Mr. Gwyn

by Alessandro Baricco

  Even in prison?

  But the man didn’t answer, because a black car, a few intersections farther on, stopped suddenly and went into reverse. Is it him? asked the man, and the girl nodded yes. She had turned pale. Over here, said the man, and they began to run toward the avenue, where more cars were passing and maybe there were also people. The girl bent down to take off her shoes and, holding them in her hand, began to run fast. The man’s heart was pounding in his ears, he was trying to think, to come up with an idea. He was sure that the boy had seen them, but probably he was so angry that it would take him a while to orient himself in that web of narrow streets. Maybe they still had a few minutes, although it wasn’t clear what they could do with them. Maybe reaching the avenue was already something, he thought, and when they got there he turned to see if the black car had arrived first. A bus was approaching, with the arrow flashing. He turned and saw the bus stop twenty yards away. Here, quick, he shouted to the girl, and meanwhile he raised his arm so that the bus would see them. They reached the stop, and the time the bus took to brake and open its doors seemed an eternity. Get in, hurry, said the man. The girl got in without saying a word. The man instinctively reached a hand into his pocket for a ticket, because he was that type of man. But there wasn’t time, because the doors closed. From behind the glass the girl shouted something and he thought she was asking why in the world he hadn’t gotten on. He shook his head no. The bus left, and he saw the girl waving at him. It seemed to him that she did it gracefully, as she probably did everything.

  Then he stood there, his heart pounding. He wasn’t even thinking.

  A minute, maybe, or a little more, and the black car stopped in front of him. The door opened and the boy got out, calm, slowly. He wasn’t in underpants and a T-shirt, he was dressed. He walked around the car and approached the man. She’s pregnant, asshole, he whispered softly, then he punched the man in the ribs, and the man crumpled to the ground. He huddled on the sidewalk, like an insect, and meanwhile he thought of jail and what he could do to avoid ending up there again. Don’t do anything, he thought. The boy kicked him in the back, repeating in a low voice, Asshole. Then he took a cigarette and lighted it. The man, on the ground, was listening to his own heart. He felt the boy take a few steps, as if to move away. Then he heard him close by again.

  Where did she go? the boy asked.

  To the man it seemed that the news that the girl was pregnant changed things a little.

  She took the bus, he answered.

  The boy gave an ambiguous nod of the head. He took a furious drag on his cigarette.

  Get up, he said.

  The man thought he would never make it, but the boy repeated get up and he did it in a cruel, impatient voice. So the man planted his arms on the sidewalk and with immense effort stood up. He felt a pain in his chest that cracked him in two.

  Get in the car, said the boy, in that same voice.

  The man raised his head and for a moment wondered where were those few passersby he remembered walking hurriedly along the avenue. He got in the car and it occurred to him that he might not get out alive. But it was a stupid idea, probably.

  The boy sat behind the wheel and the man, next to him, slumped against the seat back. Nothing happened for a while. Then the boy started the engine and slowly made a U-turn, setting off along the avenue. They drove as if they had no goal, and maybe they didn’t. But finally the boy turned onto a street he recognized and after about fifty yards stopped in front of the hotel. He turned off the engine, pulled down the window, and lighted a cigarette. He was silent for a while.

  I’m not even sure it’s mine, he said at a certain point. The child, he added.

  Why?

  What do you mean, why? You saw what type of girl she is.

  She’s sweet.

  She’s crazy.

  But in a lovely way, said the man, and then he began to cough, because of the thing that was cracked in his chest.

  The boy let him cough, then asked if he had children.

  More or less, the man answered.

  I don’t want a child who isn’t mine, said the boy.

  Then they said nothing until the boy said, Get out, and he said it as if he didn’t care about anything anymore.

  The man opened the door and said, I’m sorry.

  Scram, said the boy. He didn’t even wait until the man had really gotten out, he reached over to close the door and took off, tires screeching.

  The man stood there, in front of the hotel. He looked around and was surprised to see a light that was still imbued with the dawn, because it seemed to him that hours had passed since he left with the girl. He didn’t move, because the pain was piercing, but also because he had the vague sensation of having forgotten something. The towels came to mind. He imagined them on the ground, at the bus stop. He pictured them white and smooth, there on the ground, and for a moment he thought it was good that the boy had beaten him without causing him to bleed. He wouldn’t have liked the white towels to be stained with blood. And now, instead, he could imagine them clean, and mysterious, in the curious gaze of the passersby.

  Someone will pick them up and take them home, he thought.

  3

  The boy had lain down on the bed without even taking off his shoes, and had been tossing on top of the covers, falling asleep from time to time, but it wasn’t a real sleep. Sitting on a chair, in a corner of the room, a woman observed him, trying to get rid of the annoying sensation that they weren’t doing the right thing. She hadn’t taken off her coat, because even the heating was terrible in that depressing hotel. Like the dirty carpet and the framed jigsaw puzzles on the walls. Only those idiot bosses of hers could have thought it was a good idea to take a thirteen-year-old boy there, after what he had endured that night. The stupidity of the police. All because they hadn’t been able to track down a relative to take him to. They had found only an uncle, who, however, had no intention of budging from where he was, that is, a construction site in the North, an ass-hole. So now here she was playing nanny to the boy, in that shitty hotel, and in the morning something would be decided. But the boy tossed and turned, on top of the covers, and the woman couldn’t stand that abandonment, and the sadness of everything. No boy could deserve shit like that. She got up and went over to the bed. It’s cold, she said, get under the covers. The boy shook his head no. He didn’t even open his eyes. First they had talked a little, and she even managed to make him laugh. Suppose that I’m your grandmother, she had said. You’re not that old, he had said. I look good for my age, the woman had said; she was fifty-six and in fact felt every one of her years. Then she had tried to get him to sleep, and now there she was, convinced that it was all wrong.

  She went to the bathroom to wash her face, because it was important to stay awake. And she had an idiotic idea that, however, made her immediately feel better. She turned it over in her mind, and knew that it was full of holes, but she also liked it because it was crazy and delicate. She went back to the chair, still thinking, and since the boy continued to toss and turn on the bed, at a certain point she said Fuck, rose, picked up her bag, and turned on the lights. The boy opened his eyes and looked at her. Let’s go, said the woman. Get your stuff, we’re going. The boy put his feet down and looked around. Where? he asked. To a better place, said the woman.

  They left the hotel and got into an old Honda, parked in back. It didn’t have police markings and didn’t seem in great shape. It was a beat-up squad car that at the precinct only she used. She was attached to it. She loaded the stuff in the trunk, told the boy to get in, and took the wheel. You stretch out and try to sleep, she said to the boy. Then she slowly left the parking lot, checking that there was no police car in the vicinity. She relaxed a little only when they turned onto the road that led out of the city. The boy hadn’t asked questions, and seemed more interested in the radio installed on the dashboard than in the purpose of that journey into the night. Once they were in the countryside there was really nothing to see out
the windows, where everything was devoured by the darkness. While the woman drove silently the boy curled up on the seat and closed his eyes. Sleep, said the woman.

  She drove for a good hour, trying to concentrate on the road, because she had never liked driving and was afraid of falling asleep. There was no traffic; at that hour of the night it was something if you came across a sleepless truck. But for the woman it was difficult anyway, because she wasn’t used to that kind of thing, and all that darkness made her nervous. So she was glad when she saw the boy sit up and look around, while he stretched like an ordinary boy, one who hadn’t been through what he had. It seemed to the woman that everything was going a little better.

  Hello, kiddo, she said.

  Where are we?

  Almost there. Do you want some water?

  No.

  There should be some cans under the seat.

  No, I’m okay.

  You remember, right, who I am?

  Yes.

  Detective Pearson.

  Yes.

  You just have to relax and I’ll take care of the rest. You trust me?

  Where’s my jacket?

  Everything’s in the trunk. I took everything.

  Why didn’t we stay there?

  It was a terrible hotel. It wasn’t a good idea to stay there.

  I want to go home.

  Malcolm—your name is Malcolm, right?

  Yes.

  Going home is also not a good idea, Malcolm, believe me.

  I want to see my house.

  You’ll see it. But not tonight.

  Why?

  There’s no need to talk about it now.

  Why?

  We can talk about something else.

  Like?

  Soccer, cars. Or you can ask me questions.

  Who are you?

  A detective, you know that.

  A lady detective?

  It’s not forbidden, you know.

  Yes, but… how did you think of it?

  Oh, that. At a certain point I changed everything and the idea occurred to me. I wanted to start over again. I was with a policeman. There was an exam and I passed.

  Was it hard?

  Nonsense.

  Even shooting?

  Even that.

  Did you ever shoot, afterward?

  At first. But I wasn’t the type to enjoy it. I liked other things more.

  Like?

  Understanding. I liked to understand. And then I liked the criminals. The crazies. I liked to understand them. At one point I began to study. It’s the only thing I almost finished in my life. They used me for that, at the police.

  For that what?

  When they needed to understand the minds of criminals or crazy people. I stopped shooting and for quite a while they used me for other things, where there was no need for guns. I was the type of policeman they send to the roof to talk to people who are going to jump, you know?

  Yes.

  They called me when there were letters from maniacs to read.

  Cool.

  I was good at it, then.

  Why do you keep saying I was good at it?

  I say what?

  I did this, I did that… aren’t you a cop anymore?

  I am, but I stopped doing anything good long ago.

  Who said so?

  Me, I said it.

  Excuse me a moment… 3471, Detective Pearson… Yes, the boy is with me… I know… I know perfectly well… It wasn’t a good idea… I know what the orders were, but it wasn’t a good idea, does it seem to you a good idea to keep a boy all night in that wretched hotel after what happened to him? Is that what you’d call a good idea?… I know… Well, you know what you can do with your rules?… Do what you want, you know how much of a damn I give about it… He’s here with me, I told you… No, I’m not telling you, but it’s the right place for him… Make all the reports you want, then I’ll make one, too… What kidnapping, what the hell are you talking about, I’m only taking him… No, I’m not going back, let’s end it here… Do what you want… You know how much of a damn I give… Fuck off, Stoner, over and out.

  Sorry, kiddo.

  That’s okay.

  Sorry for the curse words.

  That’s okay.

  They can’t do anything to me.

  No?

  Four days and I’m done. I turn in the badge and retire. They can’t do anything to me. You might be my last job—I want to do it well and in my own way.

  Do the police retire?

  If they don’t get knocked off first.

  Knocked off?

  Killed.

  Oh.

  Let’s do like this, push that button, the first on the left, and turn off the radio. That way they won’t interrupt us anymore.

  This one?

  Yes. Good.

  Is there also a siren?

  Yes, but it’s broken. There’s the blue light, if you want.

  The blue light that spins on the roof?

  Yes. It should be under the seat. With the cans.

  I’d like it.

  Okay. Take it out.

  This?

  Open the window and stick it on the roof.

  It won’t fly off?

  I hope not. It’s supposed to be magnetic. But I haven’t used it for a while.

  Done.

  Put up the window, that’s a bitter cold coming in. Okay, let’s turn it on. Voilà. Cool, no?

  It’s really the police light.

  You like it?

  I don’t know.

  Something’s wrong?

  There were all lights like that, in front of the house.

  If you don’t like it let’s take it down.

  I don’t know.

  You don’t like it, kiddo, let’s take it down.

  There was the big light of the fire and then all those lights came.

  Take it down, go ahead.

  Sorry.

  For what? They’re horrible lights, you’re right.

  Where should I put it?

  Throw it back there, but put up that window.

  There were all those faces I’d never seen, and that blue light on them all. Then there was the smell.

  Let’s talk about something else.

  No.

  When we get there we’ll talk about it if you want.

  No, now.

  I’m not sure it’s a good idea.

  Did someone set it on fire?

  We don’t know.

  A house doesn’t catch fire by itself.

  It can happen. An electrical wire, a stove left on.

  Someone set it on fire. Was it friends of my father?

  I don’t know. But we’ll find out.

  You’ll find out?

  I’m retiring, Malcolm. That shit Stoner will take care of it. He’s a shit but he’s good at what he does.

  You have to tell him that it didn’t catch fire by itself, our house.

  Okay.

  They burned it down.

  Okay.

  Suddenly there was fire everywhere. I saw it.

  Okay.

  My parents were fighting. When they fight I go out.

  Yes, it’s a good system, I also used it.

  I jumped off the sidewalk, on my bike, in front of the house. Then came that fire. I left the bike there and went closer. I looked through the big window…

  …

  …

  …

  What’s strange is that they didn’t escape.

  Who?

  My father and mother. They did nothing to escape. My father was sitting at the table, with his bottle of wine, and the gun lying next to it, as usual. My mother had come out of the kitchen and was standing in front of him. And they were shouting. But they didn’t…

  Okay, now let’s talk about something else, Malcolm.

  No.

  Malcolm…

  They were shouting at each other. They were shouting on top of each other. And meanwhile everything was on fire.
<
br />   Okay.

  They wouldn’t have died if instead of shouting at each other they had run away. Why didn’t they?

  I don’t know, Malcolm.

  That’s why I couldn’t move. I looked at them. I couldn’t move. Everything started getting hot, so I began walking backward. I stopped where it wasn’t hot anymore. But I couldn’t help looking.

  Get me a can, Malcolm.

  Just a minute. Will they ask me why I didn’t go in and save them?

  No, they won’t ask you.

  Tell them it’s because I saw that thing.

  Okay.

  I didn’t see my father, but my mother was like a torch, she caught fire at a certain point, but even then she didn’t start running away, she stood there like a torch.

  Then the woman took one hand off the wheel and placed it on one of the boy’s hands. She gripped it hard. She slowed down a little because she seldom drove and wasn’t confident, she didn’t like driving with a single hand. In the dark, on that road in the emptiness. But she kept her hand tight on the boy’s, being careful not to swerve—she wanted to tell him to stop it, but also that if he wanted to keep going she would hold him by the hand. He said again that at the end there was nothing left of the house, and asked her how it was possible that nothing could remain of a house, after fire had seized it, in the darkness of the night. The woman knew the exact answer was that a lot of things about that house would remain forever, and that he would spend a lifetime getting it out of his head, but instead she said yes, it was possible, if a house was of wood it could be reduced to a pile of ashes, however strange that might seem, if one night a fire decided to consume it, if the hearth in the living room caught fire at night. It was all smoking, he said. It will smoke for a very long time, she thought. And she wondered if there is a possibility, a single one, of returning to look from a distance when we always, all of us, have some smoking ruin before us, and that boy more than any other. I am a terrible driver with just one hand, she said. The boy took her hand and placed it on the wheel. I can manage, he said. Then they were silent for a long time. There was that road leading eastward, without ever turning, or just slightly, to avoid a patch of woods. In the light of the headlights it revealed itself little by little, like a secret of small importance. They occasionally met a car, but didn’t look at it. The boy took a can, opened it, offered it to the woman, then remembered that business of driving with one hand, so he brought it to her lips and she then burst out laughing and said that no, she couldn’t—there were a ton of things like that she couldn’t do, she said. You know how to drive at night, said the boy. This time, yes, said the woman.