The Book of Unknown Americans: A novel

“Not ‘Tursday,’ ” she said. “Thursday. Push your tongue out against the back of your teeth.”

“Where is my tongue now?” I asked.

“At the top of your mouth, I think. Push it out.”

But I didn’t know what she meant and each time I repeated it—“Tursday”—Celia corrected me.

“Thursday.”

“Tursday.”

“Thursday.”

“Tursday.”

“No, Thursday. Th th th.”

“Thursday,” I said.

“You got it!” Celia cheered.

When I didn’t have a lesson with Celia, I made it a point to at least sit in front of the television with the dictionary Profesora Shields had given me and look up as many words as I could while they flashed across the closed captioning on the screen.

I learned the phrase “Are you hiring?” and taught Arturo the words. I thought maybe if he approached potential employers in English, he would have a better chance. But after trying it at various places, he said, “I feel silly. I say it and then they answer me in English and there’s nowhere to go from there. They look at me like I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” I told him.

“To them I am,” he said.

And yet, despite the stress of the hunt and the anxiety over what it would yield, since that night in the kitchen, I felt closer to Arturo again, if only by inches, and I could tell that he felt closer to me, too. He took my hand sometimes under the blankets while we lay next to each other in bed, and once, while I stood in front of the sink washing the dinner dishes, watching bits of food float in the soapy water, he came up behind me and threaded his arms under mine, cupping my shoulders and resting his chin on the back of my neck, as if he simply wanted to be near me.

Our wedding anniversary was on February 19, and though usually in Pátzcuaro we went out to dinner, we didn’t have the money for that here. But Arturo wanted to honor the tradition, so we made a plan to go out for drinks instead. Waters, we decided, since even sodas were beyond our means by then.

We went to the pizza restaurant down the street because Arturo had submitted an application there and I knew he was hoping that if he showed his face again, maybe someone would recognize him and maybe somehow he would walk away with a job. We were down to one week, a mere seven days, before we would lapse out of status.

The restaurant was in the corner of a strip center, a striped vinyl banner above the door heralding its presence and its name. Luigi’s. Inside it was filled with square tables and metal-framed chairs, and the aroma in the air was sweet and sharp—tomatoes and cheese.

We had told Maribel on our way there that we were only ordering water.

“Can we order horchata?” she asked as soon as we sat down.

“They don’t have horchata here,” I said.

“Is this a restaurant?” she asked.

“Yes. But they don’t have horchata.”

“Do they have pescado blanco?” she asked.

“We’re not ordering anything,” I said.

“Why not?”

“We’re here to celebrate.”

“With water,” Arturo added.

We ordered three waters without ice and when they came we sat together, sipping out of pebbled red plastic glasses, celebrating in silence, while around us American couples and families ate slices of pizza and drank bottles of beer. I had the feeling that they disapproved of us being there, drinking only water, taking up space. But when I glanced at the people around us, no one was even looking in our direction, and I felt the way I often felt in this country—simultaneously conspicuous and invisible, like an oddity whom everyone noticed but chose to ignore.

And then, the front door opened, and I snapped my head up to see who it was. The boy, I thought. I don’t know why. On the walk over, I had been convinced that he was following us, and I had peered over my shoulder, thinking I’d heard the clatter of his skateboard behind us, but all I saw was Arturo giving me a quizzical look. Now though, it was only a young mother who walked in, pushing her child in a stroller. I held the glass to my lips and took a deep breath.

A few minutes later, Arturo broke the silence that had settled over us like fog. “Well,” he said. “Nineteen years.”

“Nineteen years what?” Maribel asked.

“Nineteen years that your mother and I have been married. She was eighteen when I married her.”

“Don’t say that,” I said. “It makes me feel so old.”

“You are old,” Maribel said.

Arturo laughed.

“What’s funny?” Maribel asked.

“Yes, what’s so funny, Arturo?”

“Do you have … a joke?” Maribel asked.

“Your father doesn’t know any jokes,” I said.

“Oh, I know jokes.”

“Like what?”

“Here’s one I heard on one of the American late-night shows. Why did the bicycle fall down?” He scanned our blank faces, waiting for a response. When he got none, he said, “Because it had two tires.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” I said.

“Well, the audience laughed. Maybe the subtitles were wrong?”

“It was tired?” I said. “That’s why it fell down?”

“You think you can do better?” Arturo asked. “Let’s see you tell a joke.”

“A joke about what?”

“Anything.”

“Yes,” Maribel said.

I looked around the restaurant for inspiration.

“We’re waiting,” Arturo said.

“Hold on.”

“Maybe you can order one from the menu,” Arturo offered. “Waitress, waters for us and one joke for my wife. Skip the straw.”

Maribel smiled.

“I’m getting funnier by the minute, Alma. You’d better think of something quick if you want to keep up with me.”

I stared at the table and tried to concentrate. Finally, to satisfy them, I told the only joke I knew, one that had made me laugh out loud when I heard it, even though I’d never repeated it myself. I said, “Why didn’t Jesus use shampoo?”

“I don’t know. Why?” Arturo asked.

“Because of the holes in his hands.”

Arturo looked at me in shock. At the sight of his face, I crossed myself. God in heaven, forgive me.

Then Arturo started laughing. Even Maribel, who months earlier never would have been able to process a joke like that, put her hand over her mouth to hold in her laughter.

Arturo raised his glass and toasted. “To the funniest woman I know,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said.

Arturo frowned. “Nothing about me?”

“Sorry. To the best man I know.”

“That’s more like it.”

“And the best daughter,” I added.

“The best!” Arturo said.

I looked at them both—the way Arturo’s mustache turned up when he smiled, the way Maribel’s face glowed.

“The best,” I repeated.


SEVEN MORE DAYS passed. Seven days of knocking on doors and making calls and begging with store owners and anyone who would listen. But at the end of it, Arturo came up empty-handed.

I found him in the morning, the day after the deadline, sitting in the thin blue light, his head bowed, his fingers entwined behind his neck. I went to him and put my hand on his shoulder with all the tenderness I possessed. I wanted to heal him somehow with my touch, to save him from feeling that he had let us down.

He said, “I’m sorry.”

“You did everything you could have done,” I said.

“If anyone finds out—”

“Who’s going to find out?”

“She would have to leave her school, Alma.”

“No one’s going to find out.”

He ruffled his hands up through his hair.

“We haven’t done anything wrong, Arturo.”

He didn’t respond.

“We’re not like the rest of them,” I went on. “The ones they talk about.”

He unclasped his hands and looked at me, his expression sad and weary. “We are now,” he said.

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