“Well, that wasn’t the original plan,” Raina answers coolly. “My husband was supposed to be here with me. It’s our honeymoon, after all. But he didn’t end up becoming my husband, so I didn’t bring him along. It’s another long story, but less sweet this time. We have lots to talk about.” She lets out another pretty laugh.
I can tell that Vivi doesn’t quite know what to make of this new character. Despite being caught off guard by Raina’s candour, she laughs politely. Decker waits until there’s a break in the conversation before introducing himself, and Raina is more than happy to make his acquaintance. Her head tilts downward as she shakes Decker’s hand, her gaze and touch lingering a second longer than necessary.
Somehow the topic of conversation turns to the sport of squash, which Decker and Raina discuss enthusiastically while Gabriel mixes the next round of drinks. Vivi catches my eye. “May I steal you away for a minute?” she asks, taking me by the hand.
We weave through the crowd. I avoid making eye contact with anyone, but it no longer seems necessary. They’re not as eager to talk to me as they were earlier. Vivi pushes open the large doors, and we step onto the terrace overlooking the courtyard. The cool evening air wakes my senses, and I welcome the quiet as the doors close behind us.
“I had to get out of there,” Vivi says, turning to me. “It was so stuffy and crowded. I sure as hell could use a cigarette.”
“That’s the last thing you need,” I say in my lecturing tone. “But I’m proud of you for really committing this time.”
“Thanks, babe. I’m proud too, even though it makes me want to slap people sometimes.”
“You can slap me as long as you don’t touch a cigarette.”
She laughs. “Coen,” she says, the word lingering on her lips, heavy with intent. “How are you doing? And don’t say fine.”
With a sigh, I take a moment to consider the question. “I’m tired,” I say after some thought. “I’m confused. I feel helpless. I’m pretty sure I’ll never be able to love again. Otherwise, I think I’m holding it together.”
She looks at me, contemplating my answer. With a strained smile, she turns toward the view. The courtyard is peaceful tonight. There is no event being held below us. No celebration. No candles along the staircase. The stars above shine as brightly as the lights hanging from the trees below. The moon casts a glow on the ocean’s waves in the distance.
“It’s okay to feel helpless,” she says. “It’s okay to be heartbroken. I want you to know that we are going through this with you every step of the way. You’re not alone. You know that, right?”
“I do. I meant what I said earlier. I wouldn’t be able to survive this without you.”
“I want you to tell me the second you start to feel overwhelmed. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I mean it.”
“I know. You don’t need to worry about me anymore. I can handle this.”
She peers into my eyes as though evaluating whether or not to believe me. After a few seconds, she turns back to the view. She’s as convinced as she’s going to be.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I ask.
“It is.” Her response sounds distant. She scans the courtyard, leaning over the terrace’s balustrade. “Did you know those trees would be here?”
“Of course. They’re magnolias, just like the ones where Elias and I first met.” I smile at the memory. She doesn’t say another word, but she looks so pretty with the breeze in her hair.
• • • • •
Otra Luna is a different place tonight than the lonely room where I tasted cakes with Maria and Javier yesterday. The space is alive with movement and noise. Candles flicker on every tabletop while geometric light fixtures bathe the room in a creamy glow. Servers dressed in taupe slacks and crisp white shirts dart throughout the room with hurried precision, carrying glasses and revealing dishes and charming guests with the panache of performers in a theatre. The atmosphere is buzzy and inviting, augmented by the sounds of laughing, chatting, glasses clinking, chairs moving, and shoes clicking against the ornately tiled floors.
A section of the restaurant has been cordoned off for our party. The staff has arranged seven large round tables for us, rather than the more easily configured square tables the other guests are seated at. I thought this occasion called for a more convivial seating arrangement, although I’m starting to question that decision. The carved jaguar masks stare down at us from the walls, their mouths twisted into menacing snarls painted red, and I know this must be Mictlan — the underworld.
Raina sits to my left. Vivi and Decker sit to my right. My brother, father, and mother round out the rest of the table. Raina and Decker are doing a fantastic job of keeping the conversation buoyant, as I knew they would, but I can already sense the discomfort I will have to endure tonight.
“Honey, how many drinks have you had?” asks my mother, looking at the tumbler in my hand.
“Mother, must I remind you that I’m a thirty-one-year-old man? The degree of intoxication I choose to obtain is no longer your concern.”
Raina laughs brightly while everyone else looks down at their food.
“Your mother’s right, Coen. Just take it easy on the tequila,” says my father with a nod of the head to signify that the matter is settled.
“It’s not tequila. It’s mescal.”
“Did anyone else get the scallops?” Decker asks, looking around the table. “Wow! Stunning. They’re like ocean-flavoured butter.”
“I got the scallops!” Raina says, delighted. “They are divine.”
“This restaurant is owned by Ramona Merida,” I explain, “one of the top chefs in the country. They say she has revolutionized Mexican cuisine.”
Clark smirks. “You make her sound like some kind of national hero,” he says, leaning back in his chair. The top three buttons of his chambray shirt are undone, which annoyed me when I saw him earlier in the evening.
I know the smart response would be to ignore him. As usual, I can’t help myself when it comes to my brother. “She’s accomplished far more than you ever will.”
“You obviously haven’t tried my homemade fish-stick fajitas,” he says, laughing loudly.
“Please stop talking, Clark.” Vivi shoots him a glance like a poisoned dart.
I don’t see Maria coming before she materializes beside me. “How are we enjoying dinner?” she asks, smiling graciously. Expressions of approval resound around the table. “You know, this restaurant is owned by one of the top chefs in Mexico.”
“Yes, we’ve heard,” Clark says snidely. He shoves a spoonful of escamoles into his mouth. I sit back in my chair, pleased, deciding against telling him that he’s chewing on ant larvae. He probably thinks it’s rice.
“The first course was very impressive,” Decker responds to Maria, flashing his most charming grin.
“Enjoy the rest of your meal,” she says with a slight bow of the head before moving on to the next table.
I already feel full when the main course arrives. This is the most I’ve eaten in days. Each dish is culinary art, a delicate structure of colours and textures mounted on discs moulded from earth. I look at the dish in front of me — the kraken pulling the ill-fated ship into the sea. I finally get to try the lime octopus and pork tenderloin that I’ve read so much about.
“I must say, the food here is exquisite,” remarks my mother, breathing in the aromas from the walnut-crusted barracuda in front of her. “Did Elias ever cook for you like this?”
It is the first time his name has been mentioned since my family arrived on the island. A hush falls as everyone at the table waits to hear the response.
“He definitely never spoiled me with fish-stick fajitas,” I say, glancing at Clark. I cut the tension with a laugh, and everyone joins out of relief as Clark shoots me a sarcastic smile.
“Do you remember the first time Elias was supposed to come over for Sunday dinner?” my mother goes on. “It was years ago no
w. I made your favourite dish.”
“You made coq au vin. I remember.”
“Whatever happened that night?” she asks. “You just ran off with no explanation. We were worried about you.”
“I told you. He got the dates mixed up. He felt awful about it.”
“I hope he did,” she responds. “I spent the entire afternoon cooking for that boy. We had leftovers for days. You would think he would have been more considerate.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” I say, hoping for someone to change the subject. My knife slices a tentacle, grating loudly against the bottom of the clay bowl.
“Don’t talk to your mother like that,” my father says half-heartedly.
“You called him like thirty times,” Clark chimes in, looking skeptical. “He forgets he’s supposed to have dinner with his boyfriend’s family, for the first time ever, then he doesn’t even pick up his phone? What was he doing?”
“We don’t need to talk about this now,” Vivi interjects. She scans the table with her eyes as though delivering a warning.
“Something came up,” I say, feeling the need to defend myself and Elias. It comes out weak and unconvincing. “I can’t remember. It was a long time ago. Let’s just drop it.”
“Maybe it was a sign,” Clark says. His eyes avert downward as soon as the words leave his mouth.
There is a short moment of silence. My mind warns me against responding, but the words form before I can stop them. “A sign of what?”
Another hush settles over the table as Clark decides whether or not to go on. I think he might have even surprised himself with where his carelessness has taken him. Perhaps he regrets it.
“Nothing,” he says dismissively.
“No. It’s not nothing,” I press on. “What did you mean by that? What sign?”
He inhales deeply before saying, “A sign that maybe he wasn’t such an upstanding guy.”
“I swear to god —” Vivi begins.
“No, I want to hear this,” I say. “Go on, Clark.”
“Listen,” he says, holding up his palms in defence. “I know this is neither the time nor the place, and I want you to know I am very deeply sorry for what happened to you, but are we all going to pretend that Elias was this perfect saint?”
Everybody is looking down at their plates now.
He continues. “We are all just trying to hold it together and be sensitive, but it doesn’t serve any of us to be so wilfully ignorant. Were you even happy with him, little brother? What about that time you had to spend the weekend at my place because he locked you out of your own apartment?”
“Excuse me?” my mother says with theatrical shock.
“Yeah, that happened,” Clark says. He’s on a roll now. “Vivi was in Hong Kong. Coen didn’t want to bother Decker and Sam. He spent the entire weekend hiding out at my place until Elias let him back in — to his own apartment.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” Decker says helplessly. He looks at Raina for support, but she remains silent.
My mouth is a tinderbox. It’s difficult to swallow. “We had a fight. That’s all. It wasn’t a big deal.” The words are limp, lifeless.
“This wasn’t the only time something like this happened. Vivi, tell him. You know more than anyone.” Clark fixes his gaze on her, coaxing her to speak.
“Elias was a good man,” she says decisively.
“Was he though?” Clark asks. He looks around the table, and everyone reaches their own conclusion. “How could we tell? We didn’t know anything about him. Tell us, Coen. What do you know about his family? About his past?”
“I don’t need to explain anything to you,” I manage to stammer.
“I just … I remember seeing the wedding invitation,” he goes on. “The two of you are laughing. You look so happy. I want to believe it. I really do. But I know how good you are at pretending.” He pauses, looking down at his lap as he fidgets with his napkin. “We are all here to pay our respects, but I think now more than ever, under the circumstances, we all need to allow ourselves to be honest with each other.”
“Clark, why don’t you just go? Get out of here. You are obviously not here to be part of this celebration, so just go.” The words come out like a verbal slap.
He looks at me with a hint of hurt in his eyes. “No. I’m here for you.”
“I would rather you leave.”
“Enough, gentlemen,” my father says loudly. A few people from the surrounding tables look in our direction. “This has gone far enough. Let’s be civilized and enjoy our dinner as a family.”
My cousin Taylor flashes me an inquisitive glance from his seat at the table behind my father, and I look away. I notice my mother staring down at her plate, her fork in one hand and knife in the other, unmoving.
“I’m not going to sit here while this narcissistic ape slanders Elias,” I say.
“Don’t talk about your brother like that,” my mother says firmly. She is visibly upset now. “He just cares about you, Coen. He worries about you. Don’t you see that?”
“He cares about no one but himself,” I shoot back. “He just had to make this about him, as though he’s doing me a favour by imparting his wisdom on me. He thinks I care about his opinion. He thinks we all do. I couldn’t care less what he has to say. He knows nothing about Elias. He knows nothing about me. He doesn’t have a right to an opinion.”
Everyone around us must be looking now, but I blur them from my vision. It would have been impossible to keep my voice down. These words were waiting to be said, and they deserved to be said with command.
“We are all here because we care about you,” my mother says. “But your brother has a point. You can see that, can’t you?” She looks around the table for support.
“Does he?” I ask. “Tell me. What’s his point?”
“You’ve seen what they’re saying on the news,” says my mother, gently but with determination. “You understand what they’re saying he did, don’t you? I wasn’t going to bring this up, but what if it’s true? Perhaps you’re better off this way.”
A commotion erupts as everyone around the table starts talking at once with varying levels of volume. It all sounds like noise to me. I can’t look anyone in the face. Not my mother. Not my brother. I have no words to speak. My head feels heavy.
I think I feel the static of the shadow’s touch on my fingertips when suddenly Vivi pulls me up by the arm. It takes a second for my vision to focus. When it does, I can see she’s not happy. “We have to go, Coen,” she says. Chair legs scrape across the tiled floor as Decker and Raina stand up. I look down at the table. The dishes have hardly been touched. I’ve only taken a few bites of my octopus. My father and mother are saying things to us, but they remain in their seats. Clark is sullen and silent. Every eye in the restaurant is directed at us. Vivi takes me by the hand and leads me toward the exit with Raina and Decker close behind. The jaguars watch as we make our escape.
The cool night air helps settle my senses when we emerge from the hotel. Vivi grips my hand so tightly it hurts. “Your family never ceases to amaze me,” she says, looking astonished. “They truly are the portrait of modern dysfunction. I would have expected that from Clark, but your mother — how tactless.” She releases me from her grip and throws her hands up in the air as if surrendering herself to the indecency of it all. She looks at me, and her anger has softened into something that resembles a compassionate cousin of helplessness, like how you would look at a wounded animal you know you won’t be able to save. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, babe.”
“The Caraways were certainly in fine form tonight,” Decker says, giving me a reassuring shake with his arm around my shoulders. “They do care about you though. This entire situation is so absurd; they’re trying to make sense of it just like the rest of us. They’re ill-equipped for this, but that doesn’t mean their intentions aren’t good.”
I take several steps back to look each of them in the eye. “Wha
t do you think?” I ask. “Did Elias do it? Did he crash that plane?”
We are standing on the side of the road now. It’s dark, but I can see them glance at each other underneath the moonlight. It scares me that I don’t know what their answers will be.
“No.” Decker is the first to respond. “Elias wouldn’t have done that.”
“I’ve been thinking about this for days,” Vivi says. “He didn’t do it.”
Raina turns to me, and her eyes are sympathetic. “I didn’t know him, and I barely know you, but I don’t think you would have agreed to marry a man who would do such a thing.”
The four of us stand on the pavement like we’re taking part in a pagan ritual, facing one another from our separate corners, awash in the pale light of the moon.
“Well, then it’s settled,” I say. “Now let’s go somewhere and get wasted.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best solution right now,” Decker says, perennially sensible.
“Seriously, I need to get my mind off all of this tragic bullshit for a few hours. We’re on a tropical island. We’re together. Let’s just be normal for one night.”
“That’s actually not such a bad idea,” Vivi says, looking at Decker. He shrugs and locks his arm around my neck.
We walk toward the village and enter the first bar we come across. The exterior of the wide rectangular building was once a vivid shade of orange, but now much of the paint has chipped away to reveal the dull grey underneath. The shining neon sign above the door tells us where we are. Espejo Roto.
We step through the doors and enter what looks like a carnival funhouse circa 1987. The walls are lined with mirrors, reflecting our reflections into eternity. Candy-coloured lights pulse overhead, not quite in sync with the beat of the Latin pop music blaring through the speakers. A few dozen locals gyrate on the dance floor, itself a vortex of reflection and light intensified by the mirror ball spinning from the ceiling. Velvet curtains the colour of blood are draped throughout the room, belted by thick tasselled ropes. Even more conspicuous are the decorative carousel horses suspended on poles in various places.
We seat ourselves at an empty table in a corner and order a round of drinks from a black-clad woman who looks like an undertaker.
After Elias Page 11