Free Ruins by Achy Obejas Page A

antidote to loneliness. What was special with her was the selflessness, the security. They didn’t talk about whether it was good—they didn’t talk much at all—but rather purred or hiccupped, like cats or pigeons at the plaza.
    But now, suddenly, Obdulio’s presence in Usnavy’s life had been replaced by an inexplicable craving. He could admit it now: He wanted a bike for Nena, he wanted a radio or TV for Lidia—maybe Obdulio was right and he could wish for a bigger place to live. He was not a Christian, he reminded himself: He could wish freely. Wasn’t the Revolution about working for a better life for everyone—including himself? Didn’t he, after all that time and effort, deserve a little something too? Wasn’t it time for tomorrow to finally arrive?
    Usnavy was so caught up with his own thoughts and rationalizations that he did not notice when another man entered the desolate lamp factory office. He was about Usnavy’s age, but much worse for the wear: He walked with a serious limp, his hair was thinning, and he had a flat nose shaped like an upside down T, not the result of genetics but of a successful punch to the pug years ago. He was decked in overalls that suggested he worked with his hands—that he might perhaps even be employed by the factory assembling parts or whole fixtures—but there was something odd about him, strange little twinklings all over his chest and arms, as if he’d been dusted with a crushed star.
    “Yoandry,” the sparkly man said gruffly to the muscle boy at the desk. “Any luck? Did you get it?”
    “No, no, but I’m trying,” the clerk said, abruptly disregarding Usnavy and deferential, almost affectionate, toward the other client. “And how are you today, my friend?”
    The sparkly man puffed up his cheeks and sighed in an exaggerated fashion. “I’m not having any luck finding anything at all!” he declared.
    “What … what is it you’re looking for?” Usnavy asked shyly.
    “This American glass … Armstrong, stock number 2401, kind of chestnut brown on one side with very light white streaks on the other,” the sparkly man said. Usnavy noticed even his face seemed to glitter. “Got it once, can’t seem to find it again.”
    “Ah,” Usnavy said uselessly. He had no idea what the guy was talking about.
    “They’re sheets of glass,” the sparkly man said, taking in Usnavy’s bewilderment. “I’d prefer the darker reddish-brown part, if I could find it. When back-lit, it’s got a deep rust-brown color, with no red cast.” Suddenly, he noticed the lamp in Usnavy’s arms. “Hmm … a Tiffany?” he asked.
    “No, no,” Usnavy demurred, almost embarrassed. “I don’t know what it is, really.”
    “Let me see,” the man said, reaching for the base.
    This must be where lamps reveal themselves, thought Usnavy, though nothing he’d read at the library had mentioned that. He noticed Yoandry, the clerk, was now shaking his leg impatiently. The fluorescent tube above them seemed to flicker in time with his anxiety, creating a mild strobe affect.
    “Very splendid work,” said the sparkly man, a pair of reading glasses now barely gripping his flat nose.
    As the lamp was being probed, Usnavy felt the same way he did at the doctor’s office when he went in for even the most routine examination: slightly abashed, a little panicky that they might find something that could have been avoided if only he’d known better.
    “Is the lamp yours?” asked the sparkly man as he slipped off his reading glasses.
    “Well, yes, sort of—I found it,” Usnavy admitted, his head bowed.
    “Lucky find.”
    “Lucky … what do you mean?” Hadn’t the brawny boy said minutes ago that it was trash? In that moment of examination—while the sparkly man held the lamp upside down like a newborn—had his fortune turned?
    “Well, it’s a Tiffany, just like I thought, an original. See here? That’s the Tiffany seal.” He pointed to a T engraved at the base, with what