After Elias

by Eddy Boudel Tan

  The two of you are laughing. You look so happy.

  Out goes my breath as the sheet balloons around me.

  I want to believe it.

  Inhaling again, recycling the same tainted air.

  I really do.

  My breath escapes past my lips, a reluctant wind.

  But I know.

  In.

  How good you are.

  Out.

  At pretending.

  “Shut up!” The words burst from my lips like the wail of a creature that’s been cornered, though the sound is muted with the pillows pressed against my ears. Clark’s voice has replaced Elias’s, and it refuses to be quiet.

  • • • • •

  I don’t want to see people today. The very thought of it is exhausting. Then again, the only thing that seems worse right now is being alone and the prospect of what would come from that. I might have stayed in bed all day to find out, but the suffocating solitude of the room coupled with Clark’s taunting voice drives me outside to face the world.

  It is the day before Elias’s celebration of life, and the sun hovers above like a hot coal. The sunglasses on my face help me avoid eye contact with people. I can be discreet in evading my guests, none of whom I want to encounter. I don’t even entertain the idea of attending the luncheon that’s part of the day’s itinerary. I’m not able to be brave today.

  Relief washes over me as I walk through the front entrance of the hotel into the warmth of the world outside. My aunt Sheila and her current boyfriend approach from the right. I veer sharply to the left. “Coen! Coen, honey!” she calls out, but I keep walking.

  I am on my way to meet Vivi. She opted to explore the village over attending the luncheon. “I feel like death and smell like Scotch. There is no way I’m going to nibble on finger sandwiches today with the Caraway clan” was the message I received from her earlier.

  As I walk across Plaza Pequeña, I see Vivi in a black cotton dress sitting on the ledge of the fountain. Her sunglasses are even darker than mine.

  More candles surround the fountain than when I last visited. A few new additions catch my attention: images of a familiar face, cut out of newspapers and printed on cheap photocopy paper.

  “I know,” Vivi says. “It’s morbid. The altar in your room is vanilla compared to this.”

  “I think it’s beautiful.”

  “Do these people even know Elias? They cut out pictures of him from the newspaper.”

  “I think they know he is one of theirs.”

  The square is eerily quiet as we meander along the path that cuts across the circular lawn. We step inside a narrow passageway of cobblestones between two once-grand buildings, its walls draped in flowering vines. A hummingbird darts in front of us before hovering to the rooftops, whose edges are lined with clay pots overflowing with petals every shade of sunset.

  Partway down the passage, we stumble upon an unexpected doorway leading into the courtyard of a quaint café. An elderly woman with a kind face greets us as we step inside. It is a peaceful setting, the only sounds being the wind chimes that hang in the trees, the hushed conversations of the other guests, and the television set perched on a table against a nearby wall.

  The walls are covered in frames displaying old photographs of people and places. Judging by the vibrancy of the colours and the fashions that are worn, the ages of the photographs span decades. Some are black and white with frayed edges, while others are vintage Polaroids.

  I pause on one sepia-toned photograph in particular. It looks like a celebration of some sort in the village square. The twin bell towers of the cathedral in the background are unmistakable. There are lights and paper streamers strung above the crowd, which is filled with smiling people.

  A couple in the centre stand out from the rest. The woman’s flowing hair is suspended mid-air, a cloud of gold. The man is rather debonair, wearing a fitted blazer over a striped Oxford shirt. In this moment, perfectly captured and memorialized on film, the two look into each other’s eyes with what could only be love, faces laughing with genuine joy, hands holding hands, forever happy.

  We take a seat beneath the shade of a leafy tree, at a table of glazed tiles that form a mosaic of peculiar patterns. I order a café con leche while Vivi orders a glass of Chenin Blanc. Judging by how the other customers speak and dress, they all appear to be locals. I notice an ornate teapot on each table, along with various vessels for sugar and cream. Everyone seems to be sipping from delicate porcelain cups.

  “Earth to Coen. Are you there?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m easily distracted today.”

  “I can’t say that I blame you.” She looks into her glass but doesn’t take a sip. “How are you feeling about the event tomorrow?”

  “Good,” I say. “It’s going to be unforgettable. I think we all need this. It will be healing.”

  Vivi is skeptical. “You can still call it off, you know. If it doesn’t feel right or you start to feel overwhelmed, nobody would blame you for cancelling.”

  “For the hundredth time, I’m fine. Trust me. I can do this. I want this.” I scan the room and catch the eyes of people around us. They quickly look away.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Vivi says, noticing the glances.

  “I want us all to honour his life,” I continue. “I want to talk about the memories. Tomorrow won’t be the day I imagined it to be, and that’s just the way it is. That doesn’t mean I’m going to let the day pass while curled up in the fetal position. This is my way of dealing with what has happened.”

  She looks at me, studies me, while taking a sip from her glass. Her red lips purse together. “I get it. You were right. There is no right way of dealing with a tragedy like this. There is no manual.”

  My mind contemplates whether or not to say what I’m about to say, but the words come out before I can make a decision.

  “Besides, I should have been prepared. A part of me always knew this would happen.”

  Vivi’s eyes narrow. She waits for me to go on.

  “Everything was perfect: Elias, the hotel, this island. I was a fool for thinking I would have this fairy-tale wedding and live happily ever after. I fell for it. I believed I was going to get away with it. But all along, there was a voice that tried to warn me. It told me not to be fooled. I ignored it.”

  She reaches across the table and grabs my hands. “Babe, what happened was a tragic accident. I know it’s tempting to believe that the universe is plotting against you. Terrible things happen, not because we deserve them, but because life is a series of events we can’t always control. You had the strength to build something good, something happy. You can do it again.”

  “Was I happy though?” My voice quivers. “What Clark said at dinner — was I just pretending?”

  Seconds pass as she formulates the right response, an answer that’s honest yet cautious.

  “Only you would know,” she says finally.

  “Do you remember when Elias first moved into my apartment? We were taking a break, lying on the balcony, looking at the sky. I told you then I wasn’t supposed to have a happy ending. I was right.”

  Vivi’s lips part to respond with what I’m sure would be a rebuttal, but something stops her. Her eyes focus on something past my right shoulder. Turning around in my seat, I see what has caught her attention.

  It is me. More specifically, it is an image of me, on the television. It is the photograph of Elias and me laughing on the rooftop with the city sparkling behind us. It is our wedding invitation.

  I stand up from my seat and dart to the television, turning up the volume.

  “… was scheduled to be married tomorrow at a luxury resort on Isla de Espejos, an island in the Gulf of Mexico. Sources tell us the fiancé is Coen Caraway, the son of a prominent Canadian real estate developer, who is currently staying on the island and refusing to return home to Vancouver. Tomorrow’s wedding has not been cancelled. Due to the tragic turn of events, Mr. Caraway will instead be hos
ting a celebration of Elias Santos’s life, a private memorial held at the Ōmeyōcān Hotel with family and friends.”

  I stare at the screen in disbelief as the broadcast cuts from the unholy messenger’s face to an image of the hotel. My hotel.

  “News Cloud has obtained footage of Mr. Caraway from yesterday, making a bizarre toast in front of a room filled with guests.”

  The video appears to have been shot with a mobile phone. The footage is shaky and clarity is poor due to the low lighting in the Terrace Bar, but my face is visible. My speech is erratic. The glass in my hand is empty.

  “It is unclear whether authorities have attempted to contact Mr. Caraway for questioning. The investigation into the horrific crash of flight XI260 is still underway. The harsh conditions of the Arctic Ocean have made it extremely challenging for crews searching for the remains of passengers. The body of First Officer Elias Santos has yet to be recovered.”

  The broadcast cuts away to another story, moving on as though it were nothing.

  “Coen?” Vivi’s hand is on my shoulder. I turn around to look at her, but neither of us knows what to say. All eyes in the café are on me. Their faces suggest sympathy or suspicion, or a little of both. One by one, they look away and continue sipping their tea. Moving on, as though it were nothing.

  We pay our bill and make our retreat. The vine-covered passageway feels narrower now, its stone walls closing in on me the farther we go. Finally, we step onto a street, the sun blazing above us.

  “Who would have done that?” Vivi asks. “Who would have taken that video?” Her voice is fevered and her hands are shaking, but she tries to remain calm.

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember seeing anyone filming me. Do you think it was Clark?”

  “He wouldn’t have done that.”

  My head spins. I struggle to remember the scene last night in the Terrace Bar. I can see the dim glow of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. I can see the reflections of light from the mirrored walls. I can see everyone looking at me, but I can’t see their faces. In their place, there is nothing. No features. No expressions. Just a room of faceless people.

  “We need to tell Maria,” Vivi says. “That was an international news station. The world knows about this island now. They know about what’s happening tomorrow. We need security.”

  I suddenly realize that I don’t know where we are. We’ve been hurrying along unfamiliar streets. I can’t tell which direction is the hotel.

  “Seriously?” I say. “People aren’t going to come here to sabotage the event. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Don’t you understand? The entire world thinks Elias is a killer. They blame him for the crash. They think over three hundred people are floating to the bottom of the ocean because of him. Regardless of what really happened, they think we are here celebrating the life of a mass murderer.”

  “They don’t know what really happened. Nobody does. They have no reason to blame him or us. The media is sensationalizing all of this just like they do with everything.”

  “People will believe whatever they —”

  She doesn’t finish the thought. We’ve wandered down an unknown street, and it appears we are now at the edge of town. A wide wall made of concrete blocks stands in front of us, spray-painted in bright strokes of yellow, purple, and green.

  I passed plenty of graffiti on the drive from the airport in Veracruz to the ferry terminal a week ago. It lined the highways, covering the walls of buildings and overpasses. I admired it for how uniformly authoritative it appeared, as though each painted slogan were a rallying cry. I haven’t come across anything like it since I arrived on the island, until now. The large capital letters are bold and angular, painted with purpose. With care.

  PRONTO DIOS

  DF

  Seven years before the crash

  “Airbus. A320?”

  “Close,” Elias said with a grin. “That’s an A330. They’re similar models, but the cabin on an A330 is wider. You’re getting good at this.” He looked at me, impressed, and tipped the neck of a beer bottle toward his mouth.

  “If I’m going to date the planet’s next great pilot, I might as well try to keep up.” I clinked the neck of my bottle with his as the Airbus A330 flew overhead into the horizon, west of where we sat. The sun was beginning to dip, setting the sky on fire.

  “Where do you think it’s headed?” I asked, propping my arms on the log behind me while I dug my feet in the cooling sand. “I’m going to say Kathmandu. Or maybe Kazakhstan.”

  Elias laughed gently. “Judging by the airline, most likely Hong Kong.”

  “Hong Kong,” I repeated quietly, as though I had never heard of the place before.

  “But from there, who knows? Kathmandu, Kazakhstan — it could go anywhere. That’s the beauty of the sky. There are no limits.”

  “Well, the stratosphere is pretty limiting.”

  Elias gave me a playful punch on the chest. “Smartass.”

  The sky turned quickly above our spot on Iona Beach. The melted amber began to soften and recede toward the horizon, revealing the India ink underneath. We could already see the moon hovering above the airport in the distance.

  “What’s your plan tonight?” I asked. “You staying the night with me?”

  “I have no plan. I let the wind take me where it takes me. But if you’re offering a warm bed and some company tonight, I wouldn’t refuse.”

  “I suppose that could be arranged.” I leaned against him, pressing his body against mine. Warmth radiated from his skin. He lifted his arm and wrapped it around my shoulders. “Besides, my place feels so empty. It’s lonely there, so much space and nothing to fill it with.”

  “It’s only been a month since you moved back in,” he said, his voice quiet. “It must seem strange.”

  “I thought I would love being by myself again, but I was wrong. It’s a good thing I have you.” I smiled. Something flickered in the darkness of his eyes before he smiled back. “Plus,” I went on, “aren’t you happy to spend less time in that dark, dingy apartment of yours?”

  “Dingy? What is this?”

  I laughed. “It means dusty, gloomy, and downright awful.”

  “It’s not that bad!” he said with exaggerated outrage.

  Another airplane could be seen launching in the distance. It floated over the runway into the sky before veering away from us, south.

  “I bet that one’s going to Mexico.” I peered at him through the corners of my eyes to catch his reaction.

  “Perhaps.” That’s all he said.

  Above us, the sky grew darker and the moon brighter. With a sip of beer, I decided to go for it.

  “You never talk about your family,” I said, attempting to sound nonchalant.

  There was a pause. I could feel my nerves tingling. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, so I stared straight ahead at the ocean.

  Finally, he responded. “You’re right. I don’t.”

  I waited for him to say more. He remained silent.

  “Why?” I asked, the intent now more evident in my voice. “You can tell me. You know that, right? You don’t have to. I’m not going to force you to, but we’ve been together for almost a year now, and I feel like I barely know you. I don’t even know what part of Mexico you’re from. I don’t know what your parents are like. I don’t know if you even have parents.”

  I still couldn’t look at him, but I could hear him breathing in a slow, measured rhythm. Even his breath wouldn’t betray what he thought, felt.

  “It’s just that you know everything about me,” I went on. “We’ve been through so much together already. We’ve become quite close, haven’t we? I just hope you’re not ashamed to talk to me about your past.”

  “I’m not ashamed.” His words were sudden and firm. “I’m sorry. I want to tell you, but it’s not something I like to talk about.”

  “That’s okay. I understand. Just know that you can talk to me.”

  “I
know that.” Elias grabbed my hand. I turned to him, and the satellites in his eyes shone brightly, transmitting signals to who knows where. We sat there for a moment, looking at one another, not knowing what else to do or say. I could tell he was thinking. The muscles in his face made the subtlest of movements. His eyebrows. His lips.

  “I’m going to tell you this only once,” he said so quietly that I wouldn’t have heard him had his face not been so close to mine. “I will tell you what you want to know. I will answer your questions. After tonight, I don’t want to speak of it anymore. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  • • • • •

  I always knew I was different. I wasn’t like the other children in my town. They were happy to be poor. They were satisfied with the crumbling streets, with the monotony. I dreamed of more.

  My home was Veracruz, a region along the eastern edge of Mexico. It could be a place of magic. The coast was an endless seam of ochre and blue. Mountains stood watch over the land like giants cloaked in mist. The sky would turn the colour of burning sand whenever the sun began to descend.

  My town, however, was poor and ugly. The streets were dusty. The houses were decaying. It was — dingy, yes?

  My bedroom window faced a hideous cluster of buildings in the distance. They were painted a sad shade of red. I think this terrible place produced nuclear energy. I grew up looking at it every day from my bed, a reminder of how trapped we were between the beautiful and the ugly.

  My parents were simple people. My father repaired cars in a garage beside our house. My mother greeted customers with sodas and sweets. They never expected much from life, so they were content with what they had: a business, a family, a home. They gave me everything they could. I always felt safe and loved. For that, I will always be grateful.

  As a child, I spent much of my time with my father. He taught me everything he knew about cars. I would help him with the repairs, admiring his ability to take something dead and bring it back to life.

  My mother spent most of her time with god. When she wasn’t at church, she would be praying, or reading her Bible, or confessing. What a woman like her had to confess, I will never know.