Orpheo

It was Desi, the doorman, that found Zaida Perez dead in the apartment. It was also Desi who called Javier, Zaida’s nephew, to tell him that his Tia Zaida was gone. Desi might have only been a doorman, but in many ways, he was more like Zaida’s son. Desi was Cuban, like Zaida and the rest of the Perez family. Except unlike most of the Perez family, Desi had to escape. He’d left everything behind to come to the states. Sure, Zaida lived in a penthouse apartment, and he was on the ground floor, but there was always something else between them. Something beyond being Cubanos.

Desi called Javier because he was the only one he thought could trust. Little Javi had grown up going to Tia Zaida’s Manhattan apartment every Sunday, with his Abuela, Carmen Perez — Zaida’s sister. To Javier, Desi was as much as fixture as the plastered leaves and orange blossoms of the building's Baroque architecture — he was part of the curling wrought iron and gold details of the front doors. He belonged with the sparkling fountains in the interior courtyard. Desi almost never called Javi by his name. It was always mijo, which maybe for a doorman might be considered too familiar. Carmen didn’t like it, but when she and Javier visited on Sundays Desi always called to her first: “Ahí está! La flor mas bonita de la Habana!” Look, there she is — the prettiest Havana flower! This sometimes softened her.

Javier, whose mother had died and whose father had left long ago, seemed to need the extra affection. Desi could sense it. It was Desi who quizzed Javi with his history flashcards on Sunday afternoons. It was Desi who taught him how to tie a tie. How to talk to girls. Zaida understood this, too. “What can it hurt, Pollita?” Zaida said to Carmen, “Love comes from unexpected places.”

Pollita — little chicken — was the nickname Zaida had given her when they were just girls, living in Havana. Carmen hated this pet name just as much as she hated admitting her sister was right about anything. Truthfully, Carmen was always jealous of Zaida, who was one of the most sought-after art dealers in New York. She was jealous that Zaida had “made it,” when she herself had always wanted to be a professional dancer. She’d broken her ankle, and it was all over. Carmen earned a degree in library science instead. Her ankle healed — somewhat. Her heart didn’t. She had worked at a library in Harlem for nearly three decades before retiring.

When Javier picked up the phone he was surprised to hear Desi’s voice on the other end. For all the time he had spent with Desi in person, he couldn't remember ever speaking to him on phone. He realized then, before Desi could even manage to get it out, that his Tia Zaida was gone. Zaida had been sick for a while, and so her death was not unexpected, but still he felt the loss deeply. Somehow, hearing Desi’s grief, made it sharper.

“There’s something else I need to tell you, mijo,” Desi said, blowing his nose. His voice was ragged: “Orpheo’s gone.” Desi said this as if someone may be listening. 

Orpheo was Zaida’s cantankerous, Amazonian parrot. He’d been with her almost her entire adult life. She’d rescued Orpheo from a neighborhood cat in the mountain town of Santiago de Cuba when he was just a ragged ball of green and pink feathers. They were an inseparable pair. He went with her everywhere. Perched on her shoulder, he would nibble her ear, and like a jealous lover, screamed, Tumba eso, puto — drop it asshole — to any man who tried to talk to her. Aunt Zaida went to great lengths to bring Orpheo to New York. Now, he was an old man.

“Wait, what do you mean gone. You mean dead?” For a moment he pictured Orpheo, realizing Zaida had died, simply plummeting to the pavement below.” 

“No, not dead. Poof! desaparecido. I opened the apartment for the coroners, and when I went in to help, the cage was empty.”

“Were any of the windows open?”

“No.”

“What about the bathtub?” Orpheo always liked the acoustics in the bathroom.

 “Javi. I looked everywhere.” Suddenly, Javier had a memory of Tia Zaida finger painting with him in her great, white kitchen, Orpheo bobbing from side to side, warbling, Don’t quit your day job. Zaida swatted Orpheo, who took refuge on his perch by the window. Tia Zaida had taken Javier’s face in her hands. “Remember, Javi, inside everyone is an artist,” she said. He also remembered how angry abuela Carmen been when she saw he’d gotten paint on his shirt. “Not everyone can afford to be an artist,” she had said to her sister as they left.

“There’s something else, but I can’t talk about it now, “Desi said, “I need you to meet me somewhere. Write this down.” Desi read off an address on 9th Avenue.

“Desi, this is in Hell’s Kitchen. Why can’t I come to the apartment?”

“Mijo, trust me, I can’t talk about it over the phone.”

This was how Javier found himself at a place called The Three Roosters, a small Thai restaurant tucked between a laundry mat and a Filipino grocery store. When he walked in, he saw Desi sitting at a table with another man he didn’t recognize. The man was compact, with a tight, blonde crew cut. A hard slash for a mouth. Desi waved Javier over. He rose quickly and pulled Javier into chest, squeezing hard. Wiping away tears, Desi gestured to his companion.

“Javi, this is Dmitry. Dmitry, this is Zaida’s nephew.” Dmitry extended a hand and nodded curtly. “Dmitry is the head doorman at high rise in Tribeca.” Javier nodded hesitantly, waiting for more. “Okay,” Desi said exhaling abruptly, “Now we go.”

“Go?" Javier said, “I just got here.”

“This way,” Desi continued, pointing toward the back of the restaurant. Javier followed the men through the small, steamy kitchen. On the stove, pots boiled with something pungent while two women chopped furiously.

“Arthur, how’s it going,” Desi said affectionately to a small man who had suddenly appeared. The man smiled warmly and shook Desi’s hand before wordlessly moving a large pallet of beer. Behind it was a door, which Desi opened. Javier, Desi, and Dmitry walked down a narrow set of stairs to a lowly lit basement floor, right and left, and finally into a surprisingly large room flanked with bookshelves. Each wall, floor to ceiling, was crammed with books. There were paper lanterns strung up, and lamps glowing from otherwise dusky corners. There was a large rug, a few long tables, and a handful of well-worn loveseats where a handful of men sat taking notes. In a small wing off the main room there looked to be some sort of makeshift washing station. There were two chairs, two sinks, and two round mirrors where a short, round woman with a dark pile of thick braids stood. Javier was confused. He couldn’t tell if like was a subterranean library or a barbershop.

“Lucia, mi cielo, ¿cómo estás?” Desi called. The woman smiled. “I’m good, Desi — sit, sit,” she said, gesturing to one of the chairs. Desi sat and the woman wrapped Desi in a smock. Javier looked on, incredulously.

“Desi, come on... did you bring me to a basement in Hell’s Kitchen just to watch you get a shave —What is going on?” Javier felt a growing sense of panic.

“Lucia is one of the finest doormen on the West Side, and one of our only female members,” Desi said evenly. “Her father was also a doorman, but when he lived in the Dominican, he ran a well-known barbershop. Now, Lucia is also one of the best barbers in New York.” Desi pointed behind Javier to man who seemed to be sorting books onto the shelves. “Over there is Bekim.” The small, dark man turned around and gave a short salute. “He mans a door over on 57th, but in Albania he was a researcher, and later, a librarian.” Desi gestured beside him, to Dmitry who seemed to be examining his eyebrows in one of the mirrors. “Dmitry, who you already know, is from Ukraine. Tell him, Dmitriy, what you did in Ukraine.” Dmitry turned and looked at Javier stoically. “I was a private detective." He looked so serious when he said this Javier couldn’t help but laugh.

“What is this, some sort of private eye club or something?” Javier asked, nearly hysterical, “All this secret passage-cloak-and-dagger stuff — It’s crazy!” Lucia laughed loudly. “I like this kid, Desi,” she said as she briskly mixed a bowl of shaving cream. “Here’s the thing,” she continued, carefully applying the mixture to Desi’s jaw and chin, “There’s a union for doormen — Chapter 32BJ, but it’s corrupt as all hell. Many of us broke off years ago. We started our own society, our own network, all across New York. We have hidden hostels, restaurants, shops, and libraries like this. Think of it as a trade system where we can share our resources and our gifts. This allows us to support and protect each other, and our residents — the good ones anyways.” She smiled warmly.

“Mijo, doormen are the eyes and ears of New York City,” Desi said. “In our home countries we were many things. We were doctors and lawyers, artists, and scientists. But here, we came and suddenly, we were just immigrants. Foreigners. Aliens. Did you know Javi, in Cuba, I was a painter?”

Javier hadn’t known that about Desi. He realized then, there was a lot about Desi he didn’t know. “Zaida encouraged me to start painting again. She was like us, una extranjera— but she made it, and more importantly, she never forgot.” Desi’s eyes glistened. “Javi, there’s been some strange things going on at the apartment. I know someone stole Orpheo, and we need to find him. For Zaida.”

Lucia took out a straight blade and began to carefully pull it across Desi’s jaw. From under the smock, Desi gestured toward the stacks. “Bekim, can you please take out the book for Javi — it’s under 740 Park Avenue. Bekim ran his fingers along the spines of the books as if he were thrumming the strings of a harp. Finally, he paused and pulled something from the case, handing it to Javier. 

It was thick. At first glance it looked like an encyclopedia, but as he flipped through it, he realized it more like a notebook. There were dividers with different names — Isla Duran, Marilyn and Mort Goldman, Edie Dominguez. Javier paused. Mrs. Dominguez was a friend of Tia Zaida; she lived two floors up. She had babysat him every now and then, when Abuela and Tia Zaida had “women things” to take care of. He remembered Mrs. Dominguez was kind but smelled strongly of lavender. “What are these, spy logs?” he said, unable to hide his irritation. “Are you going to tell me next that you used to be a secret agent, Desi?”

“Listen, kid,” Lucia said, “We are the secret keepers of New York. Between all of us porteros, we’ve buried more skeletons than most government agencies combined. It used to be we kept it all up here,” Lucia motioned to her head. “We hold the doors for some of the most powerful people in the world. Some of us have gotten killed because of it, and many of have gotten set up — You think I’m kidding? I’m not.” Javier realized Lucia must have seen him roll his eyes. “Like I said, the unions are shit. We started this system not only to protect ourselves, but to maintain a universal record. We get information or we find something out, we log it, and Bekim catalogues it. There are at least three other secret libraries, like this one, hidden in the city.”

Javier wasn’t sure what to say. He continued to flip through the book until he saw a label that said Zaida Perez. Behind the divider were pages of notes, newspaper clippings, and then a list with Tia Zaida’s looping handwriting. On it were hundreds of names. Javier removed it and held it up. “What is this?”

“It’s a waiting list,” Desi said.

"A waiting list for a very sought-after collection of art,” Dmitry added.

“I don’t understand what this has to do with Orpheo,” Javier said.  

“Your Aunt Zaida was not just an art dealer,” Dmitry said. “In Cuba, she was an infamous artist. But she was anonymous, known only as El Pájaro.” Dmitry, now standing next to Javier, pulled a news article from the book and handed it to Javier. Dated decades prior, it was titled Parroting Cuba’s Crisis, Anonymous Artist Speaks To Political Strife. The article included dozens of paintings and murals featuring perfect, yet loose renderings of Orpheo: Orpheo in flight over the island. Orpheo’s brilliant green feathers covered in blood. Orpheo morphing into a missile.

Dmitry pointed to the book. “I’ve done some digging. Every art collector in New York wanted one of these paintings — especially collectors of Latin American art, which many of your aunt’s clients were.” Javier thumbed through the book, trying to absorb all of this as Dmitry continued. “Your aunt was trying to bury this. These were 40-year-old paintings that she never meant to be collected. She was private about her work and didn’t want anyone to know she was the artist.”

“How can you actually be sure she was the artist. Do you have proof?” Javier asked. Lucia had finished her work on Desi, and he sat up and looked at Javier carefully.

“I have known Zaida for a very long time. I shared some of my paintings with her. Portraits of people I left behind—” his voice broke. “She was dying, Javi,” Desi said, finally, “I think she wanted someone else to know.” After a few moments Desi composed himself again. “We think she got some of paintings back and hid them, or gave them to someone for safe keeping,” he said, “and we think one of her clients found out — someone on this list. In fact, you see this name here,” he pointed to a name which read Victor Perry. He’s a very big, very rich collector who lives just a few blocks away from your aunt. He has an assistant that was coming around every week, saying he had to deliver an urgent message to Zaida. I said I could bring the message to her privately, but I never let him up — never,” Desi said. “Then, on my day off, Alberto, on the morning shift, said he noticed there was someone new on the eighth-floor cleaning crew. He showed me on camera, and it was him. The assistant.” 

Javier held his fingers to his temples. His head was throbbing. “So, you think it was the assistant that stole Orpheo?”

“We believe someone decided if they couldn’t have one of her paintings, they could collect Orpheo instead. Or maybe they thought Orpheo would talk.”

Javier laughed, then. All of this just seemed like a movie: hidden libraries, colluding parrots, secret art collections. “Oh come on. Sure, Orpheo is a smart ass, but harboring secrets… he’s a bird.”

Desi put his hands up. “We brought you here because we thought you might recognize something on the list.” Desi stood up from the chair and put a hand on Javier’s shoulder. “Your Tia knew she was sick. She asked me if I would look after Orpheo when she was gone.”

Javier looked at the list again which contained names and addresses he didn’t recognize. “I’m not sure,” Javier said, “None of this really means anything to me.”

Javier turned the worn paper over. There was a drawing on the bottom corner. In the center of a penciled halo of vines and tiny wings was a name: Pollita. 

“Wait,” Javier said, “I think I might have an idea.”

***

On a little street next to the Harlem River, Desi and Javier walked into the public library. Inside, it looked like a rainforest has overtaken the rows of tired, low-slung bookshelves. Everywhere there were plants, and it felt humid. At the far end of the library, there was a sunny little reading room. The room was decorated with a rainbow-colored rug and small chairs set out for a children’s reading circle. The windows could use some cleaning, but it was bright, happy space. 

Hung all around the room were big, colorful paintings, each with a soaring parrot. Sitting squarely in center of the rainbow rug was a small woman with a bird perched on a shoulder.

“Abuela?” Javier called. Carmen turned, smiling sadly. “Oh,” she said, “There you are.” Javier went to her and put his arm around her, careful not to disturb Orpheo, who seemed to be observing his likeness.

 “Did you go and get Orpheo?” Javier asked, gently. For a while, Carmen didn’t say anything.

“Funny enough, he turned up here,” Carmen said finally. “One of the staff members called me. Said a wild parrot that looked like the one in the paintings I'd brought was trying to claw its way in. Maldito loro — how could he know?”

“Did she give them to you, to hide?” he asked. Carmen laughed, bitterly. “She always felt that art truly belonged to the public, I think she felt conflicted about her profession, in the end, and so —” Carmen gestured to the canvases on the wall, "Now they share a room with the children's story circle."

They were beautiful pieces. Desi moved closer to the only one in which Zaida must have decided to include herself. You couldn’t see her face, but it was unmistakably her shape — a silhouette against a window with Orpheo on her shoulder. Desi lifted a finger, almost as if to touch it.

The silence was broken as Orpheo shrieked: “Tumba eso, puto!”

Drop it, asshole.