Among the Lost

by Emiliano Monge

Who would have thought you were so fragile … so strange? Mausoleo thinks, looking at Epitafio, whose chin and neck and chest are bathed by the sweltering sun rising in the distance. Who would have thought that some woman could get you so worried? the giant broods to himself, since he cannot imagine a woman unsettling a man: Mausoleo cannot imagine, will never be able to imagine that; to this man who came from nothing into the world and who, adrift in this nothingness, has tried to live in the world, a woman is the only home on earth.

  You were such a bastard a while ago! … Deciding everybody’s fate … Now you’re begging for her to call you! Mausoleo thinks and, looking away from Epitafio to gaze through the windscreen of the Minos as silhouettes are formed by the sun rays on Sombras de Agua, he adds: A fucking bastard, now you’re begging for her to call … for some woman to love you!

  Just some random woman, Mausoleo thinks as he watches the swooping ballet of a thousand blackbirds in the sky: just as he is incapable of imagining that this woman is a home to Epitafio, so, too, he cannot imagine that Estela — who, high in the sierra, has lapsed back into unconsciousness under the startled gaze of the triplet who struggles to his feet since his dogs have sensed other presences — aside from being Epitafio’s only home, is his whole world.

  Epitafio who, at this moment, having seen the flock of blackbirds quiver and whirl in the sky like a cloud of smoke, drives faster and edges dangerously close to a trailer filled with pigs. ‘I wanted to be away from here by now … This road always has too much traffic,’ then, turning the steering wheel and shifting up a gear, he floors the accelerator and overtakes the truck blocking his path, while Sepelio and Mausoleo turn to stare at him: for some time now Epitafio’s only utterances have been ravings.

  ‘I was hoping we’d be long past the plateau by now … fucking traffic,’ Hewhoisdeafofmind grunts, weaving back into his own lane, shifting gears again and startling his fellow travellers. But before Sepelio can react and distil his rage into words — I need to leave Epitafio to his terrors, don’t let him step back from the brink of the abyss that is consuming him — Hewhoisdeafofmind slaps his head: ‘How can you not love me? … Why now when I’ve finally made up my mind?

  ‘Why haven’t you said anything when I’ve said I want only you … or maybe you don’t want the same thing?’ Epitafio cries, taking both hands off the wheel and slapping himself in the head again, fuelling the exultation of Sepelio, who is staring through the windscreen at the sun as it pales on the wheatfields and silhouettes the tractors, the rocks, the houses, smiling at the morning and at his good fortune: There I was thinking you wouldn’t believe me … that you’d believe me only because you couldn’t believe it … Who would have thought you’d do the work for me … that you would further my plans …?

  Who would have thought that you’d believe me because you want to believe … because you cannot bring yourself to believe anything else … that you would have more faith than me in my plans! Sepelio thinks, stroking the mobile phone he is holding and smiling excitedly at the trees and the grain silos in the distance. But Sepelio’s glee is burst by a sudden scream: ‘What the fuck are you doing?

  ‘Jesus fuck … what are you doing?’ Mausoleo roars again, cowering in his seat, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head back: brought abruptly back to earth by the screams — even as Sepelio withdraws into his shell — Epitafio savagely jerks the wheel of the Minos and returns to his own lane, narrowly avoiding the oncoming truck blaring its horn. He’s going to get us killed … The dumb fuck is going to kill us! Mausoleo thinks, while Sepelio silently gloats: That’s it … he’s finally lost it … This is my moment! and Epitafio pleads: Fucking hell … what’s going on with me? but the words from his mouth are: ‘Fucking Estela … what’s going on with you?’

  Meanwhile, inside the container of the Minos, the nameless not yet sold who are hanging by their hands wait for their bodies to stop swinging and, when they have finally regained their balance, go back to talking amongst themselves.

  This is the third time I’ve come … The second time was worse than this … We were kidnapped, piled into a truck and taken to a house … They took our phones away and phoned relatives to demand a ransom … They broke the women’s legs. They used a club to break the men’s backs … so they couldn’t run away … so they didn’t have to guard them … They left everyone just sprawled on the floor … to be used when they needed us to talk.

  This was my first time … I’d never … I never really wanted to make this journey … I was all on my own back home … I held out better than most … I watched everyone leave … I stayed behind until there was no one left … nothing but my house … my village … nothing but the deserted fields … nothing but silence and a soundless wind … until even the flies fell silent.

  I can’t even begin to count … I don’t know how many times I’ve come … The last was a long time ago … nine years or so … and I made it … I even had a house here … a job and a house … but immigration officers raided the fields and rounded up everyone … Back again, the little dream was over … Now here I am … back again … What can I do except try … keep on trying?

  Epitafio switches off the headlights of the truck; they are no longer necessary since the power deep within the earth that sets the volcanoes blazing now bathes the plateau known as Sombras de Agua in light. He pushes the engine to the maximum, and once more says: ‘Fucking Estela, what’s going on with you?’ although what he intended was to tongue-lash Mausoleo: Chickenshit … what’s wrong with you? … get a grip. Don’t be such a faggot coward! Then he laughs to himself, overtakes a couple of cars and comes to a tanker lorry.

  Having passed the tanker, Epitafio reaches out an arm, snorts two lines to shake himself into life, grabs the pack of cigarettes, pops a bottle of beer and completes the thought that has been nagging at him: Fuck’s sake, Estela … what’s going on with you? … Why don’t you want to love me? … Why not now forever! Meanwhile, Mausoleo is brooding: Bastard … Who are you to decide my fate? … You’re more likely to fuck it up completely … You’re going to get us killed because you’re hung up on some woman!, while Sepelio, turning back towards the window and watching two mustangs racing in the distance, is thinking: Now I know you’re going to believe me!

  Now I know you’re going to believe me, not because you don’t suspect anything … but because you already suspect something … You’ve started to suspect something is wrong and I didn’t even have to say a word! Sepelio thinks again, diverting his attention from the distant mustangs to the interior of the cab where his excitement is piqued as he watches as Epitafio, coughing smoke from his lungs and trying to allay his panic, gestures to a road sign by an area of common land that reads EJIDO SADA 27 and says: ‘We’re going to stop there … just before that ejido.

  ‘Make sure you’re ready, we’re going to stop here … just next to that area of common land we’ll be sell … You promised me that what we had was real … that it would never end … that wherever you went you would carry me within you … Why haven’t you called me?’ Epitafio adds, without realising that midway through the sentence he has allowed his fears to overcome him again and without realising that his fears have turned Sepelio’s elation into pleasure: You’ll believe me because you already believe it … I didn’t even have to plant the idea in your head … You don’t know it yet, but you have made a trap for yourself … You have created the very pain I wanted to inflict on you!

  ‘Why won’t you talk to me when I’ve told you that you will always be my home … that I will always be your refuge? … Up there among the rocks and in my room and in the fucking truck I told you over and over … that you were born in me and I was born in you … What’s going on with you that you won’t even talk to me?’ Epitafio roars, alarming Mausoleo and transforming Sepelio’s pleasure into something pure and translucent: You’ll believe me because you already think it has happened … though you don’t yet know that’s what
you think … You manufactured these terrors yourself … Now you’re just waiting for something to have happened to her … You’ll believe me because all you can think is that she hasn’t called you because she cannot call you!

  ‘I don’t believe you don’t love me … It’s impossible … It’s not possible that you haven’t called because you don’t want to call me … Something must have happened to you!’ Hewhoisdeafofmind protests, and, while Sepelio continues to gloat over himself and his plan, this time Mausoleo’s shock, which until now was no more than a reflex, takes the form of a warning and then, finally, a decision: glancing at Epitafio, Mausoleo thinks: I was right not to stake everything on him … to play them off against each other … This idiot is not the good guy … He’s not the tough bastard I thought he was … This fucker can’t even decide his own fate.

  And all over some woman … all this over a woman! Mausoleo carries on, and will continue to carry on even when all this is over, incapable of understanding that Estela is not merely a woman. Estela, who, a moment earlier, awoke high up in the sierra and was petrified to see the window glow with the light of day and to find that the man who took her into his shack has vanished. Mausoleo looks away from Epitafio, he will never understand that, more than simply a woman, Theblindwomanofthedesert is a history: the only history in which Epitafio ever imagined his life might one day be written.

  On the other hand, this bastard is a lot calmer now … more composed, self-controlled … and much more excited, Mausoleo thinks, observing Sepelio: the giant will never understand that Estela — who now struggles to her feet as best she can and, as best she can, sets about looking for the man who helped her, because she needs a telephone and a gun — is the sole, the unique foundation to Epitafio’s entire universe: the only constant in a life that began in uncertainty and here, in uncertainty, is about to end.

  While Hewhoisdeafofmind begins to rant again: ‘Something must have happened to you … Otherwise why haven’t you called me … Shit … Someone must have done something to you!’, Sepelio smiles at the giant, closes his right eye and gives a little nod, then turns back to the window: You’ll believe it, because you want to believe that something has happened to her … because you want to believe that someone has hurt your Estela … You’ll see her in the photograph because you’re convinced that something like that has happened, Sepelio thinks, savouring the moment. You will see her in the photo because you can already see her in your mind, Sepelio thinks in his heart of hearts and his moment brings with it a surge of bile: finally all the years of bitterness are over, finally the moment has come for revenge, a revenge he has been plotting for so long and is now playing out as it did so often in his mind: with Epitafio falling to pieces: Everything will go exactly as I wanted … I’ll finally put an end to all the time I’ve spent dealing with your shit … to all these years!

  Sepelio’s interior monologue is suddenly interrupted by a new outburst from Epitafio: ‘Why would something have happened? … Nothing can happen to you … You don’t want to call me … That’s what’s happened!’ Sepelio’s smile broadens to a laugh, even as he realises that he must hurry, that he needs to exploit Epitafio’s doubts, he turns away from the window and, in a tone that is firm yet deliberate, says: ‘What if she hasn’t called because something has happened to her?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What if she wants to call but she can’t?’ Sepelio says, suddenly feeling as though his cage is closing on him.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Epitafio asks, reducing the speed of the truck, but not the speed of his thoughts, ‘What the fuck did you say? Why would you—?’

  ‘What if Estela wants to call you, but can’t?’ Sepelio interrupts Epitafio, feeling his heart pound in his chest as the cage in which he was prisoner begins to open again.

  ‘Why couldn’t she talk to me? … Why wouldn’t Estela be able to call?’ Hewhoisdeafofmind says, allowing the Minos to slow further, even as his mind races faster. ‘You’d do better to get yourself ready, we’re almost there … Stop spouting shit … The ejido is right over— ’

  ‘Maybe something happened to her … Maybe that’s why she hasn’t called,’ Sepelio interrupts again and the walls of his prison crumble to dust. ‘Don’t tell me it hasn’t occurred to you.’

  ‘Why would anything have happened?’ Hewhoisdeafofmind says, pulling over to the side as the shudder threatening his spine finally shakes him. ‘Maybe something has happened … Maybe someone has done something to her.’

  ‘That’s what I was just thinking … Something’s happened to Estela,’ Sepelio says, shaking off the dust and the rubble from his prison cell and, feeling his anger swell to blind fury, he adds: ‘Someone has done something to Estela!’

  ‘Who would want to hurt her?’ Epitafio says, turning off the ignition as the shudder racing down his spine fills his head with the faces of a thousand men. ‘Who would dare pick a fight with Estela?’

  ‘It could be anyone … at the checkpoint or up in the mountains,’ Sepelio suggests, smiling to himself and feeling his fury transformed into sheer hatred. ‘Maybe even someone at the orphanage …’

  ‘Why did you mention the orphanage?’ Hewhoisdeafofmind snarls angrily, but in his mind the thousand faces melt away leaving only that of Father Nicho.

  ‘Maybe it was Father Nicho,’ Sepelio suggests, as his private smile turns to a inward laugh.

  ‘Bastard fucking priest … that son of a bitch Nicho.’

  ‘How many times did she tell you … I must have heard her tell you a hundred times … You shouldn’t trust that old man … he’s plotting something,’ Sepelio says as his laughter rises to a cackle.

  ‘That damn priest … I’ve been an idiot … why didn’t I listen …? You’re right, she did tell me,’ Hewhoisdeafofmind wails, beating his head with his fists as the face of the priest is transformed into that of Estela.

  ‘That treacherous bastard.’

  ‘That’s what you were trying to tell me,’ Epitafio howls, forgetting for a moment where he is and once more addressing those who are absent. ‘That’s what you wanted to tell me back in the jungle … Why didn’t I listen to you when we were in the truck?’

  ‘Father fucking Nicho … How could you do this to them … How could you betray them?’ Sepelio says again, choking back his jubilation and, feeling his rage transform into hope, he asks: ‘Why don’t I call him?’

  ‘“When I wake up, remind me I have something to tell you” … That’s what you said back in the clearing … but I wasn’t listening to you and now it’s too late,’ Hewhoisdeafofmind howls, speaking to the memory of Estela, and, feeling his world collapse around him, he adds: ‘It’s my fault … if anything has happened to you it will be my fault.’

  ‘So should I call him or what?’ Sepelio says, waving his phone — and the silent laugh inside him dies away as he sees Mausoleo cower in his seat.

  ‘If they’ve done anything to you, it’s my fault, it’s my fault … I let you down and I promised I would never let you down,’ Epitafio howls, as a reel of memories spools past, showing him every day he spent with Estela, the woman who, even now, is in the mountains still looking for the triplet who brought her into his home.

  ‘I’m going to phone the bastard … I’m going to talk to that traitor!’

  ‘I failed you and I shouldn’t have failed you … I let you down and I told you that I would always be your map … I promised you!’ Epitafio says, picturing Estela in the rocks behind the orphanage, on the roof of the ancient building, in the basement that reeked of burning flesh, on the bed in his room, in the cab of his battered old truck, in the bedrooms of a thousand and one hotels, in La Carpa, where she governed for many years: in every single place where, thanks to her, he felt he was a man and not simply a scab.

  ‘I’m calling … I’m phoning Father Nicho,’ Sepelio says, pretending to dial the number of the old man who foun
ded the orphanage known as El Paraíso. ‘It’s ringing … I’m going to give that bastard a piece of my mind.’

  ‘How could I allow something to happen to you? … I let you down and I let myself down … how could I have failed myself so badly?’ Epitafio roars, pounding his head with his fists again, watching as they crumble, the memories of the moments he spent with Estela crumble, those moments when he was truly a man, accepting that his world has fallen apart and feeling himself crushed by the weight of nothingness.

  ‘He’s not answering … The fucking bastard isn’t answering,’ Sepelio says, taking the phone from his ear, then, glancing at the giant who has so shrivelled in his seat he has become a dwarf, and, seizing the moment, the moment when he feels he will finally be reborn, he stares at the back of Epitafio’s head: ‘He’s sent a message … the bastard has sent a photo.’

  ‘How could he do this to us? … Why didn’t I listen to you while there was still time … How could he betr …?’ Hewhoisdeafofmind trails off in mid-sentence, because he has heard what Sepelio has said, and, turning his face, he feels the weight of nothingness crush the present moment.

  ‘That son of a bitch … Epitafio … Fuck … The bastard … You need to see this!’ shouts Sepelio, who is sitting next to a dwarf attempting to disappear altogether, then, offering the phone to Hewhoisdeafofmind, he says, ‘You really need to see this … The bastard … He’s killed her.’

  ‘Who … What … What the fuck?’ Epitafio says, oblivious now to what he is saying, since he already knows who and what, ‘Who … What … Why?’ he babbles, stretching out his hand, grabbing the phone and feeling the nothingness that ravaged his memories now come for his desires.

  ‘Father Nicho … Father Nicho has murdered her … She’s riddled with bullets,’ Sepelio says, pointing to the phone he has just handed to Epitafio, and, seeing the man who humiliated him for so long crumple, he feels the black bird in his chest that opened its wings so recently, finally take flight: ‘You should have listened to her … You should have listened!’