Finding Carlos
“It took many years for me to track down my father. At home I had often observed my mother listening in a kind of trance state to a recording of Debussy's Reverie played by a Mexican musician called "Carlos del Prado." I sensed that this record was played by my father, and asked her about it, but for a long time she refused to tell me the whole truth. I had tried to find out about him before, because I wanted to contact him if he was still alive, but this had proved impossible, because I didn't have his correct surname.
In the end, I had to find that out his name from one of my high school teachers, a pederast whom I later betrayed in order to protect other boys and to avenge myself indirectly on my stepfather. I don't know how he found out Carlos’s complete surname, but he did. He said he had been sworn to secrecy and that he could not reveal his source to me.
Anyway, now I had the magic key, and it was not long until I used it. I had telephoned directory inquiries for Mexico City from Hollywood several times before, but I was always told that there was no “Carlos del Prado“ listed in the Mexico City telephone book. This time, however, when I called and gave the name Carlos Riveroll I got the number I had been seeking almost at once. It’s funny, you know, for a while that was enough for me, just having that number, and carrying it around with me in my wallet like a talisman. I wanted to call him, and yet I didn’t. I was afraid I’d be disappointed, I guess. You know what I mean? Haven’t you felt that way sometimes, when you want something so much you’re afraid to ask for it?
But deep inside I knew I would find him now. It was just a matter of time. In fact I only had to wait a few months, before an opportunity presented itself for me to go to Mexico City. I had just begun graduate school and was busy writing a research paper and teaching English at my old prep school in Claremont when my mother, who loves Mexico and Mexicans a lot , called and invited me to spend Christmas in Tasco with her and Tony. Tasco isn’t far from Mexico City, well not as far as LA is that’s for sure, so I would have accepted right away, but I had to clear it with my girl friend first. I was dating a really cool dark-haired young school teacher in Los Angeles at the time. She begged me to stay with her for Christmas, but I convinced her I really had to take advantage of this chance to meet my real father. So I flew to Mexico with my parents for the holidays in mid-December, determined to pursue my quest to find my father. Of course I could not tell my "parents." What would they have thought?
“Our father, who art in heaven,” I prayed silently and fearfully as we took off. I had never been in an airplane before. What is a real father? I wondered to myself. Someone who loves and guides you. Someone you can rely on to tell you the truth, not to lie to you, not to hurt you or frighten you, or use you to fulfill his sexual needs. Someone who helps you find your way in the world. Is there anything more to it than playing a role? I didn't really know. I had been violated, abused, and rejected by the man who had married my mother and raised me. Little did I realize how disappointed I was going to be in meeting Carlos.
I stayed for a few days with my parents in Tasco before going on to Mexico City on a bus alone. Tasco is a lovely old Mexican town with beautiful adobe buildings and especially fine churches. God how my mother loves churches. I think I must have been dragged through every church in France. Now I faced a similar fate in Mexico if I did not quickly devise an alternative plan.
From a phone box in Tasco I tried several times to call Carlos but could never get the phone to ring. It just wouldn’t ring. I felt so frustrated. Finally I gave up, went back to my room, and asked the operator at the hotel to help me. Apparently I had not used the right code for Mexico City or something, she said. I was really excited now, and my heart pounded wildly while I waited for her to put the call through. But nothing is quick in Mexico. It took a long time. She said the lines to Mexico City were engaged. She'd have to call me back. I didn’t want to put the receiver down; I guess I was afraid I’d be abandoned by that operator as I had been by my father. Now that I had finally tracked Carlos down, I didn’t want to lose him.
I waited, biting my nails impatiently, fantasizing about this man who was my father. What did he look like? What would he sound like? Soon I would hear his voice and then, I hoped, actually I would actually get to meet him, to see and touch him in person. I had been looking for “Carlos,” my real father, for a long, long time, for many years in fact. I could hardly wait any longer.
Not that I was really that unhappy with Tony at this point. He hadn’t always been abusive. He could be really nice sometimes, especially when he wasn’t drunk. I loved him as my “Dad” and I guess I still love him even now, despite what he did to me. But I was curious about my own origins, my roots, my source, my blood, my ancestors. You know what I mean.
I felt a lot of conflicting feelings about meeting him. I had fantasized about this guy so much and for so long. Probably no man could have ever lived up to the idealized dream father image I had created over the years. But still, I wanted to met Carlos, my real father. I wanted to find out if blood really made such a big difference as they say. I had to know. After all, like they say in the movies, what could I lose?
Finally, the operator put the call through for me. I was on pins and needles. Would he be there now? Was it really him, my real father? I wanted to meet him so badly, to see what he really looked like, to hear his voice. I had wanted to meet him for so long. I had so many things to ask him and to say to him. I wondered whether he would really be willing to meet me. The phone kept ringing and ringing. I was about to hang up when someone finally answered. A woman's voice was on the line.
Qui es?
Hello. May I speak to Carlos I said.
Who is speaking?
An American friend, I said.
What's your name?
John, I said
John?
Yes, John
John who?
He'll know. Please can you ask him to come to the phone.
All right. I'll see.
A long pause. Then a man's voice
Hello? Who is calling?
John.
John who?
Is this Carlos?
Yes. I am Carlos. Do I know you?
I don't believe we have met up to now, Sir, but I hope we can meet soon.
Why? What do you want? Who are you, anyway?
I am your son.
My son?
Yes. Marguerite is my mother. Marguerite Brunswig. Remember her?
Silence
Just a minute. I'm going to the other phone. Hold on.
Silence
You took me by surprise. I was hoping I might hear from you someday.
Crackle on the line.
Hello?
Hello?
I'm still here. How are you?
Fine.
How old are you now?
I'm twenty-one.
Silence
I'm twenty one, I said, this time more loudly.
My how time goes by. Where are you calling from?
I'm in Tasco with my mother and Tony.
Who's Tony?
Maarguerite's husband, my father. I mean my stepfather. He married my mother when I was two.
I see. Has he been a good father to you?
Yes, he has, I lied. I'd like to meet you while I'm here in Mexico. Are you willing to meet me? I can come to Mexico City tomorrow or the next day to meet you.
Pause. Well, yes. I would like to meet you.
May I come to your home?
No. It would be better if we could meet downtown. Do you know where the Biltmore is?
No. But I can find it.
Good. I can meet you in the bar of the hotel at 4:00 PM the day after tomorrow. Is that all right?
Fine. But I don't like bars. Can we meet in the lobby?
All right.
How will I know you?
Don't worry, the lobby is not that big. We’ll find each other. I will recognize you, I'm sure.
OK. I’ll see you then. Thank you for agreeing to meet me. I want to meet you so much.
Good. Me, too. See you then. Adios.
Good-bye.
I had wanted to say Good-bye, Dad, but I didn't dare. And I wanted him to say, Good-bye, son, but he didn't. In fact he never called me son, ever. He treated me as his friend. I didn't want a friend. I wanted a father. I had trouble accepting the love he offered me on the terms he offered it. But that was all there was.
I made the journey from Tasco to Mexico City by bus, because it was the cheapest way to travel. It took over three hours although it was less than a hundred miles because the roads were bad and the bus stopped at every village along the way. It was hot and dusty, and by the time we arrived I was really thirsty and very tired. But I was young, and after I got settled into my hotel and had a couple of cokes my spirits revived. I had some time to kill before the rendez vous with my father so I walked around the downtown area near the hotel.
I was really impressed how modern and European the Mexico City was. To my surprise it seemed more sophisticated and international than Los Angeles. The long concrete blocks of apartments reminded me of Paris. I walked back to the hotel full of anticipation. I made a point of arriving early, and settled down in a big couch to wait for Carlos to appear. Would we really recognize each other, I wondered.
Then he was there and I recognized him the moment he walked into the lobby. He was tall and dark and looked and moved just like I do. He looked around for a moment and then spotted me rising from the couch and came towards me quickly with his right arm extended to shake my hand. I didn’t know if I should do it, but I hugged him and it was all right. He invited me to join him for a drink and something to eat in the hotel coffee shop, which served American food. I had a hamburger and a milkshake. That was something I had really missed a lot last year in Paris.
Carlos wanted to know all about me. And I wanted to know all about him. Anyway, he suggested I tell him first, and I must admit I was glad he insisted because there was so much I wanted to tell him, about me, about everything. I told him about growing up in Los Angeles, about being sent away to Catholic military school, where I was subjected to incredible brutality, about editing the paper and playing in the prep school orchestra, about my first love affair and about my mother and her artwork. He wanted to hear all about her. It was always the same story. I resented her so much; people always wanted to know all about her. Even my fucking father, after he’d just met me, God damn it! She was the queen and I was just another ornament in her fucking court.
When I told him I played the piano, he was eager to hear me play. In fact, he ordered the bill right after that and said that he wanted me to come to his house and meet his fiancé, Rollande, and his mother, and my three half-sisters and to play for him. But I must promise under no circumstances to reveal that I was his son to anyone. I was to be his "friend." At that moment I didn't realize how hurtful this rejection was to be for me.
I was thrilled to know that I had three sisters, and was eager to meet them. I was not an only child after all. Wow! This feeling of loneliness and of wanting so much to belong is painful for me to recall even now. I rode with him in his sleek big black limousine to his house on Rio Nilo. The house was protected by a white stucco wall and a black iron gate and the building itself was quite unpretentious, white stucco with a red tiled roof. The garden was filled with exotic plants that surrounded a large swimming pool. In fact it reminded me of our house in Hollywood, which was also built in Spanish colonial style. Inside Carlos’s house was different from ours though. His walls were sparsely decorated whereas we had original impressionist and modern paintings all over the walls and sculptures by Rodin, Picasso, Brancusi and Bourdelle in the house and in the garden. Furthermore we had a big library and he had almost no books anywhere.
His mother, an old Mexican lady wrapped in a black shawl came out to meet us at the iron gate and accompanied us into the house. She immediately asked what I wanted to eat. My Spanish isn’t great, but I spoke Spanish with my Mexican governess as a child so I was able to converse with my grandmother, who spoke no English. I said I wasn't hungry, but she insisted that she wanted to prepare something for me. Did I like chicken? she asked. Of course I did. Well then it was settled. She would prepare me a Mexican specialty, Chicken Mole, chicken in chocolate sauce. I blanched but said I would be happy to try it if it was not too spicy. You will like it, I'm sure, she said and disappeared into the kitchen.
My father now took me upstairs and introduced me to his daughters, my half-sisters. They were all quite a bit younger than I was. The oldest was nine, one was seven and the littlest one was three. They were all three very sweet. We talked awkwardly for a few minutes and then he took me into his study where there was a large black grand piano. It was so beautiful I was almost afraid to touch it. We had nothing like that at home, just a small upright piano for me to practice on in my room. He asked me to play something for him. I paused, unsure what to choose. Play the first thing that comes to you, he said, encouragingly, so I played a Chopin nocturne I had learned while I was in high school. I played it nervously feeling him observing me. Then I began improvising, which I loved to do. I play better when I improvise, really, because I feel more free and able to let the feelings take hold and flow through my hands.
After I finished he clapped politely and said, "Not bad, but you must really practice and work on improving your technique. I can see that you have a natural feeling for music, but that is not enough. Mastering technique will give you much more freedom to express your deepest feelings." I felt a bit hurt, but I agreed.
Then he took me around his room showing me his collection of paintings, photographs, and the small objects he had collected in his travels around the world. I was particularly fascinated by a photograph I saw of a naked man with his penis dangling down in front of him so long that it touched his feet. I was amazed and Carlos explained to me that in India, where this man lived, men hung weights on their penises to stretch and elongate them. He showed me another photograph of a man who had his penis wrapped around his belly like a belt and pulled up over his shoulder like a tuba horn. Why would anybody want such a long penis, I asked. Wouldn't it be rather inconvenient? You might trip over it when you were running, for example. Carlos smiled and said that in India it was a highly valued symbol of manly power and status to have such a long penis. I wondered what it would be like for me to have such a long penis. Would that make me more successful with women? Carlos assured me that it was not so important and not to worry about it. I was fine with my penis the way it was, wasn’t I? At this point I revealed to him that I had very little sexual experience with women. I had done some heavy petting, but only gone all the way a few times. He was shocked.
“What? Twenty-one and still a virgin? I can't believe it. That would be impossible here in Mexico City. Why? Don't you like girls, are you gay,” he asked worried?
“It's not that,“ I said. “But you know it is a mortal sin to have sex out of wedlock. Of course you did it, I know, or I wouldn't be here would I? But I feel guilty if I go all the way with a girl, particularly if I should ejaculate inside her. Actually, I even feel guilty when I masturbate. The Church teaches it is a sin.”
“You must do something to get over that,” he said, looking at me with a worried expression. “You are missing out on the greatest joy there is in life. Do you have a girlfriend now?”
“Yes, I do. We're engaged, in fact.“
Don't you sleep with her.
Oh No. Of course not. She's a virgin and I plan to marry her as a virgin.
“I know that the Church teaches that you should be a virgin when you marry, but that is foolish,“ he said. “You should try each other out first to see how you get along sexually. You wouldn't buy a car without trying it out would you? We're not living in the Middle Ages any more, you know.“
But I am a good Catholic, or at least I try to be. Anyway, the real point is that I don't like sex anyway, because I feel so guilty every time I mess with it. I wish I could just cut off my penis and forget about it altogether.
I'm shocked and disappointed to hear you say such things. Your mother did not bring you up right or you wouldn't have such crazy ideas.
Yes she did. It was my stepfather that got me confused when he made love to me.
He fucked you? Is that really true?
Of course it is. I wouldn't make such a thing up. I was his lover from the time I was eight years old until I was fifteen.
Why did he stop then?
Because I told him I could not respect him any more if we continued. I felt it was wrong. He agreed to that and said we should forget about it and just keep it as our secret. In fact you are one of the only people I have told about this. I felt you should know.
I am flattered by your trust in me. But that is really disgusting. How could he? An innocent kid. His adopted son. That son of a bitch. I could kill him. Tell me more about this guy. What's his name again? Ah yes, Tony. Why do you call him Tony, rather than Father or Papa or Dad?
I don’t know. I've always called him Tony. It’s his name. Everybody calls him that. It just wouldn’t feel right to me to call him Dad.
Well, I can understand that, after what he did to you, the bastard. And how would you feel calling me Dad?
I don't know...Dad. No. It feels funny. Maybe in time, but not yet. For now I’d rather call you Carlos. O.K.?
Sure. That‘s fine with me. And I will call you John.
You don’t want to call me Son?
No, John, I can't do that. You are too old for me to call you son. You could have a son of your own now. Let’s just be friends.
I felt really disappointed when he said that, but what could I do. I hurt all the way down deep in the pit of my stomach, that old hurt that has plagued me for years, but I just gritted my teeth as I learned to do in military school and smiled my phony shit-eating grin.
Now tell me a little bit more about Tony, John. How do you feel towards him now?
I love and respect him as a son should.
What? You love and respect that man who abused you, who took advantage of your innocence, who has cast a shadow over you thwarting your normal sexual development. I can’t believe it. What do you respect about him? He’s an asshole. Any man who would---
Well it does no good to bear a grudge. I learned that a long time ago. I am proud that he is a successful businessman, like my grandfather was and like you are. He works at my grandfather's company, you know.
He does? That's interesting. I would have been doing that now, you know, if I had not been a Mexican with dark skin and thick lips like yours, and if your mother had agreed to marry me.
You mean you wanted to marry her?
Of course I did. I loved her very much. I still love her. I will always love her. But she did not want to marry me.
Why not?
You must ask her that.
Even after she found out she was pregnant, you were willing to marry her and she refused? I can’t believe it. I thought it was you that didn't want to marry her. That's what she said. I always hated you for that.
No, John, it was as I told you. Here. Just a minute. I have something I want to show you. He went to his desk and opened a drawer and pulled out a white envelope.
This is how I first knew about your existence. He handed me the envelope. Open it, he said.
I was so curious and nervous that my hands were shaking and I could hardly open the envelope. When I did get it open I found a small card with a religious picture printed on it, the kind you get as a reward to stick into your prayer book if you were a good boy in school. On one side of the card was a portrait of Jesus holding his bleeding sacred heart in his hands. On the other side I read these words in my mother's handwriting: "The inevitable has happened. We must never meet again."
She sent you that?
Yes. After she discovered that she was pregnant. A priest must have told her to do that , after she went to confession.
Did she love you?
I believe she did. But between her fear of her family and the Church there was nothing I could do.
So you never saw her again after that?
Of course, I saw her. We met at a party shortly after you were born. We danced together and then when we were close again she said that she had something she wanted me to see, someone she wanted me to meet. That was you.
I met you before now? You saw me when I was a baby?
Yes, indeed. You used to play at my feet when I was writing at your little house. Did you know your mother had a little house just for you?
No. I never knew that.
Well you did, and I used to visit you there. Until one night when we came to see you and you had been crying for so long, you were so frightened, that you almost died. We were very worried about you, and decided to take you to Rancho Yucca Loma near Victorville, where you would be watched and looked after all the time. By Gwen. Do you remember her?
Yes, I do remember her vaguely. She died just a year ago. Of cancer, I think.
So tell me, what did your mother tell you about your origins, then?
She told me that I was adopted.
What? Are you kidding? She didn’t tell you that you were her natural child? I’ can’t believe this. Now I’ve heard everything. She didn’t tell you that she was your mother?
No. I guess she was too embarrassed. She told me a lot of conflicting stories when I was growing up, just never the truth. I came to a point where I didn't trust anything she would tell me.
My God. You must have felt very hurt , confused and angry.
Yes I did. I still do, in fact. I think I understand now why she lied to me, but it still hurts.
I‘m sure it does. You’ve had a very difficult crazy-making life, John. It’s a wonder you have turned out so well. You could have ended up in a mental asylum, or in a prison or something. When I was younger I used to think about you a lot, and I often wished your mother had married me. Then things might have been different for all of us. Now it is too late. I have my own family now. And you are grown up, so I feel there is not much more I can do for you than ask that we stay in touch, like good friends. If there ever should be something I can do for you, though, please let me know and I’ll do my best for you.
Thanks, I’ll remember that. Now I’m afraid I should be going pretty soon. I don’t want to impose on you. And my parents are arriving at the hotel late tonight and I must be there when they arrive, or they’ll worry about me.
Fine. I’ll take you back right after dinner. Mother has prepared a feast for us and we must not keep her waiting.
We descended the stairs to the large living room and Carlos told me to wait while he called the girls. They came down quickly and we all went in to the dining room together. I was thrilled to realize that I was not really an only child after all. I had three sisters. I wanted so much for them to know that I was their brother. But that was forbidden by Carlos, who never could publicly acknowledge me as his only son. I could only be his "young friend" from the United States.
I never could forgive him for that refusal, and turned in desperation to "Our Father in heaven," consoled by St. Augustine's belief that "Our hearts are restless 'till they rest in Thee, O Lord." It took many years of psychotherapy to enable me to begin to heal my disappointment and disillusionment.
After I returned to Hollywood with my parents, Carlos wrote me a nice long letter telling me how happy he was to have met me and inviting me to correspond with him. I wanted to, but my parents had been so hurt when I told them I’d seen him that I felt guilty even thinking about writing him, so I didn’t.
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