‘I’m sorry Fran, but I can’t see you anymore,’ he tells her.
‘What is? Why can’t?’
‘I just can’t. It’s not right. You’re a student after all.’
She takes the paper windmill from his hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘I can’t wait go to get to kitchen and cut myself.’
‘Don’t do that. Really, don’t do that.’
‘I will.’
‘Look,’ he says. She looks at him, tense and impatient. He can fix this. He should fix this. But… ‘Alright,’ is all he says.
‘OK, then.’
She walks to the avenue and crosses it running despite all the cars and leaves Tomás in front of Balmaceda, the statue frowning at him all in grey and stone. Tomás can’t look at him in the eyes.
He then walks to the metro and takes the line 1 home. The wagon is empty apart from this one large woman. She looks at him and smiles because he’s looking at her.
When he gets to his flat, the smell of the wet rug makes him close his eyes. He needs to sleep. He needs to work. But instead, he smokes out his window and thinks that Eva would probably like to know about his dad because she liked him a lot. She had even once told Tomás she wished he were more like his father, although she never explained what that meant. But knowing what he knows now, he doubts that she would still like the idea.
He goes to the kitchen to start the kettle and suddenly there’s a knock on his door. He doesn’t go to open it and then a small note slips under it. Tomás runs to the door, ready to tell Lucas to stop junk-mailing his flat, and how could this day get any worse? So he opens and there are two people smiling at him and one of them points at the volcano banner by the cream-coloured couch.
‘Cool poster, dude,’ he says, ‘can I have it?’
9
Iwantyoutoknowthatyoustillmatter
There are posters of Black Sabbath and Cannibal Corpse. There are no lights apart from a candle on a black coffee table inside a Jack Daniel’s bottle. There’s a skull in the middle of the dining table with the numbers 666 on its forehead, and there’s a book about lizards, about Reptilians, alone on a shelf. They give him some coffee in a mug and Tomás had forgotten that steam rising from cups always makes him close his eyes.
They sit in front of him. One of them is wearing a black Goat Eater T-shirt and eyeliner and the other khakis and a tucked-in yellow polo. Tomás is sitting next to his volcano banner, and he looks at the metalhead and wonders how anyone could make so much effort, devote so much time (and time is, after all, always effort) in his make-up and clothing. And even though Eva had once told him that he shouldn’t judge people he doesn’t know, sometimes he looks at someone and he really can see the whole story.
‘How’s the coffee?’
‘I like the mug.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘I’m not sure I got your names.’
‘Lucas,’ says the one with the polo shirt.
‘Agreas,’ says the guy with the Goat Eater T-shirt.
‘Andrea?’
‘Agreas.’
‘His name is Jesús-María,’ Lucas says with a sigh, taking a sip of coffee.
‘Yes, but my friends call me Agreas.’
‘No one calls you that.’ Lucas shakes his head.
‘What is it you do then?’ Jesús asks.
‘My name’s Tomás.’
‘Alright Tomás, what do you do?’
‘I write stories for videogames at a university. I teach a games design narrative course.’
‘Like Final Fantasy VII and Zelda? Those games are amazing. Man their stories are good.’
‘Yeah, they are. And you guys?’
‘I mostly work at Abdul’s pawn shop,’ Lucas says.
‘He doesn’t work. He just hopes to one day get into bed with Matilde, our boss’s daughter,’ Jesús says.
‘But I like working there. It’s better than the shit you do anyway.’
‘What do you do?’ Tomás asks, and Jesús puts his coffee mug next to the candle and takes the skull with both hands.
‘I’m a Satanist.’
‘Here we go,’ Lucas sighs.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘As I was saying, I’m a Satanist.’
‘Is that like your job?’ Tomás asks.
‘Well, it’s a lot of work at the moment. We do fundraisers mostly. But no, I also do part-time work at Abdul’s.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s been hard.’
‘He’s not interested,’ Lucas sighs.
‘It’s been hard,’ Jesús continues. ‘We thought the world would end in 2012. You remember all those movies that promised us the apocalypse? The Rapture and The Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Well, they fucked us over. It was horseshit. We had it all set up: the bonfires, the sacrificial goats and even Goat Eater were going to come and play a gig. But it didn’t end. Nothing happened. And now we have to try to come up with a different story for The End Of The World because we’re losing a lot of followers, like really fast and…’
‘Just shut up Jesús,’ Lucas sighs again.
‘OK…’ Tomás says, finishing his coffee. ‘I hope you find your story.’
‘Well,’ Lucas says, ‘we wanted to meet you and tell you that if you ever need anything, we’re here. The hole in your ceiling looks awful.’
‘I thought it looked pretty cool,’ Jesús says.
‘Thanks, that’s nice of you.’
‘Actually, the real reason is we want you to come with us to Abdul’s shop. Business has been tough. So when we saw that hole in the ceiling, we thought maybe you’d find stuff you need and… How does this weekend sound? I’m pretty sure you’ll find some useful replacements for your flat.’
‘It’s not that bad. I think I can live with it.’
‘It looked pretty bad to me. Like, dangerous bad.’
‘Alright.’ Tomás stands and shakes their hands.
‘Could I keep the volcano banner?’ Jesús asks.
‘Sure.’
Back inside his flat, there are still some drops falling from the hole. The trash Fran left is still on the kitchen floor but he doesn’t clean it because it’s not the weekend yet.
He looks through the pictures folder in his computer and notices he doesn’t have pictures of his dad anywhere. Why did he have to fly? And what made the accident happen? He checks for more articles but the same two come up. They blame Antarctic winds. And to think he was meant to be there with him. Then again, was it the very worst that could have happened? Tomás knows he’s being a complete asshole for wondering, but isn’t it what everyone does? When you imagine yourself dying, is it not natural that you hope to die in the full glory of doing something you love? Wasn’t that enough? And so maybe Jesús the Satanist has a point in being let down by The End Of The World. He also wants it to end while doing something that he loves.
And he looks at Eva’s cracked photograph and he really should try calling his mother again but he lights a cigarette and turns the kettle on instead. And what if he went to meet Eva? What if he just appeared? Did he have that much to look forward to in Santiago? He can’t work, he can’t sleep and he doesn’t even want to.
He will think more about this tomorrow. For now, he goes and sits by his window and drinks coffee from the French press and lights a cigarette.
Empty buses, empty streets, empty city. It’s raining again, it’s cold and it’s dark and right now Tomás doesn’t want a thing. Santiago, tonight, could be The End Of The World.
• • •
‘Where the hell are we going?’
‘Are you tired already?’
‘I don’t know. It’s been too long. I can’t remember what it is to feel any different. If this is what it is to be tired, then I’ve always been tired.’
‘Stop with all the sulking already. Why can’t you just enjoy the search? Doesn’t it bug you a little to think
of everything you’d miss out on if we did, in the end, find something?’
‘But I don’t even know what it is I’d miss out on, so I wouldn’t miss it at all.’
‘Mais oui you would. You might not want to, but the world is here and it is now and you have to, you must, discover it.’
‘But why?’
She runs ahead of him without an answer.
After they left the boat on the lake, and then the ferry, they took a bus South to the wild plains of Chiloé. There, she said, there they would find a new boat, no, a ship to take them to the tips of Antarctic Chile.
They are by a harbour but there is no one there except from drunkards who spit out monosyllabic French grunts, ‘pute, con, sot,’ and so on, while Tomás and Eva try hard not to step on them as they walk by. Tomás stops. What’s the use of it all? There’s no boat. There’s probably nothing to find even if they did have a boat. Eva keeps on walking farther and farther across the monosyllabic drunkards and then, all of a sudden, makes a turn at the edge of a house, a pink and melon-coloured house which sits on a few unsteady wooden poles (they sway with the water) facing the sea. He can’t see her anymore. And as he loses sight of her he remembers everything, tidied up in episodes of varying importance: HOW THEY MET, What She Loves, what she loves about him, what she thinks about politics, thewayshelikesherhairdone. And even though he likes these memories and their order, he can’t stand having to remember them all. There’s just too much under each section, essays with varying arguments and their own distinct conclusions and written by a mediocre writer. And he looks for her. He’s scared. He steps on drunkard, pute, and another, con, and holds himself on the sidewall of the house, to breathe, no time for that, to breathe and then run to see her on the other side.
‘BOO!’
He jumps, and then hugs her and kisses her on the forehead.
‘I know how you like your hair done,’ he says, ‘and I know what you love, and I know how we met.’ He tries not to cry as he says it.
‘I have no clue what happened to you but look, tu vois? Look, here’s the ship. And this one’s ours.’
He holds her hand as they come on board. Still, she walks slightly ahead. He will never forget this or anything else about her again. But he still has no idea what they’re trying to find or if they’ll ever find it. Despite that, hewantshertoknowthatshestillmatters. And then the waves take them.
• • •
He’s meeting Lucas and Jesús a block away in twenty minutes but he decides to see if Yiyo’s at the guitar shop first.
He walks in to find Yiyo playing the guitar solo from Metallica’s ‘Battery’ but he stops as soon as he sees Tomás.
‘Man, you know, I’ve been thinking, I know you hate them and that Metallica are dumb as shit, but if I had to choose my dream band to join, it’d still be Metallica.’
Yiyo puts the Gibson LP on a stand. ‘How are you dude?’ Tomás asks him.
‘Good, good. I sent our new demo to LittleShittyMonsters yesterday. They’re always looking for good bands that they won’t pay. But we need the exposure, you know?’
‘Man, that sounds amazing. Good luck with that.’
‘Thanks. And how are you? Really sorry about Eva, and much more about your dad. But who would have guessed? The fucking Antarctic, you know?’
‘The fucking Antarctic,’ Tomás repeats.
‘So how is Bimbo going? You got a sequel planned or something?’
‘OK, OK I guess. I mean, you know, just like with your songs, you think you’re done with one of them but it—’
‘—It never really ends.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Yeah. But you have to finish some day, man. As your best friend I ask you, please, please just finish your shit. You used to be writing notes all the fucking time. You need to get over whatever’s going on in your head. In the end, relationships are all just so temporary. Like, I know it’s something your sister would say, but you should get into all this mindfulness crap, it really helps. Like all of my lyrics are about mindfulness now. And I get emails all the time from people saying that my songs have helped them through some tough times. Get into it, man. A girl’s a girl. But there is no one like you right now, right here, having this conversation and feeling whatever you’re feeling. Let stuff just happen to you. I’ll lend you the book one day. It’s called Full of Mind. The universe knows and all that bullocks.’
Tomás nods and turns to browse the guitars hanging on the wall. The ones they have on display are always either used guitars or cheap versions of classic Gibsons and Fenders. He touches the high E-string on a metallic blue Epi and it rattles hard on the bridge, so the note only lasts a few seconds before fading out.
‘You want to try it dude? Full of Mind says that things always look worse than they really are before you actually try them.’
‘No thanks man. I have to go meet some people in a bit. Just dropped in to say hi.’
‘Girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good to know. You see? Things just sort themselves out, the universe really fucking knows.’
‘Yeah whatever.’
‘Drop by soon, man. I’ll show you the demo when it’s mixed and mastered. We sent it to New York to Open Meta-Creak, this big producer in Brooklyn. He only works with analogue machines and the natural sounds of animals. It’s going to sound like heaven.’
‘Awesome. Good for you man.’
‘Thanks! See you around.’
‘Bye.’
Tomás walks out and he can hear Yiyo’s guitar feedbacking before he starts the Metallica solo again.
Why is it that Yiyo always feels the need to perform after meeting him? He always leaves to guitars exploding with feedback whenever Tomás tries to talk about Eva and he wonders if Yiyo has ever known him past the initial hum of his amplifier. But he’ll think more about this when he gets home. For now, he crosses the street to Balmaceda Park and walks by the plastic windmill salesman. He’s talking to a man pretending to be a statue in a suit and a top hat painted all in gold while sitting very still on nothing.
‘Hi,’ they both say, the man in gold not even moving his neck. The windmill salesman gives Tomás a windmill and Tomás pays him and walks away blowing on it.
He crosses the avenue again and gets to the Plaza Italia market. He can’t see Lucas or Jesús at the entrance so he walks in to find them.
There are alpaca ponchos hanging from stalls, all red and black and orange. There are leather belts with carvings of horses and war, Chilean flags and Neruda’s and Allende’s face. There are coloured straw beach baskets and clay flowerpots and leather pouches so small they can only hold a single coin. He passes by a charango guitar salesman with an amazing beard (down to his chest, thick and stained red on both sides, and Tomás swears he sees a cigarette butt in the midst of all the hair) listening to a cumbia on the radio, and he can see Lucas playing a tambourine at the end of the corridor.
Tomás waves at him but he blanks him and a girl walking by Tomás lets out a quiet laugh and waves back. Tomás walks faster to Lucas and touches his shoulder and he stops playing the tambourine.
‘You came! Hey, Jesús, he came!’ he shouts towards the inside of the shop.
‘Don’t call me that in public!’ Jesús shouts back. ‘My people are everywhere!’
They’re by the shop counter, a plank of wood with old Coke bottle caps encrusted around the edges, a cash register with an orange Virgin Mary at the back, and a collection of Gorditos, those clay dolls of fat naked people striking yoga poses that gringos love to buy. Around the counter there are wooden shelves with old books, VHS tapes, records, speakers, wires, a Walkman, shirts and sweaters and hammers and tools Tomás can’t even name. And under the shelves there are old car and bicycle tires.
Behind the counter, the shop extends into a mud hut whose inside Tomás can’t see.
‘So you work here?’ Tomás asks.
‘Yeah, it’s a great place,’ Lucas says, putting
down the tambourine. ‘How’s it going? Fixed the roof yet?’
‘No, I’ve been far too busy. So much work lately, you know?’
‘Well, Abdul might have some stuff that you might find useful.’
Tomás laughs.
‘Is his name really Abdul?’ he asks Lucas.
‘No one knows for certain,’ Lucas says. ‘But if I were you, I wouldn’t ask him.’
Lucas does the cuckoo sign, drawing circles on his head with his index.
‘How come?’
An old guy with long hair and a white beard comes out of the mud hut. He’s wearing a Super Mario Brothers T-shirt, long white linen trousers and a pair of old leather sandals. He has a bunch of keys tied to his hair in a knot.
‘This is Abdul,’ Lucas says.
‘You going to do any work today son?’ he asks Lucas, who walks back into the hut.
‘So, who’re you?’ Abdul asks with a frown.
‘Tomás. I’m their neighbour.’ Tomás stretches his hand for a handshake but Abdul doesn’t even look at him, so Tomás pretends to scratch the back of his neck.
‘No, no, I meant… Are you buying something or selling?’ Abdul asks, looking around his shop as if he had so much to arrange.
‘Neither yet, I’m just—’
‘Browsing? Oh hell, that must be nice. The whole world in economic crisis and you, you’re just brooowwwsing around. Kids today, I tell you…’
‘No, I’m just—’
‘Looking for work?’
‘No, I’ve got a lot to do and—’
‘Well, then I suggest you fuck off.’
Tomás looks at him but Abdul just turns to press buttons on the cash register and counts the notes, licking his fingertip after every single one. Abdul then starts laughing as he dusts the counter table with his own beard.
‘I’m fucking with you, man, it’s all cool,’ he says, so Tomás laughs too. ‘But really,’ he adds, his smile fading again, ‘are you buying or selling?’
‘Buying,’ Tomás answers. ‘Is that OK?’
We Are the End Page 14