Carlo

Carlo was from Napoli, Italy’s last mafia stronghold. He was tall and skinny with a wide smile and green eyes that shifted. He strode around the apartment in flip-flops and tight-fitting designer clothes—little shorts and t-shirts mostly. He’d painted one wall of his bedroom bright blue, the color of Italy’s soccer team. They had just won the World Cup, and a jersey was affixed to the blue wall with thumbtacks.

Carlo had a dog named Chupito, which means “liquor shot” in Spanish. Chupito looked like a Chihuahua but Carlo insisted he wasn’t. Chupito lived in perpetual fear of being trampled or thrown off the balcony of the 11th-floor apartment where we lived on the west side of Barcelona. It was the third place I’d looked at and the first that was mine if I wanted it, so I took it without asking questions.

I used to lie in bed as long as I could in the morning, waiting for the sounds of Carlo to die down before going out to start my day. The nicest memory I have of Carlo is when my mom visited and he squeezed a glass of orange juice for her and said “Este es para usted, señora”, using the respectful form of “you”, and smiling his beautiful smile.

Carlo was like a big bird or maybe a lizard. he became passionate easily and was always moving, even when lying down listening to his radio very loud and smoking a cigarette he would be twitching and you knew that he thought he was doing something in that moment, and that he felt safe because of it. Carlo used to do lots of drugs and party. He was reformed when I met him, and I remember being surprised the first time i saw him snort cocaine.

Carlo liked me a lot, even loved me. He would give me hugs and taught me how to cook pasta with little tiny cartons of sauce and one night we made a meal of mussels with white wine and pasta and fresh parmesan and it was the best meal I had the whole year.

Sometimes, something would go wrong and a cloud would descend over Carlo and spread through the whole apartment. He would bang on walls and listen to his music extra loud and I would be glad when he was gone. I wasn’t strong or brave enough to go out on my own much so I tried to make the apartment a home. I washed the floors and one time even the walls of the entire apartment. Once I had three friends over before going to a soccer game and we played beer pong with tiny cups and 40 oz bottles of Spanish beer and when I invited Carlo to have a go he was like a little boy and he was shy about throwing and we all had to encourage him to throw.

Once I borrowed a pair of his boots without asking for my Halloween costume and the next day there were two friends who were staying the night and Carlo came in yelling and shouting and I cried later, on the balcony, asking him how he could call me “hermano” one day and then try to charge me 5 euro for borrowing his boots the next, and he cried too and we hugged and he told me I didn’t have to pay for the boots.

My mom visited at Christmas time and stayed in the apartment. She bought Christmas pastries and there are pictures of us standing and smiling in the living room—my mom and I, me and Carlo, in front of the bare white walls and with the gaudy Christmas pastries that we never finished eating on the table.

Carlo worked as a server at a bingo parlor, and he worked from the afternoon until late at night. He was proud of his job and felt there was a great distinction between personas “educados” like himself, who worked steady jobs, and the rest of society. He was clinging to his foothold in the top half and I hope he still is. One night he came into my room and woke me up to borrow my cd player. I brought it out and he had a huge smile on and looked to be on drugs and beside him was some friend from whatever party they’d come from who looked embarrassed when he saw me. Carlo’s voice was scratchy from yelling and smoking and his eyes were crazy and he asked me if I wanted to go to an “after” with them downtown. The next day he was sober and quiet and told me he was afraid to look at his bank account because he’d probably spent all of his money the night before.

One day Carlo convinced us all to clean the house together. Diego, the Argentine, and Andrea, the other Italian, left, and it was just me and Joanna, a British girl. We swept and mopped and cleaned the bathroom. Carlo was wound up and excited and insisted that we “tirar todo” from the bathroom—all the empty bottles of shampoo and conditioner—and I watched as he tossed everything in the bin including the toilet brush, and I wondered how we would clean the toilet but I didn’t bother to ask.

We went to the local library together to rent movies one evening. Carlo had looked at my foreign student ID card and was excited because I could borrow from the library. We took the elevator down and walked out the far side of our apartment complex. Carlo was wearing a cap and walked a little ahead of me and said that it was going to rain, that he could feel it in his bones. We walked to the library and rented two or three movies. The only one I remember is Lawrence of Arabia—a movie Carlo called “muy muy buena” very seriously, as if appreciating “Lawrence of Arabia” were an important element of being a “persona educado”. We walked back together and watched Lawrence of Arabia. I don’t think we finished the movie.

Carlo went home to visit Napoli, and I remember when he got back to Barcelona. He walked into the apartment calling Chupito’s name and little Chupito came squiggling up to him as Carlo called to him in a squeaky high voice and snapped his fingers on outstretched arms like a flamenco dancer.

Carlo told me about how, back in Napoli, he took his nephews to the zoo one afternoon. He surprised them at school. He drove a friend’s car and kept a small joint burning discreetly in the ash tray. He wore a hat and sunglasses to avoid being recognized. He took the kids off for the entire afternoon and evening, and when they got back that night their mother was upset but the kids were beaming.

The last time I saw Carlo was after I’d moved out, and he’d found out through our crooked landlord that I’d stayed on in Barcelona instead of going home like I had planned. I’d taken the metro to my old neighborhood, and walking from the stairs in the bright sun I saw Carlo coming my way wearing a black leather jacket and carrying Chupito in one hand by his side. He saw me and I stopped and he walked past me saying “mentiroso” (liar) and gesturing with his off hand for emphasis. I never saw Carlo again. I know only that of all the roommates that came and went from that apartment on Calle Tarragona, Carlo was the only one there from the start, and the only one there when I left.