Free Ruins by Achy Obejas Page B

looked like a couple of Ds and Cs clinging to it. “Sometimes Tiffany just signed LTC . There are a few paperweights—they’re really medallions he gave to friends—which have his whole signature etched on the back. Not that he signed them, mind you. It was signed by a worker, of course. But it doesn’t matter. Those—those are worth a mint.”
    “Really?” Usnavy asked, amazed.
    So there was a Mr. Tiffany, a person; he’d had no idea. Tiffany to him was a style or, like Coca-Cola, a trademark. The few people who had seen his lamp—the magnificent one—always asked him if it was a Tiffany but he had never really known what to say. Now, having seen the signature, he would check the lamp as soon as he got home! (And, he quickly reminded himself, when he won Badagry’s confidence, he would check her lamp too.)
    But this other lamp, the little one, the one he’d rescued, the injured one—there was no dispute here. This was a real Tiffany—not a price-less medallion but a Tiffany nonetheless.
    Realizing this, Usnavy’s head snapped toward Yoandry, the liar. He should have called him out right then, should have at least made him fidget and worry, but instead it was Yoandry who was glaring darkly at Usnavy, the threat of harm clear in the two fat fists he’d laid on the desk for the old man to appreciate. This caused Usnavy to quake slightly.
    “It’s in terrible shape but I could fix it,” said the sparkly man.
    “Really?” Usnavy responded, realizing he was repeating himself in his nervousness, that he was very likely coming off like an idiot now.
    “Yes, I could fix it. I mean, that’s what I do—I work for the Fondo de Bienes Culturales; I fix lamps … Are you all right, compañero?”
    “Yes, yes, quite. But the cost—”
    “Yes, that’s the thing. I could fix it, but I don’t think you could afford it. See, it needs everything, really, although the base … hmm …” The sparkly man started contemplating the lamp again. “Nah, it’ll cost too much.”
    Usnavy wanted to tell him that, in this case, he’d sell it for any price; he wanted to explain how, only minutes before, he had been pleased with the clerk’s five-dollar offer—if he wanted to, the guy could fix it himself and sell it at a profit later, it didn’t matter.
    But the sparkly man didn’t say a word about buying it and Yoandry, now sitting down and sporting a pout, was rolling his fists like cannon balls on the desktop.
    “If you got it fixed, it could be worth a nice little penny for you,” the artisan said. “But the cost …”
    “Yeah, probably not worth it—it’s not like this is a special or lost Tiffany or anything,” said a smug Yoandry. Had he just winked conspiratorially at the sparkly man? Usnavy couldn’t tell.
    “A lost Tiffany?” he asked, confused.
    “There are lots of uneditioned pieces,” said the older man. “Some are real, some are fakes. A lot have been lost; no one knows where they are. So sometimes they’re worth more, in a way, because of the mystique. But yours isn’t one of those; yours has a number and everything.”
    “How do you know about all this stuff?” asked a leery Usnavy.
    “My god!” exclaimed Yoandry from behind the counter, his meaty hands flying airless, propelled by the force of the insult embedded in Usnavy’s question.
    “It’s okay, it’s okay, compañero,” the sparkly man said, gently patting the disconcerted boy’s shoulder.
    “See? What have I told you about the level of ignorance of the people who come in this place, huh?” the boy pleaded, his eyes shiny.
    “Well, I apologize,” Usnavy said, collecting his Tiffany from the counter, but he was sharply sarcastic, as offended as the clerk. “How will anyone ever learn without asking questions?”
    “He’s absolutely right!” agreed the sparkly man.
    “Questions about lamps—yes!” the clerk implored. “But questions about your knowledge? How can you bear such stupid, disrespectful questions about