After Elias

by Eddy Boudel Tan

  Except for a few couples seated at tables in different corners, the room is empty. I sink into a cushioned stool at what has become my favourite spot at the end of the marble countertop that serves as the bar, as far away from everyone else as possible.

  Gabriel, the bartender, wipes a glass clean with a towel. He is clad in black from head to toe: suede brogues, fitted pants with the cuffs rolled up just past the ankle, vest, collared shirt, goatee, thick hair pulled back in a knot. The only brightness on his body comes from the silver buckle on his belt that’s in the shape of a human skull. The wall behind him is neatly stacked with glass bottles of different colours, glinting like gems. These are the jewels in the box.

  “Coen, my friend,” Gabriel says, sidling up to me with a glass in hand that might as well be embossed with my name. A knowing smile appears on his lips, his voice steady and smooth like the purr of a cello. “What will it be?”

  “Surprise me. Something bitter and stiff.”

  “I know just the thing,” he responds with what is either a micro-wink or an inadvertently sexy twitch of the eye. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and I watch the muscles in his forearms flex and relax as he pours, shakes, muddles, and stirs. Before I know it, a glass tumbler sits in front of me holding an amber-hued liquid. Gabriel stands behind it, watching me expectantly with his arms crossed over his chest. I take a slow, measured sip and savour the rich potion of smoke, oak, and citrus.

  “So?”

  “You’re a magician,” I say, taking another long sip. “What do you call this?”

  He pauses. “Tears of Men.”

  I let the words sink in before delivering my verdict. “I like it.” His smile widens, revealing more perfect teeth and higher cheekbones. In a place that has become so solemn so quickly, Gabriel has been a welcome distraction — not just for the steady stream of liquor he’s been pouring into me over the last twenty-four hours, or the sexuality that steams from his pores, but because he has helped me feel normal again.

  Of course, the circumstances preclude any and all semblance of normality, but the last thing I need is more pity. The entire hotel staff is currently treating me like I’m a Fabergé egg, but Gabriel talks to me as though he weren’t a witness to my discovery that the man I loved had perished in the ocean.

  I could use a distraction. I’ve spent most of the day dealing with the collective hysteria of family and friends. The messages of shock and sadness have escalated to concern and confusion. The celebration of life invitation has been met with a curious variety of reactions. Most people seem to have an opinion on acceptable methods of mourning. Though the responses have been courteous and carefully worded, I think my brother’s words sum up the general feeling: “This is fucked up, but I guess it’s your choice.”

  It astounds me that they don’t appreciate how poetic the idea is — celebrating Elias’s life in the same country where he was born on the same day that should have been our wedding. The overall response is surprising and confusing, but, like Clark said, it’s my choice.

  I draw another mouthful from my glass, savouring the burn as it travels through my body. My eyes wander up to the television mounted on the wall behind Gabriel, the same screen that delivered the news two days earlier. The hotel has decided to set it exclusively to a British station. I would think people come to this island to escape the dreadfulness of real life put on perpetual display by the news.

  “Don’t you think the news is a bit bleak for such a beautiful place?”

  “I do,” Gabriel says, nodding his head. “And that is why I try not to watch it, even though management insists we leave this on.” He gestures to the screen with a flick of the chin. “At least the sound can be muted. I like to live in a world I can smell and touch. I came to this island because here it is easier to forget about what is on the other side of the water.”

  “I wish it were that easy for me,” I say, looking down at my glass.

  “Well, you are here now, no?” He flashes me a smile, and I can’t keep my face from going warm. “I know it is hard. Life, he is a bastard. We all do the best we can. Sometimes it works out. Other times …” He trails off, not finding the words. “You are doing the best you can. It is all you can do. This bastard who is life will always get his way in the end.”

  I look up to see the sincerity on his face. The smile is gone. His eyes are sombre. It’s the first time he’s addressed the state I’m in.

  “You’re right,” I say. “That’s all I can do. That, and drink everything in sight.” My half-hearted laughter echoes throughout the bar, amplifying how empty it sounds. I wink at him before I can stop myself, instantly regretting it.

  “Well, I can help you with that.” His smile returns, alleviating the embarrassment that simmers beneath my skin.

  “Hey, has Maria talked to you about the event that’s happening in five days?”

  “There was a meeting this morning with the entire staff. She told us all about the changes. It will be a wake, yes?”

  “Well, kind of. I like to think of it as a celebration of life, but sure, more or less a wake.” My palms slam against the counter-top with excitement. “You must tend the bar for us.”

  “I would be honoured,” he says, an air of formality around him. “I am scheduled to be here that evening, and I believe Franco is supposed to be the bartender for your … celebration. But I will talk to Maria. I am sure it would not be a problem if I switch with Franco.”

  “Perfect! And if there’s a problem, tell Maria to talk to me. It would make me very happy if you were a part of it.”

  “Would it?” I hear Elias say. “Would it make you very happy for this puto to be there?”

  “I am at your service,” Gabriel says, bowing his head humbly.

  “Who does he think he is?” Elias scoffs in that incredulous tone of his. “Pendejo.”

  I try to ignore him, but I’ve never found that easy to do.

  “It’s going to be perfect, Gabriel, like nothing you’ve ever seen before. The entire courtyard will be filled with lights and candles. Dinner is going to be spectacular. There will be cake for dessert. We’re even bringing in a band from Mexico City. They’re called Sangre del Pirata, and they’re really hot right now in the Condesa clubs. It will be unforgettable. It will be worthy of Elias.”

  Out of breath, I pause to take a sip from my glass before realizing it’s empty. Before I can say a word, another glass appears in front of me. I didn’t notice Gabriel fixing a drink while I rambled on. He stands there, assessing me, before saying, “It sounds beautiful. I am sure Elias would be very proud.”

  “He would be,” I say, convinced. “I forgot to mention the flowers. There will be flowers everywhere. Have I told you that I’m a botanist?”

  Gabriel shakes his head.

  “I have a thing for flowers. Magnolia x soulangiana. That’s the species of magnolia tree outside in the courtyard.” The liquor hugs me from the inside, making me warm. “What do you believe happens to us when we die?”

  “I believe that we go to a different place,” he says, not the least bit disturbed by the question. “Not heaven or hell. It is not necessarily better or worse than this place. Just different.”

  “So you don’t believe in Jesus or Mary or any of that stuff?”

  A gentle laugh slips past his lips. “No. None of that stuff. They are fairy tales forced on our people long ago. Religion is not for me. That does not mean I am not spiritual. My beliefs are just different.”

  “Maria told me to build an altar for Elias. She gave me a candle and said to surround it with flowers, incense, and his favourite food. The crazy thing is I did it! I made an altar. It’s in my suite right now. There’s even a bowl of cereal that I stole from breakfast this morning, just sitting there on my window-sill, soaking in milk. It’s his favourite food. Anyone from home would think I’ve gone crazy if they saw it. I’ve never been religious, or even spiritual. It just … I don’t know. It’s comforting. I guess that’s why people
do it.”

  “It matters not what we believe,” Gabriel says. The serious look has returned to the contours of his face. “Beliefs are useless. They mean nothing. Actions are what matter. How you make others feel is what matters. Truth is personal, not universal. You do not need to be Catholic to build an altar, just like you do not need to be Buddhist to meditate. If the ofrenda brings you peace, then let yourself be at peace.”

  He looks into my eyes so intensely I fear he can see everything underneath. I can’t help but look away.

  “It’s my fault,” I confess. “He’s gone because of me.”

  “No, Coen. You know this is not true, yes?”

  “But it is true. I picked the wedding date. I picked the date because of the trees. I wanted so badly for those fucking trees to be in bloom, and so I picked the date and if I hadn’t, if it were another date, any other date, Elias would not have been on that flight, and he would still be here, and he would be alive, and we would —”

  I cry. Right there, sitting at the counter, I cry. It comes out of nowhere and hits me hard, a series of tremors. My body convulses with each one, and my face is paralyzed, inanimate, a mountain. I’m embarrassed and want to cover myself with my hands, but they don’t move. They grip the marble counter as though I will fall if I let go. Rivers run down my face, and it doesn’t escape me how fitting it is that tears drip down my chin into the glass below. Tears of Men.

  I can’t see clearly, but I feel the warmth and smell the sweetness of Gabriel’s breath against my skin. “Let yourself weep. Let it go.”

  After what could have been a minute or an hour, I sense the feeling return to my body. Composure comes over me quickly. I frantically wipe my face with my hands and I’m collected again, as though it never happened. It’s the first time I’ve cried since the crash.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I can’t look at him.

  “There is no reason to be sorry.”

  I am taking another sip of my cocktail when something catches my eye on the television. I look at Gabriel. “Could you turn the volume on?”

  He sees the urgency in my eyes, and the sound is unmuted a second later.

  “… three hundred and fourteen fatalities. The team of investigators, which includes authorities from Iceland, Canada, Germany, and France, is speculating that the crash might not have been accidental, but deliberate. News Cloud has obtained a radio transmission made to air traffic control in Keflavík, Iceland, less than one minute before the aircraft made impact.”

  Elias’s face appears on the screen, the same photograph they used two days ago. He looks so handsome in his uniform. His dark eyes stare vacantly into mine. A red banner below him displays his name in stark white letters.

  “Authorities have identified the voice in the transmission as belonging to First Officer Elias Santos, co-pilot of flight XI260. We are going to play this recording now. Although there is no explicit language, we would like to caution that some viewers may find the content disturbing.”

  Elias’s face remains. There is a moment of silence. Static noise can be heard, then a man’s voice, deep and calm.

  “Pronto dios.”

  My body goes cold. The words are unfamiliar, but the voice has whispered to me in the morning and sung to me at night. It has shouted and screamed and laughed and cried with me.

  “Elias Santos is Canadian; he resided in Vancouver for the past several years, but sources suggest he originated from Mexico. The words you just heard, pronto dios, are Spanish for ‘soon god.’”

  THE COURTYARD

  Sixteen months before the crash

  “Do I have to?” The expression on his face was part suspicious, part pleading.

  “Yes,” I said. “Come on. Be a good sport.”

  He stared at the striped necktie in his hand. With a reluctant exhale, he tied it around his head so that it covered his eyes. His hair was shorter back then, but it still bulged beneath the improvised blindfold.

  “Just relax,” I told him. It was a dark winter’s day, and I had to let the engine run for a few minutes to defrost the windows. He sat stiffly in the passenger seat, clearly uncomfortable with not being able to see.

  “How do you want me to relax? I can’t see, and I don’t know where you’re taking me.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “No comment.”

  The roads were black and shiny like an oil slick as we sped through the city. The rain had let up recently, and the street lights reflected in the still-wet pavement. It was that period in the year when it was easy to forget how sunlight felt against the skin. The entire city collectively dreamed of the warmth and adventure and sunset revelry that comes with the promise of spring. In the meantime we waited.

  The grey winters had been difficult for Elias when he first arrived in Vancouver. It didn’t help that he had moved from a tropical climate during the darkest time of year. Spring was beginning to emerge when we first met, life bursting from every bud with colour and the scent of wild things. I was excited to share the city with him as it bloomed, though I never minded the rain. I even missed it during the occasional dry spell. Elias was different. He let the rain get inside of him.

  I tried making conversation as I drove through the busy streets, but Elias was too distracted. His hands gripped the sides of his seat, and his head jerked toward the sound of every screech of a tire or siren’s wail. I would have found it funny had I not known how uncomfortable he was in cars to begin with.

  “We’re here,” I announced as I parked on a quiet tree-lined street.

  “I can take it off?”

  “Not quite.” I opened the passenger door and took Elias by the hand, carefully guiding him out of the car.

  “Hijo de puta!” he cried as he hit his head on the door frame. “I don’t like this.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “We’re almost there.”

  “And you think this is funny.”

  I did. Elias was usually so sure of himself; I took some pleasure in seeing how awkward he could be. All I had to do was take away his sight.

  His posture stiffened as he heard the wrought-iron gates swing open. He took slow, deliberate steps to avoid tripping over the uneven bricks that made up the path we were walking along. With one hand holding his and the other against the small of his back, I led him deep into the centre of our destination.

  “We’re here. You can take off the blindfold now.”

  My nerves hummed as he unfastened the necktie from around his head. He blinked rapidly a few times, waiting for his vision to adjust.

  We were surrounded on all sides by tall brick walls painted white, but they looked silver in the moonlight. Rows upon rows of picture windows looked down on us like eyes. Some were dark while others emitted a warm glow from inside. Shining globes sat atop the lampposts. The trees weren’t in bloom. Their branches formed a web that stretched around us, protection from the terrors of the night.

  We were standing in the centre of the magnolia courtyard.

  I waited eagerly to see the look on Elias’s face, expecting a smile of recognition to appear. It was expressionless for the first few seconds, then his eyebrows crinkled and his lips pursed tightly together.

  “Why are we here?” he asked, turning to me.

  “Elias, this is where we first met.” I was surprised that he didn’t quite get the point of this.

  “Yes. I can see that.” He paused. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I spoke with the owner of the building, and she’s willing to rent out the space for the day. We’ll have to arrange everything ourselves, like catering and equipment and licences and whatnot, but isn’t this place perfect? Elias, this is where I want us to get married.”

  He looked at me with the same blank expression, then squinted his eyes closed and rubbed them with his hands. After a moment he said, “This is not a good idea.”

  “Why not? It’s perfect.”

  “It is not perfect, Coen.”

  “Sure, it’s a
little shabby, but I’ve already been thinking about how to spruce it up.”

  “Coen, listen to me.”

  “We can set up the chairs right down the middle, and this brick path here is where the aisle would be.”

  “Coen …”

  “The bar could go here, and there would be a table there for the guestbook. We could string up lights around the trees.”

  “Stop it. Listen to what I am saying.”

  “And the magnolias! We’ll time it for when the magnolias are in —”

  “Shut up!”

  It felt like a slap, except he stood six feet away. We just looked at each other, so still one would have thought we were playing a game. I was confused. This wasn’t how I had imagined this evening would go. It should have been a happy surprise. He should have removed his blindfold and looked at me as though I’d read his mind. He should have taken me in his arms and said how much he loved me. We should have held each other there for a while, underneath the trees.

  Instead he stood there, looking more defeated than angry. “Coen, this is not a good idea.”

  “This is where we first met, right here in this courtyard. How is that not a good idea?”

  “Let’s not do this right now.” He looked so tired then. “We’re going to get married, just not here. We will find another place.”

  He made his way through the courtyard and down the brick path that was supposed to be our aisle. I felt troubled, but all I did was watch him walk away, imagining how he would look on our wedding day.

  JARDÍN INGLÉS

  Three days after the crash

  I listen to the radio transmission of Elias’s voice for what must be hours. I feel more baffled each time I hear it. His voice is so calm, like he’s ordering a pizza for delivery. I record the four-second audio clip to my phone and play it on repeat until the words don’t sound like words anymore. Until it is no longer a voice speaking but the wind.

  Pronto dios.