Like a Fading Shadow

by Antonio Munoz Molina

  * * *

  But one still wants to imagine. Literature is the desire to dwell inside the mind of another person, like an intruder in a house, to see the world through someone else’s eyes, from the interior of those windows where no one ever seems to peek out. It’s impossible but one does not renounce the optical illusion. You walk past the tall and empty buildings of Lisbon or Memphis and want to know what they are like inside under the light that filters through the wooden planks covering the windows. You wake up in the middle of the night with the strange sensation of being inside the mind of another person, trapped or locked within it, a windowless solitary-confinement cell where you’re serving a sentence for a crime that’s unknown to you, but you also know you’re not innocent.

  It is easier to reach the mind through the senses. I had to know how that room smelled. I had to know what that bathroom looked like. The sound of the steps on the dark and narrow stairway as he went up and down: he went up, for the first time, around 3:00 p.m. to rent the room; he went back up later, with a bag but without the rifle, which was still in the trunk of the car; the bag had all the things he would need to spend at least a night in the boardinghouse, which provided nothing, not even toilet paper.

  He went down at 4:00 p.m. and drove around in the Mustang looking for a store where he could buy the binoculars. When he returned half an hour later, there was another car parked in front of Jim’s Grill and the boardinghouse, so he had to find another spot, not too far from there, but still less favorable, because now he would have to cover that distance carrying the box with the rifle, which was visible even with the blanket around it.

  He turned off the car but remained inside. I imagine the smell of the red leather inside the hot car; the touch of the steering wheel, which must have been so familiar to him after having driven more than twelve thousand miles. He was going to get out but then he saw something behind a window. He always studied his surroundings before making any movement, before taking a single step between the bar and the sidewalk, or when he was entering a dimly lit room and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He saw a woman looking out from a store window. He watched her sideways to avoid showing his full face. Both hands on the wheel, thinking through every step he would need to take to safely transport the box with the rifle to the room in the boardinghouse.

  He stayed there for twenty minutes, doing nothing, watching, adjusting the rearview mirror to check different angles. He stayed still for so long that the woman at the store became curious as she waited for her husband’s car to come pick her up.

  * * *

  But she did not see him get out. She became distracted with something else and when she turned around the white Mustang was empty. No one remembered him taking a big box from the trunk of the car or walking to the door that said ROOMS, next to the window of Jim’s Grill.

  He went up the steps and then down the hall to room 5B. He would have heard the voices of other guests behind the doors, the noise from radios and television programs.

  In room 5B he removes the dresser that was in front of the window and puts a chair there instead, the only chair in the room. He is hesitant to touch anything. He needs to be careful not to leave any fingerprints. He places the box on the bed and takes out the rifle. He loads only one bullet. With the rifle on his lap, he looks out the window, slightly parting the dirty curtain.

  The setting sun is shining on the windows of the Lorraine Motel. He looks through the binoculars. He can see room 306 clearly. Everything looks modern at the Lorraine Motel, everything looks new. Cream-color curtains protect the room interiors from the sun. Below the balcony, in the parking lot, he sees a group of elegant black men standing around a white Cadillac. The sun is reflected off their sunglasses and their gold rings. He adjusts the binoculars, magnifying the lens so he can see the faces more closely. But the face he’s looking for is not there. He remains still, alert, isolated from the world despite its proximity, just as he was moments before, when he sat inside the Mustang waiting for the perfect time.

  * * *

  Room 306 is open. Just a moment ago it was closed. He got distracted watching the men around the Cadillac. A breeze lifts the curtain. He looks at his watch and it’s now past 5:30 p.m. He moves the circle of the binoculars along the railing and then he sees him, so clearly, standing on the balcony, easily recognizable but at the same time different from any of the images he has seen of him.

  He is adjusting the cuff links on his shirt and his face is slightly turned toward the interior of the room; his lips are moving, someone else must be inside the room. He keeps watching him, amazed that the man is there in the flesh. There’s a feeling of numbness, as if he were in some kind of hypnotic trance and time had ceased to exist, but he knows the clock is ticking and he needs to act fast.

  The image that was constructed so meticulously in the laboratory of his mind is now real. He lifts the rifle, slowly, but in order to aim he will have to hold it at an awkward angle and slightly out the window. The face in the lens is unbelievably close. His jaw shines as if he has just finished shaving. He can see him so clearly, it feels strange not to hear what he is saying.

  * * *

  But now he’s gone. He made a sudden movement with the binoculars and lost him. The balcony is empty, although the door is still open and the curtain is flapping. Time has leaped forward. It is now fifteen minutes till six. The minute hand is moving faster in the sphere of his watch. He leans the rifle against the wall, opens the door, and peeks into the hallway. There is no one but he can hear a loud television. He sees the bathroom door is open. There’s no one inside. He quickly steps out of his room with the rifle and into the bathroom. He carries the binoculars in his left hand. Fortunately, the door has a latch, though it would not be hard to break it with a strong push.

  His hands are sweating. He should have taped his fingertips but there was no time. Perhaps the man already left the motel. Every second counts. In order to see room 306 he has to stand with his legs apart inside the tub. He has to maintain his balance and aim the rifle at the same time.

  In the parking lot, two of the men are now getting inside a car that is not the white Cadillac. The only way to exit room 306 is to come out to the balcony. Keeping this difficult stance makes the knot of the tie feel even tighter. The jacket is also limiting his range of motion. His precarious stability depends on the fulcrum of the rifle barrel on the windowsill. Someone is now shaking the doorknob to the bathroom. Everything is oscillating from sharp to out of focus, from still to unstable. Beads of sweat are running down his forehead but he can’t wipe it because both hands are occupied. The person outside the bathroom is now banging on the door and yelling.

  The streetlights are beginning to turn on. In a few minutes it will be dark. If he can concentrate with enough energy, he can make him come back out. He blinks and suddenly the man is there, again, leaning on the railing, now wearing a suit jacket and a tie. He can see his eyes so clearly. They have a moist gleam.

  He’s shorter and stockier than he had imagined. There’s an unlit cigarette in his left hand. For a moment, he seems to be staring intently across the street, toward the windows of the boardinghouse. He leans forward and puts his elbows on the railing as if about to speak to a person below. The knocks on the bathroom door have ceased. He barely had to pull the trigger.

  25

  It had been a hot day, but the air felt much cooler now as the sun began to set. It was the warm humid air of Memphis, emanating from the soaked ground and vegetation after the storm of the night before. There was a sudden perfection in his surroundings, a levity, a sweetness; it was something present and tangible and at the same time a promise; a certainty and a soothing sense of distance from it all.

  He had noticed it only a few minutes ago, by surprise, when he came out to the balcony, securing his cuff links. He realized that for the first time that entire day he was breathing fresh air, and leaving the excessive refrigeration of the Lorraine. He was surprised by the warm tou
ch of the breeze coming from the river, invisible and nearby, just beyond the rooftops of South Main, the walls surrounding abandoned sites, the collapse of the inner city in America, the crumbling neighborhoods where only the poor and black lived, the most trapped, the ones who ran to touch him as if he had stepped right out of the Gospel, hoping for some kind of miraculous cure; but also the ones who did not come, the ones who kept their distance, numbed by misery or alcohol or heroin, and the ones who now viewed him with suspicion, even hatred, no longer a brother, but a traitor, a sellout to the white man.

  He had come out to the balcony because the smell of his shaving cream was too strong, almost repulsive, a running joke among his friends. He had applied the cream in front of the bathroom mirror, while Abernathy asked him to please close the bathroom door and crack open a window.

  He also found the smell repugnant, almost as much as the feeling of that sticky substance on his skin, which was very sensitive and would get easily irritated if he used a regular razor blade. He cut the thin mustache very carefully. It was his secret flirtation, although he knew that it was now an outdated style, that it belonged to a time of ten or fifteen years ago, just like the hats that he still liked to wear. Nowadays all the men wore big mustaches and long sideburns, and almost nobody wanted to use a hat. Life can change rapidly around you and you won’t even notice if you don’t look up from your routine.

  He washed his face with cold water and slapped on the aftershave. The clean ironed shirt was pleasant to the touch. He buttoned it halfway and went out to the balcony to get fresh air. He had plenty of time. They were going to a dinner with friends, nothing formal like those dinners in New York and Washington, which still made him nervous after all these years. It would be a simple feast, hearty food, and then some music, an event to honor the sanitation workers who were striking. He always asked Abernathy to do things he’d rather not do; this time, just a while ago, he had asked him to call the host of the dinner, Mrs. Kyles, to confirm that the menu did not have any strange dishes, any French sauces or steamed vegetables or pureed spinach with the consistency of his shaving cream. Eating and drinking with friends is one of life’s great pleasures. For the Greeks, a feast was a banquet of love, the maximum expression of human harmony, the sweet intoxication of flesh and spirit.

  Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart, says Ecclesiastes. He likes southern food, the plentiful servings of the restaurants in Memphis, fried catfish, barbecued ribs, smoked pork, pig’s feet, sweet tea with ice, frosty cold beer, black beans and rice and creamy sweet potatoes, all the glory of God’s creation.

  * * *

  It was a good sign to be thinking about food, to have an appetite again after so many days of darkness, the enormous and probably doomed effort of putting together the biggest march the world has seen, like the people of Israel marching toward the Promised Land, the great universal march of the poor to Washington, not just his people, because poverty and injustice are color-blind, but also Native American tribes, day laborers, immigrants, the Puerto Ricans of Spanish Harlem in New York, the Eskimos, the native Hawaiians, the white poor of Appalachia.

  He and Abernathy had shared a big tray of fried catfish for lunch. The waiter of the Lorraine had made a mistake and brought just one huge plate. They almost preferred it that way. Like David and Jonathan, they had shared everything for many years. They were closer than brothers. There was no point in waiting for the extra plates or cutlery. They dug in with their hands and ate and talked and laughed; they even took the tray to the bedroom, where they continued eating and joking and even throwing food and napkins at each other.

  The bedroom was a mess. Twenty-four hours since their arrival and the ashtrays had already overflowed; there were newspapers all over the floor and the beds, along with reports and drafts of sermons, beer bottles, the bottle of whiskey they had started the night before, a lone ice cube floating in a glass of lukewarm water.

  * * *

  Depression was a sin because it made you indifferent to the gifts of God, resentful against them. In those moments, the lines from Ecclesiastes would come to him as clearly as if someone were whispering them into his ear. Therefore I hated life; because the work that is wrought under the sun is grievous unto me: for all is vanity and vexation of spirit. Now that he was emerging from the darkness, he could see just how deep he had fallen in a secret and vindictive disappointment with everything and anger at himself. I hated all my labour which I had taken under the sun: because I should leave it unto the man that shall be after me.

  While shaving, he had been able to look at himself in the mirror without shame, without seeing the face of an impostor, a sinner consumed by forbidden desires, the libertine who was the target of gossip and blackmailing by his enemies, the FBI agents who right now were probably sitting in an unmarked van nearby listening to the microphones they had planted in his room.

  A sense of immunity to guilt and danger had filled him since the night before and it felt even stronger now. He was thankful for this inner calm because he knew how fragile it was.

  As he exited onto the balcony, he felt the curtains and the breeze on his face, the stillness that filled that hour in these parts of Memphis, after people had left the factories for the day and were home getting ready for dinner. It was the sound of the daily sigh of relief in these fatigued lives. Faint sounds of ship sirens came from the invisible river. He remembered that mysterious passage in Genesis where God is walking in the garden in the cool of the day. He placed both hands on the railing. The metal still contained the heat of the day.

  The sun had yet to set beyond the forests of Arkansas, on the other side of the river, but it was no longer within view from the balcony, only its golden shadow was visible across the sky, slowly backlighting the row of buildings to the west. Time had slowed down just for those few moments, still without haste, before they called him from the parking lot and said it was time to go. It felt good to step out of the constant urgency to get somewhere, a meeting, a dinner, a march, an interview, a plane.

  For thirteen years, his entire adult life, he had lived like that, always in a hurry, each time with less energy and increasingly trapped by the anguish of obligations, the crowds who spent hours in the heat, waiting for his arrival to their church; the possible donors and powerful benefactors who should never have to wait; his own children and his wife in the family home where he barely had time to stop nowadays; the production assistants at the TV studios who were always rushing him through some backstage.

  The more conscious he felt of his strength leaving him, the more daunting the task ahead, the more cruel the injustice, the more unlikely his success. In other times, when he was younger, everything had seemed possible. Now, unexpectedly, he was enjoying these few minutes in a parenthesis of calm. It was a gift, as tangible as the solid warmth of the metal under his hands or the way the clean shirt felt on his skin.

  He went back to the room, flooded with the red glow of the afternoon and its lengthening shadows. He buttoned up the rest of the shirt. The last button gave him some difficulty. He had started to gain weight recently, and it was not for the pleasures of food and drink, but something darker. He lacked joy. He was eating from stress, drinking to appease his anguish, smoking until his lungs hurt, and waking up every morning in a hotel room that smelled of cigarettes, not knowing where he was, because all the rooms had started to look the same.

  He fixed his tie, noticing the pressure of the shirt collar on his chin. He liked the feel of silk on his hands.

  There were people in the movement, fervent fighters, who surrendered to asceticism as a perpetual penance, as if any delight was a frivolity, a betrayal to the cause of the oppressed. They would have liked to wear camel hair, like John the Baptist, with a leather belt around their waists. But Jesus Christ, on the very eve of the Passion, had thanked a woman in Bethany for pouring on his head an alabaster box of very precious ointment, and admonished the disciples, who had complained about wa
sting it when it could have been sold for money to help the poor.

  He loved good cologne, the subtle blend of perfumes that emanated from attractive women, the elegance of high heels. He put his jacket on, delighted by the skill of the tailor who had known how to fit the suit to his new heft in a flattering way. People who met him for the first time were always surprised to see he wasn’t tall.

  He folded the linen handkerchief and slipped it into the breast pocket of the jacket, forming a small triangle. The black shoes were clean because he had not left the hotel all day, but he still gave them a quick polish. They were the elegant shoes of Sunday sermons and receptions, not the comfortable, rubber-soled ones of marches under the sun. Perhaps he had time to smoke a cigarette on the balcony, while Abernathy went back to the room to put on deodorant or cologne. Abernathy always scolded him when they were running late but he was the one who was always remembering things at the last minute and causing delay.

  * * *

  It was amazing that people could remain the same. It was good that way. To feel that you know a friend so well that you can predict his actions, that the good things happen according to a preexisting order, following the person’s nature, like Genesis says, the particular and even whimsical nature of every creature. If he had to wait for Abernathy, he might as well do so on the balcony with a cigarette. He anticipated that small and guaranteed pleasure.

  Below, around the cars, friends joked around and lit one another’s cigarettes, playing pretend-fight, throwing hooks in the air and laughing. They wore dark suits, thin black ties, and hats and had an air of jazzmen and professors, which he liked, because it balanced out the propensity of Baptist pastors to look like funeral directors.