Pieces of My Life

by Rachel Dann

  ‘Going out?’ I ask casually, my nerve endings already poised on alert. I’ve been waiting for my chance to… investigate Harry’s activity a little more, and realise that this may just be it. Over the last couple of days, since the Skype calls, he has either got up and left stupidly early, or caught a lift into the language school with Roberto, leaving me little opportunity to try and find out if he is up to anything else…

  Harry pauses in the doorway. ‘Yeah, Luke just called. After you came up here. Just now, I mean.’ He frowns and rubs the back of his head in a familiar, uncomfortable gesture. ‘I said I’d cover a class for him this morning – just a couple of hours. Gotta be there in about fifteen minutes!’ His eyes flick towards the door again.

  ‘But I’ve made colada morada!’ Liza exclaims indignantly. ‘Purple fruit punch… you must try some. It’s traditional for this time of year. And you can’t go out without breakfast!’

  Harry looks dubiously at the steaming mug being held out to him, then arranges his face into his best apologetic expression and starts to back away. ‘I’m so sorry, Liza, I really have to go or I won’t make it there in time… I promise I’ll try it later… bye, babe. I’ll be back before lunch.’ He stops to kiss me hurriedly on the top of my head, then disappears.

  I listen to the sound of his footsteps receding down the stairs, feeling at the same time Liza and Roberto’s eyes boring into the back of my head.

  ‘I think I’m going to, er, shower and stuff…’ I scrape my chair back and put my empty mug in the sink. Liza’s gaze follows me across the kitchen as I do so.

  ‘Kristie?’ She stops me just as I reach the doorway.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know you can… talk to me, don’t you?’ I turn to see her face full of maternal concern. Roberto has bent his head to busy himself with the washing up. Spontaneously I go over and wrap her in a quick hug. ‘Thank you, Liza. Yes, I do.’ I squeeze her arm and extricate myself again. ‘But I’m fine, honestly. Everything’s fine.’ I back away and flee the kitchen.

  Instead of turning into our apartment I continue on up the steps to the roof terrace, my mind racing. Now’s your chance, I find myself thinking. All I’ve achieved by asking Harry directly what he is up to are flimsy excuses or, even worse, irritable outbursts. So I’m just going to have to take matters into my own hands and bloody well find out for myself. Even if that means employing my very dubious amateur detective skills.

  Filled with a new sense of purpose, I race to the edge of the terrace and lean over to scan the streets below for my target. He should be heading uphill, towards the bus stop on the main road at the top, if he really is travelling north to the language school… I briefly scan the road leading up away from Liza’s house, and find it predictably empty of sandy-haired, smartly dressed men. Turning my gaze downwards towards the valley and the other bus stop, leading south, it only takes me a few seconds to spot him. The navy stripes, leather jacket slung over his shoulder, and familiar loping gait, unmistakable even from up here. He is striding quickly down the hill, then slowing as he reaches the bus stop. Heading south. In the opposite direction to Luke’s language school.

  Something clenches inside me and I whirl away from the terrace, clatter down the steps and throw open our apartment door. Scrabbling in the wardrobe for a pair of jeans, I hop across the floor pulling them up and tugging a jumper over my pyjama top at the same time. I grab my keys and slam the door shut behind me again, racing down the steps to the front door, my heart pounding with a newfound, manic determination. No more sitting back, being a spectator as Harry merrily deceives me, doing God knows what every day when we are supposed to be here travelling, on holiday, together. I bet Naomi wouldn’t put up with crap like this, I think through gritted teeth as I trot down the dizzyingly steep hill after Harry as fast as I dare without falling flat on my face.

  A menacing rumble of thunder rolls overhead and suddenly the sky darkens. I can see him, two blocks ahead of me now. I recognise his big loping strides, phone held out in front of him inches from his face, not even looking up from it as he crosses the road. How I suddenly want to run up to him, yank the phone from his grasp and hurl it into the oncoming traffic! I manage to restrain myself and slow down, keeping my back close to the walls of the houses and little shops I pass on my way down. Fat raindrops start to plop down on to my hair and face, but I barely notice as I see the bus lurch to a stop in front of Harry, seconds after he arrives. What now? I can hardly jump aboard the same bus as him. But the next one might not come for ten minutes or more. I wait until the bus pulls away again, then run down to the main road and fling my arm out into the oncoming traffic, hardly able to see through the rain now coming thicker and faster, praying for a taxi.

  My prayers are answered as a yellow cab draws up next to me, flashing his lights at me through the rain. I hurl myself into the back seat and meet the driver’s questioning gaze in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘This is going to sound really strange, but… follow that bus!’

  He raises his eyebrows at me, already pulling out into the oncoming traffic and skidding away. ‘You’ve always wanted to say that, haven’t you?’ He attempts what I think is a wink.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You mean that bus, up ahead, the southbound to El Tejar?’

  I blink, realising I hadn’t thought to look at the signs on the side of the bus to see where Harry was actually going.

  ‘Yes. That one.’ The bus is still just visible, about six cars ahead of us, a hulking, blurry red form against the rain. ‘Please – just follow it. Go wherever it goes. Slow down and stop when it stops. I’ll pay you whatever the fare is.’

  ‘Oh… kay,’ the driver says, in a nonchalant voice that clearly says ‘crazy foreigners’.

  We soon get into a routine, jerking forwards in the slow-lane traffic then pulling over to the roadside with the hazard lights flashing every time the bus stops, always keeping at least three or four car lengths behind it. Each time I wipe urgently at the condensation on the window and squint out at the disembarking passengers, but each time my suspicions are confirmed and I gesture for the taxi driver to pull away again quickly. I didn’t think Harry would sneak out of the house so elaborately just to travel a few blocks away from Liza’s house. He will be on this bus until near the end of the route.

  Every so often I feel the driver flicking curious glances at me in the mirror, but I choose to ignore him. Some of the fierce determination that propelled me out of the house in my pyjama top less than half an hour ago begins to subside, and my pounding heart finally slows. I rest my head against the damp window of the car and find myself wondering what my mother or Liza would say if they could see me now, chasing my boyfriend across Quito in a taxi.

  I know what they think. I remember the expression on Liza’s face this morning, moments after telling me how Sebastian’s wife betrayed him… concern mixed with understanding, and underlain with something else even worse… pity. They think he’s got another woman. All the signs point to that – his mood swings and snatched phone calls, the way we’ve hardly spent any time together since we arrived in Quito, then his sudden disappearance today dressed in his smartest clothes. I cannot begin to articulate, even to myself, my secret hope that Harry is doing something as innocuous as meeting another woman. And even as I think this, my gut instinct tells me he’s not. The words of Naomi and the other prisoners replay in my head again. Sneaking around for months… lying to our families… would I even have noticed if Harry had been making plans long before our trip? He always spent so much time on his laptop and phone… What had Naomi’s friend Ariana said? I created a whole pretend life for myself. It took so long to organise…I realise suddenly I’m shaking all over, and not just from the cold rainwater dripping from my hair down the back of my neck.

  ‘Señorita? Señorita!’

  I come to the foggy realisation that we’ve stopped again, and the taxi driver has turned in his seat to prod me anxiously on
the knee. ‘The bus! It’s stopped! You’re not looking!’

  I jerk forward and scan the gaggle of passengers on the pavement, unfolding pushchairs, opening umbrellas, lifting hoods as the bus pulls away again leaving them at the mercy of the deluge. There he is! Holding his leather jacket over his head in a form of makeshift umbrella, Harry is tapping away frantically on his phone with his other hand. Still?

  Without taking my eyes off him, I thrust twenty dollars into the taxi driver’s hand. ‘Just stay here a moment longer…’ I grip the door handle and watch as Harry turns his back to me, walking away into a side road. I have no idea where we are. ‘A bit longer… right! Thank you! So much!’ I push the door open and am about to throw myself out into the rain, when the driver puts his hand out to stop me and thrusts a business card into my hand.

  ‘Wilfrido, at your service, señorita,’ he says in a serious voice. ‘Do not hesitate to call me if you ever need to… do this again.’

  I stare at him for a moment. ‘Oh, right. Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.’ Then I throw the door open and plunge out into the street.

  Harry is still visible through the passing cars and other pedestrians, about two blocks ahead of me and striding quickly away. He’s got the phone held to his ear now, I can just about make out, and I am torn between getting closer to try to hear and fear of him seeing me. Since I got in the taxi I have felt my own phone buzzing away insistently in my handbag, and as I stride forward after Harry it starts up again. I ignore it and keep my eyes fixed on my target, trying to fit in with the people around me and not look like I am following my boyfriend along an unfamiliar street in a strange part of the city.

  The rain eases off as abruptly as it started, and leaves behind it a sudden surge of people crowding on to the streets from the shops and cafés where they have been taking shelter. I dodge people pushing prams, teenagers talking into mobile phones, not looking where they are going, and muffled-up older women standing and offering various items for sale to the passers-by. One woman selling mantelpiece-sized ceramic statues of Jesus blocks my path completely, holding out her gaudily-painted merchandise with such insistence that I have to step completely into the road to get past her, eliciting furious honking from the oncoming cars.

  For a panicked second I think I’ve lost sight of Harry, then I spot him again just as he rounds a corner into a smaller street up ahead. My phone is still going off, only ceasing for a second, then taking up its persistent buzzing again. Whoever it is can wait, I think distractedly, and race ahead. I almost collide with a man pushing a cart of boiled quails’ eggs, scooping them into paper bags which he holds aloft, shouting over and over ‘One dollar! One dollar!’ I raise a hand in apology to him and break into a run to catch up to Harry’s turning. It is a smaller, cobbled street stretching away uphill, with one-way traffic and fewer pedestrians. I hurriedly scan both pavements for someone taller, blonder; the one person who would be instantly recognisable to me anywhere in the world. But he’s gone.

  I start to run up the hill, unable to believe that in the space of a few short seconds he could have eluded me. But the incline is steep and soon I’m panting, sweating under the newly appeared sunlight, and squinting up to the very top of the hill with no sign of Harry. Just a few people carrying shopping bags, a mother dragging a screaming toddler, an old man leaning on a walking stick, taking step after agonising step upwards. I scan every doorway and window, but there are no shops or public places he could have gone into – just houses, closed doorways, balconies overlooking the road, bedroom and kitchen windows with blinds pulled down against the heat.

  I let out a half-sob, half-scream of frustration and slump heavily back against the wall. He had been there, just moments ago, up ahead of me. Had it really even been Harry turning into this street? Had I lost sight of him before that, mistaken him for someone else, and even now he’s miles ahead of me on the main road, continuing his mysterious path? Tears of frustration flood my eyes.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ A hesitant voice asks somewhere to my left. I look down to see a small elderly lady peering at me with concern.

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you,’ I sniff, feeling even more ridiculous. At this rate I’ll get picked up by the nearest lunatic asylum and driven back to Liza in the back of a van. ‘I’m fine.’ I start to walk away from her, then think again and stop. ‘Sorry, do you know what street this is? And which part of town?’

  ‘We’re in the Mariscal, dear. In the centre.’ She raises her arm and points at the street sign two feet away from us. Relief starts to spread through me. We’re right near the main square where Harry and I came for drinks on that very first night with Ray and Gabriela, which suddenly feels like a hundred years ago, not a little over three weeks.

  ‘Great. Thank you.’ I nod at the lady and walk away with as much dignity as possible.

  ‘Señorita! Wait!’ She calls after me urgently. I turn. ‘Do you want to buy some little shoes? Look?’ She holds up a cluster of colourful, woollen, knitted baby shoes hanging from a string, dripping from the recent rain. ‘Booties? Good price. For your children?’

  ‘Oh God! No, I don’t!’ I run away from her as fast as I can, tears bristling against the backs of my eyes again.

  It doesn’t take me long to find my way to the square. Trudging dejectedly back to the main road I had been on when I lost Harry, just two blocks further on, the pavements start to widen and I recognise the beginning of Quito’s main tourist nightspot.

  It looks strangely sordid in the daytime. All the bars and clubs are closed up, apart from a few that have set out rickety outdoor seating and are offering late breakfasts to hardy, raincoat-clad backpackers. The signs on their facades, by night illuminated and vibrant, are now dull and unlit and dripping rainwater. The centre of the square itself is creepily empty apart from a few solitary, lost individuals. I see a hunched shape that could be a person sleeping under one of the benches, surrounded by puddles of rain. Another man is standing with his hands deep in his pockets and collar pulled up, despite the sun that has now come out, and as I pass he stares openly at me. I start to walk faster and look away, but not quickly enough as I just see his eyebrows go up inquisitively, his mouth start to form a question, his hand reach into his pocket and pull something out as he starts to step forward to offer it to me. I break into a run and finally reach the other side of the square, my heart pounding and my head spinning with thoughts of Harry. Oh, what have you got yourself into?

  I board the bus, checking twice, three times with the driver that it will definitely take me past Liza and Roberto’s neighbourhood. Getting myself home uneventfully will be the only shred of dignity I can possibly salvage from today. I slump into the seat feeling utterly defeated as the bus pulls away.

  I gaze out of the window with disinterest at the sunlight glinting off puddles, shop windows and colourful front doors flicking past as the bus picks up speed, and – wait. I only get a flash of sandy hair, what could be a leather jacket, but it’s enough to propel me out of my seat, stumbling towards the back of the bus. I wipe frantically at the condensation on the window and peer out anxiously. The figure is sitting on the front step of a house, hunched forward, his face buried in his hands. Everything about his pose emanates defeat, despair. He might even be crying. He’s barely more than a silhouette from this distance, but just before the bus rounds a corner and he disappears from sight, the sun comes out from behind a cloud and illuminates his hair a vivid gold.

  Was it? I nearly shout for the driver to stop. I imagine jumping off the bus, running back, and saying… what? I followed you, then lost you, then spotted you again from the back of the bus, except I wasn’t sure it was you, but now we’re here can you please tell me what the hell you are doing?

  It might not even have been him. It was just the briefest flash of someone who looked like Harry, sitting in a strange doorway resting his head in his hands in despair…

  I slump back into my seat and realise my phone is sti
ll vibrating demandingly from inside my handbag. It has been going on and off since I left the house what must be over two hours ago… I haven’t paid any attention to it until now.

  Sebastian’s name just flashes off the screen as I pull out my phone, leaving the missed-call symbol in its place. Three new voicemails? Disbelieving, I press the button to listen to the first one. But instead of Sebastian’s kind, gentle tones comes Naomi’s voice, high-pitched and barely audible over a clamour of background noise.

  ‘Kirsty, it’s me! Naomi! Listen, I really HAVE TO talk to you…. For fuck’s sake, just WAIT okay!… Look, you’re not going to believe what’s—’ BEEP. The message cuts off and passes straight to the next one.

  ‘Hello there, Kirsty, it’s Sebastian.’ Pause. ‘From the British Embassy.’ His tone is unusually, painfully formal. ‘I’m calling about Naomi. We have some very good news – her hearing has been scheduled for Friday. Tomorrow, that is. Tomorrow afternoon. When you get this, please could you call me? She really wants you to be her simultaneous interpreter for the hearing. We have to find someone quickly. I know you’d do a great job. Call me.’

  My heart starts to race in my ears and I completely miss the start of the next message. ‘…Can’t really believe this is finally happening, so please, PLEASE, consider it, okay? I know my Spanish is good but they said I still have a right to a legal interpreter and I don’t want some strange old bloke with a briefcase, please please please, Kirsty, you’re the only one I would want there to do this… oh shit, gotta go, I think a guard is coming…’

  As Naomi’s message ends abruptly with a clattering sound, her words ring in my ears. I’m the only person she would want there… me? But why? I can’t even successfully follow my own boyfriend a few miles across the city without getting lost and nearly mugged… again… How can I stand up in an Ecuadorian court of law and translate the words that will make or break another person’s entire future? What if I mess it up? What if I don’t know the word for something in Spanish, and the whole courtroom turns to stare at me, waiting?