At Night We Walk in Circles

by Daniel Alarcón

  “Everyone stopped to watch,” Noelia said, shaking her head at the image. “He was so shy back then.”

  “It was a real sight,” Jaime said, and laughed to himself. It was the first time Nelson had seen him laugh.

  They’re not talking to me now, Nelson thought. It’s like I’m not even here. He kept his eyes wide open, his ears perked, and did what he could to inhale this memory, to make it his, as if the truth of this emotional detail could make any difference at all to Mrs. Anabel.

  “I was watching you today,” said Jaime finally.

  “You were very nice,” added Noelia.

  “That’s true. You did fine.”

  “But?” Nelson said.

  Jaime pressed his hands together, and held them against his chest. “But Rogelio had no schooling. He didn’t read plays or write books. He couldn’t read at all.”

  “He was in Henry’s play, wasn’t he? In Collectors?”

  “Just something to keep in mind.” He pointed at Nelson’s notebook. “Don’t let my mother see you writing, that’s all.”

  “You have to remember who our brother was,” Noelia added.

  Jaime frowned, and ran a hand through his hair. “And who my mother thinks he was.”

  “Okay,” Nelson said. “I’ll try.”

  When they’d finished for the night, Nelson went back to his room and sat on the cot with his back to the window. He’d heard many stories, some true, some invented; his journal was filled with notes, and his head was spinning. He stared at the clutter on the bunk bed, as if examining the gears of an inscrutable machine. It was impossible not to appreciate its size, the stunning illogic of its composition, and the history embedded within. He felt duty-bound to understand it, or attempt to. All this junk was something more: it was a family’s history, and wasn’t he, at least temporarily, part of this family?

  If Nelson had known more about T—, known more about the region and the relentless out-migration that had changed it, he’d have known that all the houses in town had rooms like this. That some houses, in fact, were nothing but large, sprawling versions of this room, no living space left, no people, only assorted objects gathering dust behind padlocked doors. He might have appreciated that Mrs. Anabel and Noelia had managed to contain the past, more or less; that by holding it within the four walls of the boys’ old room, they were living, to a greater degree than many of their neighbors, in the present. It would have impressed him, certainly, but for an entirely different set of reasons. For now, he couldn’t escape the sense that this lawless room was simply the physical representation of Mrs. Anabel’s mind, that if only he could place these many items in some kind of order, he might discover the secrets of her dementia. He might resolve it. And find a place for Rogelio within it.

  NELSON WOKE THE NEXT MORNING to find the family in the kitchen, chatting over a simple breakfast. He crossed the courtyard, wearing his best smile, and joined them. There was no mistaking Mrs. Anabel’s happiness; it was evident in the way she greeted him—brightly—and in every gesture thereafter. He drank tea, ate a hard-boiled egg and not-quite-fresh bread with cheese, and sat by the window, letting the sun hit his face. Mrs. Anabel kept her eyes on him, which might have been unnerving in another context, but which here seemed exactly right, and even expected. He performed for her.

  “How did you sleep?” the old woman asked, and though his back hurt and his neck was sore, he didn’t hesitate: “The best I’ve slept in years, Mama. It’s so nice to be home.”

  Her contentment was palpable, and it meant something to Nelson. When she took my hand, it made sense somehow, he wrote later. At least as much sense as the tour did.

  That morning, his first full day alone in T—, would be the template for each of the mornings to come. The work of impersonating Rogelio, of convincing an elderly and senile woman of this identity—it was a task to be accomplished at the local rhythm, that is, slowly, carefully, making no hasty or unnecessary gestures. The breakfast table was cleared, and he helped Mrs. Anabel to her spot in the courtyard, where she sat with her back against one of the adobe walls. She asked him—Rogelio, that is—to sit with her, and he did, very close, in fact, side by side on the sunken top of an old leather chest, the outsides of their thighs touching. Their conversation could barely be called that: they enjoyed long silent spells, interrupted by Mrs. Anabel’s occasional questions, queries which did not require specific answers. Here and there, she made the odd statement about which there could be little or no disagreement: “The sky is good” or “The wind is nice.” She’d smile afterward, nodding at her own insight with an air of satisfaction. Nelson smiled back, and gently squeezed her hand to show her he was listening.

  She asked Nelson about his life, and he improvised based on the general script he’d heard the night before: his Rogelio was a version of the lie Jaime had invented. He lived on the outskirts of Los Angeles, in a working-class neighborhood of small, tidy houses. There was an industrial area nearby, where giant factories ran all day and all night, frantic and bustling, belching thick smoke into otherwise blue California skies. In his description, the factory was good work, and everyone was happy to be there. Satisfied to be making something. It was the sort of cliché of which Henry might have disapproved, but still, Nelson owned it, holding his hands out, palms flat, when he said this.

  “But your hands are so soft,” Mrs. Anabel said, not skeptical so much as delighted by her son’s lovely hands.

  “I wear gloves. We’re required to wear gloves.”

  Nelson had never been inside a factory. Still, Mrs. Anabel accepted his answer with a contented smile.

  “What do you make?”

  “Movie sets,” he said, because it was the first thing that popped into his mind.

  She seemed to take this answer in stride.

  Nelson’s Rogelio, like his brother Jaime, was a mechanic; unlike Jaime, he’d never married. He lived a quiet life, though he spoke with great conviction about his desire for a family. Soon, he told Mrs. Anabel, but insisted it would all come in due time. “I’m still too young for that,” he said that morning, a statement which worked on a variety of levels. At the sound of those words, time collapsed for Mrs. Anabel. If Rogelio was still young, then she must still be young too!

  “Oh yes, you’re very young,” she said, and her eyes glistened with a pleasing confusion.

  Then it was time for her nap, and Nelson was left alone with Jaime in the courtyard. A cat meowed from somewhere inside the weeds. Nelson had done good work that morning; he was sure of it, but his employer (for that is what Jaime was) kept his distance, observing him from the kitchen doorway.

  Finally, Nelson said, “Were you watching? How did I do?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Did I get anything wrong?”

  Jaime shook his head. “Not really.” He stepped out of the doorway, and into the courtyard. “A matter of degree, I guess. I see you and I don’t see Rogelio. But that’s not your fault. You’re not doing anything wrong, it isn’t that. My mother sees what she wants to see. And she likes you. I don’t know how you people do it.”

  Nelson shrugged.

  “How it is you pretend, I mean. Come with me. Let’s take a walk.”

  It would become habit to break up the tedium of the morning with a stroll just before lunch. This was the dry season in the mountains, when every day is a replica of the day before. Above, a smattering of white, cottony clouds. They walked the few blocks to the plaza in silence, passing only a few people along the way: a girl skipping in the direction of the school, and an elderly gentleman with his hat pulled low against the sun. The narrow side streets of T— were shadowy and cool, but the plaza was blanketed in boiling sun. And it was empty, but for a few people milling around the bus that would leave in a few hours. The owner of the bodega sat on the steps outside his store, reading a newspaper. He waved to Jaime, and they walked over to greet him.

  “Mr. Segura,” Jaime said, “you remember my brother, Rogelio, don’t you
?”

  Nelson narrowed his eyes. He was being tested.

  “Of course,” said Segura, and he nodded deferentially.

  Nelson stretched out his hand. “So nice to see you again. It’s great to be home.”

  Jaime bought a couple of sodas, then told Nelson to wait outside while he made a phone call. Segura motioned for Nelson to join him. “It came today,” he said, waving his newspaper in the air proudly. “The bus driver gave it to me. Look.”

  The front page carried the story of the accident between the mango truck and passenger van. Twelve people had died. There were photos.

  Nelson had gone many weeks without much interest or curiosity in something as abstract as “the news.” It was a concept that had no relevance on tour but which suddenly seemed necessary. Not because of these deaths, but because of everything else. Another world existed, and he felt suddenly reminded of it. Now that leaving T— was temporarily out of the question, Nelson felt a very keen desire to know what was happening. It was something he hadn’t realized until he saw the newspaper.

  Nelson opened the front page. He looked for news from the city, politics, sports. National news was relegated to an inner section, a few poorly written items that read like dispatches from a distant planet. A senator had proposed a law against drunk driving. (Bar owners were opposed.) A police dog had been wounded in a fire, and would have to be put down. (Animal rights groups were opposed.) A building in the colonial center had partially collapsed, and would have to be demolished. (Preservation groups were opposed.) Nelson scanned the paper, then the empty plaza, and failed to see any connection at all.

  Just then Jaime stepped out. He saw Nelson and frowned. “Let’s go.”

  “Just a second.”

  “We’re leaving,” Jaime said. “Segura, I understand my sister owes you some money.”

  The man nodded.

  Jaime reached into his pocket and pulled out a few bills, which the storeowner accepted with his head bowed. Then Jaime turned, and began to walk off. Nelson closed the paper, and hurried after him. He saw then—and it was strange that he hadn’t realized it earlier—how physically impressive Jaime was. It was somehow more apparent at this distance: he wasn’t tall, he was wide. His shoulders were broad and strong, and now that Nelson saw his shape, Jaime’s swift attack on Henry was even more surprising.

  “I’m coming,” Nelson called out.

  “Rogelio doesn’t read,” Jaime said when Nelson had caught up. “Not the newspaper, not anything. I told you that.”

  Nelson apologized.

  They walked on, across the plaza, toward the northeast district, over a footbridge, and then up the steep hill that rose to the east of town. A few blocks on and the houses petered out, giving way to terraced fields and irrigation ditches carved expertly into the earth. By whom? Nelson wondered. Where were the people? He wanted to ask, but was afraid to.

  “Do you know San Jacinto?” Jaime asked when they were above the town. He didn’t wait for an answer. Below them, lay T—, its red-roofed and white-walled houses, its narrow, picturesque streets. “San Jacinto is a terrible place. Nothing like this. Hideous. But it’s where the work is.” He cleared his throat. “What did you earn on this little tour you did?”

  “You mean money?”

  He always meant money.

  One page of Nelson’s journal was dedicated to a rough accounting of what he’d made and spent on the tour. The figures were a jumble, but the basic arithmetic was clear enough: he’d broken even. Nelson knew that, and he’d had no opinion on this information until that very moment. One didn’t join Diciembre for the wages, after all. But now, the idea of breaking even seemed suddenly disappointing. He glanced at Jaime and saw opportunity. He made up a number, an outrageous, ambitious number, he wrote that evening, to which Jaime laughed.

  “That’s it?” he said.

  Nelson blushed.

  “I’ll give you twice that. Now start thinking like Rogelio.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means don’t say silly things like ‘It’s great to be home.’ If it was great, you would’ve come home ten years ago.”

  “Okay,” Nelson said.

  Jaime sighed. “You know what I think, when I see this?”

  “No.”

  “I think, How lovely. Thank God I don’t live here. Now, do you have your wallet? Good. Take it out. Give me your ID card.”

  Through it all, Nelson was still thinking of money, the possibility it implied. He could pay a few months’ rent. Or take Ixta on a trip. Buy his mother something nice. Not all of those things could be done, but some of them could. In particular, this phrase stood out: “twice that.” He did as he was told. Jaime squinted at the picture on the ID card, smiling. He held it up and compared it to the young man standing before him. Then he put it in his pocket.

  “I’ll be back in a week,” he said to Nelson. “In the meantime, be nice to your blameless mother.”

  17

  IT’S DIFFICULT TO WRITE about these days in T—, about this lull in the action (for that is precisely what it is) without succumbing to the pace. Such is the languorous nature of small-town life. I know it well enough. Thought slows, the need for conversation vanishes. You are prone to introspection, never a productive habit, and one which city life, for example, quite rightly suppresses in the name of efficiency. On the third day of any visit to T—, I give in to a specific kind of melancholy that is part depression, part boredom. The normal stimuli one associates with human activity begins to seem aberrant, even unnecessary. Throughout my childhood and early adolescence, arriving in T— was like stepping outside time, just as it might have been, I suppose, for Nelson, had he not had the length of the tour itself to adjust, at least in part, to the rhythms of provincial life. Perhaps this is why the appearance of a newspaper was so striking to him that first morning. It reminded him just how far away he was.

  For the most part he spent his days listening to Mrs. Anabel; keeping her company. At night, he and Noelia swapped stories, and with her, he could be Nelson again, something they both seemed to welcome. “He was very funny,” she told me later, “and I hadn’t had anyone to talk to in so long. He told me about his mother, about his brother. He told me about Ixta, and even said he was going to be a father.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  She thought for a moment. “It must have been at the end of the first week. We were expecting my brother back any day, and Nelson had even packed his things. He was glad to be going home, he said, so he could see her.” She paused here, offering a bemused smile. “But then Jaime didn’t come, so he unpacked his things and stayed.”

  Nelson was getting anxious.

  On the ninth day, they got a note delivered by the man who drove the bus to San Jacinto. It was from Jaime:

  Something’s come up, it said. I’ll be there in a week to settle up.

  “See?” said Noelia. “He hasn’t forgotten about you!”

  At least the work was manageable. They’d settled into routines, and the old woman seemed quite happy about that. She peppered him with questions, but they were mostly variations on the ones she’d had at the beginning, and Nelson felt enough confidence to shift his answers—just slightly—to suit his mood. One day, to his surprise, he didn’t make movie sets when Mrs. Anabel asked; instead, he fixed boats in the harbor. He wasn’t sure why he said it. The old woman clapped with delight. “Where did you learn boats?” she asked, as if boats were a language one studied in school.

  “In the city, Mama. When Jaime sent me to the city.”

  She nodded very seriously. “And when was that?”

  “Oh, you know how Jaime is. Always bossing me around. Sending me here, sending me there.”

  “That Jaime!”

  To keep things interesting, Nelson invented an accent, a variation on the sort of voice he imagined might result from two decades living in California, among Mexicans and Salvadorans and Guatemalans. It didn’t take. He shed it, almost wi
thout thinking, a few days later, and she didn’t seem to mind. What was the point of this invented vernacular anyway? Had she even noticed this dash of authenticity?

  I’m not going to try so hard anymore, he wrote that evening. If all goes well, I’ll be home in a week.

  WHILE NELSON WAS in this state of suspended animation, playing Rogelio for his very small audience, his life was going on without him. And by life, I’m referring to his real life, his life in the city. This is not urban chauvinism or elitism or discrimination against the provinces; only fact: Nelson’s rural exile did nothing for the problems waiting for him back in the capital.

  Ixta was never far from his mind. If Nelson was able to expel his private troubles from his thoughts during his first days alone in T—, once the routines of his new life were settled, he could no longer manage it. By the end of the first week and the beginning of the second, his journal entries are less and less about the details of his days with Mrs. Anabel, and more meditations, or even speculations, on parenthood. Try as he might, he simply could not accept Ixta’s assertion that the child was not his. He drew a chart tracking the instances when he and Ixta had made love since their reconciliation the previous winter: where they’d been, how long it had lasted, and how careful they’d remembered to be. He scoured his memory for details, filling pages with clinical accounts of the final weeks of their affair that read more like legal briefs than erotica. He argues for paternity and presents the evidence. He notes clues and small gestures that might give him some hope, for if one reads the journals, this much is clear: hope was what he needed and wanted most. Accepting he was not the child’s father would have meant relinquishing his claim on Ixta. It would’ve meant letting her go for good.