The Empanada Brotherhood by John Nichols Page A

sacrifice themselves to give us pleasure. Duende is an enchanted living death for the person who has it.”
    He whispered these things loudly into my ear like a stockbroker giving quotations over the phone while Jorge and Cathy practiced to become famous and doomed. Outside on a gray afternoon random raindrops fell from the moody sky.
    The studio was filled with thrilling music and frantic dancing. I fixated on Cathy’s feet, then on Jorge’s fingers. How could those two be so coordinated and exuberant?
    â€œShe has good footwork, but not great,” Aurelio Porta said. “And technically she is competent but not too far above average. Yet that other thing, that fever, that instinct for presentation, that totally self-absorbed and self-destructive euphoria—that is special, that’s duende. One in a million. She doesn’t even know where it came from or how to control it. Like an erection in men. I can sell her, I know, even though she’s not Spanish. I absolutely guarantee that she’s going to be famous.”
    Jorge and Cathy stopped in unison with a bold and emotional flourish. Cathy held the pose for eight seconds until Aurelio Porta clapped, saying, “Bravo. Estupendo.”
    When Cathy knew she had been wonderful she became grumpy. “I stink,” she muttered, panting, trying to catch her breath. “I dance like a wooden puppet. I have arthritis already and I’m not even twenty. Shit.”
    She went to her purse and extricated two cigarettes, handing one to Jorge. She rustled further seeking matches until Aurelio flipped over a book that skidded across the shiny floor, stopping at her feet. Kicking off her shoes, Cathy bent to retrieve the matches then leaned against the wall with her eyes closed, smiling. Jorge set the guitar flat on his lap and inhaled smoke luxuriously.
    We savored the quiet. I was sweating as if I’d been dancing right along with Cathy Escudero.
    â€œI’m going to retire when I’m twenty-five,” she said. “By then I’ll be a millionaire and a cripple.”
    Cathy slid down the mirror to a sitting position on the floor, hiking her dress up into her lap which gave us a glimpse of the white panties. Eyes closed, she seemed unaware of this fact.
    Nobody said anything. Embarrassed, I averted my eyes, looking out a window. In the twilight most city lights had come on, but I could still see large foreboding clouds high above the Hudson River.

34. Handsome Anthony
    Eduardo, Alfonso, and I attended a movie at the Waverly:
Il Bell’Antonio.
In Italian with English subtitles, it starred Marcello Mastroianni and Claudia Cardinale. It had been written by Pier Paolo Pasolini, one of Alfonso’s heroes and the director of
Accatone!
Marcello played a handsome Sicilian rogue who fell in love with Claudia, the beautiful, virginal daughter of a town big shot. Despite his reputation as a womanizer, Marcello could not consummate the marriage. He had become impotent. This caused an enormous scandal. Marcello had failed Claudia, her parents, his own family, the church, the politicians, and all the rich businessmen of the city. Qué Vergüenza! Marcello’s mother and father grew frantic. Claudia’s parents demanded an annulment. Everyone was horrified that Marcello could not “be a man.” Finally, Mastroianni admitted to his best friend that all his life he could easily screw prostitutes, shop girls, and casual affairs, but if he truly loved a woman he couldn’t muster an erection.
    When we left the theater, Eduardo said, “Fuck that movie. I hated that stupid film. Those Italians have their heads up their own rectums.”
    As we crossed Sixth Avenue, aiming for the empanada stand, Alfonso said, “Wait. Consider the dilemma. Pasolini was pointing out all the hypocrisy. It’s an interesting story about how social mores, and especially religion, corrupt the nature of true love.”
    â€œQué