Garlic, Ginger And Golden Seal You wouldn’t know it now, what happened on that piece of land. Driving past that particular block, nestled across the river from downtown, you would not give it a second look. A gray and black office building sits on that lot. The earth of this city, this area, is like gold. Always has been. At least since the Indians lost the last war in Florida. But like gold, it causes much pain, jealousy and even death. This piece of land, filling the entire block, once supported an apartment building that even twenty years ago was dilapidated. Slowly, but ever so steadily new high rises began to dot the area. The Estrella, surrounded even then with an ominous number office buildings and fancy homes, was a fallen woman. Her cavernous hallways, though hauntingly beautiful in their faded glamour, showed layers of old paint, peeling off. Pungent mildew smells filled the apartments due to old bedding, some still made of horsehair. They caused that unmistakable odor of mildew deterrent mixed with mold that clung to living spaces before air-conditioning. Surely it must have been quite a building in its day. It rambled over at least an acre of prime property, spreading its three arms in generous proportions. Its three stories were high and wide, a sad reminder of a time long lost. Today, construction is calculated by inches, centimeters and just how much bang for the buck the contractor can get. Doors of the Estrella, made of hardwood, had transoms, a haunting memory of the days when air circulated from the hallways to the apartments to relieve the torrid summer heat. It had also been a time when people did not lock the doors of houses or cars. That was as it should be. For in the last days, the tenants of the Estrella couldn’t have cared less. They had nothing worth stealing. They might be the ones that did the stealing, anyway. They would not steal this close to home, though, and only in desperation, or sometimes, compulsion. Nor would they have noticed if the ceiling was high, low, or if rats ran across its beams. Some would lie there, on a mattress, often without a box spring. They might look at the water spots and spider webs on the ceiling and note their colors and shapes, just to pass the time. Estrella was situated within a block of bay, where only millionaires today can afford to live. In the beginning, she had a clear view of the bay and the sunrise over the ocean further east. Twenty years ago, enough high-rise condos and office buildings, dripping with marble, granite and chrome, had obstructed any views the Estrella had enjoyed in the beginning. That was as it should be. Tenants in the last days were not the kind to look out the window. Mostly, they kept their shades pulled down. The financial district decided to make its home here. This is where international money flows back and forth, where banks calculate profits by the fraction of a cent, the tiniest increment of time. They siphon large sums to banks in other time zones, slicing margins, deadlines close to a nanosecond. That, after all, is how fortunes are made. That was as it should be. Tenants of the Estrella, who vanished as swiftly as she did, often did not own a watch. They either had pawned it, or more likely, didn’t know how get it running once it stopped. They couldn’t afford a new one, not even at the Dollar Store. Besides, time was not something these people handled very well. The hours dragged on each day, a long time to try to keep from total hopelessness. A short trip to the Bodega across the street was the main highlight of a day or perhaps a week. Some never left their apartment. At least, nobody saw them enter or leave. Had one of these tenants won a lottery, or inherit a fortune from a long lost uncle, they would have blown this money within a few weeks or months. They might easily have overdosed or drunk themselves to death with this dubious bounty. In any case, they were too damaged, dropped too low, to even consider values such as a nice suit, house, job, spouse or children. Mothers in the neighborhood, warned their kids to keep away from this building, and for good reason. That old building, however, still sat like a grand old lady on that parcel. Some of the tenants, too, from the way they held their shoulders, or from a really close look at their nose or crease on the cheek, hinted at a fine, clean lineage. That must have been a long time ago, never to be restored in that broken down body. It was not even the body so much as the eyes. There was no trace of illusion there. Nobody really cared to look in the eyes of one of these tenants, nor did the tenant wish to make eye contact with anybody. Even if someone chanced to steal a look, like a little child, they would not really understand that glazed over look. It might register with an adult, but at best they did not care, at worst, they would condemn, verbally crucify and possibly get them incarcerated to boot. The ground, on which Estrella sat, to all appearances, was dirt, just like any other land anywhere in the area. She lounged gracefully under tall live oaks, covered with long strands of Spanish moss. That block, at that time, seemed frozen in time to another century. People would walk by heading for an office or a morning jog, and never know it was there. Even its generous parking lot, which had a small number of old cars, some not functioning, was never used by office workers whose big headache of the workday was finding a parking space. It was a no man’s land in the new, fresh, modern world, of which Estrella had no part. Yes, she was on the historic register. She should have been spared the wrecking ball. That is, according to pieces of paper in the county and city offices. But Estrella was not like that. She was an old lady who had no influence at all. After many real estate speculators had flipped her titles through the years, it was certain that soon enough the latest, greediest offer would demolish her. It was only that acre of dirt, mixed with coral rock and sand that the speculators wanted. Estrella had become an ugly blot, in their eyes, in that lucrative location. Yes, she was vulnerable. There was nobody to stand up for her, to fight for her life. In those last years, her tenants resembled the old lady in so ways. They, too, knew their lives were on hold. Each day was a challenge. Would there be food? Would they be arrested for a past misdeed or an unfortunate act in a park? Would a jealous ex find them and pull a gun? Would they be taken away to a mental hospital, because neighbors complained they never left the apartment? Yes, these people had no place else to go. Who would rent to them? Estrella’s manager, whose great uncle had been a famous artist, was also one of them. One of the unfortunate ones, that is. His sins were so heinous, nobody mentioned them. If a tenant lived across the hall from his apartment, and was curious enough, he could see a thing or two through the peephole. But the particular tenant had his own secrets to deal with. As a wise person once said, they lived ‘lives of quiet desperation.’ There was a common understanding in this rambling old building. Nobody talked to anybody else. Everyone minded their own business, if it could be called a business. Even rent collection was a low-key process. There was no serious deadline. Unless the tenant stopped paying altogether, which happened when they died or were taken away by force, there were no demands from the manager. Since the rents were very low and the apartments huge, with many rooms and tall, stately windows, few stopped paying even if money was tighter than usual. Nor were the rents ever raised in those last years of Estrella. Tenants who crossed the street to the Bodega, sometimes overheard of buildings sold, rents raised drastic, changes in the neighborhood. There were pockets of working class homes near the Estrella, which were renovated, painted, improved. The tenants of Estrella were not in that category. They did not really listen to such conversations. They just overheard them and it meant nothing to them. It did not apply. There was no thought about moving out of the Estrella. These tenants, like Estrella herself, were desperate, a desperation caused by hopelessness and failure. A man whose neck rests under the guillotine is going nowhere. His brain does not concern itself with tomorrow’s shelter. Today was all these people had. The moment. Plans? That word was not in their vocabulary. I, however, had a plan. My plan was to go visit one of the tenants, Mary McCreery. “Mary McCreery?” I asked Marilena, the daughter of the owner of the Bodega. Mary and I had become friends when I worked at a clinic upstate. She was a home health nurse and was stationed there for several months. We corresponded for years and then our letters dwindled to none. Her phone number was disconnect. Mary had mentioned the Bodega where she shopped, and Marilena, the daughter of the owner. Having a long weekend off from my job, I decided to check out this booming area, now a famous destination and also try to visit Mary. Marilena smiled. She could not speak English. “Una mujer vieja,” I ventured in broken Spanish. “Mary, Mary.” Surely Marilena would have remembered an old lady who lived there for many years. I pointed across the street, imaging an old apartment building. But it was just an impersonal office building. It covered the entire block, with parking on five or six of its lowest floors. I could tell from Marilena’s smile that she remembered Mary. “Aqui?” I asked. “Where?” “No se,” she said. She didn’t know. Driving on the expressway, headed back home, I thought about Mary McCreery and imagined what the apartment house might have looked like. Probably old and worn like Mary herself. I drove toward the beach and it was as fabulous as the magazines had painted it. The restaurants and cafes vied with each other for the latest styles and finishes. The place dripped of beautiful people, many from other countries. The next morning I took the expressway, heading north. Soon enough I put several counties behind me. My work project, due next week, was half finished. This project was my baby. They would be impressed. I would probably get a raise. Oh, the tile man was coming on Wednesday to redo the kitchen floor. I’d have to postpone my rafting trip another day. What about those letters from Mary? I’d never find out where she was or if she was even alive. It was time to toss them. After all, I needed space in my garage. I bent over and turned on the soothing music of a radio station.
Copyright © 2007 Liilia Morrison |