Read Online All the Time in the World by E. L. Doctorow - Free Book Online
Authors: E. L. Doctorow
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Fantasy, Short Stories, Short Stories (Single Author), Short Stories; American
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detailing … You know, people collect these things, Ford Falcons.
It was his home.
No, dear one. This is his home. That’s just a car.
Our car.
Appears to be. We ought to frame her letter. Or bury it in the yard along with the can of ashes.
Oh, but she meant for them to be strewn.
Strewn? Did you say strewn?
Scattered?
Why not sprinkled?
Sown.
Okay, sown. I’ll go with sown.
W HERE RAMON WORKED WASHING DISHES, THE OWNER CALLED him in one day and said that he was raising him to busboy. Ramon would wear the short red jacket and black trousers. Ramon’s hands were cracked and peeling from the hot water, but he was wary of the promotion because the owner was selling it to him like there was a catch. They were all foreigners—the owner, the owner’s wife, and the people who came there to eat. Big people with loud voices and bad manners. You are in the waiting pool now, my friend, and on a good night your share could be thirty, forty dollars, under the table.
ON SUNDAY MORNING , Ramon took the bus upstate to see Leon. They talked through the phones. I don’t know why he wants to see my certificate, Ramon said.
What certificate?
Of my birth.
He wants to make sure you’re an American, Leon said.
So I can?
Why not? Figure they’re illegals—maybe not the owner, because he has a business that requires a license—but a lot of them. Born here is a commodity, it has a value, so see what the deal is.
WHEN RAMON PRESENTED his birth certificate, they sat down with him in the back after the restaurant was closed for the night—Borislav, the owner, his wife, she of the squinting eyes, and another man, who was fat, like Borislav, but older and with a briefcase in his lap. He was the one who asked the questions. After Ramon gave his answers, they talked among themselves. He heard harsh mouthfuls of words with deep notes—it was not a mellifluous language like the bright bubbling of water over rocks of his language.
And then, with a flourish, the owner placed on the table a photograph. Look, my friend, he said. The photograph was of a girl, a blonde with sunglasses propped in her hair. Her hand gripping the strap of her shoulder bag was closed like a fist. She wore jeans. She wore a blouse revealing the shoulders. Behind her was a narrow street with an array of motorcycles and mopeds parked front wheels to the curb. She was half sitting sideways on a motorcycle seat, her legs straight out and her feet in their sandals planted on the paving stones. She was smiling.
HOW MUCH? LEON SAID .
A thousand. Plus air and hotel expenses.
They are messing with you. This is good for three thousand, minimum.
And then?
Why not? It will pay for filmmaker’s school. Isn’t that what you want?
I don’t know. It’s selling yourself. And it’s a defilement of sacred matters.
You still have it for Edita?
No, eso es cuento viejo .
Then what’s the problem? You sell yourself washing dishes, little bro. This is the country of selling yourself. And what sacred matter do you mean, which this scam bears no resemblance to, if you think about it?
WHEN THE PLANE LANDED , Ramon crossed himself. He took the bus to the city. It was already late afternoon and the city was under the heavy dark clouds he had flown through. Packs of motorcycles and mopeds kept pace with the bus and then shot past. Linked streetcars ground around corners and disappeared as if swallowed. It was an old European city of unlighted streets and stone buildings with shuttered windows.
He had the address of the tourist hotel on a piece of paper. There was just time to change into the suit and they were calling from downstairs.
The girl from the picture gave him a quick glance of appraisal and nodded. No smile this time. And her hair was different—pulled tight and bound at the neck. She was dressed for the occasion in a white suit jacket with a matching short skirt and white shoes with heels that made her taller than Ramon. She seemed fearful. A bearded
It was his home.
No, dear one. This is his home. That’s just a car.
Our car.
Appears to be. We ought to frame her letter. Or bury it in the yard along with the can of ashes.
Oh, but she meant for them to be strewn.
Strewn? Did you say strewn?
Scattered?
Why not sprinkled?
Sown.
Okay, sown. I’ll go with sown.
W HERE RAMON WORKED WASHING DISHES, THE OWNER CALLED him in one day and said that he was raising him to busboy. Ramon would wear the short red jacket and black trousers. Ramon’s hands were cracked and peeling from the hot water, but he was wary of the promotion because the owner was selling it to him like there was a catch. They were all foreigners—the owner, the owner’s wife, and the people who came there to eat. Big people with loud voices and bad manners. You are in the waiting pool now, my friend, and on a good night your share could be thirty, forty dollars, under the table.
ON SUNDAY MORNING , Ramon took the bus upstate to see Leon. They talked through the phones. I don’t know why he wants to see my certificate, Ramon said.
What certificate?
Of my birth.
He wants to make sure you’re an American, Leon said.
So I can?
Why not? Figure they’re illegals—maybe not the owner, because he has a business that requires a license—but a lot of them. Born here is a commodity, it has a value, so see what the deal is.
WHEN RAMON PRESENTED his birth certificate, they sat down with him in the back after the restaurant was closed for the night—Borislav, the owner, his wife, she of the squinting eyes, and another man, who was fat, like Borislav, but older and with a briefcase in his lap. He was the one who asked the questions. After Ramon gave his answers, they talked among themselves. He heard harsh mouthfuls of words with deep notes—it was not a mellifluous language like the bright bubbling of water over rocks of his language.
And then, with a flourish, the owner placed on the table a photograph. Look, my friend, he said. The photograph was of a girl, a blonde with sunglasses propped in her hair. Her hand gripping the strap of her shoulder bag was closed like a fist. She wore jeans. She wore a blouse revealing the shoulders. Behind her was a narrow street with an array of motorcycles and mopeds parked front wheels to the curb. She was half sitting sideways on a motorcycle seat, her legs straight out and her feet in their sandals planted on the paving stones. She was smiling.
HOW MUCH? LEON SAID .
A thousand. Plus air and hotel expenses.
They are messing with you. This is good for three thousand, minimum.
And then?
Why not? It will pay for filmmaker’s school. Isn’t that what you want?
I don’t know. It’s selling yourself. And it’s a defilement of sacred matters.
You still have it for Edita?
No, eso es cuento viejo .
Then what’s the problem? You sell yourself washing dishes, little bro. This is the country of selling yourself. And what sacred matter do you mean, which this scam bears no resemblance to, if you think about it?
WHEN THE PLANE LANDED , Ramon crossed himself. He took the bus to the city. It was already late afternoon and the city was under the heavy dark clouds he had flown through. Packs of motorcycles and mopeds kept pace with the bus and then shot past. Linked streetcars ground around corners and disappeared as if swallowed. It was an old European city of unlighted streets and stone buildings with shuttered windows.
He had the address of the tourist hotel on a piece of paper. There was just time to change into the suit and they were calling from downstairs.
The girl from the picture gave him a quick glance of appraisal and nodded. No smile this time. And her hair was different—pulled tight and bound at the neck. She was dressed for the occasion in a white suit jacket with a matching short skirt and white shoes with heels that made her taller than Ramon. She seemed fearful. A bearded
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