After Elias

by Eddy Boudel Tan

  I was shocked. I was embarrassed even. I didn’t deserve any of this. I had not earned it. I didn’t know how to own anything, let alone a business or property. My first instinct was to reject it all, to insist that it was a mistake. Then the lawyer passed me a note that Juan had written by hand: My friend, be free.

  • • • • •

  “Elias.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  The beach around us was deserted by then. I looked at him, my eyes struggling to make out his face in the darkness.

  “Like you said, sometimes a terrible thing can be the only catalyst for change.”

  “What happened after you received the inheritance?”

  “I sold everything,” he said, his voice quiet and flat. “The bar. The apartments. I couldn’t surround myself with those reminders. One night, I went to the grassy field for the last time. I contemplated what to do next as the airplanes flew overhead. Juan’s final words to me repeated in my mind: ‘My friend, be free.’ Then I made a decision.

  “I packed a few belongings. I went to the airport — it was my first time stepping foot inside of one — and purchased a one-way ticket to a place I’d never heard of until I met Juan. A city with an exotic name that Juan had called home once upon a time. Vancouver.”

  Silence settled between us, tempered by the sounds of waves rolling over the shore. The moon outlined his face in its pale light but revealed nothing else.

  “Juan would be proud of you,” I said. “You left that place and your past behind, just like you always dreamed of doing. And one day you’ll be a pilot, like him. You are free, just like he wanted you to be.”

  “Am I?” he asked. “Free? I’m not so sure. There is only one thing that I feel. I’ve felt it every day since that last night in my poor town. I thought it would fade over time, but it lingers like a phantom.”

  “What is it?”

  He turned his head to look at me then. The angle caught the glow of the moon, and I could see his face. The grave lines of his lips. The tiredness in his eyes.

  “Guilt,” he said.

  THE CELEBRATION

  Seven days after the crash

  “Something to drink, sir?”

  My eyes snap open and take a second to focus. “Pardon me?”

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  The woman looks pleasant and inoffensive. Her hazelnut hair is pulled back so tightly it stretches the skin on her forehead. The powder blue of her uniform is calming. She smiles at me with her mouth but not her eyes.

  “I’ll just have some water, please.”

  I watch as she pours from a tall bottle into a small plastic cup. She passes the cup to me, smiles again, and pushes her cart farther down the aisle behind me.

  The cabin lights along the overhead compartments are dim, casting a soft blue glow on the people seated below. The few windows that aren’t covered reveal the darkness outside and the sliver of flames along the horizon. The sun is either just rising or setting. Perhaps it is frozen alongside us.

  The man seated beside me leans against my shoulder, smelling like champagne and cologne. I gently prop him up in his seat as his head rolls forward. He sleeps deeply, chest expanding and contracting with each heavy breath.

  “I think he likes you,” says the man across the aisle to my right. He is dressed in slim pants and a loose cotton shirt that’s draped elegantly across his collarbones. From his boots to his hair pulled into a knot, he is clad in black like a cat in the night.

  “Gabriel?” I ask, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  He flashes me a mysterious smile and leans back in his seat, leg outstretched across the aisle. “I could ask you the same thing, no?” He lifts a tumbler to his lips and sips slowly, consciously. I know what it is by its amber colour: Tears of Men.

  “I’m going …” I realize I don’t have the answer.

  “Ah ha!” says Gabriel with a triumphant laugh. “As I thought. It is okay though. I do not know where I am going either.” He tilts his glass toward me. “To only the best and most lovely things,” he says before taking another long sip.

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat when a voice projects over the speakers. The voice is familiar. Although the volume is crisp and clear, it somehow sounds faded, as if time has weakened its timbre.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I’m happy to announce that we should have clear skies all the way to our final destination. So lie back and enjoy your flight. We are going to do this in style. It will be unforgettable.”

  I look out the windows again, and the sliver of light is fainter now. It must be night.

  Two women in powder blue brush past my seat as they strut down the aisle toward the front. I look around and see people in powder blue stationed throughout the cabin. They no longer seem pleasant. Their expressions are grim.

  “Hey, Coenhead.” The man seated beside me is wide awake now. His cologne is familiar and overpowering. He glares at me with a mischievous look in his emerald eyes.

  “Remember when we were kids?” Clark asks. “We built that fort together in the woods behind the house. Do you remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “That was great, wasn’t it? Just you and me. We must have spent all summer building that thing. Let’s do it again. What do you say? Let’s build a fort together.”

  “Clark, I don’t know …” I don’t finish the thought as my voice trails off. Something isn’t right. I look past Clark and see my mother sitting on his other side. She’s reading an old book with weathered pages. Next to her is my father, whose eyes are fixed on something in front of him.

  I unbuckle my seat belt and stand up. Vivi and Decker are sitting a few rows behind me. Farther back is Raina. I see my aunt Sheila and her current boyfriend whose name I can never remember. There’s my cousin Taylor and his girlfriend. Beside them sit Nina and Naomi, old friends from university.

  “Señor Coen, you should take a seat,” says a woman one row in front of me. She cranes her head to look into my eyes. It’s Maria. She’s wearing the same professional suit she wore on the day we met. “Relax. You are in good hands.”

  I sit down and look at Clark. “What’s going on?”

  “This is everything you ever wanted, isn’t it?” His smile is unsettling.

  The needles begin to stab deep beneath my skin. I sit back and concentrate on my breathing when I see the two women in powder blue at the far end of the aisle. They reach into an overhead compartment and pull something out. I watch as they lift the objects to their faces until their faces are gone. They have new faces now. Wild white eyes. Pointed snouts. Jagged yellow teeth. Twisted mouths painted red. I look behind me and see there are more women in powder blue, standing still with jaguar faces.

  “Clark, something is wrong,” I say. He’s rigid in his seat as he stares straight ahead, his face calm and lifeless. “Clark, listen to me!” He doesn’t respond.

  I turn across the aisle to Gabriel. Before a word leaves my lips, I see that he’s also staring straight ahead with the same calm expression on his face. There are slashes of red and black paint under his eyes and across his forehead. He looks like a warrior in a trance.

  I twist around in my seat to see everyone around me. Their bodies are stiff and motionless as they stare ahead with lifeless eyes, faces slashed with red and black. Vivi turns her head to look directly at me, but it’s not Vivi behind those eyes.

  A tone chimes over the speakers before the voice returns. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are about to begin our descent. Please buckle your seat belts and ensure that your seats are restored to their full upright positions. It has been a pleasure flying with you. I will never forget it. See you in the sky.”

  All of a sudden the plane lurches violently to the side, whipping us around in our seats as though we are on a rollercoaster. I hear myself scream but everyone else simply stares ahead, silent and unseeing.

  Hundreds of yellow oxygen mask
s drop down from overhead. I grab the nearest one, frantically securing it to my face. Nobody else reaches for one. The masks swing wildly from side to side, a chorus of pendulums keeping time to the rocking beat of the plane, its conductor hidden away in the cockpit.

  There is so much noise now as we dive faster, sharper. It sounds like a wind tunnel, the deafening rush of indistinguishable noise drowning out everything else except for a steady beep that pulses like a metronome.

  I grip the armrests of my seat and close my eyes, bracing myself for impact. Any time now. The last thing I hear is Clark’s voice. I feel the warmth of his breath so close to my ear, smell the stale champagne.

  “This is everything you ever wanted, isn’t it?”

  • • • • •

  The stillness in my room collides with the mayhem in my mind as I jolt back to consciousness, passing from one dimension to another, neither of which feels like reality. The impact is crushing, and I lie helplessly as I decompress. My body is slick with sweat, soaking the sheets that are tangled around me. The only sounds in the room are my pounding heart and fitful breathing. I am Lazarus returning from the land of the dead, a corpse trapped by life.

  My mind spares me its trickery this morning. I know exactly where I am. I know what today is. The second my eyes open, I know. I am in suite 319 in the Ōmeyōcān Hotel. Today is my wedding day.

  I lie here for what seems like hours, staring up at the featureless ceiling above my bed, arms and legs spread outward like a star. Every now and then I hear footsteps in the hallway shuffle past my door, but mostly there is deep and penetrating stillness.

  “Do you feel free?” I say to the silence.

  I know that Elias won’t answer. He has left me now.

  “All you ever wanted was to be free. Now you finally are.”

  The quiet returns momentarily until it is pierced by three sharp raps on the door. Knock. Knock. Knock. The first one is loud and declarative, the second a little unsure, the third timid and apologetic. I don’t move, hoping this person will go away. The knocks break the silence eight seconds later in the same diminuendo.

  My body feels tremendously heavy as I place my feet on the carpeted floor, pull my bathrobe around myself, and make my way to the door.

  Peering through the peephole, I’m surprised and a little suspicious to see my mother. She’s dressed like she’s on her way to play tennis, her eyes partly hidden beneath a white visor. There are no courts on the island.

  My first instinct is to turn around and crawl back in bed, but curiosity gets the best of me.

  “Good morning,” I say, opening the door just wide enough for my face to be visible.

  “Good morning, honey.” She looks comically serious, every muscle in her face tensed up like a clenched fist.

  “How did you find my room?”

  “Decker told me where you were. May I come in?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “For heaven’s sake, let me in. I have something important to say to you. Today is not the day to act like a stubborn child.”

  I reluctantly leave the door ajar and retreat back into the room, resisting the urge to slam the door on her. She follows in after me.

  “I’d like to apologize for the other night,” she says. “What I said at dinner was uncalled for. It was insensitive.” She takes a seat beside me on the bed. I get up and sit in the armchair instead.

  “You simply said what you believe,” I respond. “What you believe is that my fiancé is a murderer. It is what it is. You’re free to think what you wish, but I am not going to subject myself to hearing it. I’m not going to attempt to convince you otherwise.”

  “I never said that Elias did anything wrong,” she responds. “You are twisting what happened in your mind. You do this.”

  The room feels suddenly small. Her presence consumes the air.

  “I am twisting nothing. You made it very clear that you believe what you’re hearing on the news. It doesn’t matter what I say.”

  “Coen, my words didn’t come out the way I wanted them to. What I was trying to say is that your father and I care about you very much. Your brother does too. We all came here for you. Elias is gone. It’s a tragedy. But we are all still here. Don’t forget that.”

  We look at one another from across the room before our eyes dart to the floor in unison.

  “I know you never liked him,” I say.

  “That is not true.”

  “It is true. You never wanted me to marry him. You never trusted him.”

  “Your father and I did not know him. You wouldn’t let us. How can I trust a man I barely know? Could I say without a doubt that Elias wouldn’t have deliberately crashed that plane, like the authorities seem to believe he did? It would be impossible for me to say for certain. My priority is to protect my son. You were not on that plane. That is what matters to me.”

  “I’m happy that you got what you wanted.”

  “You may not believe this, but I will always be grateful for Elias,” she says. It comes out like a confession as she clasps her hands in her lap.

  I look at her suspiciously. This feels like a trap, but I take the bait.

  “Why?”

  She looks back at me, and I can’t help but believe her.

  “Because he saved you.”

  • • • • •

  The magnolia blossoms are beginning to fall. The trees were in full bloom just a few days ago. They looked invincible, as though they would remain that way forever. Today, the petals have begun to break away. The pink cloud is paler, softer. The slightest breeze triggers a snowfall of withered flakes. I wince as people step on the petals that cover the ground.

  Despite this reminder of death, the courtyard is alive. Young men in the hotel’s taupe uniforms are setting the stage for tonight’s event with methodical efficiency. They arrange chairs with precision. They shake out tablecloths like matadors.

  “Señor!” Maria strides toward me, waving a clipboard in her hand. “Would you like to meet the band? They are just beginning to set up for a sound check.”

  She gestures for me to follow her, and we weave our way through the courtyard, past the fountain, toward the moon.

  Underneath the terrace lies a mosaic of yellow and blue tiles. Unlike the pathways that wind throughout the courtyard, these tiles are irregularly shaped and sized. Some are jagged while others are bevelled. Together, they form a circle hugged on either side by the curve of the staircases that lead to the terrace above. I thought it represented the sun when I first arrived at the hotel. Gabriel was the one who told me I was wrong. It is the moon.

  The stage has been erected in the centre of the yellow and blue tiles. Behind it, a veil of green vines cascades from the terrace above.

  The band members of Sangre del Pirata busily set up their equipment onstage, adjusting knobs and uncoiling cords. I recognize them from my research. The two guitarists are brothers, identically athletic and baby-faced. The keyboardist is waifish with carefully manicured facial hair. The drummer is the vocalist’s boyfriend, a severe-looking fellow who appears to take himself rather seriously. The stocky saxophonist has a friendlier face than the others. The vocalist, Carmen, is as sultry and seductive as her voice.

  Maria gets their attention with a torrent of Spanish. They listen disinterestedly before looking at me with feigned enthusiasm. Jumping off the stage, one by one they greet me with outstretched hands. Their wide smiles seem rehearsed, except for the drummer who doesn’t smile at all. He shakes my hand and assesses me with his eyes.

  Once the introductions are over, one of the guitarists removes the felt hat from his head and says, “We are very sorry for your loss.”

  “It is a terrible tragedy,” says his brother. As if on cue, all six of them bow their heads. Their hands dart from their foreheads to their chests, then from one shoulder to the other — the sign of the cross.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Tonight won’t be about tragedy though. It will b
e a celebration.”

  Carmen begins to speak, then hesitates. Her eyelids flutter as she contemplates the words to use before going on. “How would you like us to change our music to suit this celebration?”

  “You don’t have to change anything,” I answer. “You can stick to the set list that you had planned.”

  The six of them exchange furtive glances. “Some of the songs we were planning to perform may no longer be right for this event.” Carmen speaks slowly, choosing her words with care. “They were chosen to get the guests dancing and to keep the energy high. Now that the event has changed, we think that the music may need to change as well.”

  “Why would anything need to change?” My tone betrays my impatience. “I still want people to dance. I still want the energy to be high. This is not a funeral.”

  “Of course, señor,” Maria chimes in. “The music will be fit for the celebration this is.” She looks at each of the band members to be sure they understand. They nod their heads.

  “Of course,” Carmen repeats. “We will not change a thing.”

  “I can’t wait to see you in action,” I say. “Everyone is going to love you. This will be a fabulous night.”

  They smile and echo one another’s tentative expressions of agreement, but they don’t seem convinced.

  • • • • •

  I only ever saw Elias cry once. I don’t often tear up myself. I’m not tender like Decker. I’m not impassioned like Vivi. My life has taught me methods of self-preservation. Even so, Elias was often present when the tears did come. He knew what to do in these instances, how to comfort me. Over eight years, I only got one chance to reciprocate.

  It happened a year ago. We rented a large house on Bowen Island for the weekend. It had soaring ceilings, wooden beams, and an enormous deck that looked out toward a grassy lawn. Past the lawn was a pebbly beach that embraced a swimming cove, its water clearer and greener than the ocean beyond. It was the weekend of our engagement party.

  That afternoon, I peeked through the picture window from the second-floor landing and saw that guests were beginning to arrive. Vivi, Decker, and Samantha were on greeting duty downstairs while Elias and I prepared for our entrance. Everything was going according to plan except for one thing: Elias was nowhere to be found. I hadn’t seen him for at least an hour.