Traveller’s Tip: You get to an internet café. You set up a new email address. Hotmail. Yahoo. Gmail. It doesn’t matter. You set up a new email address because you don’t know who is tracking your old one. The cops. Angry mercenary smugglers. A girl who talks to God. You set up a new email address and then you search for a place to stay. Hostels are no good. They’re likely to be full of Americans. And who knows if they follow the news? Who knows if they’d recognise you? So you need to find a site that has rooms to rent from the locals.
Traveller’s Tip: Find a currency exchange. Don’t worry about the exchange rate if it’s blood money from the guy you killed. And don’t act surprised when you give the lady on the other side of inch-thick bulletproof glass the dead sex trafficker’s wad of pesos and she hands you back almost ten thousand euros. That’s just how you roll, big spender.
Traveller’s Tip: Find a Gap. Even foreign lands have them. Buy pants and shirts and some new shoes. Buy a wallet for all your money, high roller. A backpack. A watch.
Traveller’s Tip: Find a bookstore. The one I stop in is called Livraria Lello. But you find your own. There’s something magical about this one. A winding, red staircase that looks like it was created by dripping wax from giant candles connects the first and second floors. Large iron lanterns hang from struts on the walls and the roof has a massive, stained-glass skylight that bathes the floor-to-ceiling oak shelves in multicoloured rays of light.
Pick up an English-language guidebook. In my case it’s a guide to Porto: it’s history, language, culture and customs. At the beginning of every chapter they have these Traveller’s Tips.
Traveller’s Tip: Portugal is a culture that respects hierarchy.
Traveller’s Tip: Loyalty to the family comes before other social relationships, even business.
Traveller’s Tip: The Portuguese are a people who retain a sense of formality when dealing with each other, which is displayed in the form of extreme politeness.
The bookstore owner sits behind the counter.
‘I WOULD LIKE TO BUY THIS BOOK PLEASE,’ I say.
He shoots me an odd look.
I say, ‘HOW MUCH IS IT PLEASE?’
But the owner doesn’t understand what I am saying even though I spoke slowly and clearly. He’s old. Maybe seventy. Probably doesn’t know a word of English. His younger assistant comes over and says, ‘I help you buy.’ She tries to take the book from me, but:
Portugal is a culture that respects hierarchy.
I just got here. I’m not going to start breaking any rules. I don’t need any more trouble. The old man is obviously the top dog. I’m sure he should ring me out. I ignore the girl as best I can. I won’t even look at her. So the old man saunters up to the counter and pats the girl on the hand. No doubt he’s telling her this foreigner respects tradition; he understands our ways.
‘THANK YOU VERY MUCH,’ I say. ‘HAVE A GOOD DAY.’
Traveller’s Tip: Money talks. When I return to the internet café I have an email from a woman named Diana. The apartment she has for rent isn’t far from the bookstore. It’s on a narrow, hilly street above a café with yellow walls. It’s not much, but it’ll do. There’s even a small fireplace. The lady wants to copy my passport, but I can’t exactly explain that I’ve had my fake one confiscated by corrupt cops in Mexico after I ran from the house of a former sex trafficker I’d just found murdered, so I offer her twice what she was asking and pay for two months on the spot. The passport isn’t a problem after that.
Traveller’s Tip: Setting up a temporary life is exhausting.
I unpack my new backpack and shower. The TV only has one channel and it is all in Portuguese so I shut it off and crawl into bed. And for the first time since any of this happened, I have a place to myself again. I am free from Epiphany.
Traveller’s Tip: It’s all gotta catch up with you sometime. When it does, just cry and cry and cry. Let it all out, you big baby. You don’t need to pretend that you’re not worried that some of the people you talked to today weren’t real. You’re fucked up. You’re out of medicine. All that time you were swimming, your imaginary ex-girlfriend swam right besides you saying, ‘Quit worrying about the sharks! Swim! Swim!’ like she was coaching Michael Phelps.
Necessity always comes first. You knew giving up your meds was the only way you could incapacitate her, but now you need your medicine or you’ll go crazy. Your figments will cause you to. Accept that and plan for the next step. Know that this is all temporary. Know that this all is going to end the way it began. You just need the courage to do it.
31
Caged Parakeet
It’s been two days since I jumped ship. My figments are getting harder to ignore. When it’s not Rachel, it’s LaRouche. The dead mix with the never-real. Their appearances are accelerating. I even hear them talking to me before I’m fully awake – they must start in that moment before your body’s alarm clock goes off.
The guidebook says Portugal is a very Catholic country. Even if I could somehow break into a pharmacy I doubt they’d have the abortion pill here. But even if I could get the pills, what then? Live on the run forever? Maybe if I was stronger, but I’m not. I’m me.
And flipping the pages I find what I’m looking for: how to end all this.
‘Jerry, do you know where my soccer ball is?’ someone says.
It’s Ana Lucia.
I say, ‘No. No. No. You aren’t–’
‘Real? But I was real in Ensenada,’ she laughs. ‘Wasn’t I?’
A cold realisation grips me. ‘Get out!’ I yell.
‘But I came for my soccer ball,’ she says.
Spasms ripple in my head. ‘You weren’t real?’
‘Who’s real? You?’ she cackles. ‘Or are you the Madman, Jerry? Are you Nietzsche’s Madman? Are you mad, Jerry? And what about Epiphany? She’s coming to kill you, you know.’
And I yell again and hurl my guidebook at her and, in an instant, she’s gone, replaced by a crack in the windowpane.
I feel like I weigh a ton, like the air around me has been replaced by mud. I sludge over to where the guidebook landed and turn to the page I was on. She’s right – I’m right, I mean. Epiphany must be on her feet by now. She must be looking for me. Hunting me.
But suddenly a little spring of hope erupts in my stomach. If Epiphany was right about her daughter being in Spain, maybe she’s on her way there already? But even if Epiphany did go to Spain, Abdul has probably been sent to look for me. I’m sure she had no problem wrapping him around her little finger.
I turn back to the guidebook and dog-ear the page with the answer on how to end all this. The only sane way, anyway. My chest sinks at the inevitable. But I get off the bed. There’s still right now, before the inevitable comes to pass. And right now I’m hungry and I’ve got thousands of euros burning a hole in my pocket.
Portugal’s economy is one of the worst in Western Europe. That’s what the guidebook says. In older cities like Porto most of the young look for jobs elsewhere, in Lisbon or Spain. The ones who don’t leave Porto choose to live in the suburbs by the ocean, leaving the city centre to a much older and poorer crowd. That makes living cheap. Even after paying Diana double rent for two months I could live here for a year off the blood money.
A waiter asks me a question in Portuguese. In the guidebook I flip past the dog-eared page to the translation pages. I’m at the café below my apartment. The table is shaded by an awning and a warm breeze flutters past. I point to the Portuguese word for eggs. ‘Double,’ I say, then look at my little Porto book and say ‘Duo, par favor.’
An old man at the table next to me lets out a little laugh. He puffs on a large stogie. His silver-rimmed glasses reflect the bright morning sunlight as he turns to me and says, ‘You told him you wanted two eggs, when you meant you want two servings.’
Embarrassed, I flip though my book searching for the right words, but the old man reaches over and places his broad hand on my arm. His skin is like leather, darkened fr
om years in the sun. The hair on the back of his hand has gone white and stands out like rice in a patch of black earth.
‘Please,’ he says, ‘allow me.’ And without taking his hand from my arm he calls the waiter back and rapidly speaks in Portuguese. The waiter shoots me a quick grin and runs back to the kitchen. ‘Now,’ the old man says with a smile, ‘you’ll get what you want: two orders of the best eggs in Porto.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ve never been good with languages.’
‘You tried,’ he says with a wink and brings his stogie back to his lips.
I eat my breakfast slowly as my eyes roam. Sometimes they rest on the back of the old man’s head. The little hair he has left hangs in thin, white strands across his skull. They blow and interweave over chocolate skin spots.
Across the street, on the ledge of a second-floor window, a large orange-and-white cat meows at a caged parakeet. Below the window a girl coos at the bird. Her hair is anime-red.
Rachel, she blows me a kiss.
I force myself to find an elderly couple that sits a few tables away the most interesting people in the world. I’ve seen them talking to others so I know they’re real. They wave at the old man, who says ‘Bom dia’ and waves back. And that’s when I notice another girl. I didn’t see when she arrived even though I’ve been scanning the crowd most of the morning on the lookout for Epiphany or Abdul.
The girl, she sips coffee and eats what looks like a little upside-down custard cake as she scribbles on a white notepad. Her brunette hair is tucked over her right shoulder. Her lips are plump and her arms are thin – almost gangly. She looks up from her writing and catches me staring. She glances at my guidebook and gives a gentle smile. I ignore it and she returns to scratching on her notepad.
An influx of paranoia comes over me. I raise my hand. ‘Cheque, please,’ I embarrassingly say in English. This is when the old man with the leather hands and silver-rimmed glasses turns around and speaks to the waiter again. The waiter nods, then smiles to me as he walks off.
‘If you eat here again, you pay for that meal. This one is on the house,’ the old man says. I try to protest, but he stops me. ‘Please Jerry, my name is Paulo. This is my café and what I say goes.’
My heart stops. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘Forgive me,’ he laughs. ‘You are letting the flat upstairs, yes? My friend Diana owns it. She likes to bug me in the morning and gossip.’
My insides churn. He knows Epiphany. Or Abdul. Or Diana knows them. Or they all know each other and they’re all in this to trap me.
No. Snap the fuck out of this, Jerry. Get a damn grip. He’s just a nice old man. There are still some of those in the world.
‘Thanks,’ I say, trying to smile. ‘The eggs were amazing.’ And they were. They were some of the best eggs I’ve ever had.
‘I’m glad,’ he smiles back.
See? There’s nothing to be paranoid about.
I get up from my table and walk the five feet to my apartment’s entrance. And from the corner of my eye I see the pretty girl with the notepad reflected in a window. She’s stopped writing again and watches me unlock the door.
Nothing to be paranoid about at all.
32
Bela
When I get out of the shower and dress it’s the first time I notice how baggy my pants are. I didn’t even try them on when I bought them. I just went by my usual waist size. I take a long look in the mirror and notice my potbelly is almost gone too. All the running; all the craziness; I must have dropped fifteen pounds.
‘Looking good, Jerry,’ a voice says.
I put my T-shirt on.
‘Come over here and fuck me.’
I count the money in my wallet.
‘This time your mom won’t walk in on us.’ And I make the mistake of looking in the direction of her voice. Rachel, she’s laying in my bed with her ass in the air and her tits on the sheets. ‘Just hit it baby. Remember how it felt? A velvety tunnel of love?’ She laughs. ‘Don’t get me wrong, you sound like a fourteen-year-old virgin when you say that, but it’s sweet anyway.’
‘Not real,’ I say to myself.
‘What’s real anyway?’ she asks, wiggling her ass. There isn’t a single hair on her pussy. ‘Reality is only in the mind. And you, baby, have one hell of a mind,’ she grins. ‘It’ll feel soooo real. You know it will.’
But I grab my keys. Out on the hilly streets I stroll past a flower stall, past a wine shop, past a shop selling cheap souvenirs. I walk with no direction in mind. When I hear her voice again I begin to hum. I hum to drown her out.
‘Baby, I’m still here,’ Rachel says, now dressed in the most form-fitting, low-cropped jeans I could ever imagine. I cross the street and she follows, skipping by my side.
I shake my head and walk around her. I hum.
‘Fine, baby,’ she says. ‘I tried to give you a good send-off. She’s going to find you, you know. She’s going to kill you.’ And Rachel, she starts singing ‘la la laa la,’ in tune with my humming.
I pass a bus stop; pass a bakery selling sweets that look like they’re dipped in orange wax; pass a church whose walls look stained with olive oil. I walk and I walk and I walk, all the time hearing Rachel sing. It’s relentless, this noise only I can perceive. I find myself back in front of the bookstore. The one where I bought the guidebook.
I sit on the curb. I grab my ears.
Traffic is heavy. What would I need to do? Just walk out a few feet?
‘La la laa la, la la laa la.’
That’s all – a few feet.
I stand.
And then–
‘Do you like my flowers?’ a voice asks.
And, as if on cue, the la la laa-ing is gone.
‘What?’ I bark, expecting to see Rachel, but I turn to find the pretty girl from the café standing in front of me, her arm outstretched.
‘My flowers. Do you like them?’ the girl from the café asks slowly, pausing a little too long between each word. ‘The flowers, no?’ Her little plump lips almost comically bellow in and out as she speaks her o’s and w’s.
And, yes, now I notice that she is indeed holding some yellow flowers. Sunflowers, I think.
‘What I would like to know is: I ask, do you like my flowers?’ she smiles as she asks the same question a third way.
I furrow my brow. ‘No,’ I say.
‘Excuse me, please,’ she calls after me. ‘You are American, no?’
I turn back. ‘Why are you talking to me? Are you another one? Or did Epiphany send you?’
The girl, her head bounces up and down a little as she replays in her mind what I’ve just said. It’s like she’s following one of those dots above the words in a karaoke song. ‘I do not know that word – iffany,’ she finally answers. ‘But you are American, no?’
In a nervous sort of way, in her style of pausing a little too long between words, the girl, she says, ‘I saw you talking to my friend Paulo at the café. He said you are a nice person. My name is Bela and these flowers are for you, if you like. I am hoping we can be friends and you can help me learn better English.’
Seriously, that’s what she says. Just like that. Right to the point. No beating around the bush. No hiding why she wants to be friends. No pretending that she doesn’t want something in return. I haven’t had conversations this direct since I was four.
And she stands in front of me, arm straight, sunflowers in hand, and waits. Her smile, it fluctuates between nervousness and hope. And as she waits for my answer, in the silence between us, there’s no la la la-ing or imaginary supermodels offering forbidden fruit; there’re no dead madams or imaginary Mexican children. There are just some sunflowers grasped in an outstretched, slightly trembling hand.
And standing there, this girl, she casts furtive glances at me.
And as it looks like her arm is about to give out, I take the flowers. ‘My name’s Jerry,’ I say.
For the rest of the afternoon we walk the streets, jus
t me and Bela – figment free.
Bela, my odd little tour guide. ‘The city enchanting, no?’ she says. A two-storey bridge that looks like it was designed by Eiffel spans a wide, flowing river that divides Porto. On the south side is the wine-makers district, and on the north, in Porto proper, is the main city. It’s a city of hills and churches; of narrow streets and cafés. It’s a city that looks like its being born again from the inside out. From the outside the buildings look old and dilapidated, but in any number of them, when you peek through open doors, you see carpenters hard at work.
Sometimes we talk, sometimes we move silently, side by side. Bela moves like an old lady: feet together, cautious little steps, elbows at her sides – as if she doesn’t balance properly she’ll tip over. When she asks, I tell her I’m in town on vacation. She tells me she wants to move to America one day. She points things out as we walk and says their names in English, but she always adds a ‘no’ on to the end. Her no’s mean yes.
‘Apple, no?’
‘Grandmother, no?’
‘Cat, no?’
We’re waiting at a crosswalk for the electric sign’s red man to go green when Bela tells me that she’s seen me before this morning. She was in the bookstore when I bought the Porto book. I’m listening to her but there are no cars coming so I begin to cross. And that’s when she rebukes me. Right out of nowhere. ‘We are not to cross until it turns green!’
She does that sometimes. She has these little moments where she’ll snap at you.
‘The man is not green!’
So, as we wait on the corner of the street with no cars for the red man to turn green, Bela says that when she saw me again at the café she thought it might be a sign that we’re supposed to be friends.
And me, I get nervous now when people speak of ‘signs’. So I change the subject. I say, ‘Porto is a pretty city,’ not so much because it is but because it sounds like something you should say.
Epiphany Jones Page 21