Monkey Boy by Francisco Goldman (free ebook reader for pc txt) 📗

to do this book. Given the obvious importance of your mother and of that portrait to Herb.

Why don’t you come out with me to her nursing home sometime and we can talk to her. Her memory isn’t always so reliable. Some days are better than others.

I would love that, she says. There aren’t so many people still alive who had their portraits painted by Herb.

Did you know of or ever hear Herb mention a painting of a Normandy forest scene with forest animals during the war, and with himself and another soldier named Eddie?

I’d have to check in the storage. Herb has thousands of works, finished and unfinished, in there, but I don’t recall hearing about that one. Forest animals? Really? Herb?

Eddie was his lover during the war, I think.

You know a story about Herb having a lover during the war? Wow. I sure don’t. I was always innocent little Beth. He would never tell me stories like that, but I expect he will now. Beth’s eyes in her small face are opened so wide and glow so blackly that she resembles one of those cute nocturnal jungle animals, clinging to her branch over our heads. There was somebody important to him in Marrakesh, she says. I know that. But during the war?

You know, I don’t even remember how I know about that war painting with the animals, I say.

From your mother, maybe? Please don’t be offended, she says, but, you know, I really hadn’t thought of you in years. Someone in my family told me that Bert Goldberg’s son had become a writer, and then I sort of did connect you to some things I’d seen around by—she portentously lowers her voice—Francisco Goldberg. But I only really began to think of you when I decided to write about Herb.

Even apart from Herb, I say, you must have a lot to say and tell about. All those years in the Boston courts. I remember that letter you sent me, after we went with Herb and my father to the Celtics game. I remember just how impressed I was by how spooky smart but also winsome, charming, your writing was.

Oh, thanks, Frankie, she responds, her expression lighting up. I remember the letter you sent me too. She giggles, mischievously, and looks at me as if she thinks I must know what’s so funny about it.

C’mon, what? I ask.

You wrote that you had an Indian arrowhead you wanted to give me.

Oh yeah, I say. I remember that arrowhead. If I pull it out of my pocket now, it’ll freak her out, probably not in a good way. Anyway, I’m giving it to Lexi.

It just seemed like such a boy thing, she says. What, this kid is trying to impress me with an Indian arrowhead? She laughs and I laugh; we sit on the couch laughing. Maybe I was too mature for my age, she says. I was already into the Velvet Underground. I wanted to be Nico. I was only interested in boys who played electric guitars. I have to say, after I let you in and we came up here and I got a good look at you, I got nervous that it really wasn’t you, because from when I met you back then, you just don’t look anything like I would have imagined.

Ha, I say. Is that a good thing?

Beth laughs again, such generous jollity. Yes, it’s a good thing. But don’t take that the wrong way. You were very sweet. With your arrowhead. She smiles.

I really love your dress, I say. All those little letters all over it, they look like they’re about to break out into a riot, you know what I mean? Hey, motherfuckers, we can spell out whatever we want. Don’t even think of trying to stop us or we’ll burn this whole language down!

This dress, really? says Beth. She plucks it in her fingers and holds it out over chest, looking down at it. Rioting letters, wow, really? After so many years of being a public defender, I could get down with some anarchy now. Frankie, I am having such a good time, and this has been the most fabulous and serendipitous surprise ever, but it’s really late. I do have to get to sleep. You can crash here on the couch if you want. I reach into a pocket and pull out my phone. 3:43 in the morning, and there’s a message from Lulú: “Panchito, I dreamed we were riding bicycles together.”

June 22, 2020—CDMX

Acknowledgments

My thanks to the directors and staff of the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Studies, where part of this book was written during the 2018-19 fellowship year. Dr. Robert J. Kelly was a generous guide to the “science and art” of artificial tooth production. Thank you to Sandra Hernández Estrada; to Sean E. Fitzgerald for his long-ago email; to Felito (Consuelo) and Tía Babu (Barbara); to Stephen Haff for the opportunity to participate in the ongoing miracle of Still Waters in a Storm and the Kid Quixotes; to friends and colleagues who read earlier versions and provided indispensable insights and comments, Bex Brian, Dominique, Gonzalo, Chloe, Susan, and Valeria; to Lucas, Hernán and Ieva for a consequential, if hilarious, conversation at Kirkland T & T. With gratitude to Morgan, Elisabeth Schmitz, Katie Raissian, Yvonne Cha, and all the team at Grove. Amanda Urban gave staunch support from start to finish. Jovi and Azalea, and also Jovisitas during the months she spent with us, were the sun that rises every day.