Rico was a social club located only two blocks from the Ojeda house. It also faced the ocean and had a ball room in the shape of a UFO, in addition to two swimming pools. One deep the other shallow. I learned to swim in its Olympic pool but broke my chin twice in its wading pool. Mami cancelled our membership.

The story of my accidents was repeated ad nauseam, and the two scars under my chin were a constant reminder of my falls and embarrassment.

“Accident prone” was added to the top of my alphabetical list of nicknames, which ended with Vomititos.

The Casino de Puerto Rico taught me that privilege was temporary, but shame was long-lasting.

Papi deflected Abuela Vicki’s compliment and turned it against Mami. “I think it was the same year you were junior beauty Queen at the Deportivo Social Club, honey.”

We called it the “Depor,” Mami corrected him.

The Deportivo was in Ponce, on the other side of the Island, close to the Alhambra house. Abuelo Beto and Abuela Cita were members. I’d never attended its Carnivals, but they were famous, costly, and all-night affairs.

Abuela Vicki turned to La Nena and said, “I understand the theme for next year is ‘The 1001 Nights,’ and the queen will be dressed as Princess Scheherazade.”

“Isn’t ‘The 1001 Nights’ one of your favorite books, honey?” Papi tried to take Mami’s hand in his, but she reached for her glass of wine instead.

“Will you tell us a story about one of your reigns?”

“I’d rather not talk about that, dear.” Mami blushed and avoided eye contact with us.

Abuelo Carlos relished the detour away from the Spanish poet. He took advantage of Mami’s momentary embarrassment and poked the bear. Taking another sip of his Black and White he said, “But my dear, how can you forget your reign as Queen of the Puerto Rican Press?”

Abuelo Carlos wore dark Ray Ban glasses to protect his eyes from the sun. “Wasn’t there a ball at the Waldorf Astoria? When was it, let me see, around thirteen years ago?” He snorted.

“I remember,” added Abuela Vicki trying to tamp down the flames that threatened to turn into a fire.

“You were just eighteen, my dear. When I saw your picture in the press, I thought to myself, there’s the perfect queen for my little prince.”

Mami stabbed her pork with a fork, slicing the juicy meat into quarters with a silver knife.

She turned to Güicho and reached for his plate saying, “Let me cut your chicken.” After slicing his, she looked around for more.

I butchered my pork loin before she could get to it.

La Nena hardly ate. She played with her food, but didn’t finish her plate. The waiter asked to take it away. She nodded before Mami or Papi became aware of her trick. But nothing escaped the eagle eye of Abuela Vicki.

“Are you on a diet, my love? Preparing to be a future queen, no doubt. Good for you!”

Mami glared at La Nena, who was protected from her red-nail special by Güicho on one side and by me, on the other. Mami’s eyes said, “We’ll talk when we get to the car.”

Dessert and coffee punctuated the end of the sobremesa conversation.

A storm was coming over the liquid horizon. Clouds threatened to blur the setting sun with streaks of orange and red.

Papi went to get the Pontiac. “Let’s go, we have a long drive ahead of us.” We said our goodbyes to Abuela Vicki and Abuelo Carlos and drove straight to the Alhambra house from the AFDA.

Mami had promised Abuelo Beto that she would visit him on the other side of the Island.

***

Abuela Cita had died of a heart attack in La Fortaleza four months prior, after suffering from a chronic illness. Abuelo Beto went back to Ponce as often as he could, to mourn, and to try to keep the house in good order.

The trip across the mountain range on the winding military road took four hours and we arrived at the Alhambra house tired, nauseous, and late.

The neighborhood was named after the famous gardens in Granada, Spain. The streets referred to the clever Moors who had transformed a desert into a lush landscape. Abuelo Beto lived on Reina Mora and he admired the clever engineering of the North African invaders.

I stepped out of the car and went to the iron gate to announce our arrival at the Alhambra house. The eagle head brass knocker made a loud bang, and a policeman opened the secret metal door to see who wanted in. When he saw me, he closed the door and opened the gate to allow the Pontiac in.

“Didn’t the 1001 nights take place in La Alhambra”? I asked Mami. “Is Reina Mora Scheherazade?”

Mami didn’t answer, and I couldn’t see her face. It was getting dark. But the reflection from the light of the covered car port made her eyes flash.

We stepped out of the Pontiac and rang the bell. Next to the front door there was a blue Andalucian tile decorated with the drawing of a mustachioed man in work clothes. He stood in front of a large industrial fly wheel and had a wrench in his hand. “Here lives an engineer” written across the top.

Miss Bookman, the housekeeper, opened the door and let us in. Coco, Abuela Cita’s toy poodle jumped on me. He was happy to see us.

Miss Bookman had been at the Alhambra house since I could remember. Born and raised in Ponce, pious and quiet, she was a spinster and enjoyed the full confidence of my grandparents. After Abuela Cita passed, Miss Bookman became the temporary mistress of the house. She was our Miss Danvers, and the Alhambra house was Ponce’s Pemberley.

A few steps brought us to the closed terrace, its terracotta tiled floor, clean and waxed. The television sat in front of a white wicker living room set. The coffee table reflected the light from the chandeliers. Its tabletop free from the smallest mite of dust.

The living room was ready for an inspection by the ghost of the Alhambra.

“Your Papá went to bed early,” Miss Bookman said to Mami. “The upstairs guest bedroom is ready for you. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Miss Bookman,” Papi said.

“We’ll turn in early as well. Please feed the children a little bit of broth and then put them to bed,” Mami instructed.

They both headed upstairs with their luggage.

Miss Bookman led us straight to our rooms.

“Nena, you’ll sleep in your Mami’s old bedroom,” she turned to Güicho and me. “You two will sleep in your Tío’s room.”

We followed Miss Bookman through the corridor that ran next to the living quarters. The bedrooms were arranged in a row, with a bathroom in between.

At the end of the corridor, there was a small transition. It was a vestibule to Abuelo Beto’s and Abuela Cita’s bedroom. The little foyer was furnished with floor-to-ceiling shelves, and on them sat Mami’s old stuffed animals and dolls, collected over many years. Miss Bookman dusted and cleaned them every day, but nobody played with them. They looked at us with sad eyes.

“Change into your pjs, wash your hands, and come to the kitchen for supper.” Miss Bookman clutched the crucifix hanging from her bosom.

Coco was yapping away. Miss Bookman grabbed him, closed his mouth, and hurried away to the kitchen to warm the clear broth she prepared for late night arrivals. She knew the broth settled our stomachs after the long trip from San Juan.

Before going to the kitchen, I stopped by Mami’s old bedroom to look for the Mecano building set, and for the toy Cement Mixer, that waited for us in Mami’s old closet.

A display case blocked the way. Mami’s crowns and tiaras were under lock and key. The largest one was in the shape of a treble clef.

“It’s the oldest crown of the collection.” My heart skipped a beat, and my head turned around automatically, looking for the source of the voice.

“It dates back to 1948, when your Mami was crowned the queen of Music of the Club Deportivo,” Miss Bookman was standing behind me.

“The frost-covered throne was in the shape of a music lyre. It was a beautiful complement to the frescoes of the music hall.”  

She’d come to fetch me for supper. Her voice was full of admiration. “Your Mami wore the crown with an organdy dress decorated with pearl-colored notes and sequins.”

A porcelain shepherdess lamp made Miss Bookman throw a shadow across the room.

My stomach rumbled and I wasn’t sure whether it was from hunger or from nerves.

“And where’s the dress now?” I asked.

“It’s in Doña Cita’s closet in Don Beto’s bedroom, next to your Mami’s picture.”

***

Mornings at the Alhambra house were special when Abuela Cita was alive.

She rose early and sat in the garden in her morning dress, with a Pamela hat protecting her fair and thin skin from the sun. We were allowed to sit with her on the blue-tiled terrace, next to the caged orioles and nightingales.

We sipped bebés of warm milk with a drop of coffee, ate our buttered pan de agua toast, and fed the birds thin slices of cheese.

Now, Miss Bookman supervised our breakfast in the kitchen. She allowed us to play in the yard only after we were dressed, after cleaning our plates, and not until after lunch time.

In the afternoon, La Nena, Güicho and I, went on a tour of the garden.

A chained linked fence divided the yard of the Alhambra house into two parcels. Mami’s life-sized doll house sat on the first parcel, next to the sweet níspero tree and to Tío’s Jungle Jim.

La Nena and I had outgrown the doll house, but it was still the perfect size for Güicho. We opened the tiny doors and windows and aired out the place. Showing Güicho all its features, including little pictures on the wall.

We stepped into its balcony, placed our hands on the balustrade, and looked beyond the fence to “the jungle.”

“Let’s go,” I said.

La Nena stayed in the doll house, but Güicho followed me to the backyard, the very opposite of the front garden. Its manicured lawn surrounding the Alhambra house was Abuela Cita’s pride and joy.

The Island’s central mountain range was a natural barrier that stopped the clouds from reaching the south, making Ponce sunny, hot, and dry as a bone. The lawn required a large amount of water fed by sprinklers that were always on.

Nestor, the gardener, worked constantly on the fruit trees and hedges, pruning them back, giving them a round shape to go with the Moorish look of the neighborhood. Clay Spanish tiles crowned the wall surrounding the garden. Blue wrought iron benches corseted the trees.

In contrast, “the jungle” was wild, and animals lived inside, though Abuelo Beto’s menagerie was modest compared to his brother’s, who was said to have kept lions in cages in his mansion next door. The property was long since abandoned, and a wall of bricks sealed an archway that had connected the two houses a long time ago.

A pair of guaraguao hawks stood guard in two large wooden cages at the entrance of “the jungle.” They turned to look at interlopers with menacing yellow eyes.

Güicho and I walked gingerly by them without making eye contact.

A flock of geese attacked and honked at us. Abuela Cita used to say the geese were better than guard dogs.

There were stories of the assassin Correa Coto who, years earlier, had escaped the municipal jail and set fire to the cane fields next to the Alhambra house. He was captured by the police when the honking geese led them to his hiding place.

The Nanny goats were the last line of defense. They butted me and Güicho with their stubby horns, in revenge, no doubt, for the death of Serafín.

He was the Billy goat that had once lorded over their herd and had been our playmate for many years.

That November, we had celebrated a large Thanksgiving dinner at the Alhambra house. Miss Bookman was short on turkey, and Abuela Cita ordered Serafín be added to the menu.

Güicho and I went on a hunger strike, and Miss Bookman went home with plenty of leftovers.

The jungle of vines, brush, and Ceiba trees slowed us down but eventually we arrived at the boundary with the Club Deportivo.

The Depor was many times the size of the AFDA club. In addition to the buildings, the club had six tennis courts, a baseball field, basketball, volleyball courts, and a swimming pool.

It sat on the border between two very different neighborhoods. On the east side, it was separated from the Alhambra house and its backyard by a long concrete wall. On the west side, it was separated by the Portugués River from La Milagrosa, a barrio that was home to “mercanchifles, boliteros, y truhanes,” according to Mami, all shady characters.

La Milagrosa’s boys liked to take over the volleyball and basketball courts of the Depor.  

We climbed the wall and surveyed the grounds from our perch.

The main building was forty years old. It was in the old style of Ponce’s classical buildings, many of them designed by the same famous architect.

Mami told us he escaped political persecution on the Island and died in Spain.

The tennis courts looked abandoned, and a flock of chickens ran across the baseball field. The parking lot was cracked and mostly empty but for a couple of cars. Its central fountain was drained, a rust scar stained the marble.

I told Güicho the story of Abindarráez and Zoraya, the queen of the Spanish Alhambra. He was the proud heir to the fortune of the powerful Abencerraje family.

When the Sultan learned of their secret affair, he invited the Abencerrajes to a feast in the most beautiful hall of the palace, a hall famous for its fountain surrounded by stone lions. During the party, the Sultan ambushed and beheaded every single one of them. The massacre left a permanent stain on the fountain.

“It was a warning against the pride of the Abencerrajes,” I narrated. “Their ghosts haunted the Alhambra forever.”

A rag tag posse of boys from La Milagrosa spotted us, and stormed the boundary wall. Güicho had no trouble pulling me down. “Let’s go back,” he pleaded.

On our way, I heard music coming from the windows, covered by purple bougainvilleas. Güicho and I recognized Abuela Cita’s favorite piano piece and stared at each other.

The ghost of the Alhambra house!, we exclaimed in one voice.

We split up. Güicho ran to the kitchen. I ran to the living room.

The room was dark. The sofa sat empty on the Persian rug. Its matching side tables had two Murano lamps, both dead.

Abuelo Beto played a melancholy tune by Chopin on the piano, his eyes closed. Dust floated on the thin rays of sunlight coming through the jalousies.

He stopped playing and opened his eyes when he sensed me coming. He gestured for me to join him. I could tell he’d been crying.

“Where have you been, Noti?”

 “In the garden, playing”

“Have you built anything with your new Mecano set?”

“I got distracted by Mami’s tiaras and crowns, but I’ll build something for you this afternoon.”

Abuelo Beto looked at me funny. “What do you mean…” He interrupted himself. “Of course, you’re putting me on.”

I laughed with him knowing it was the right thing to do but he must have noticed it was my fake laugh.

“Well, either way, be sure to show me what you come up with. We’ve got plenty of queens in Ponce. What we need are engineers.”

“Yes sir,” I said.

“Good, now sit down.” He pointed to a chair next to him.

“Listen to this.” And he started to play his favorite number by Beethoven. A martial piece.

He told me the music was proof of an eternal kingdom that existed before we were born and survived after we were gone.

Mami stepped through the door conjured by the music. “It’s time to go, Papá.”

“Where’s your husband?”

“He’s waiting in the car.”

Abuelo Beto got up to leave.

Mami said to me they were going to the art museum and then lunch.

“You’re the man of the house now.”

Abuelo Beto patted me on the head. “Hold down the fort. And remember to stay away from the tiaras and crowns.”

“What do you mean?” Mami asked.

“It’s a secret between Grandfather and Grandson,” Abuelo Beto winked at me.

They went out the door, into the car, and drove away.

I went straight to Abuela Cita’s closet. Her dresses hung in plastic covers, her shoes neatly arranged below, her hat boxes stacked on the top shelf. When I turned on the light, two eyes confronted me from the back of the walk-in closet.

“Abuela Cita’s ghost!”

It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the light. I realized I was looking at a standing, life-sized flat picture of Mami. It was a doll made of cardboard. Blown up from a photograph.

Mami looked somewhat older than La Nena. She wore an evening gown, pearls, held a clutch purse in one gloved hand, and a fan in the other. She was slowly walking towards me, and she smiled, a younger Marisol Malaret.

A doubting Thomas, I went over to the doll and touched its face to make sure it was real. My hand was shaking.

When Mami, Papi and Abuelo Beto returned from lunch, I asked Mami to follow me. “I have something to show you.”

I walked quickly to Abuelo Beto’s bedroom and then to Abuela Cita’s closet. Mami hesitated but followed me in. She was about to grab me by the shoulders when I turned on the light and she saw the doll.

“What is that?” I pointed at the strange double.

It took her a few seconds to respond. She brought her hand to her mouth and spoke through her fingers. “Miss Bookman must have saved it. I’d forgotten all about her.”

“But, what is it?”

“She was part of an advertising campaign for one of the Carnivals at the Depor. I was selected the queen of the ball by the board of directors. I can’t believe Miss Bookman didn’t throw her out.”

“She’s very strange. But you still look like her.”

“But she’s not me!” Mami cried out.

She pushed me gently out of the closet and put on her sunglasses.

***

Coco jumped on the bed and woke me up in the middle of the night. He wanted me to follow him.

My brother was sound asleep and so was everyone else in the house.

I got up, stepped into the corridor, and felt a warm breeze coming from the half-open jalousies. An orange light flickered on the other side of the wall.

Drawn to the window, I saw a vision.

Mami stood in the middle of the lawn, facing away from me, a dark shadow surrounded by a flickering red glare.

I tried to keep my fingers from trembling, but they shook the window slats, making it difficult to get a clear picture. Is this a nightmare? Coco scratched my leg, assuring me I was awake.

Mami stared at the cardboard doll, who was smiling back at us as she walked, dignified and stately, into the crackling bonfire.

Finally, after twenty years in a closet, the young queen joined the other ghosts of the Alhambra.