On another evening, a few weeks later, after the winner had been announced at an elaborate banquet we all headed uptown to the famous Knopf publisher Sonny Mehta’s apartment on Park Avenue, for a late-night party, and the main thing I can remember about that evening was my sense of relief at being away from all the photographers and reporters; at last it all seemed to be at an end. As a side note, however, I have to mention my mother’s reaction. News of my nomination naturally made it into the Spanish-language newspapers like El Nuevo Herald in Miami and, of course, El Diario here in New York, a Latino writer, the son of immigrants, rising to such heights, a first. She’d call me now and then to ask whether I’d heard any news about winning it. Explaining that it didn’t work that way, I’d hear a sigh on the other end. Nevertheless, it gave her bragging rights with her friends up and down Broadway and Amsterdam for the month or so while the selection process lasted, until all the excitement seemed to have ended as quickly as it had come. I took her out to dinner one evening with my brother, not long after the winner had been announced, and she was especially solemn, even moody.
Finally, I asked, “Pero, qué te pasa, mamá? What’s going on?”
“Ese premio, what happened with it?”
“What, the National Book Award?” I shrugged. “Let me tell you, with all the odds against me, it was a miracle that I was even one of the nominees. But it was still an honor.”
“Ah, sí, un honor,” she conceded. And then, thinking about something intensely, she turned to me, her expression one of severity and disappointment, and for a moment I could see balled up in her eyes everything that my pop had to contend with sometimes. Looking away, through the restaurant window, she said: “Yes, you were one of them,” and she shook her head, adding, “Pero no ganaste. But you didn’t win,” a failing on my part that I believe she took as a personal slight.
Oh, but it wasn’t all so contrary an experience: I spent an evening with William Gaddis and his lady companion, Muriel, eating Chinese takeout food and talking about literature in his East Side apartment. And once Mr. Glimcher’s good taste in books had been verified by all my good press, he brought me more closely into his circle. Invited to dinner, I was to meet him on a certain corner on the East Side — and there, as I stood waiting one autumnal night, I saw the apparition of Pablo Picasso from his Braque period, with his thick dark hair combed in a half-moon crest over his brow, his eyes intense, demeanor solemn, standing alongside a column. He turned out to be Claude Picasso, the great painter’s son, somewhere in his early forties, one of my dinner companions. Also to join us, another of Mr. Glimcher’s friends, Sigourney Weaver. Of course, I enjoyed meeting them, but at no moment did I feel relaxed or that I fit in with such people, though they were perfectly open and friendly — Claude, a photographer, even offered to translate my work into French. Besides, with certain kinds of people, I would become more the listener — I’ve always hated small talk — and though I’d walk away from such an occasion feeling as if I had acquitted myself — for, as I recall, Ms. Weaver offered to fix me up with one of her actress friends — Mr. Glimcher, a keen observer of humanity, as an aside told me, “You really don’t get just who you are, do you?” (That was his version of something my mother would cryptically tell me one day: “Your problem, hijo, is that you are too much like your father.”) Whatever the reason, after such heady occasions, the sort that any number of other people would have embraced completely as a verification of their own worth—achievement through association, as it were — I was always happy to get home to my apartment.
More wonderfully, however, while I was riding the number 11 bus uptown on my way to see my mother one evening, I ran into my family’s old friend Teddy Morgenbesser. I’d always wondered if he would be the sort to have read The Mambo Kings. If so, he might have recognized a bit of himself in the depiction of my character Bernardito Mandelbaum, a Jewish guy gone platanos—or Cubanized — through his chumming around with one Cesar Castillo. If he had, it worried me that Teddy might have felt offended or lampooned. So what happened? I had been sitting in the back when he, getting off, saw me. Smiling, he summed up his feelings with a wink and a single sentence: “Oscar — I just loved that book. It was beautiful.”
During that time, I had the strongest feeling of having pushed far off from the shore of who I had once been, though not a day passed when I did not have my share of memories and therefore my lingering depressions, no matter how wonderfully things were going for me professionally. I remember watching a version of A Christmas Carol that winter and feeling as if I were the ghost of myself destined to go through life dragging behind me my own apparently unshakeable memories, my life told in so many parts — illness, sheltered messed-up childhood, death of father, subsequent struggles with identity and just surviving, my sometime existence as a writer, etc. Until then, however, I really didn’t think anyone could give a damn about me anyway — as a cubano, as a New Yorker, as a pensive, occasionally funny, melancholic man nearly forty years old tasting for the first time in his life a bit of success — though a loneliness-making one. As I pushed off from that shore, followed about by an image of myself as a sick child, or by my pop’s very real and plaintive ghost, I hardly got through a week without being interviewed or photographed by someone — more and more often by foreign journalists, as The Mambo Kings sold all over Europe and the rest of the world (about thirty-six different foreign editions have been published to this day, discounting Britain and reissues).
Along the way, the attention I received led to some unexpected things. For one, the Cuban government’s minister of culture, Abel Prieto, sent me a letter through PEN inviting me to visit Cuba. (Unfortunately, and something I now regret, it was simply unthinkable to me at the time. Visiting Havana, years later, I learned from my cousins that this minister often mentioned my book on Cuban radio.) At Hofstra, among my newly won frills, my schedule for the following semester became one of my own choosing — and I got to share an office with a professor who was never around, a jealousy-making triumph in a department where twenty-year veterans were sometimes crowded, as I recall, three and four to a room. Mr. Mascetti, who had gone to California, possibly to hide out from some people to whom he owed money, or to begin a new life (I really don’t know), called me from Santa Monica after seeing some piece about me in the L.A. Times. With girls laughing wildly and music blaring happily in the background, he told me: “I’m so happy to heah that you’re doing so fuckin’ great, man!” My face eventually appeared in a very strange painting made for a calendar of “Famous Hispanics” sponsored by Budweiser beer: In it I, looking decades older, somewhat resemble, I am afraid to say, the former vice president Dick Cheney. I’d get invited to speak before public high school audiences as an example of a Latino who had come up without any advantages like them and made it, but the fact that I looked so white (or just like the enemy, in some of their eyes) confused the hell out of a lot of kids — I just didn’t seem like them or their parents, and no amount of splainin’, Lucy, about regressive familial genes or childhood illnesses or the kind of mixed neighborhood I had been raised in could make a difference. I would always accept such invitations, but I came to dread the actual moment when I would have to step onto an assembly stage at some rowdy school and hear, first thing, a rising murmur from the audience. If my schedule hadn’t become so busy, I might have happily turned into a recluse. I recall that I felt so stressed-out about my public image that by the New Year of 1990, I had gotten back up to smoking two packs of Kools a day.