His final words. Of the millions of words he could have chosen, he spoke those. He had no friends, no family. Only me. And even I don’t know what this message means.
“What would you have wanted me to say?” he asks. It sounds like a challenge.
“I’m sorry? I love you? Anything else, Elias. Literally, any other words would have been better. Maybe something I could have understood without the bitch on TV having to tell me what my fiancé’s final words mean.”
“Hey now, that’s not fair. It’s not the lady’s fault.”
“You’re right. It’s yours.”
A silent pause.
“You know I didn’t crash the plane on purpose, right?” he says.
“I know.”
“You’re not going to ask me to explain?”
“You can’t explain. You’re dead.”
Another pause.
“Then how do you know I didn’t do it?”
“You just couldn’t have done it,” I respond, my voice sharp in the quiet room. “I will not believe you would have done that to me.”
“And to those people on the plane.”
“Yes, and to those people on the plane.”
When I can’t stand to listen to his voice anymore, I arrange a video chat with Vivi. The loneliness in my suite has become stifling. I need to see her face.
She had called several times after the clip was released. So had Decker, and then my parents. I didn’t answer any of them. I let the phone ring and ring.
I also received messages from nearly everyone coming to the celebration of life. Each message was carefully crafted to show support, but the words couldn’t hide their vague suspicion that my fiancé could very well have been a mass murderer. They said things like, “Maybe it would be best for you to come home, under the circumstances” and “You must be distraught; everyone would understand if you decided to cancel.” I hated these words, so I started to hate the people who wrote them.
Vivi seems to agree with them.
“Cancel this thing and come home,” she pleads through the screen. “Or stay there, and I’ll come to you. Either way, you can’t go on with this event. It’s not right.”
Normally my defences would be up, but I need the candour that only Vivi ever gives me. Sometimes she’s my only tether to reality.
“You’re right. This event might be a terrible idea. Going ahead with it would likely end in disaster.”
She peers at me through the screen, and I can see she isn’t fooled. “But?”
“But I can’t cancel it now. That would be an admission of guilt. It would tell everyone what they’re hearing on the news is true. I won’t do that to him.”
Her eyes are tired, but she hasn’t been crying. She speaks slowly, choosing her words carefully. “Coen, how do you know he wouldn’t have done this?”
“I can’t believe you’re asking me that,” I say, shaking my head.
“It needs to be asked. You need to think and tell me whether or not Elias could have done this.”
“You can’t be serious.” My fingertips are cold as they rub my temples in clockwise circles.
“Think, Coen!” she cries. “Could he have done this?”
“No! Of course not!” My voice is shrill, almost screaming. “Not to me. Not to himself. Not to those people. He’s never hurt anyone. We were supposed to be married this week. He knew I was waiting here for him. We were happy. He wouldn’t have done this to me.”
We look at each other as though we’re in one of the staring contests we used to play years ago. The first one to blink loses.
After a long and heavy silence, she blinks. “Okay. That’s all I need to hear.” Her face seems to release the tension that had tightened it. “I’m sorry I had to ask that, but I honestly don’t know what’s real anymore. You heard the recording. That was his voice. The airport in Iceland tried radioing the cockpit as the plane was going down. There was no answer. Why wouldn’t he have answered?”
“I don’t know,” I say, helpless and lost. “Maybe there was a malfunction. Maybe he was dealing with something else that was happening in the cockpit. Maybe the other pilot was a Russian spy. I don’t know. All I know is that Elias did not intend to crash the plane.”
“No. He did not.” She looks down and contemplates this as if to convince herself. Finally, her chin rises, her eyes meet mine, and I know she has made up her mind. We can move on now.
“Do you remember that photo I showed you a long time ago?” I ask. “The one of young Elias?”
She nods.
“There’s an old hardcover book on the shelf in the living room. The cover is green, and the text is faded so badly you can barely read the title. It’s beside that wooden bird Elias got in Amsterdam. The photo is tucked inside the pages. Bring it here with you, okay?”
“Wait.” She disappears into my apartment, where she’s been staying the past few days, and returns a minute later with the tattered photograph in her hands. She holds it up to the screen.
“That’s the one. Don’t forget to bring it here with you.”
“You got it.”
“And Vivi?”
“What?”
“I miss your stupid face.”
I’m relieved to see her smile.
After we disconnect, I send the entire guest list an email only three sentences long:
If you believe that Elias could have done what the news is suggesting, please don’t show up to the celebration. For everyone else, the show will go on. I’ll see you here in paradise.
I thought I would feel bold and empowered after hitting send, but I don’t. I just feel claustrophobic.
Needing to clear my head, I take a few deep breaths while splayed across the bed before I venture out of my suite and into the hall.
Walking through the hotel has become something to dread. I can feel the eyes burrowing into me, even though I no longer look up to see their faces. As I keep my gaze directed to the floor, I can see their feet stall while I pass as though they’re incapable of walking and pitying me at the same time. I’ve discovered the best routes to take to encounter the fewest people, but I can’t escape the hotel unless I go through either the front lobby or the courtyard toward the beach.
Circular in shape, the hotel’s lobby is a gallery of light and air. The front entrance opens to the island outside with no barrier other than three large sets of ornate gates that only close late at night. There’s always a doorman and a valet standing guard with flowers pinned to the lapels of their matching taupe suits. The ceiling is a cone of glass that distorts the sky above, projecting its shadows and rays throughout the room below in kaleidoscopic motion. With the white walls and marble floors amplifying the light, it always seems brighter inside than it does outside.
I keep my eyes on the floor and see a pair of delicate feet in high-heeled shoes the colour of flamingo feathers. I stop abruptly and look up, but it’s too late. The woman collides with me and falls to the floor, spilling the contents of her handbag.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, getting on my knees to collect her things: a pocket mirror, a notebook, various vials of makeup and lotion.
To my surprise, she laughs and it sounds like a songbird. “I am as clumsy as a baby giraffe,” she says in an English accent that is both refined and jovial. She continues to laugh, still sitting on the floor with her dress fanned around herself in fronds of green silk. Thick waves of mahogany hair spill over lovely shoulders. There is warmth in her eyes.
She takes the hand I offer, and I hoist the woman to her feet. She almost trips over her heels on the way up; her baby giraffe comment was no exaggeration. Once she is steady, I return to my knees to retrieve the rest of her scattered belongings.
“Marble floors and high heels are not a friendly combination,” she says with another songbird’s laugh.
Exasperated, I hand the purse back to her. “Sorry again,” I say before turning around and heading straight for the exit as quickly as I can.
The woman calls out after me, but I don’t look back. As I emerge from the hotel, the humid air floods my lungs and the heat washes over my skin. I look directly at the blazing sun, feeling its flares pierce my eyes until orbs streak across my vision.
I cross the hotel grounds and pass a few similar-looking resorts, each one its own little fortress of decontextualized luxury. Eventually the resorts disappear, and it’s a relief to enter an area where real people seem to live. The streets are lined with houses painted in bright, sunny colours, the walls and doors with opposing yet complementary hues.
My shirt sticks to my back as I make my way farther from the ocean breeze. The racing thoughts in my mind begin to slow down when I stumble upon a path leading into a dense forest of tropical flora. The green tangle of leaves looks inviting, luring me into its cool, quiet shade. I’m still lost in my thoughts when I find myself in front of a house of glass.
It stands unexpectedly in the middle of the forest. About eight elephants could fit inside, the unit of measurement that first comes to mind. The frame is an ornate maze of thin metal tendrils that hold together hundreds of panes of glass. They form a straight, square grid in some portions of the exterior, then burst into whimsical curves in others.
The little building must have been magnificent at one point in time, but it now looks as though it was abandoned long ago. The frame is infected with rust, though flashes of rich green paint remain. Many of the glass panes are either missing or reduced to jagged teeth. Nature is slowly assuming possession of the house, vines and branches wrapping around its body as though her intention is to swallow it whole.
Where did this come from?
I step through the open doorway, which no longer has actual doors. The floor is littered with fragments of what were probably once tiles. The shrubs and roots that now cover the ground must have burst through the floor like a chick emerging from its shell. Other than a few glass bottles nestled in the undergrowth, there are no recent signs of humanity. It is yet another beautiful thing that man once loved but has long since forgotten.
There’s a clear patch of earth near the centre of the room where I lay my body down, resting my head on my hands to gaze up at the patchwork of metal and glass above me. The rays of sunlight able to pierce through the canopy of trees are muted. It seems quieter inside, even though the walls have more openings than glass left. It’s a peaceful place.
“Señor Coen?” A familiar voice breaks the silence. I bolt upright to see Maria standing in the open doorway. Her long hair is pulled back in a tight bun. She’s wearing heels and a blazer the colour of cayenne pepper. Maria, the professional, has returned.
“Maria?” I ask, surprised. “Where did you come from?”
“I am so sorry. I hope I am not disturbing you. My house is nearby. I was on my way to the hotel when I saw you go into the forest. I called your name, but you did not hear me.”
I must have been too absorbed in my own thoughts to notice the sounds of the real world. “No worries,” I say. “It’s good to have some company. Pull up a seat if you’d like.” I smile and gesture to the ground beside me.
She returns the smile, relieved. To my surprise, she takes me up on the offer, lowering herself to the ground more gracefully than expected considering the constraints of her outfit.
“I wanted to see how you are doing,” she says. “I hope you are not too stressed.”
“I’m doing great!” I say with an unnatural amount of enthusiasm, far more than I intend. “I mean, I’m fine. I’m not stressed. At least, that’s not how I would describe it.”
“I am happy to hear this.”
My legs begin to seize up ever so slightly. I extend my body on the ground, stretching my limbs as far as I can. Maria does the same. The moment is surreal, lying on the ground with my wedding planner in an abandoned house of glass.
“This place must have been so beautiful once upon a time,” I say.
“It was,” she responds in a wistful tone. “It was a greenhouse filled with the loveliest flowers. Like you say, once upon a time.”
“A greenhouse? In Mexico?”
“It was not just an ordinary greenhouse. Let me tell you the story.”
• • • • •
A long time ago, a man and his wife travelled to Isla de Espejos from their home in England. They were both young and beautiful. They came here to escape the pressures of their lives back home. The island cast its spell.
As construction began on the home of their dreams, they lived in a little wooden house beside the sea that was painted bright yellow like the sun. Every day, they would bathe in the ocean. Every night, they would shop at the village market, charming the locals with their kindness. The islanders called them el príncipe and la princesa — the prince and princess. These enchanting foreigners seemed so perfect, so happy.
One day, we heard the news: the princess was with child! Word spread across the island like a joyful breeze, and within hours everyone knew. A celebration was thrown in the centre of town, right in Plaza Pequeña. Lights and papel picado were strung up all across the square. There was a stage in front of the cathedral where bands played throughout the night. The prince and princess, along with their new friends, danced and sang and celebrated until the sun rose over the lagoon the next morning.
Nine months passed and the princess gave birth to a precious girl. We called her Princesita — the little princess. She was the island’s daughter.
Their new house had been completed in time for the birth. It was painted white except for the gabled roof, which was yellow like their little house by the sea. Wrapped around the main floor was a veranda with wicker chairs and tables. A balcony ran along the second floor, where the princess would often be seen painting with her daughter nearby.
They would host guests for tea, inviting anyone they met. Rich or poor, it didn’t matter. They would sit on the veranda and show their guests how to have a proper afternoon tea the English way: how much cream to pour, how to hold the cup. When Princesita was older, she would help serve the cream, sugar, and biscuits. To this day, you may notice the locals having tea every afternoon, just as they were taught.
The prince and princess didn’t miss anything about England except the flowers. The princess would often tell the locals about how fragrant the flowers were in the countryside. She wished she could grow them here, but the climate was not right.
The prince had an idea. He gathered some of the islanders, and they spent months building a greenhouse in the woods. On his next trip to England, he brought back seeds, soil, and everything he needed for an English garden. The greenhouse was specially designed so the wildflowers would thrive.
One day, the princess was blindfolded and led by the hand by her beloved husband and daughter. They walked across the lawn, into the woods, to the greenhouse. Some say she burst into tears when she saw her gift; she was so happy. Her prince had brought the English countryside all the way to her new home in Mexico. This happened right here in this glass house. The islanders call it el Jardín Inglés — the English Garden.
The years went on, and they continued to live their blessed lives. Princesita lived up to her name, growing more beautiful as she became older. Her hair was the colour of the sun. During these years, the wildflowers in the English Garden bloomed as though they would never die.
Then one day, something changed. The prince and princess stopped coming to the village. They stopped having guests over for tea. Whenever anyone went knocking at their door, there would be no answer. Sometimes, the princess would be seen swimming in the sea. Other times, the prince would be spotted sitting outside on the veranda. They were never seen together, and nobody ever saw Princesita.
Most troubling of all is that the English Garden was left to die. First, the flowers started to wilt. Seeing the neglect, some of the locals took it upon themselves to tend to the garden every week. They did everything they could to keep it alive, but nothing worked. Like a disease, each flower decayed until the English Gar
den contained nothing but death.
One morning, very early, the two princesses sailed away from the island. Witnesses say they were both dressed entirely in white with wide hats and long silk gloves. Nobody spoke to them or saw their faces, but they could see Princesita’s golden hair as she boarded the boat.
The prince left the island three days later, also by sea. He was dressed in black and looked a decade older than his age, the lines that once creased his face when he smiled now sunken and weary. None of them ever came back.
No one knows what happened in that house. We can only imagine what could have made such a perfect, joyful, loving family become so cold and closed off to the world. Some say Princesita became very ill, which was too much for the mother and father to bear. Others say the princess discovered that her prince had fallen in love with another woman. This happened many years ago when I was a young girl, so I do not expect we will ever know the truth.
To this day, the islanders tell this story to their children as a warning. Do not be fooled by happiness. It can wilt and die, especially when kept in a house of glass.
• • • • •
I see the decay around me and try to imagine the greenhouse filled with colour and life. The pain in my chest begins to throb.
“That might be the saddest story I’ve ever heard,” I say. It’s not an exaggeration.
“Sadness is part of life,” Maria responds. “Without sadness, happiness would mean nothing.”
“Just like how life would be pointless if it weren’t for death.”
Maria’s story has filled the glass house with a gloom that’s tangible. It has a taste and a scent. It surrounds us.
“I let happiness fool me once,” Maria says. She turns her head toward me for permission to go on.
“What happened?” I find myself eager to hear more, as though I’m craving more misery, am addicted to it.
“I always dreamed of travelling to Spain,” she says. “There, I would swim in the Mediterranean and get lost in the halls of the Alhambra, dine on paella and dance the flamenco in the streets. But then I fell in love with José. He was handsome and strong. I was young and silly. José promised to take me to Spain one day, and I believed him. He told me he loved me and, again, I believed him. You have heard this story before, I am sure. It happens to young, silly girls and boys every day.
After Elias Page 5