by Tom Epperson
Not long after Roberto and Teresa broke up, he met Caroline, and not long after that, Andrés and Teresa became a couple. Roberto was surprised. He didn’t think Teresa had ever regarded Andrés in a romantic way. Eventually he realized he was right; not only was Teresa not in love with Andrés, she was still in love with Roberto, and being with Andrés was a way for her to remain in Roberto’s world. And without it ever being talked about among the three of them, Roberto understood that Andrés knew the truth too, and that Teresa knew that both of them knew. But it was obvious Andrés was happy to have her under any circumstances. When he walked into a room with her his face would be aglow with pride and pleasure because he knew he had hit the jackpot, won the lottery of love.
They got married and Roberto was the best man. A year and a half later, Andrés and Teresa went to the coast and vacationed at Playa Linda. Pretty Beach. On the third day they left their hotel and went out to the beach to swim. The weather was calm and sunny but beyond the horizon there was a storm and unusually large waves were breaking against the beach. Teresa was a timid swimmer and was reluctant to enter the water, but swimming was the only physical activity Andrés was actually good at, and he took her by the hand and half led and half pulled her in. They’d both been drinking mango juice and vodka, and they were intoxicated with the sea and the sky, the sparkling waves, the wheeling white birds, the fact of being alive and young.
Andrés started to body surf. He wanted Teresa to give it a try. She said no, I can’t. He said don’t worry, it’s easy, it’s all in the timing, just launch yourself like this, and he demonstrated, gliding along as sleek as a seal and it looked like fun and she said okay. They waited for a wave. This looks like a good one, Andrés said, and get ready, Teresa, Andrés said, and now, Andrés said, and she tried to do what he had done, plunging forward with the wave with her arms held out in front of her, arching her back a little, and the wave tumbled her and sent her feet over her head and her head slammed down into the hard-packed sandy bottom and she broke her neck.
Andrés is looking at the TV. A lion is attacking a water buffalo. Andrés, who literally can’t bear to hurt a fly, winces.
“How can you stand to watch these shows, Teresa?”
“Oh don’t worry, Andrés,” Teresa says, “I’ve seen it before. The water buffalo gets the better of it. See, the lion is running away!”
He blames himself for what happened, for dragging her drunk into the sea. “There is just no pain like guilt,” he once told Roberto. “When you feel you’re responsible for someone else’s suffering. It feels better to stick your hand in a pot of boiling water.” Sex means a lot to Andrés but he says he will always remain faithful to her; even in his masturbatory fantasies, he makes love only to her. He says it is as if he died that day at Playa Linda and what exists now is just a pale copy of himself, a posthumous Andrés whose only purpose is to take care of her.
“I have something I need to tell Roberto,” Teresa says.
Andrés takes it in stride. “Okay. Rosario?” he says to the Indian woman. “Why don’t you take a break?”
Rosario smiles and stands up and puts her magazine down on the chair. She and Andrés leave.
Roberto looks down at Teresa and waits.
“When I was eight?” she says.
“Yes?”
“I had very long hair.”
“When I first met you, your hair was pretty long.”
“But when I was eight, it was much, much, much, much longer.”
“Down to your ankles?”
She laughs. “No, not that long. But it fell all the way down my back and then when I went outside and ran it streamed out straight behind me, that’s how I remember it anyway. But then I asked my mother to cut if off.”
“Why?”
“Because I liked this actress on a TV show and I wanted my hair to look like hers. It was an American TV show; she was a policewoman and that’s what I wanted to be. But I hated my hair and it was never so long again and I never became a policewoman. And so ends,” she says, with comic solemnity, “the saddest story ever told.”
“That is a sad story. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”
“No.”
It’s quiet for a moment. He listens to the trickling noise the water makes as it spurts from the mouth of the green frog.
“Roberto?” says Teresa. “In the drawer?”
“Yes, I know.”
He pulls open the drawer in the night table. He takes out an ashtray with a joint in it and a cigarette lighter. He puts the joint to his lips and lights it and then puts it to Teresa’s lips. She takes a shallow drag, coughs softly.
Her eyes drift toward the window. The rain has stopped and the clouds have cleared out enough to disclose the sun. It is poised to set behind the mountains, and it is flooding the valley with golden light, and the light comes into the room.
“‘Blessed are those who mourn,’” Teresa murmurs, “‘for they will be comforted.’”
She was an unbeliever when Roberto met her, but since her accident, she’s taken a turn toward religion.
“Are you mourning someone?”
She doesn’t answer. Her gaze moves from the window back to him. “You don’t have to stand there hovering above me. Like an overly attentive waiter. Sit down.”
He pulls a chair closer to the bed and sits. She smiles a rueful little smile.
“Poor Roberto. We used to talk about a thousand things. And now he never knows what to say to me.”
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s true.”
It is true. He’s never been able to get past the enormity of what happened to her enough to have an ordinary conversation. He wonders what it must be like to suddenly feel your body below your neck disappear and know your old life has been irretrievably lost and you will never be able to do again ninety-nine percent of what you have always thought of as making you human and in the stillness and darkness of three a.m., what do you think about? It’s possible Teresa would be glad to talk about such things but he never asks the questions, maybe because he doesn’t really want to know the answers. Maybe there’s a little bit of Franz in him, a reluctance to get that close to the white-hot furnace of human suffering.
“Listen,” Teresa says. “Here’s what I wanted to tell you.”
“Yes?”
“Good-bye.”
“But . . . we’ll see each other again.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I definitely plan to come back.”
“I wasn’t thinking about you. I was thinking about me. People like me usually don’t live very long.”
Her arms are lying on top of the bedclothes; Roberto reaches out and squeezes one of her soft, inert hands.
“I’ll see you again, Teresa. I really believe that.”
She looks at his hand on hers, then into his eyes.
“Do you know what I pretend sometimes?”
“What?”
“No, never mind. It’s silly. Give me another hit.”
He fires up the joint again, puts it to her lips. She breathes out some smoke. The sun turns it golden. She seems transfigured in the light.
“Tell me, Teresa. What were you going to say?”
“All right. I pretend that I’m a princess. Held prisoner in an enchanted tower. And Roberto is a knight who’s coming to rescue me. But he must have many adventures first. Fight dragons, wander in dark forests. But every day brings him a little closer to me.”
“Teresa? I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For what happened to you.”
“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s. No use regretting it.”
“You’ve always been so calm about it. I’ve never understood that.”
“Oh, Roberto’s crying. Do you know what I’m pretending to do right now?”
“No, what?”
“I’m pretending I’m wiping away his tears.”
* * *
André
s walks him to the elevator. Andrés looks dejected.
“It’s not going to be the same without you, Roberto.”
“It’s not for forever. It’s just temporary.”
Roberto pushes the down button for the elevator.
“Call me,” Andrés says. “As soon as you get out of Tulcán.”
“I will.”
“Is Daniel going with you?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked him yet.”
“He’ll go. He won’t want to. But he will.”
* * *
Daniel breathes in some smoke, then passes the joint to Roberto. He examines it dubiously.
“Is this that creepy shit?”
“Yeah. Go ahead, man, it’s the best.”
Roberto inhales a small amount of smoke. He and Daniel are sitting on the couch in Daniel’s apartment. Daniel’s wearing a shirt with broad blue and white stripes. It’s too small for him, and from time to time he tugs it down to cover his soft hairy belly. There’s a brownish stain on the shirt. Probably sauce from his gaucho burger.
“Stripes are back,” says Roberto, pointing at the shirt.
“I didn’t know they went away.”
“Me neither.”
Daniel frowns at his aquarium.
“I’m concerned about the clown triggerfish. He wasn’t interested in his food at all today. It’s not like him.”
“You think he’s sick?”
“Maybe.”
“Which one is he?”
“You can’t see him, he’s hiding. Because you’re here. He doesn’t like people. Except for me.”
“Those are lucky fish. Nobody takes care of their fish like you.”
Daniel sucks on the joint again, then sighs out the smoke.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow. I thought if I didn’t think about it, that would mean it wasn’t happening. But I guess it is.”
“There’s been a change in plans.”
“You’re not leaving tomorrow?”
“I’m still leaving. But I’m not going straight to Saint Lucia. I’m making a little side trip first. For a couple of days.”
“A side trip where?”
“Tulcán.”
Daniel looks surprised. “Why are you going there?”
“The Army’s invading Tulcán. It’s already started. They’re going to wipe out the independence movement. They’re kicking out journalists and NGOs so there won’t be any witnesses. It’s going to be a mass slaughter.”
“So there’s going to be one more mass slaughter in this pestilential hellhole of a country. So what?”
“It’s a big story, and somebody needs to cover it.”
“Well, that somebody doesn’t need to be you. Just get on the plane to Saint Lucia tomorrow. That’s the smart move.”
“Look, it’s all planned out. I’m meeting up with this guy named Chano, he’s with the rebels, he’s half Indian, he knows the jungle like the back of his hand. He’s going to take me to this ranch called El Encanto, there was a massacre there last week. I’ll talk to some survivors, you’ll take a few pictures, and then by the next day, I’ll be out of the country.”
Daniel is staring at Roberto. “What did you say?”
“I said the next day I’ll—”
“No. Before that.”
“I want you to come with me.”
“You’re fucking nuts.”
“I knew you’d probably react this way, but—”
“Forget it, Roberto.”
“I’m flying to Robledo tomorrow. You can drive there in your car and meet me—”
“I’m not meeting you in Robledo. I’m not going to a crappy, evil place like Tulcán and get my fucking head cut off.”
“You won’t get your head cut off, Daniel. It’ll be like the old days.”
“The old days were terrible. How either of us ever survived them, I don’t know.”
“I need you. I don’t know if I can do it without you.”
“You’ve been doing just fine without me. There’s a lot of good photographers out there.”
“But I don’t trust any of them like I trust you.”
“God damn it, Roberto! This just isn’t fair!”
Daniel scrunches his eyes shut, runs his fingers through his reddish disheveled hair. He stands up, walks over to the window. Roberto joins him. They look out on the lights of the city. The darkened bullring.
“Why do you think it isn’t fair?” Roberto says.
“If you were in some kind of trouble, you know I’d try to help you. Right?”
Roberto nods.
“But that’s not what’s going on. What you’re going to do is really stupid. You need to leave the country or they’re going to kill you, have you forgotten?”
“But they said I have ten days, the tenth day isn’t till Sunday. I have plenty of time.”
“What if they get impatient? What if they decide to kill you on the eighth or the ninth day?”
“Tomorrow it’s going to look like I’m flying to Saint Lucia. They won’t know I’m going to Tulcán.”
“How do you know they won’t know? You’re assuming everything’s going to go according to plan, but things always get fucked up, Roberto, you know that.”
“Then I’ll come up with a new plan. We’ve done that plenty of times. And it’s always worked out all right, hasn’t it?”
“It’s the law of averages, you can’t flip a coin and have it come up heads fifty times in a row. It’s time for us to lose.”
“I don’t agree.”
“The law of averages doesn’t give a shit if you don’t agree! I just know that I’m not going to get myself killed just so you can win a Bolívar Prize!”
“You think that’s what this is about?”
“I’m not sure what it’s about with you. I just know you enjoy this kind of shit and I hate it but I always just get dragged along. But not this time. I finally have a halfway decent life and I’m not going to fuck it up!”
Daniel’s face is turning red and spit flies out of his mouth as he yells at Roberto.
“Calm down, Daniel. It’s okay. I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. And don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine.”
“Now you’re trying to make me feel guilty.”
“No I’m not.”
“Are you going to get another photographer?”
“There’s no time for that. I’m not a bad photographer, I’ll just take the pictures myself.”
“But you’re not a good photographer.”
“I’m good enough.”
“I don’t trust this Chano. How do you know he’s not going to rob you and kill you at the first opportunity?”
“I guess that’s possible, but it’s not very likely.”
Daniel lights a cigarette. His hands are shaking.
“I should go,” says Roberto. “I still have some things to do.”
“But you can’t go, you just got here. Let’s have a few drinks.”
A part of Roberto would like nothing better than to stay here with Daniel, to enter with him into a blissful oblivion of alcohol and drugs.
“I have to get up early,” Roberto says, and he begins to move toward the door. Daniel walks with him.
Roberto glances at the picture of the young John Lennon in his black leather jacket. He seems to be watching Daniel and him.
“Do you think I’m so crazy?” Daniel says. “That I’d rather stay here and take pictures of Fernanda’s tits than go in the jungle and take pictures of a bunch of rotting corpses?”
“I don’t think you’re crazy at all.”
* * *
He’s just walked in his apartment when his cellphone rings. He’s expecting it to be Daniel, letting him know he’s changed his mind. But it’s Javier.
“I’ve talked to my friend,” he says, “and he’s looking forward to meeting you.”
“Great. When? Where?”
“The town of Tarap
acá. A bar called Juanito’s. Eight o’clock tomorrow night.”
“Is there a number I can reach him at?”
“No, sorry.”
“But what if something happens? What if he doesn’t show up?”
“He has your number—if something happens he’ll call you. But don’t worry, he’ll be there. He’s looking forward to it.”
Roberto hears music and talking in the background of the call. “Are you still at Blonde?”
“Oh yes.”
“How’s it going?”
“Do you know what Boolean logic is?”
“I’ve heard of it. But I don’t know exactly what it is.”
“I’m in the same boat. But I’ve met a computer programmer with abnormally large breasts who’s been trying to explain it to me. I’ve learned her apartment’s just around the corner, and I’m hoping to continue the conversation there.”
Roberto laughs. “Well, good luck.”
“Good luck to you, my friend.”
Roberto’s heard of Tarapacá, but he doesn’t know anything about it. He goes to his computer and googles it. It’s a town of twenty-seven thousand in Chimoyo province on the Gualala River, not far from Tulcán. He feels in his chest his heart pick up its pace, for it’s suddenly becoming very real to him. This time tomorrow night he will be in Tarapacá, at a bar called Juanito’s, sitting at a table with a stranger named Chano, and then he will cross with Chano into Tulcán.
He takes his glasses off and cleans the lenses. He’s been dreading this moment all day.
Caroline is at her computer waiting for Roberto. Her smile, he sees with a sinking feeling, could not be any happier.
“I’m so excited, Roberto. I probably won’t sleep at all tonight.”
He forces a smile of his own. “Yeah, me neither.”
“Did you get everything done?”
“Yes, everything.”
“What about your car?”
“I sold it.”
“Who to?”
“A dealer.”
“How much did you get?”
“Twenty-two million.”
“That’s a very good price for that car.”
“Well, that’s not what he offered at first, of course. I had to bargain with him.”
Caroline gives a surprised laugh. “But Roberto, you hate to bargain.”
“It’s the new me. A Roberto who drives a hard bargain.”