Then, from the next room: “President Guiterrez?”
It is the voice of an American woman, from the State Department. Her name is Lora Schuler. “Can we get you something?”
“I am fine,” Guiterrez answers softly.
He continues to stare at his reflection. His hair is thick, wavy, and mostly black. He is fifty-seven years old, and while there is some gray, it suits him. He’d always believed he would look distinguished as an older man, and the fact that now he indeed does offers a daily dose of brief, but deep, satisfaction. It is, he thinks, an example of the kind of small comfort that can help a man soldier on—to know that some things, thank God, can be counted upon. But could the same be said of the Waldorf? The lobby still shimmers, yes, but there seem to be more tourists, certainly more Asians, rich, of course, but … He couldn’t help but detect a slow creeping to the place; a vague film or faint echo, a lingering. It unsettles him. And now he can’t even come and go as he wishes. He’d been asked, no, told, “to stay removed from things.”
Removed?
“Removed.”
For how long?
“A little while. Just until the situation settles.”
The situation was settled. They all knew it. He was not going home. Not that things could not have been worse. On the contrary, he was lucky to have been here when it happened. Now they would have to arrange things for him. He would get an apartment, a car and driver, nothing extravagant. He had no grand illusions, mind you. He was … What was it? A small fish, sure, but not so small as to toss back, not right away at least. Better to let him flop in the boat for a turn. There were favors owed, and more importantly, things he knew. Others knew more, maybe, but if nothing else, the years had allowed him an understanding of how the Americans worked when it came to these things. Smooth transitions were important, they were all too happy to attach value and ease; and he’d cooperate, and they appreciated cooperation. As for home? He would monitor things, of course, always, but the truth was his time had passed. He knew this. Perhaps, if all went well, he’d be able to go back for a visit. Stranger things have happened. But he would be fine here, happy even. There, was money, yes, not as much as some no doubt thought, as some would no doubt say, not nearly, but enough.
In the next room, Guiterrez’s daughter, Arantxa, an exotic-looking young woman, the only child born to Guiterrez’s first wife, a Costa Rican beauty, stands next to her father’s most senior aide, Carlos Vinto. Once a member of Guiterrez’s own security detail, for the past eight years he has functioned as a chief of staff. Vinto and Arantxa are staring out a window that looks over Park Avenue. Sitting near them, reading one of the dozen newspapers scattered about, is Ms. Schuler. Her pin-straight brown hair is tucked behind her ears; she is wearing a long navy skirt, a white top, and a small cross around her neck. When El Pollito walks into the room, they all turn around; only Ms. Schuler smiles. Arantxa says she likes the color of her father’s shirt. Carlos asks if he is hungry for lunch. Guiterrez doesn’t say anything. He considers picking up a paper, then thinks better of it and walks back to the mirror.
A few minutes later, Ms. Schuler’s mobile phone rings. Minutes after that there is a knock on the suite’s door. It is someone she is expecting, a colleague. She goes to the door and greets a husky blond man wearing a navy blazer and a white shirt. Arantxa and Carlos stay fixed at the window. Ms. Schuler and the man in the blazer walk into the dining area to speak more privately. After only a few moments, the man walks back to the door of the suite. Another man in a blazer is posted outside the suite’s door, for security purposes. Ms. Schuler apparently wants a word with him, too; both men walk back into the suite to speak with her.
Guiterrez can see all of this because the mirror he has taken to staring at is located off the master bedroom. An open sliding door allows him to see into the suite’s sitting and dining rooms. As he watches, Guiterrez notes the precision with which everyone in the room seems to move and, even, stand still. It reminds him of silent films. He also notices that when the security man walked into the suite, the door did not close entirely behind him. So, without giving it much thought, Guiterrez quickly and quietly walks out of the suite, rides an elevator down to the hotel’s lobby, buys a pack of cigarettes, and walks outside and onto Park Avenue. It is just before 3 p.m. on a Friday.
The sky is clear and blue. It is mid-September and almost hot. Guiterrez smiles as the sun first hits his face and the warm air surrounds him. Another benefit of American airconditioning, he thinks: like misfortune, enough of it can make you value even the heat of the day. He begins walking north on Park Avenue, vaguely aware that is the direction of Central Park. After a few blocks, he sees two girls dressed in school uniforms. He asks them for directions, which they relay with what is unquestionably the least possible effort and attention, an act, Guiterrez notes, of true, merciless efficiency. They should run a country, he thinks. Then he notices a café across the street and decides he’d like a coffee.
He takes a table in a corner, a semiconscious act of discretion. At this point, it should be noted that while Guiterrez is aware he is flouting the U.S. State Department’s stated position regarding his leaving the hotel, and that back at his suite at the Waldorf there is probably a small flurry of reactive activity occurring, he does not in any way think he has committed any grand offense, and the idea that he might be in any kind of … danger couldn’t be more removed from his mind. In fact, his simple act of … well, to call it defiance would be too much. Assertion? Independence? Recklessness? However it should be described, it has left him feeling lifted, and very much alive, a feeling, as it would happen, shared by a young woman he is about to meet.
Her name is Ellie Bowen. She is nineteen years old, and has lived all of her life in the very large apartment owned by her parents in the prestigious prewar building next to the café, which is where she is sitting, drinking a 7UP, when Guiterrez walks in. As it is a Friday afternoon, she has not been to sleep for nearly forty eight hours. Generally speaking, when Ellie goes out for the evening, it lasts a while. She likes being out, is good at it, and often finds that a mere six or twelve or even twenty-four hours of the doing so isn’t enough to sate her. More often than not, she finishes these stretches—she likes to call them sessions—by spending an hour or so, usually alone, at the café. Not that you’d guess it from looking at her. Her long, brown hair seems like something from a magazine ad, all but posed, and backlit to flattering effect by the afternoon sun sliding in through the café’s open windows. Her eyes, also brown, are clear and open wide, and her skin is smooth and deeply tanned. She is wearing a simple, white dress. She could be anyone young and pretty.
Often people think she is Latin, or Italian, sometimes Middle Eastern, none of which is true. She smiles often, and with skill, but her most charming quality, the thing that inevitably distinguishes her in a group and has been the catalyst for the high frequency of what can rightly be called singular experiences during her relatively young life, is a true faith in the power of lying. For as long as she can remember it is only when wedged deep into a dark crevice of a dense, living fiction that she feels … calm. For Ellie, lies are blankets, and windows, portable accessories that offer both security and possibility. Ellie and her lies share a kind of understanding; they need one another, yes, of course, but more than that, they like each other. The ramifications of this are, naturally, extensive, but have thus far at least been largely contained, and even capitalized upon. Not yet diagnosed, but under treatment, Ellie is an agile, fragrant textbook pathology. A true bird of paradise.
She had been sitting in the café for nearly twenty minutes before Guiterrez walked in. Now she waits until he orders, before going to his table. “I’ve seen you on TV,” she begins.
Guiterrez looks up at her. No, she is mistaken, he says in Spanish.
“You were on a talk show.”
No, she is thinking of someone else (again in Spanish).
“You were talking about rivers.”
He stares at her.
“No, no, no, not rivers. That was someone else. You were talking about something bigger, something about how the world is, most of the time, a terrible and sad place where there are millions and millions of poor children dying due to neglect, because no one will act on their behalf. You said that it is understandable that most of us don’t spend our lives trying to feed poor children on continents thousands of miles away, or even poor children in the cities we live in. You made it clear you understood the reality of the situation, that it’s simply not feasible for most people to do that. But, but, you said, if we—and by we I think you meant, you know, not just all of us who happened to be watching you on TV at that moment—if we acted only a little, changed our behavior only in some small, manageable way, then we could do a lot to help these poor children, then we could literally save thousands, maybe millions of them.”
She sits down at his table.
“I understood what you were talking about. I remembered it.”
Now he speaks in English: “I’m sorry, miss, but you do have me mistaken for someone else. I have never been on television.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Never?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“That’s too bad.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I said that’s too bad,” Ellie says.
“Is it?”
“Well,” she says. “Yes, I think so. Being on TV is actually quite remarkable.”
“I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“No, you don’t have to, that was just my experience.”
Guiterrez takes a sip of his coffee, then looks up at her. This girl is lying, he thinks. What is this about?
“I think you are lying,” he says.
She smiles. “Oh, c’mon, it isn’t something to be on television? Think about it. I’m not sure how television even works, are you? I mean how it actually works, the science of it. Waves, particles, gamma rays—who knows? But how amazing is it really that you can just flick a switch and see something happening live, right then, around the world. Just thinking of it makes me feel, I don’t know, proud.”
Guiterrez smiles. “Pride only gets people into trouble.”
A waitress approaches. Ellie orders a 7UP. “My name is Greta,” she says. “What’s yours?” she asks. He doesn’t respond. “Is it—”
“My name is Diego,” he says.
“Great name.”
He laughs, then gently closes his eyes and looks up into the sun. It is getting cooler. He rubs his eyes with his fingers.
“Is everything okay?” Ellie asks.
He looks at her. She is a attractive, sexy somehow, but short.
“Yes”—he sips his coffee—“thank you.”
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I have a secret, something I haven’t told anyone, something maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone. But I want to tell someone, I think it’s important that I do.”
“Are you in the habit of telling strangers secrets?”
“Sometimes they’re the only people you can trust.”
“Are you in the habit of having conversations with most of the strangers you meet in cafés?”
“Only this one.”
“Secrets are often best kept secret.”
“Because people are afraid of them.”
“People are afraid of everything.”
She smiles. “Yes.”
“You remind me of my daughter,” Guiterrez says, even though it isn’t true. “She is about your age.”
Ellie looks at him. “Here’s the secret I’m going to tell you,” she begins, but then waits, unconsciously pausing for effect. She is about to start speaking again but suddenly realizes she wants to let the moment build, just for half a second or so more, but then that half second passes and she lets another go by, then another, and another. Now she and Guiterrez are staring at each other in silence. She does this sometimes, lets pauses grow into silence, silences into small awkward moments, small awkward moments into semi-excruciating ones. She finds it delicious, not so much that it tends to unnerve people, though she likes that it does that, too. She likes the suspense. When will she start speaking again? Now? How about now? Will the other person say something first? She once told someone that for her it feels like the moment right before a movie starts, but better, sharper, scarier.
Guiterrez likes Ellie. He can’t help but think to himself, She doesn’t know who I am.
“The other day I was walking though the park,” she says. “The weather was like this, gorgeous. It was the weekend and the park was crowded, with lovers, children, parents. I was walking around just looking, just watching. I think it became too much for me. I’d been watching a small boy play, he was five or six years old and running around a patch of grass near a playground. I couldn’t tell who his parents were, or where they were. There were lots of parents around watching their kids, drinking bottled water, packing things away into various packs and pockets. I was sitting on a bench nearby and this little boy ran over to me. He was very cute and said hello. I asked if he was having fun. He said he was. Then I asked him where his parents were, and he pointed back toward the playground, toward where most of the adults were standing. Then I asked him if he was a fast runner. Oh, yes, he said …”
Ellie stops. The waitress puts down her 7Up. Ellie smiles at her and takes a sip before continuing. “I asked him if he could run far. He said he could. I told him I didn’t believe him. He said he could run as far and as fast as I could imagine. We went back and forth about it for a while, me saying, ‘I don’t believe you,’ and him saying, ‘I can, too.’ Then I told him to prove it to me and pointed in the direction opposite the playground, toward a hill way in the distance. I told him to run as far and fast as he could in that direction, and that I would watch, and if he did it, I would believe him. And he said okay and took off.”
She stops.
“And?” Guiterrez says.
“And then I just got up and walked away.”
“And you think something happened to the boy?”
“I don’t know. But my secret is not that this thing happened, it’s that I do things like this all the time, and even more than that, it’s that it doesn’t bother me. I don’t think about it afterward. Like with the little boy, I just kept sitting there, then got up and walked away. I didn’t even watch to see how far he ran. And right now, telling you, I don’t feel guilty about the little boy, or wonder if he ever found his parents again, or if something awful happened to him. It’s just something that happened, something I made happen. I do things like this and just walk away.”
“Maybe you should see a priest.”
“I don’t know any priests.”
“Maybe you should see a psychiatrist?”
“Another thing is that I steal things, not so much from stores, but from other people, people I know, and people I don’t. In general, the truth is that I can just be … I guess cruel is the best word, usually for no real reason. Sometimes I think it’s that I don’t have some kind of gene that most other people have that keeps them from doing certain things. I’ve never hurt someone, like, you know, physically or anything, never hit someone or anything like that. Truthfully, I don’t think I’m a cruel person. It’s just that maybe I think about people in a different way. I mean, I don’t walk away from people. I don’t not want to let them in or whatever. I want to let them in. I want people close to me. You know, I hate even going to sleep.”
“You are quite a young girl,” Guiterrez says.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Another sip. “It’s like … Everything, it all means so much to me. Like a birthday, or …” She stops.
“Or a pretty view,” says Guiterrez.
“Yes, exactly,” she says.
He laughs.
“I’ll tell you a secret of mine,” he says.
“You think
I’m a stupid girl.”
“Listen.”
She does.
“I have hurt people, physically. I have killed people, shot them, strangled them, drowned them, tortured them. I don’t know how many, more than ten, less than twenty, with my own hands. But I have been the cause of many more deaths, hundreds more, people whom I ordered killed, and people whose deaths I could have stopped, but didn’t.”
He looks at her, tries to read her face, but can’t. “I don’t believe I’m a cruel person either.”
“I know who you are,” Ellie says to him.
“You are a stupid girl,” Guiterrez says to her.
They stare at one another. She stands up.
“Do you think I am lying?” Guiterrez asks.
She smiles at him, and it—the smile—ends up being the most honest thing to have come out of her in a while, perhaps ten days. “I don’t know,” she says. “But I enjoyed our conversation.”
Now he smiles, too. “So did I.”
Before leaving, Ellie stops at the café’s bar and asks the bartender to bring a bottle of Cristal Champagne to the older man sitting in the corner, her boyfriend, for his birthday, that she has forgotten his present in her car, but will be right back with it. When she is outside, she immediately takes out her cell phone and calls a friend with news of how she just slept with Diego Guiterrez, the famous Formula One race car driver. Soon after, Guiterrez walks back to the Waldorf, hungry for dinner.
author inspiration
Upon first hearing about the idea for the Lit Riffs collection of stories, my first instinct, other than dismay at the chosen title, was to choose a song that would in some way be surprising and fun, even more so than a song I really loved, or at least liked, or at least knew most of the words to. This notion was further solidified in my head after I saw an initial list of songs other writers were choosing (not sure if that list has any resemblance to what finally made it in the book). Lots of folks were picking what I thought of as smarty-pants, hyperliterate stuff. I kinda just shook my head. I mean, what’s the point of trying to write a short story based on a Dylan song? (I always thought Dylan songs were short stories, only better.) Anyway, for me, “Rio” came up right away. For one, I fucking love the song, it usually makes people smile, even if they’re shaking their head in the process. I sort of think you can divide the world into people who appreciate Duran Duran, and people who don’t, and I’d rather vacation with the people who do. To me, Duran Duran in general, and “Rio” in particular, shimmer with the absolute brain-freeze purity of pop-rock’s transcendent ridiculousness, whatever that means. And I like the drums and guitar. And, good Lord, the lyrics, to “Rio” especially, are an L.A. sunset, a hot breath of everything and nothing all at once. I love shit like that.
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