Another Spaniard in the Works Read Online Free

magazines that I kept stashed in my closet under a pile of horror fanzines and the old church missal from my childhood; or, parting the window’s curtains, I’d tell him to take a peek across the courtyard into a certain bedroom, where the beautiful half Puerto Rican, half Irish girl Kathy Morales often paraded about in the nude. Certainly he’d notice the crucifix over my bed, with its darkened bronze Jesus looking forlornly out over time, right next to the photograph I kept of me and my best childhood pal, Albert, posing as teenagers in the park. I would tell John Lennon, “He was always a good kid, and wouldn’t you know it, Mr. Lennon, he’s a priest now, a missionary.”
    And then, for reasons I cannot pinpoint, I’d ask John Lennon, “How about the afterlife”— something I still think a lot about—“I mean, don’t you suppose that if a human being has a soul, that it might continue on?”
    “Can’t say for sure,” he’d answer, “but once you’re dead, you probably stay dead.”
    “But haven’t you ever dreamed about lasting forever?”
    “Not really,” he’d say a little sternly. “I sometimes dream up songs, which is good enough for me.”
    “But haven’t you ever wanted that?”
    “I suppose one should.”
    “There must be something, don’t you think?” I’d press further.
    “Who in Aunt Mary’s kitchen knows!” he’d snap. “We’ll all find out one day, won’t we?”
    Finally, in the stillness of that imagining, I would ask the former Beatle the question that I was always asking myself: “Have you ever felt completely alone in this life?” To which John Lennon would reply, “Always.”
    *  *  *
    Well, we all know what happened to him that December: I first heard about it while watching some PBS show, when a female newscaster, half in tears and looking rather shaken, broke in with the startling news. The following weekend Max and I actually played a gig (an unusual thing for us) at a bar on the West Side—not of our songs, but those of the Beatles. Later, I learned what a friend of my brother’s wife had told her. Married to one of the cops who had taken John Lennon to the hospital, she reported that Mr. Lennon had been polite and ever thankful to the officers, to the end.
    And then it all passed. Long after I’d left my office job, in my new life as a high-school teacher, I’d occasionally remember that chance meeting with John Lennon so long ago. I still have that copy of A Spaniard in the Works , and I still think of that day when he signed it. Above all, despite the futility of the thought, I’d often wonder if he had ever listened to our songs, and, if so, what he might have told us about them.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
    Copyright © 2015 by The Estate of Oscar Hijuelos
Foreword copyright © 2015 by Craig Nova
Cover copyright © 2015 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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