The fireworks they’d set alight at the San Cristóbal Hill are still going. Even all the way South they can see them explode over the Andes, everything still freezing with the blasts: instant photographs that last a second, the stillness of forest fires, the death of frozen birds lasting just a moment longer. And then the pinks and greens that shine on their faces melt from the sky, and the peaks appear black, and their faces are black, and the forest fires burn acres to soot, and the volcano in front of them is a shadow, its smoke invisible.
They arrived in Puerto Varas yesterday because Eva says that the boat she’s looking for is in Lake Llanquihue. That’s how they’ll find it, she said, the hole in the ice, in the ocean. They will live on a boat and search for it every day. She has to know… ‘We have to know, and we have to be there first,’ she said, because whatever they find inside will never be untouched again.
They walk past empty pebble beaches, empty German chalets filled with alpaca sweaters, wooden wind chimes, and plastic windmills turning in between the explosions in the sky. And then she finds it, the boat, anchored by the empty hotel on the cliff.
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘I don’t know how to sail.’
‘We’ll learn. The guy on TV said it wasn’t hard.’
‘But it’s a lake. How will we get to the ocean from here?’
They get on the boat. It’s light and wooden, like a movie prop, and he wonders if it isn’t just part of the harbour. Whatever it is, it’s still larger than any flat they could ever afford.
‘We’ll find a way,’ she says, untying some rope from a wooden pole.
That’s when he notices that they’re on ice and that ice caps are hitting the boat from the sides. Eva takes his hand, and he follows her down a ladder to walk on them.
‘Keep looking down. This place is full of cracks.’
And it is full of them. Every time he takes a step a new one appears. Eva looks at them and takes notes in her IDEAS book. She says something about ice cracking in the direction of the currents underneath, but he’s sure it’s his own steps and the blasts from the fireworks, and so he stops walking and lets her carry on by herself.
‘You alright?’ she asks, bent over the ice.
‘I don’t think there’s anything here,’ he tells her, looking at a pelican falling to a stop-motion-neon-coloured death right in front of them.
‘Then there isn’t,’ she says, her face a silhouette again. ‘Let’s get this boat out of here!’
• • •
He wakes up with a loud BANG and Fran shouts out his name and he hears her running in and out of his room. He doesn’t get up. He doesn’t get up because there’s water coming down on his left from the table on top of him and it doesn’t stop and there are still no chewing gum constellations.
‘Up! Up! Quickly yes?!’
‘What? What happened?’
‘The house sky! The house, part above, roofs, fuck, I don’t know how to say! Get up!’ she shouts, pointing up. ‘It all falling!’
He gets up from under the desk and looks at a large square piece of his ceiling that fell right on his desk. There’s water coming down from the boiler and Fran is running naked between the bedroom and the hole in the roof.
‘You have, plastic container yes?! Fuck! Like a bin, or rubbish. Something! Have a bucket or something?!’
‘Nope. But try to calm down, it’s really not a huge deal. It’s probably some safety mechanism because water was, I don’t know, maybe there was too much pressure in a pipe and…’
‘You think? You think too much pressure and this safety? The rubbish, use thing for rubbish. Oh my God, Tomás!’
She looks at him holding her head with both hands but he’s staring at the piece of ceiling, at his most likely dying computer, at the waterfall that splits on his desk, at the cheap cream-coloured carpet that now looks like moss. She opens the cupboard under the sink and takes the bin out. She turns it upside down and all his paper plates and straws and coffee packets land on Fran’s feet.
‘Oh my God, Jesus, Jesus.’
‘I don’t know how to cook,’ he explains, pointing at the pile of trash.
‘No, I don’t care. And wait, you don’t know recycle?! Fuck, put here, put here.’
‘It’s really—’
But she doesn’t wait for him to answer and puts the bin on the piece of his ceiling on the desk. It starts to fill up and he looks up at the hole and sees black, nothing more, and he smiles because it reminds him of Jaime’s coding, the way a waterfall can come out of nothing, ready for Tomás to have to justify with a story and the also…
‘Your flat going smell to crazy bad.’
‘I know, but it’s OK. We can just light a candle or something.’
‘You have will to throw this water the window down. If pour it down sink it all block with the dry paint.’
‘Yeah, it’s OK, I’ll get it fixed tomorrow.’
‘I scared,’ she says, coming closer to him. ‘I see you on floor and I think you dead, Jesus. Then I feel bad for talking of funeral at party, is very bad taste.’
‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’
She kisses him and he hugs her and he touches her chest. He does it all because it’s what he’s meant to do, to let her see that he enjoys her despite the accidents. He wishes roofs fell more often and then Eva would have known it too.
He takes the bin to his smoking window and pours the water down and it splashes heavy with an echo on the parking spots downstairs. He lights a cigarette and Fran joins him to watch the snow.
‘Crazy,’ he says.
‘What is?’
‘The snow, at this time of year.’
‘Yeah. I like. It like magic, it make city quieter, you know?’
‘Yeah.’
He flicks the cigarette out and sees Fran looking from side to side, hugging herself.
‘You probably should get a bed.’
‘You know, I was just thinking about that. I’ll do it tomorrow.’
He goes to his desk and puts the bin on it again. The water falling from the ceiling is slowing down and the stream becomes single drops and the rug’s now a puddle of fur. Eva would have made a huge fucking scene. She would have told him that this was an example of why couples should sleep in separate beds, live in different rooms, even different houses, just like she read people do in France. His sister would have agreed, but would have clarified that it is just not the case in India. Angela once said Eva was more progressive than him because Eva hadn’t laughed when Angela asked her whether or not it was possible for pet canaries to be gay. She asked this because her favourite male canary was trying to fuck another male and he was shouting so much and all, but she didn’t want to break true love and when Tomás laughed and told her to shut up, Angela left saying Eva deserved better, someone who could understand the plight of women, the plight of birds and love, or at least the imbecility of men. Turns out the canaries ate each other. They really hated that dry feed. Eva could not stop laughing. But Eva would have given him hell for the hole in the ceiling.
He lies down on the sofa and smokes, but then he hears a paper slide in under his front door. He gets up and picks it up.
Are you OK? We heard some shouting and a lot of noise. If you need help let me know.
Also, if anything in the house is broken, it might be a good chance for you to check out Abdul’s vintage shop madness this weekend.
Thanks!
Your neighbours,
Lucas and Jesús.
Tomás opens the door but there’s no one there so he goes back to the couch and finishes his cigarette. He falls asleep and dreams about flying a small plane over the ocean. He sees a white island made of ice and tries to speed the plane up but he can’t. He looks behind him and Jaime and his dad are smiling. His dad tells him he needs to get a flying license and starts singing the national anthem. In every pause he adds ‘fuck them Argentines and shoot them good’ and his teeth are shining. Jaime tells him that he’s in
a Flight Simulator videogame and apologises because he messed up the physics engine again, so it’s impossible to land and his dad laughs and Jaime asks ‘Can you write it in a story? Can you make us fly forever?’ and they fly over the ice island and his dad shouts ‘Finally! That’s Argentina! Start shooting!’ and then the chorus, O la tuuumba seraaa de los liiibres, and Tomás wakes up and it’s Fran holding the French press.
‘Eh, good morning.’
‘Hi.’
‘Where mugs, for coffee, you know? I can’t find.’
‘I just use straws,’ he says miming using a straw with his fingertips. She frowns. ‘Cupboard above the sink,’ he adds. She stays looking at him so he sighs and gets up and grabs two straws. He lets her have the first drink. He looks at her, still naked, and he sees two red lines he hadn’t noticed before on her left thigh.
‘What’s that? Did you get hurt yesterday? Did something fall on you? I’m sorry about that.’
‘No, it’s not worry. Not that. It nothing.’ She turns her back to him and looks at the bin still filling up with water.
‘No really, what is it? I’ll pay for your doctor if you need it. I guess the ceiling is kind of my fault.’
‘No, no. I mean. Yes, your place, um, fucking shit, you know? But no. Is just, OK. I tell. After sex, I get nervous.’
‘Did you fall or something?’
‘Eh, no. Is just I think Jesus watch me. Like God is angry. Hard to say. Don’t know how to say.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Like, if he watch me fuck, is very bad. I cut myself, you know? Like with knife. Cut make me calm down, pay for mistake, for you. Feel good, you know?’
‘Oh.’ If there was one other thing Eva left behind, it was a stack of Japanese knives that can cut through anything.
‘Anyway, what you have to do, um, today?’
‘Well, I think I’ll—’
His phone rings and a beige couch appears on the screen. He looks at Fran and hugs her and walks her to the kitchen and then he takes the key from the inside.
‘Sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll just be a few minutes.’
‘Eh, what you doing?’
‘Sorry, it’ll be only a few minutes, I promise.’
He closes the kitchen door and locks her in.
‘Eh, fuck! What you doing? Is cold! Come on!’
He takes Eva’s photograph from under the piece of ceiling on his desk. The frame’s cracked and he puts it on the coffee table next to the sofa before grabbing a T-shirt.
‘Hey, I want to be out!’
‘Two seconds. I’ll just be two seconds.’
He answers the call and his mum and dad appear on the screen.
‘Hello! Oh my God you look pale. Eat some vegetables. You know, I went to Aunt Marta’s today. She’s on a broccoli diet. She looks amazing.
I’ll tell her to call you, making a note of it right… now.’
‘Hi. Please don’t tell Aunt Marta to call.’
‘Oh well, if you want to die young I suppose it’s your call. How are you?’
‘What’s up? Why are you calling?’
‘Just wanted to let you know I’m flying over Pichilemu beach tomorrow. Wondered if you wanted to come along,’ his dad says behind his mum.
‘Sorry Dad, I’m real busy right now, I really have to go.’
‘I found chicken?!’ Fran shouts from the kitchen. ‘The head! Still has head! I scare now!’
‘Who’s that?’ his mum asks. ‘Is someone shouting? Is your flat safe? I knew you shouldn’t have moved out there. Why not come back with us, save some money and move somewhere nicer later? Let me at least pay some metal bars for your windows. Santiago is really not what it used to be. Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m OK. It’s probably someone downstairs. I’m working on a new game. I think it’s the best thing Jaime and I have ever done. I’m checking the sound at the moment.’
‘Oh, well, it sounds very realistic,’ his mum says.
‘How’s Eva?’ his dad asks.
‘She’s good, real busy as always.’
‘You know we saw her.’
‘Yes we did,’ his mum says with a clap.
‘How? When?’
‘She was on the news. How come you didn’t tell us she’s finally off on her trip? Isn’t that what she always wanted?’
‘Well, I wanted to keep it a surprise.’
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? She’s so clever,’ his mum says.
‘Yeah, she is.’
‘Did you see her too? On TV?’
‘No. I’ll make sure I get one.’
‘Well, are you coming to fly with me? Come on, we’ll fly over to Argentina, piss them off a little at the border.’
‘I can’t. I really have to go now. But have fun out there, I guess.’
‘But you know you’ll have to learn some day. Your grandfather, he—’
‘Sorry, have to go. Bye.’ He hangs up and opens the kitchen door. Fran is holding the frozen chicken wrapped in cling film from feet to head, and its eyes are wide open just like Fran’s as they both look at him.
‘What hell? Eh, fuck you, man,’ she says pushing him.
‘Sorry, sorry.’
‘I thought you no cook,’ she says, holding up the chicken.
‘I try.’
She sighs and drops the chicken on the pile of trash and walks past him. He puts it back in the freezer. He goes to the bedroom and she’s getting dressed real quick and he wishes she could stay for longer so that he won’t have to shave for himself and try to work. But he doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t either, until they’re at the front door and she’s ready to leave. She kisses him and then smiles.
‘I don’t want see you again, we no fuck ever again in the world, OK?’ she says, and he nods and his face feels hot and she leaves the door open. He can hear her take the stairs down and he hopes she’ll be there in his next class because they’re now ready to write the kind of adventure games people will remember.
He shuts the door, takes the French press and turns on the radio. He lights a cigarette by the smoking window.
(COUGH) (COUGH)
Tired of tissues that keep tearing when you blow your nose?
(Yes)
Tired of nosebleeds that just won’t stop?
(Oh, God yes)
Well don’t let them tell you that accidents just happen-ppen-ppen
Don’t you know—
There’s no snow but there are crowds and buses and noise and he smiles because his roof might fall, and his flat might flood, and Fran might hate him, and Eva might be far (so far) away and on TV, which makes her seem even further, but the sounds of the city always come back. Every day, they just appear right where they were before dark, the real accidents, the things no one understands at a distance, pure tone, bouncing aimless in echoes between mountains, between streets and tunnels, the creaking of an old house, their old house, its breathing, her breathing, the whole damn sky dropping in one cosmic sigh filled with rain, sometimes snow, just to be touched once more before it reaches the floor and becomes one of us, one of nothing. And no one, not a single person in a passing car or the white-lit crowd of mall workers driving past, can keep it from happening. Eva could not stop laughing about the dead birds that day. The noise woke him up that night. When he said it wasn’t that funny, she stopped, turned to him and told him that people are stupid if they expect animals to act all normal and happy after putting them in cages. ‘Accidents only happen to people because they believe in them,’ she said.
He missed her on TV. He gets up, heads to the bathroom and starts to shave. He missed her and it’s not his fault. He just doesn’t have the space.
6
Namaste, asshole
IDEAS BOOK P. 30
4:53AM TV STREAM: CHEF HANNIBAL JUNIOR FINALS
Chef Hannibal presents the two kids. One of them is wearing black skinny jeans and a lumberjack shirt. The other’s fat as hell and wearing what looks lik
e a white bed sheet. But it doesn’t matter because so is Chef Hannibal. The skinny jeans guy turns to his parents standing above and behind them on a platform. The parents are stuck behind a white picket fence and all they do is clap and then shout at the other group of parents behind the black picket fence. The fat kid’s parents are also fat, and when they move they make the fence shake. The other kid’s parents are also wearing skinny jeans. Chef Hannibal puts a whole chicken on each table. There’s a cut to the parents, who are now in their backyards, in their kitchens filled with hanging copper pans and hanging garlic and hanging ham legs and a hanging meat pie calendar set on February – MINCEMANIA. And then they’re in street markets looking at apples and pumpkins and jars of dried fruit that resemble skin, and something that looks like a papaya. Then, they walk off to an orchestral crescendo whilst not buying a thing.
‘We made him cook from very early on,’ they say, and then the show cuts to the kid helping his mum out with the pasta sauce by dropping specs of oregano on it.
‘He’s so talented. We’ve always told him that, haven’t we always told you? That you’re talented— Yes, yes… If you’re talented, then it’s your duty to win. You must win. Winning is everything. I have my own cardboard box company,’ the father says, and the show cuts to him in a warehouse filled with empty boxes. ‘I already won,’ he says with a smirk. ‘Now it’s his turn.’
There’s the skinny jeans kid holding a golden cup from some competition that was less important because they don’t show it. There he is playing sports. He’s good at basketball and swimming because he can throw a ball at a hoop and he doesn’t drown. There he is talking to the lunch lady at school, taking notes as she says stuff we can’t hear. There he is getting claps from his classmates because he solved a binomial theorem problem just for fun. There he is watching the fat kid work, and then in front of professional chefs looking all shocked because a kid his age cooked duck and oxtail consommé in the previous round.
We Are the End Page 8