His father seems to mull over his answer and then exhales.
“Jonás, I haven’t gone because of you. So that you’re not alone.”
“Because of me? That’s absurd. You have to go, if you think you might find her.”
Chapter 40
As the taxi advances through the streets leading west, Jonás has started to feel a strange familiarity. When he dictated the address printed on the card to the driver, he was sure he had never been to The Lunar Cave 2, but something in the roundabout route, maybe the sequence of avenues, the buildings with their darkened bare brickwork, or the cross lit up like a twinkling green star above a 24-hour pharmacy on the corner—across from the colossal block of the university hospital, which stands there like a white mirror mottled by fog—seems inwardly recognizable, though he hasn’t been to this end of the city for years.
The car skirts around the edge of an immense commons. A runner disappears behind the thick vegetation of a jogging path lined by a row of hedges, and Jonás scrutinizes the surroundings in an attempt to discover others, but there is no one else. Shortly thereafter a lone cyclist appears, covered in a fluorescent yellow raincoat, and from then on he does not see a single other being entering or leaving the commons, which is fenced in by high iron bars with the gates left open. He could chalk up the absence of passersby to the nonstop rain, which has refused to renounce its attempts to flood the city over the past week, exactly since the last time he spoke with his father; in spite of the relative mugginess, it still hasn’t stopped raining. But deep down Jonás suspects that even on a clear sunny day the sidewalks would still be half-empty. It’s as if life has become drawn out into a gentle lethargy.
He had a hard time finding a taxi. He tried calling for one, but the line was busy. He left several messages. Finally, he stopped a car outside his building. When Jonás asked the man if he had received a call from the dispatcher, the cab driver shrugged his shoulders. He seemed half-asleep and explained to Jonás that he was on his way home. He had finished his shift, and he was headed that way anyhow; that’s why he agreed to take Jonás. Upon arriving, as Jonás pays and asks for a receipt, his cell phone starts ringing.
He pockets the loose change the driver hands him and barely hears his goodbye, something like, Have a good night, in a mocking tone, as if the man had suddenly woken up when he spotted the rose-colored sign with its neon lights, spelling out in arabesque characters The Lunar Cave 2. Jonás discovers Sebastian’s name on the cell phone screen. He tucks the white envelope inside his trench coat, taking care that it doesn’t get wet, and runs to take shelter in a neighboring doorway.
“Jonás!” He recognizes the voice, diminished suddenly, staticky, with the echoes of other dialogues forming a fuzzy backdrop; it’s more a plea than a voice, an attempted assault on normalcy. “Have you heard anything from Oliver?”
He remembers his recent visits to the gallery this week, with identical results.
“Nothing. Sorry I don’t have any news for you. Absolutely nothing.”
“I’m losing my mind here. I’ve tried everything. Everything! It’s just like what you told me about your mother. Exactly the same! Sorry, I haven’t asked you. Any news?”
“Nothing there, either.” Something tightens in his throat, and for a second he feels short of breath. “My father left seven days ago for the coast, to look for her.”
“Jonás.” It’s a whisper now; what a difference from Sebastian’s habitual voice, corporeal and lively, a voice able to elevate any sadness and fill it with exquisite oxygen. “I don’t even want to think about it, and I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m starting to think we’ll never see them again.”
“Listen to me…”
“No, you listen to me!” The rain falls harder, and Jonás recalls the latest newsflash, with flood warnings for the west and south of the city. “You’re too calm. None of this can be a coincidence. I’m desperate. Because—” He can hear Sebastian’s breathing, deep and panting, and he leans further into the doorway as the water starts to soak his shoes. “It’s not just Oliver… There are others I can’t find, I was looking for them, thinking they might have heard from him. This is not normal. And the hotel… It’s practically empty.”
“Hey,” he hears his own voice, much more serene than he actually is, “I can’t talk now. I have to meet with a guy who had some portraits done, so he can pay me for them. Don’t worry. I’ll head over to the hotel afterwards, I’ll see you then and we can talk this over. In the meantime, try to calm down. They all have to reappear.”
He feels remorseful about hanging up, but the phone’s battery is dying anyway. He turns it off in case he needs it later; surely there’s no reception inside at any rate. He walks out from under the eaves and faces the wooden door of the locale, in the half-basement of a building with an empty lot on its right, and something around the corner catches his eye. Upon closer inspection, he can see the chain link fence that surrounds the water park. The weeds are as tall as a man, and the padlock on the entrance, attached to a thick chain, appears eaten away by rust. In the distance, right in the middle of what must have been the old star-shaped pond, next to the wave pool, the high three-laned waterslide rises—like the long neck of a marine beast held aloft in the rain—some twenty meters above the grass.
The FOR SALE sign with the name of the realtor is covered in mud. Instinctively he picks it up, and the muffled sound as he drops it against the steel mesh drives him to retrace his steps and head back to the door of the locale. But the presence of the park weighs too heavily on him: it has glued his eyes to a nonexistent ground, that pavement now buried in thickets, trash, waste, and rubble; he turns again and almost thinks he can taste the salt on his lips while someone gently dries his back, having just emerged from the sway of the artificial waves.
He’s soaked now too, but with his wet clothes still on. He turns around and walks away from the wire fence. He rounds the corner and once more finds himself in front of the entrance to The Lunar Cave 2.
Chapter 41
He pushes against the massive door and walks into an entryway with half-closed curtains. A bouncer in a dark blue suit, apparently a regular at the same gym as the chauffeur, with his thick neck and shaved head, greets Jonás with a nod. He is gripping a walkie-talkie. Jonás takes the purple card out of his pocket, somewhat damp, and extends it.
Without saying a word, the man comes out from behind the counter and draws back one of the two curtains with a rapid movement of his right arm. The sound of the rings clacking together as the curtain opens, and again when it closes after him, gives Jonás a feeling of vertigo, as if his senses had just been activated: at the end of the bar—situated to his left, the lower half covered in mirrors and the edge lined with ochre leather, across from a series of cushy armchairs which give way to the immense grand piano presiding over the second room—he spots among a crowd of faces the wild and wavy hair of Humbert.
Humbert was a correspondent up until the last oil war. His on-the-ground reporting earned him a certain prominence and he became a television anchor. Although in his early days he would openly boast of his progressive leanings, in recent years he has undergone a sharp right turn into populist demagoguery, enshrined by the reactionary opinion pieces with which he usually closes his newscast.
Jonás advances across the carpeted floor, which turns out to be comfortable under his wet soles. A waiter asks him for his trench coat, but with a movement of his shoulders he makes it clear that, for the moment, he prefers to keep it on. Around Humbert there are three women, just like those Jonás has always seen with him: miniskirts, high heels, fishnet stockings, and lots of makeup. Humbert orders another round for the four of them while one of the women slides her hand across his pleated pants. His hair is disheveled, damp with sweat, and his shirt is half-open from the waist. His tie is hanging around the second girl’s neck. The third pays for their drinks with the wad of bills that Humbert has shoved, in a haphazard roll, in her cleavage. They
’re the same three women as always, with faces as interchangeable as the anecdotes of their client, who has yet to notice Jonás; he does, however, seem to be watching the next couple over at the bar. The man, unlike Humbert, is not exalted, nor are his cheeks ruddy, his eyes teary. He has a handkerchief in the pocket of his sky blue sports jacket and impeccably styled hair, cropped slightly closer near the parietals. At the foot of the bar, his crocodile-skin boots stand out, a wooden color that matches his shirt and belt. His jeans, faded at the back of the knees, fit his calves snugly. He is a strong man, with a chin like a boxer’s. The woman—Humbert hasn’t unglued his gaze from her—is also the exact opposite of his companions: with a black dress that stops just above the knee, dark pantyhose and equally black heels, not too high, with her hair tied back, she possesses a pair of red lips that contrast with the paleness of her cheeks, marked and angular, under dark brown eyes with glints of copper. As she hoists herself onto the stool, she smiles wanly at Jonás.
He is on the verge of walking over and introducing himself when Humbert turns toward the woman in black, in spite of the protests of his companions, who look at her antagonistically. The woman remains unfazed, her smile intact; she seems used to receiving such onslaughts and dodges them with ease. For a moment it looks as though the other man may react violently, but he welcomes Humbert and offers to buy drinks for him and the girls, giving him a few friendly slaps on the back and ordering champagne. Jonás notes that he still hasn’t been detected and walks on by.
Mentally, he dismisses the scene at the bar: Humbert has always been amiable when they run across each other, and he even once praised Jonás at a newspaper party. There is something sad in his triumphalism, which barely disguises his desolation; in his exhausted look, sunken and baggy-eyed, weighed down with an asphyxiating sorrow; and in the forced joviality of his twisted expression. Jonás wonders how he’ll manage to present the news this evening: how many coffees he’ll need, how many layers of different anti-fatigue creams, plus his dose of vitamin B12 to make his face presentable again, his voice intelligible. Maybe, after all, not even Humbert is able to lull himself to sleep.
It’s early, and there’s still no one at the piano. The tail extends like a second bar, with several sofas around it. The walls are covered in scarlet paper, with thin black vertical lines; modernist oil lamps spring forth, with circular bronze appliqués and arms in the shape of a heron’s neck, twisted upward into light bulb sconces. The upholstery of the sofas consists of warm oranges and tawny colors; but the salmon and violet, fuchsia and magenta give the second room, with its low tables, a belabored air of distinction, with a glimmer of authenticity, despite the theatrical effect of the great purple drapery to the back.
For a moment, he considers taking a seat there and waiting for someone to come along. But the thought of Sebastian, alone at the hotel, dissuades him. He wants to make his delivery, receive his money, and get out of there. He looks around and decides to head for the drapery, which leads to a hallway that’s decorated in the same shades, with paintings depicting period scenes with a satirical sensuality. He’s surprised, for the second time now, by the oddly good taste, something that doesn’t exactly coincide with his preconceived notion of the place, or with the neon fuchsia lights outside the front door. Despite the illustrations, protected by historiated frames that avoid falling into ornamental overindulgence, it doesn’t seem at this point to be a night club so different from any other of its kind: a cocktail bar, a certain select clientele, and waiters in vests and bowties; the only peculiarity is that it’s so far from downtown, too far for such an establishment, whose ideal location is obviously not in this downtrodden neighborhood, beside a water park that’s scheduled for demolition. For a time it was a thriving area; Jonás remembers how his parents even discussed moving there at one point, but that was a long time ago: the construction of several housing developments, and their subsequent abandonment, have separated that zone from the truly prosperous core of the city, more defined to the north, and left it exposed to the vulnerability of buildings at constant risk of collapse, streets with torn up sidewalks, unlit for long stretches at a time, abandoned and dismal lots and deserted playgrounds, with the seesaws torn off and swings without chains or seats, the frames still standing like telegraph posts stripped of their cables.
At the end of the hallway is yet another curtain, followed by a spiral staircase down to the floor below. He looks around and hears nothing. He does, however, feel a gust of heavy air, but it’s just for an instant, as if the subterranean draughts had decided to make an appearance for less time than it takes to bat an eye. He can’t convince himself to go down.
“What’s up, boy wonder!” he hears behind him, shortly before a wavering hand tries to pat him on the back. “I never thought I’d see you around here, you being trendy and all.”
When he turns around, suddenly alarmed, he discovers Humbert’s somewhat slovenly features. He seems a bit more clear-headed than a moment ago; he’s left behind his little entourage, and his nostrils look slightly irritated. His appearance is also somewhat improved: he’s tucked his shirt into his pants and closed it up, except for the last two buttons. The tie must be still hanging from one of the girls’ necks. He’s wet his hair in the sink and combed it back, although the waves still fall over his narrow forehead, with his cadaverous conspirator’s eyes behind rectangular, metal-framed glasses.
“Humbert, what’s up? I saw you back there, but you looked occupied.”
“You’re right about that. Did you see those beauties?”
Jonás merely nods and flashes a smile. Then he points at the stairs.
“You have any idea what’s down there?”
“What?” His eyes open wide, and in his astonishment he momentarily regains his sobriety. “You mean you don’t know?” He takes him by the elbow, and they distance themselves from the stairway. “What’s wrong with you, guy? You mind telling me what you’re doing here?”
Jonás feels uncomfortable. He doesn’t like the abruptly preoccupied expression on Humbert’s face, who seems as if he were breaking character for the first time.
“Some guy got it into his head for me to take some portraits of him, and he asked me to meet him here when they were ready. He gave me this card.” Jonás takes it out again. Humbert examines it and then hands it back, taking a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket.
“He told you to meet him here? What’s his name?”
“Sulla Montesinos.”
Humbert wipes the handkerchief across the front and back of his neck without moving a single muscle in his face.
“You really got me there… I can’t believe he’s agreed to see you. So now you’ve traded in the child’s play for some investigative journalism.”
“It’s not like that. I’m just here to deliver this envelope, get paid, and get out of here.”
“Do you have any idea what you’re getting into, kid? Do you know what’s down there?”
“I just asked you that.”
Humbert runs his hand through his hair with fingers outstretched, like a comb.
“The road to hell. Heaven. Purgatory. Whatever you’re looking for is down there.”
Chapter 42
Halfway down, still on the stairway, there is only darkness. The sounds grow somewhat sharper, like a kind of intermittent murmur from varying sources and distances. He lets Humbert, who has fully regained control over himself, lead the way. They descend along the metal spiral with its narrow steps, and Jonás can make out a light projected onto a patch of carpet.
He can’t believe what he’s seeing: the upstairs, decorated with a certain decadent charm, is a long vestibule disguised as a bar, but the real Lunar Cave 2 starts here, precisely at the foot of the stairway they’ve just descended. To the left, a long rack offers up an array of trench coats, fur, and pressed wool jackets; there are also several mink stoles, a variety of women’s hats, and an umbrella stand filled to bursting, with a trace of water around it dee
pening the reddish shade of the carpet. This carpet extends down a wide hallway, barely lit by the same lamps he saw previously. At the end he spots a bar, different from the one upstairs, covered in mirrors, reflecting a certain activity on the dance floor. And yet there is no music, or he can’t hear any, only a few muffled moans.
“Humbert, what is this?”
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” he responds, with pronounced self-importance. “I’ll help you out. I know him. He’ll receive us. I’ve always been a good client, and he respects me for that.” Jonás bites his tongue and keeps moving forward. He is struck by the emptiness, despite the fact that there are only a few free hooks on the coat rack, and he’s surprised there is no second bouncer.
“They know we’re coming. No one makes it down here without their permission. If we’re already here, it’s because they want us to be. Like I said, just keep cool. I’ll take care of this.”
From that moment on, Jonás decides not to ask any more questions. With a little luck, he can get rid of Humbert as soon as they reach the end of the hallway. He can’t understand the reasons behind his sudden interest in acting as guide, and he also wonders whether Humbert shouldn’t be returning now to the studio to prepare his evening newscast. In any case, he doesn’t really care: Jonás doesn’t even watch his program. The only thing he’s worried about now is delivering the photos. He thinks again about his last conversation with Sebastian. There have been so many times when that voice has shaken him out of a twilight state, so many days and nights when a call from Sebastian has helped him recover the best in himself, his enthusiasm, that old adolescent passion, his absolute belief in the mystery of photography as a poetic calling, that now—thinking of his friend, downcast, desperate, and alone in that hotel room, racking his brains for anyone he may not have called to ask about Oliver, while on the other end of the line he is met with a succession of unending beeps or the monotone voice of an answering machine—Jonás considers foregoing the hand delivery and just leaving the envelope there, going back up to the street for air, and catching a cab.
The Swimmers Page 17