The Man With No Borders

by Richard C. Morais

  But I knew, as did my mother, and when Uncle Augustin turned to Mamá, her face was entirely blotted out by the sunglasses and black lace. But you could still sense, even through this impenetrable black mask, how coldly she was surveying her former lover.

  “Isabel, it is me,” Uncle Augustin said softly, bending forward to kiss her. “Just me. I have been sick, thinking of you nonstop. My heart is broken . . .”

  Mother reared her head back to avoid his kiss. Augustin blanched and stood awkwardly for a moment, holding his homburg in his hand, deciding what he should do next. He finally bowed at her, deeply, and came toward me.

  When I saw that pig of an uncle heading toward me, I was filled with our family’s shame. I could only think about how the memory of my brother, if this ever came out, would forever be tainted by this horrible truth, and that the true person that was my brother would be entirely lost to the world. This could not happen, and in that moment I swore to Juan, on his grave, that I would keep the family secret—his secret—until the day I died.

  “Nephew. I am so sorry. We will miss Juanito.”

  “How could you betray Papá like that? You, the man he loves most.”

  Uncle Augustin looked like he might get sick. He was white and trembling and clutching the rim of his hat. But he gathered himself. “Affairs of the heart are not so simple, José,” he said under his breath, looking over at Papá, who was greeting some latecomers from San Sebastián. “Perhaps you will understand this one day.”

  “I understand you are a coward and a hypocrite and not to be trusted.”

  He pursed his lips. “Are you going to tell your father?”

  “No. I couldn’t do that to him. But it’s over. I don’t want you anywhere near my parents. I don’t even want you in the same city. That’s my price. Figure something out. Why you have to go away.”

  Uncle Augustin looked at the white lilies resting atop Juan’s mahogany casket, and you could see, in his face, that he had given up. “Bueno. If your mother wishes it.”

  “She just gave you her opinion on the matter.”

  I was about to leave, but as I turned away, Uncle Augustin said, “Goodbye, nephew. I suppose you will never talk to me again. Just remember. I saw how you pushed Juan into the road. We are both, each in our way, responsible for hurting our brothers.”

  He hit me where I hurt most, and I was shaken, but I did not want to give him the satisfaction. “No, we are not, Uncle. What you did was pure deceit, deliberately plotted, and all you are worried about now is that your secret will come out, even though my brother, your son, lies dead in front of you. You are despicable.”

  “You have no idea what is in my heart,” he hissed angrily. “How heavy . . .”

  I walked away from him, took up my place next to Mamá. Papá was on the other side of her and solicitously holding her elbow, in case she might faint. A short while later, Uncle Augustin, his face set in stone, took up his position next to his brother.

  Thuribles were swung, the bishop began his doleful lament, and the air filled with the smells of smoking myrrh and lilies rotting in the sun. A few minutes after the service started, however, a roar and commotion rose from the mourners in the back of the gathering. The bishop, looking irritated, stopped his funeral oration. We all followed his gaze.

  El Caudillo, in his bulletproof Cadillac, surrounded by his African Corps bodyguards, was coming down the lilac-lined cemetery drive.

  To come to a boy’s funeral—it was an unheard-of thing—and there were excited murmurs. Franco emerged from the car in formal blue-and-red uniform, with ribbons and medals attached to his breast, the embroidered cap and trademark sunglasses hiding his face. The mourners bowed their heads and parted as Franco walked up the path to the front, where Papá, Mamá, and I were sitting in front-row chairs, clutching handkerchiefs to our brows and upper lips.

  We stood and El Caudillo embraced us.

  “The burden of the mother is great,” Franco said, kissing blank-faced Mamá. “I am sorry for your great loss, Doña Isabel.

  “To lose a son is an unfathomable tragedy,” Franco told Papá. “You have given so much to la Patria, and the state shall not forget your sacrifices. We shall find a way, one way or another, to give back to your family.”

  Papá murmured some response and turned to introduce us, but El Caudillo had already moved on to me. “Yes. Yes. José María. We met before on the Sella. And I of course read about your recent sea-trout catch in Galicia. Quite a killing.”

  “Sí, Generalísimo.”

  He made that odd chuckling noise, like a cough, and reached out to pat my cheek. “You are quite dangerous to Spain’s fish stock, young man!”

  At that moment the bishop, surrounded by the young priests swinging smoky thuribles, cleared his throat. El Caudillo, remembering where he was, walked over and stood in front of Augustin. It was almost like he instinctively knew Uncle Augustin had, through his actions, relinquished his position of respect in our family. Franco waited expectantly, until my uncle gave up his seat and shuffled down the line. El Caudillo made the sign of the cross and nodded at the bishop to continue with the service.

  Mother and Father, heads down as they shook and wept, shoveled dirt onto Juanito’s casket. I had brought a small jar of sand from the beach of San Sebastián that Juan so loved; I emptied its contents onto his casket. The feelings I had suppressed since that fatal push suddenly welled up in me, and I could not stop crying and shaking. I felt arms around me, Papá’s and my friend Manuel’s and his mother’s—never my own mother’s—but there simply was no consolation to be had.

  When I finally looked up, I saw that El Caudillo had been observing me closely, without comment. As soon as we made eye contact, he dropped his head, almost like he was shy, and then abruptly left. I watched Franco retreat, but my mind was entirely elsewhere. I turned back to look at my brother’s grave.

  Why didn’t I let you come fishing with me in Galicia? Why? I would do anything to fish the Sella again with you, Juanito. Please, God. I ache for that.

  Papá and I were sitting in the library at home in San Sebastián. He was behind his partner’s desk, a stack of letters and bills to his side, toying with the paper knife. The Thomas Cook envelope with the airline ticket was on the table between us.

  I wouldn’t touch it. “I don’t want to go.”

  Papá sighed. He picked up his soft cigarette pack and offered me one. I shook my head. I didn’t want anything from him.

  “You should really look at this as an opportunity. I thought you wanted to explore the world, fish other rivers.”

  “Not like this. Not while everything has fallen apart.”

  “You’re driving me crazy. You’re worse than your mother.”

  I thought I might leap across the table and choke him.

  “José, it’s time for you to stop this childishness. Franco has given us one of only two private-banking licenses in all Spain. We’ll make a killing, helping all these newly wealthy Spaniards get their money out of the country and properly invested in safe havens. Hostia. Imagine the possibilities.”

  “Ask Augustin.”

  “That cabrón? He’s moving to Mexico City. Says he’s tired of working for me, always under my thumb. I don’t know what has gotten into him.”

  “There are others.”

  “No. No. Go to New York, get your degree at Columbia University as we discussed, and then start your training with the Swiss Federal Credit Bank. It’s all been arranged.”

  He impatiently blew a column of smoke heavenward.

  “Do you know how many young men would kill for this opportunity? To be under the personal patronage of Francisco Franco and to live in New York? Joder. I would have jumped at the chance, if I were your age.”

  “Then you go. How can you pretend nothing happened?”

  “Don’t be so fresh. I am not pretending. I think about Juanito and your mother every day. But, coño, that doesn’t mean we give up on life!”

  I lo
oked down at my lap. “I am afraid.”

  “Well, of course you are, José,” Papá said gently. “That’s normal. Only an idiot wouldn’t be afraid. Matadors are most afraid just before they step into the ring. But what makes the man is that he still steps in for the fight.”

  I looked up, exasperated. “You don’t understand. I’m afraid I will never see Spain again. That I will go into exile and never come back.”

  “Oh Dios mío. What shit.”

  Papá leaned across the table and pushed the envelope at me, the ticket that would take me to the pink continent on the globe in my room.

  “Pick up the fucking ticket and go to fucking America already! Go on now, José María. Qué mierda.”

  A simple wooden crucifix hung above the metal cot in Mother’s room in the psychiatric ward. Her window overlooked the hospital’s grounds. When the nun took me in to see Mamá, she was sitting in her usual way, two fingers clutched by five, staring out the window at the lawn lined by rosebushes. Her side table was covered in rosaries, a large collection of beads in everything from ebony to amethyst, laid out neatly in a line across the table.

  “Doña Isabel. Your son is here to see you . . . Do not upset her, young man. She has her exercises in twenty-five minutes.”

  “Let him stay longer, Sister. He is my only son.”

  “You know the routine. We must stick to the program. It is the doctor’s order.”

  Mother smiled at me and patted the chair next to her.

  “Then we must take advantage of the time we have together.”

  When the nun retreated, I asked Mamá how they were treating her.

  “Very well, José. I feel much better. Did you bring me the rosary?”

  I dug into my pocket and retrieved the rosary that had belonged to her late great-uncle, a monk with a famously large appetite for life. The rope and beads were outsized. He wore the rosary as a belt, tied around his plump waist.

  Mamá took my offering and lovingly and carefully laid it across the side table with the other rosaries. “Thank you, my sweet boy.” When she patted my knee, I saw the thin red scars, up and down her wrists, were still healing.

  “Come home. I miss you.”

  Mother’s eyes were large with fright. “But I don’t want to, José. I just got here. I don’t want to leave.”

  “I mean when you are ready,” I added hastily.

  “It is very calm and soothing here. I have time to be alone. Time to pray and think. Without all the noise.”

  “That’s good. Rest is good.”

  “Your father. He is so loud. So full of energy. There is no peace and quiet around him. No room to breathe. He fills every space he occupies. The quiet here is quite special. You can hear yourself think.”

  “That’s nice, Mother. But I came to tell you something important.”

  She turned her head and looked out the window, clutching her fingers again, as if she were steeling herself for another blow. “Yes?”

  “I am probably going to America. To university. It’s an opportunity for me.”

  She never turned her head from looking out the window. This I expected. But the vehemence with which she spoke next stunned me, and finally made up my mind about what I should do.

  “Look at what I have become, José. Look hard. This is your fate if you stay. Get away from all this. Run as far and fast as you can.”

  It was raining the day I left Spain. Papá and I were escorted to the VIP room in the back of the Bilbao International Airport, which we had entirely to ourselves. He poured us both a scotch from the lounge’s side cabinet and then collapsed on the brown-leather couch beside me. He was constantly squeezing my right knee, reassuring himself I was still there.

  “Forgive me,” he said, his voice quavering. “But seeing you like this, a man heading out into the world—I keep thinking of your mother and brother.”

  I stared straight ahead, dry eyed. Papá was so obviously feeling sorry for himself. I was the last representative of his family, his first family I should say, and now I, too, was leaving his side. But Papá could never be alone, and we both knew, without any words exchanged, that he would have his marriage to my mother annulled and be remarried within a few months—to one of his many mistresses. He was always one to keep moving forward with life, never looking back.

  The door to the lounge swung open and Franco’s minister of fisheries and agricultural affairs strode into the room, his aide carrying his briefcase. Papá and I instantly stood, shook the minister’s hand.

  “I’m off to Barcelona and heard you were here,” the minister said. “Just wanted to come in and personally wish you best of luck, José María. And also tell you, on behalf of El Caudillo, how proud Spain is of you—and what you will do for her in the future.”

  “Thank you, Minister.”

  “May God be with you, my boy.”

  My father thanked the cabinet official for his visit, in his formal and courtly manner, but as soon as the white-haired fisheries minister left, Papá exploded, smacking his fists together.

  “I am not sure why you are getting so worked up,” I said. “I thought it was very decent of him to come say goodbye.”

  “You need to get better at chess.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That little shit didn’t come here out of his own choice. No. No. Trust me. It’s Franco who sent him here. He was ordered to come see you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “José, Franco sent his fisheries minister here for one reason—to personally verify you got on the airplane and actually left the country.”

  “But why?”

  “El Caudillo doesn’t want you fishing his rivers.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When I was in Madrid the other day, the minister of minerals and mining, my old friend, pulled me aside and told me why Franco gave us the banking license—and why all these strings were pulled to get you into Columbia University in New York and the Swiss Federal Credit Bank’s trainee program in Zürich. It’s not just to modernize the nation’s banking industry and reward me personally for my services to the nation. It’s because Franco is obsessed, absolutely livid, about how much fish you catch. This way he gets you out of the country and as far away as possible from his rivers. That’s what he has wanted all along, ever since he saw you fishing the Sella’s Bridge Pool.”

  For a few minutes I couldn’t actually speak. “So,” I finally said. “I am being sent into exile. I might never see Spain again. I was right.”

  Father looked sheepish for a moment. “Not if I can help it, José. We will fish the Sella together again. This, I promise.” He tossed back his scotch.

  My flight was boarding. Papá and I followed our escort down the hall and began crossing the wet tarmac. It was early September, 1961, but the air had already turned to fall, and gusts of rain were getting driven down the runway in our direction, partly from the turning propellers.

  We reached the bottom of the gangway stairs. I looked back at the airport terminal, and saw the white-haired minister of fisheries and agriculture at the window, watching me board the DC-3 to Madrid and New York. Somehow I knew, even then, that I was finished with Spain. I never wanted to see her again. I wasn’t being sent into exile, I thought with defiance, but voluntarily leaving her borders. There was nothing left for me in that country anymore.

  I turned back to Papá, to say my final goodbye, and felt the loss of what was happening. I took in his handsome if overweight face, his sad eyes and proud nose, his pinky ring and smoldering cigarette, the smoke and lavender that were my father’s essence—and this time I choked up.

  “Goodbye, Papá.”

  “Goodbye, José María. I love you. Make me proud. Now go. Tight lines.”

  PART III

  2019

  CANTON ZUG, SWITZERLAND

  EIGHT

  José María.”

  Ignore it. Maybe it will go away.

  “José!”<
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  There is a blurred face looming in front of me. Behind the face, I catch glimpses of trees, swaying branches and leaves, patches of pale, filtered light.

  Why am I so sore and stiff?

  With effort I focus on the round face, and it emerges pink cheeked, round, mustached—and concerned. There is something kind in the eyes. His big hands, coarse, hold out a water bottle.

  “José, drink this,” says Walter Iten, my friend, the village fishmonger.

  “Hostia. It’s you, Walter. You scared me.”

  He squats, looks intently at me, serious and grave, looking for signs of bruises and scrapes. He reaches down and pats Alfredo. The dog licks Walter’s hand and wags his stubby tail, visibly relieved a sane person has arrived.

  “Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself? Fall?”

  “Of course not.” I point at my favorite pool, where I just released the big rainbow trout. “I’ve been fishing.”

  “Ja, du! You have been gone ten hours, José. You told your wife you would be home for lunch. She has been very worried. This is quite a thing. The police, villagers, they have been out looking for you.”

  “How ridiculous. I am perfectly fine.”

  I look at my watch. It is just past 5:00 p.m. “Good heavens.”

  I drink deeply from the water bottle. I had no idea I was this thirsty.

  Walter studies his cell phone. “There is no reception here. It is why Lisa could not reach you.” He reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a walkie-talkie, from his role as one of the village’s civil protection officers. It crackles alive.

  “Schatz, ich han José . . .”

  Walter tells his wife, Susi, he found me, I am safe, and that he’s bringing me back to their cottage. Susi should call Lisa, to let her know I am fine and that she can come pick me up. Then his wife should contact Ägeri’s police chief, so he can call off the search party.

  I have been found.

  “What about my car?”

  “My son will come later and drive it back to your house. The keys?”