The Dominican Dream
At barely three in the morning, the line snakes down the block.
Across Manhattan, in the comfort of his apartment, Marino Moquete turns around and huddles under the blankets. He still has six hours before work. The air conditioner kicks in, picks up, lashes out at the last stretch of night.
Outside, New York slowly dawns. Everyone knows they won't move a step until eight-thirty in the morning, but order is paramount for entry.
By sunrise the line has doubled. By seven o'clock in the morning, three hundred Americans have gathered around the consulate. At this hour, Marino Moquete finishes watching the news from his country on the Spanish-language channels and calmly rolls out of bed.
His day has begun.
After a typical breakfast brought to him every day from Caridad Café, he adjusts his tweety-yellow jacket over his tightly woven shirt, counts the six gold rings on his fingers (three of which spell his name in syllables), checks his briefcase, kisses his wife goodbye and leaves to represent his country as the Dominican Consul in New York.
He’s calculated the route to work to the second. By the time he goes up 180th Street at eight fifty-five, he can see part of the throng that gathers every day to make document requests.
Five hundred people anxiously await the decisions of a man in a bottle-green Caprice Classic. On the stereo, Zacarías Ferreira helps him warm up with a few bachatas. Every day, the future of these Americans rests with Moquete and his judgement, which seems fair most of the time. The car goes around the consulate to the back gate. Jimmy, a priggish blond the embassy assigned him as a driver, pulls forward into the parking lot under the eyes of federal security guards.
At the gate, two American guards await the Consul and greet him respectfully. Marino gives them a slight nod as he walks toward his office.
In the hallway he glances at Manola, a secretary from Santiago who’s been driving him crazy; she works for the vice consul. He drops his hand on her waist and plants a kiss on her cheek. Manola can't do anything but smile at him and Moquete is glad to be the boss.
Before he gets to his office he takes a look through the one-way mirror. There are more people than usual. Poor souls. If they only knew not a tenth of them are going to walk out with a visa. But the process isn’t free, and in the meantime, for every American who applies, Mr. Consul gets the crumbs.
Life is beautiful.
Moquete's office is something else. A carved mahogany desk from Santiago, made by an artist from Licey al Medio is the main attraction. Marino also asked for five red suede armchairs (covered in plastic, of course) to be included in the move, as well as three watercolor paintings of roosters, his diploma as patron of the "Liga de Softball de La Otra Banda,” and a framed photo of of himself dressed as a firefighter from the Villa Altagracia substation.
A yaroa delivered from a diner owned by a guy from Moca, in San Nícolas, is waiting on his desk. Moquete immediately digs in as his greasy fingers leaf through the day's correspondence.
Outside, people suffer.
First in line is Reggie Jackson, like the ballplayer. A strong, hard-working black man who got in line at eleven o'clock the night before. Jackson brings a sheath of documents that prove he has a life here in the U.S. and he doesn’t intend to stay and look for something better in the DR. From bank letters to commercial references, this man from middle America had to do some research for his appointment with Moquete. He’s been sitting on the sidewalk for almost ten hours waiting to be graced with favor from the Caribbean Caesar.
Behind Reggie, a pretty blonde named Barbara visits the consulate for the fourth time without success. She’s brought her youngest child with her because she has no one to leave her with at home. She's a stockbroker in New York, but she's sure that somewhere on the island true happiness awaits. Hope is the only thing she hasn’t lost.
Like them, there are five hundred more waiting to pay two thousand Dominican pesos to play the great rejection lottery. Whether they win or lose, they have to pay and ask God or the patron saint of travelers to light their way.
The forms accumulate in piles for Moquete, who robotically reviews them at an accelerated pace. He already knows by heart what to look for to so much as give them a chance.
Jackson, Reggie. American. Social Security number. Blah, blah, blah. Dark complexion, a little odd, short on cash. No family there but even fewer here. He collects unemployment and Social Security. You're screwed, Reggie. We don't need problems in the DR, we need solutions. Go rot and come back in two years.
Next.
Jackson, Barbara. Blonde. It’d be good to get a piece, but she has even more deficits than Reggie, because she’s got family in the DR. Her sister is a Jehovah's Witness and goes on missions to Constanza. She must think you're an idiot if you believe she’s really going on vacation. What she wants is to stay. As if the country had enough to share with these raggedy gringos. Strike four, Barbara. Two thousand bucks and come back in five years.
Next.
The voice brought Marino out of his reverie.
Mouh-quetei.
Marino stood up and walked to the window.
Mouh-quetei, Marino. Yes, sir. Your petition for a visa has been denied again. Please wait two years and try again. Thank you.
It came clear through the loudspeaker, as if for everyone to hear.
An executioner's voice, cold and amplified, confirming all his fears.
A mix of shame, rage and impotence crowds Moquete's face as he tries to compose himself, straightening his tweety-yellow jacket, picking up the three folders filled with papers describing his life, and saying goodbye to the rich man with whom he had stood in line and who would surely be given a visa for fifty years. He adjusts the six rings on his fingers and takes his two girls by the hand, because he didn’t have anyone with whom to leave them at home.
He wipes his nose with a handkerchief and steps out into the sun at the intersection of Máximo Gómez and César Nicolás Penson to catch a shitty public bus that’ll take him somewhere, that’ll give him back his faith and dignity, that will pick him up from the steps of the consulate and wipe away his dust and sadness; a trolley that will take him into a traffic jam in a city clogged with traffic jams, a cab that’ll swallow him up and spit him into the bowels of a country that has no more to offer, while he regroups and tries to figure out what raft he’s gonna launch from which beach to straighten out the failure that’s been his life.