A Million Drops

by Victor del Arbol

  “I didn’t know what you’d want so I brought a little of everything.”

  Gonzalo quickly glanced at them: copies of National Geographic, a few of History magazine, and a couple of books from his library.

  Javier asked him how he felt, because it seemed an inevitable question. Gonzalo gave an equally clichéd response and then made a joke about the bruises having deformed his face; his son gave a pity-laugh. Gonzalo could never have made it as a comic. After that, the conversation died painfully and they both sank into the awkward silence that always made them so uncomfortable until finally they parted, feeling relieved and guilty. But this time Javier stayed, pondering something he left floating in the air, unstated. Gonzalo waited in silence for his son to speak, assuming that, like always, he’d finally trail off, abandoning his attempts at communication. But Javier leaned forward, as though making an effort not to hide this time. And suddenly he asked a question. Far from being formulaic, it dropped like a bomb, something that had been waiting in his mouth to explode.

  “Papá, why do you hate me?”

  Gonzalo suddenly felt himself flush, felt a knot in his throat, which he forced down by swallowing. He thought how unfair it was for his son to bear the blame for something that was entirely not his fault, and felt wretched and petty. He wanted to hug his son, to hold him to his broken ribs without so much as wincing in pain. But habit and shame—so stupid, with someone you love—kept him from doing it. Instead, he simply squeezed Javier’s slim forearm tightly.

  “I don’t hate you, Javier, don’t say that.”

  “But you don’t love me either, do you?”

  Now, contemplating the sunlight and shadows dappling the ferns, breathing in the smell of wet grass by the palm tree, he regretted his inadequate and evasive response, which Javier had greeted with a look of incomprehension. Gonzalo didn’t hate him; he’d never hated him. Javier was his son—he was, Gonzalo insisted, to convince himself. It didn’t matter if the boy’s biological father was some stranger who’d spent the night in his bed, Javier belonged to him just as much as Patricia did. He’d held him in his arms since he was a baby, had put him to sleep, soothed him when he cried, tended his fevers; he’d watched him grow up, at first clinging to Gonzalo’s legs and then slowly letting go, getting farther and farther as the years passed and he approached adolescence. And now, on the verge of manhood, Javier was ready to fly solo and yet afraid of the void, despite his seeming arrogance. Gonzalo should have told him the truth. Should have said I love you, and that the years of silence between them didn’t matter, that he’d always be there for him, no matter what he did, come what may. He should have told him that he was his son, and nothing in the world mattered more.

  “Do you think Grandpa Elías would be proud of you?”

  The question, which Javier asked just before leaving, had thrown Gonzalo for a loop. It was clear that his son was on edge, going through something. The loneliness of his transformation was tearing him up and he didn’t know what to do about it.

  “I don’t know,” Gonzalo replied honestly. He’d spent his whole life in the shadow of a ghost he called his father—a myth, a legend. The son of a hero, whose faint light couldn’t compete with a blazing sun whose rays burned all they touched. He was like the ferns in the courtyard, struggling pitifully to reach the sunlight blocked out by the giant palm.

  Gonzalo thought about his son’s question again. And the thoughtless response he’d given.

  “A father’s pride is important until you have your own children. Then you realize that the past isn’t what matters. I don’t know whether or not my father would be proud of me, Javier. But I do know that I’d like you to be.”

  Javier had bowed his head, searching for the words, trying to find his way through the door that he himself had opened. Then he gazed at his father in sorrow, as though trapped at the bottom of a well, his arms raised as he cried for help.

  “There’s something you should know…something I want to tell you, but I don’t know how to start.”

  “At the beginning. Start at the beginning.”

  But Javier immediately backpedaled, regretting his outburst of sincerity. What was the beginning? he wondered. It was too confusing, he didn’t even know how or when he’d started becoming something he didn’t want to be.

  “Forget it, it’s nothing.”

  “Javier…”

  “Really, it’s nothing. I hope the pajamas are the right size. I picked them out myself.”

  The truth was, the pajamas were enormous and, frankly, hideous—dark brown with white piping. But he wouldn’t have taken them off for anything in the world. The two of them had been so close to true communication that Gonzalo felt exasperated at the way Javier had suddenly backed off. Something had frightened him, maybe the possibility of them finally having the courage to be honest with each other. His son had darted up like a little fish curiously approaching a scuba diver’s fingers, and then at the last minute swished back off into the dark waters from which he’d come.

  But Javier would be back. Now that the door was open, he’d be back.

  Gonzalo wondered if his ten minutes were up and looked down at his watch; it had only been five. Time seemed to shrink and expand in his mind, unconnected to the real world. He wanted a coffee and could either wait for the nurse or try to make it on his own, first to the sliding glass door and from there to the waiting room where the vending machines were. He took a deep breath and held it, and then forced his aching body to stand. This must be what getting old is like, he thought, shuffling toward the door: Your body turns against you, puts up a fight, breaks down, undependable.

  He had no money. The realization struck him as he stared at the coin slot. It reminded him of being a kid, at the weekly market, standing at the churro stand, gazing enviously at the greasy paper cones people were walking away with. And then Laura would appear and give him a sad face that said, You can’t always have what you want. Even if it’s just a paper cone full of churros. Or a crappy vending-machine coffee.

  “Let me treat you. Black?” Without awaiting a reply, the young man slipped some coins into the slot and handed him the small plastic cup. Then he repeated the operation. Gonzalo noticed that he ordered tea for himself, no milk.

  “What are you doing here, Siaka? I thought you’d have gotten on that train to Paris when you didn’t hear from me.”

  Gonzalo sensed veiled joy in the young man’s smile.

  “Don’t think I wasn’t tempted, several times. But when I found out what happened to you, I decided to wait a little longer. So, how big was the truck than ran you over?”

  Gonzalo glanced at the clock on the wall above the vending machine. The nurse had said she’d be back in ten minutes. It had already been eight.

  “The laptop is gone, with all the files. When Atxaga attacked me, I lost consciousness, and when I came to, the computer was gone. I have no idea who took it, or what they’ll do with the information.”

  Siaka held his gaze, unblinking. “Did you open the confidential file?”

  “I didn’t have time.”

  Siaka took a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Gonzalo.

  “This is the prosecutor your sister trusted. You need to go see him and tell him what’s going on.”

  “Did you have a backup?”

  Siaka shook his head resolutely.

  “So what are we going to do?”

  To Siaka the answer was obvious. “What you’re going to do is get out of here and start looking for that laptop. And as for me, I’m going to hide out until the prosecutor calls me to testify.”

  “You must be kidding me.”

  No, he was not.

  “We made a deal, Gonzalo. When I make a deal, I follow through to the end. So try not to let that guy kill you, at least until after the trial.” Siaka smiled faintly, as though the situation were mildl
y amusing. “And I’ll try to keep the Matryoshka from hunting me down…By the way, you need some serious help with fashion sense. Those pajamas are awful.”

  The doctor flat out refused to discharge him, insisting that Gonzalo needed one more week in the hospital under observation. Coming out of a coma was not the same as getting over a cold. But Gonzalo had made up his mind and nothing was going to change it. So they had him sign a voluntary discharge and gave him a brusque warning that the hospital would not be held responsible if any complications arose. After sitting patiently through the sermon, he packed his things, without informing Lola. He was sure that the preoccupied watchdog supposedly guarding the door would tell Alcázar, who would in turn immediately inform his father-in-law.

  After walking out of the hospital, Gonzalo raised his arm and hailed a taxi, his body feeling like a punching bag. The pain was so deep it hurt down to his very soul, but he managed to climb into the taxi.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  But Gonzalo’s expression made clear that this was no joke. He was leaving home, at least until the whole Atxaga business was taken care of. He didn’t want that maniac coming anywhere near Lola or the kids.

  “It won’t be for long. The police are looking for him, Alcázar, too. One of them will find him.”

  It was a flimsy excuse. The house was as secure as a bunker, cameras and motion detectors all over the place. And if that wasn’t enough, the two men chatting amiably with Patricia down by the pool looked more than capable of protecting them. The inspector had been right: His father-in-law took his family’s safety very seriously. The truth was, he needed to be alone so he could concentrate on the Matryoshka. He’d learned his lesson with Atxaga and wasn’t going to let his investigation put his family at risk. The bodyguards might be able to stop a small fry like Atxaga, but Gonzalo might have to deal with guys as bad as Zinoviev, or worse. And as soon as word got out that the prosecutor had filed to reopen his sister’s investigation, there would be no stopping it.

  But…was that really the reason? It was important, yes, even vital. But it was not his only motive for wanting to get away from Lola for a little while. His aborted conversation with Javier had made him reflect: He was losing his family, and not because of external circumstances he was caught up in but because of eighteen years of silent recrimination. He couldn’t forgive or forget, but he didn’t have what it took to ask for a divorce or turn the page either. And having sat on the fence for so long was taking its toll. He had to make up his mind and not keep avoiding a decision. He had to get away so he could think, get some distance, feel the weight of his own loneliness.

  That night he packed a small overnight bag, just a few essentials. No need to pass the point of no return, not yet. Lola sat on the bed the whole time as he folded a few shirts and some underwear. She made no move to stop him; there were no tears, no scenes. Gonzalo’s final image of Lola was of painted toenails, her feet together, knees pulled in to her chest, and a penetrating, accusatory look. When he went to give her a kiss, she turned her face away coldly.

  “A month ago you told me you were a new man, that you were going to take care of us. You begged me to let you prove you could do it. And now you’re just taking off. I don’t understand.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing, Lola. Taking care of you.”

  He told Patricia and Javier that he was taking a trip for a few days. Patricia asked endless questions, as usual, and he invented a string of lies on the fly; finally she was moderately appeased when he promised to bring her something back. Javier walked him out to the car, carrying his bag. Since their conversation at the hospital he’d seemed more somber, more restrained.

  “You’re not really going on a trip, are you?”

  “In a way I am. But not the kind of work trip I told your sister.”

  Javier nodded, grateful that his father had at least not lied to him. Tacitly acknowledging this, he reciprocated by not demanding an explanation that his father wasn’t going to give him anyway.

  “How’s this all going to end?”

  Gonzalo couldn’t answer a question like that with a cliché, couldn’t fire off some lighthearted response. His son’s troubled face deserved better than that. He would have liked to sit down with him on the porch, have a few beers and secretly share a cigarette, bonding over the way they were breaking Lola’s rules. He’d have liked to explain everything, even though Gonzalo himself didn’t know what to explain. What was everything? When and where had it all begun? At the lake? With his father’s memory? With Laura? Or his discovery of Lola’s infidelity, which had brought his son into the world?

  “I don’t know, Javier.” That was as sincere as he could afford to be. “But one way or another, it will end.”

  Javier felt strange in Gonzalo’s embrace, slightly uncomfortable, maybe because he sensed how awkward his father felt. They were out of practice. His father wanted to hug him like a man, an equal. But Javier still longed for the warmth and affection Gonzalo showered on Patricia. He stood at the garage door, staring after the red taillights until his father’s car disappeared around a curve at the end of the street. For a few seconds he could still hear the engine, and then came silence, broken by a dog’s frenzied barking. His father was right. Everything comes to an end, one way or another.

  The prosecutor’s office had a sort of sad yet dignified air, somehow bleak yet industrious, like the man himself, who sat listening with polite concentration, mimicking Gonzalo’s expressions to demonstrate his solidarity. His favorite composer—Rossini—was on in the background: an aria. Once Gonzalo had finished explaining what had brought him there, the prosecutor turned down the volume.

  “The information you’ve just given me is of capital importance,” he whispered, with the air of a cloistered monk who had little access to the outside world. His gaze was fixed on a small calendar propped up on one corner of the desk; each month had a different illustration. The one the prosecutor was staring at featured an elaborate stone balustrade overlooking a lush garden, its colors standing out against the yellowish-blue sky visible above the rooftops. It made you want to be there, contemplating the sunset, carefree, floating motionless like a specimen in a jar of formaldehyde. Maybe that was why the prosecutor hadn’t changed the month and the calendar was still on June.

  “Laura detested those people as much as I do,” he added.

  Gonzalo studied the man carefully. His face looked sharp, like a knife. He probably didn’t get enough sleep or eat well. Gonzalo wondered if he was on some kind of anti-anxiety medication. Or perhaps, like Gonzalo, he simply worked all hours of the day and night to keep from thinking.

  “So what are you going to do about it?” Gonzalo asked, perhaps too vehemently, causing the prosecutor to raise an eyebrow and shoot him a look that hovered between compassion and displeasure. Something in his manner told Gonzalo that the man was conflicted. The Rossini in the background gave him the aura of one of the saints depicted in tapestries and paintings on the walls of his boarding school, when he was a kid. Troubled-looking saints who wrestled with their faith, unable to live holy lives while surrounded by so much evil. Broken martyrs, frail of flesh, whose mystic sacrifices did nothing but inspire fear and revulsion and the desire to run away.

  “What exactly do you expect me to do, counselor?” he asked, his eyes calm and striking but full of sorrow.

  “This means Laura didn’t murder Zinoviev,” Gonzalo pointed out.

  The prosecutor spread his hands in a gesture demonstrating that rather than consolation, this news was somehow unsettling.

  “And your sister’s witness contacted you, and he’s willing to testify against the Matryoshka…Is that correct?”

  Gonzalo nodded. Though he didn’t say so openly, the prosecutor’s question seemed to indicate that he’d made some sort of decision.

  “Why do I get the terrible feeling that I’m being used in a way I don’t
understand and for a purpose I can’t divine?”

  “What do you mean? You serve the Ministry of Justice, it’s your responsibility to intervene.”

  The prosecutor suddenly stiffened and gave Gonzalo a look of slight disapproval, but he remained unruffled. And Gonzalo saw then his graciousness and restraint, his humble melancholic nature, and the pride that allowed him to evaluate Gonzalo’s words to the best of his ability.

  “My obligation, Counselor, is to find the most legitimate path between truth and appearance. Setting the wheels of justice in motion to trap these people will not be an easy task. You’ve already intuited as much, and as I told your sister—whom I was very fond of, I might add—the truth is not enough when it comes to the law. It must be proved, beyond any reasonable doubt, despite others doing everything in their power to distort it. They will use every trick in the book, and there are plenty of them. You can think me weak if you like, think that I’m afraid of the challenge, but the fact is that I play this game because I believe in its rules. You want me to bite off more than I can chew, and I’m willing to do so…provided you’ve got conclusive proof. Bring me those dossiers, back up your claims with solid legal grounds, and I’ll listen. I’m not going to let them destroy my career and harass my family if I’m not convinced that this will be worth it. When you show me I’ve got grounds to take on the scores of lawyers who will be waiting to pounce on me—and the examining magistrate—then you can rest assured that I’ll take this on. In the meantime, good day.”

  Gonzalo walked out of the office feeling as though he’d behaved like an idiot, insulting and doubting a good man. Everyone was expecting things from him, and he wasn’t sure he was up to the task, but he had no choice. This had all been dumped on his shoulders.

  He had to find that laptop, or none of Laura’s work could be used as evidence.