After Elias

by Eddy Boudel Tan

  “Life is fleeting,” I repeat, turning toward Gabriel. His eyes are a welcome contrast to those of the statue. They are alive with electricity. “It can end any day.”

  “This is true,” he says, looking back at me. “You must make every moment count. Regret nothing.”

  With that, his lips are on mine. We kiss tentatively at first, waiting for the other to grant permission to proceed. Then we begin to melt into one another, inhaling and exhaling the heat of each other’s breath. I can feel the pulse of his body as it presses against mine.

  I want nothing more than for Gabriel to strip away the layers until I’m more naked than I’ve ever been. I want him to cure me with his touch, to purge my pain. Then I look into his face, illuminated by the flickering flames, and for a passing moment I see Elias’s eyes like the starless sky.

  My body stiffens, and I put my hands gently against Gabriel’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

  I know he understands. There’s tenderness in his eyes, though he exhibits no shame. “You can come to me whenever you need to,” he says quietly. “Whatever you need from me, I will give to you.”

  “I know you will.”

  Gabriel crouches in front of the shrine and picks up a red candle encased in a pillar of glass. “Take this,” he says. “It represents love. It will bring healing to your heart.”

  I take the candle from his outstretched hand. An image of Santa Muerte is emblazoned around it. She wears a cloak of red, and her skull is bowed. In the centre of her chest is a heart surrounded by flames.

  “Isn’t it wrong to steal someone else’s offering?”

  “It would be,” he says, “but that offering was mine. I brought it to Santa Muerte because of you.”

  • • • • •

  The midafternoon sun beats down as I return to the hotel to find the corridors quiet. My legs have begun to ache. I’m looking forward to lying in bed and replaying the events of the day in my mind.

  I step into suite 319. Vivi and Decker are nowhere to be found. Glancing down, I see a large envelope under my foot that must have been slipped beneath the door. I pick it up to find my name handwritten on the front in elegant, looping letters.

  Inside the envelope is a thin stack of papers held together by a metal clip. The front page is a handwritten note on Ōmeyōcān Hotel stationery.

  Dearest Coen,

  I’m sorry to say I have a confession to make. I am not who I claimed to be. Do not think that I was entirely deceitful. Much of what I told you is true. I broke off my engagement mere weeks ago. I came here to this gorgeous island to celebrate my honeymoon alone.

  However, you probably didn’t realize that I knew who you were the first time we met. When you had to pick me up off the lobby floor? I truly am such a clumsy giraffe, but I knew then you were the poor soul engaged to the pilot of that ill-fated airplane. It was an incredible coincidence that I would find myself staying in the same hotel as you. I told myself it was fate. It was meant to be.

  You see, I uncover and report news for a living. I’m grateful you never asked me what I do for work. I didn’t want to have to lie to you about that. It’s a boring question anyway.

  I wanted to share your story with the world. Well, with our viewers and readers, at least. People would want to learn what it is like to lose a fiancé so soon before what should have been the happiest day. People would want to hear your side of the story, what you have to say about the accusations.

  It became more complicated, as you know. Looking back, I regret not telling you the truth and giving you the option to share your story the way you would want it to be shared.

  My intention is not to harm you or to cast further doubt on Elias. Here is the story that will be published in the coming days. I hope you find it honest and sympathetic, with a few thoughtful omissions.

  I leave for London today. Take care of yourself, Coen Caraway. You are a strong and special soul. You will survive this.

  xo

  Raina

  I stare at the papers in my hand before dropping them in the wastebasket. Perhaps Maria was right that afternoon in the English Garden. You can never truly know anyone other than yourself. Even so, I don’t feel anger. I am immune to the sting of deception. I have a purpose now, and it’s the only thing I care about.

  The room is silent as I remove my shoes, but Vivi or Decker must have forgotten to switch off the television. It projects a ghostly sheen on everything in the otherwise dark room. The walls are dully iridescent, blue like an electric sea.

  I’m not the least bit surprised to see the familiar face of the messenger, the texture of her skin seeming more plastic than before, her eyebrows too symmetrical to be human. Despite my resistance, my hand picks up the remote control and my thumb presses a button. Her voice purrs through the air.

  “… despite these disturbing new details about his fiancé, there is still little known about Elias Santos himself. Authorities in Mexico have been contacted in an effort to locate his family and to uncover clues to the many questions that remain unanswered. Who was Elias Santos? Was the plane taken down intentionally and, if so, what would have driven him to commit such an unthinkable crime? And perhaps the most curious question of all, what is the meaning behind his final message, those mysterious words, pronto dios?”

  “Don’t you fear,” I say to the messenger. Her eyes connect with mine, and I swear she can see me. “I’m going to find out.”

  CASA PARAÍSO

  Twelve days after the crash

  “I wish you didn’t have to do this,” says my mother, holding my face in her hands. Her hair is tossed around by the wind as we stand on the pier. The sky has begun to cloud over, and the gentle island breeze that once seemed omnipresent has grown steadily rougher.

  “This is important to me,” I say. “There’s no reason for you to worry. Think of it as a harmless road trip. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be alone.”

  She strains a smile and turns to Clark, who stands beside me. “Look after your brother. Stay close and be careful. There are dangerous people out there.”

  “I will guard him with my life,” he says, the delivery dramatic and a little patronizing.

  Her focus shifts to Vivi, who stands on my other side. “Vivian, I’m going to need you to make sure my boys stay out of trouble. If they try to do anything stupid, I want you to stop them. Do you hear me?”

  “Don’t worry, Claire,” Vivi assures her. “I know a thing or two about keeping these boys in line.”

  “Good,” says my mother, taking a step back to size us up one last time. “We’ll be here when you return.”

  “You and Dad should go home,” I say. “Everyone else has already left the island. I appreciate you cancelling your flight to stay with me, but I won’t even be here. Go home and let things get back to normal. We’ll keep in touch.”

  “Just stay safe,” she responds. “There’s a storm coming.”

  The ferry arrives and we say our farewells. My father, who has been silent for most of the day, pulls me in for an embrace. I get the sense that he doesn’t want to let me go. As the ferry pulls away from the concrete pier, I stand on the top deck with Vivi and Clark. My mother and father continue waving until we can barely see them.

  Wrapping a sweater around myself, I watch as we sail away from this island that has served as the setting for the most tragic chapter of my life. It was my sanctuary and my fortress. It protected me from the cruelty outside. I was doubtful I would ever find the courage to leave. Clark is right though. There is something that needs to be done, and it has to happen away from this place.

  Soon the island is merely a heap of rocks and trees floating in the distance. The pier and my parents are no longer visible. The clouds that appeared from the east earlier today are more sinister now, impenetrably thick and charcoal coloured, like smoke. The boat begins to rock along with the waves.

  “Woooo!” Clark screams with his fists in the air. The wind whips his wavy hair and blows his jacket out behin
d him like a parachute. I laugh as his designer sunglasses fly off his face and into the ocean below. His blackened eye is revealed.

  “That’s not funny!” he shouts. “Those were my favourite pair.” He runs to the railing to confirm that the sunglasses are forever lost. I imagine him jumping in after them.

  “Don’t do it. They’re not worth it!” Vivi screams comically, clearly imagining the same ridiculous scenario.

  He turns around, his face grim, before bursting into laughter.

  I was skeptical about taking this trip with Clark. I suppose I still am. His words moved me two days ago, but I don’t forget so easily. His neglect has shaped me more profoundly than I would ever admit to him.

  I wish I could accept him and all that comes with it — his assumption of superiority, his overt need to commandeer every situation to serve himself, his inability to understand anything outside his own realm of experience — but I’ve failed every time I’ve tried. He was adamant about embarking on this mission together though, and I couldn’t help but believe he may actually care about the outcome. I doubt this will heal a lifetime of ambivalence between us, but it could be a start.

  “Give him a chance,” Decker said yesterday evening before checking out of the hotel to begin his long journey home. “He’s your brother. It sounds like he’s trying to make things better, so let him.”

  “You’re right,” I said, “as always. I’ve learned to prepare myself for the worst whenever it comes to Clark. That way the disappointment is never a surprise.”

  “Maybe he’ll surprise you still,” Decker said. I responded with a doubtful look, and he laughed. “You’re probably right.” He paused before looking at me apologetically. “I really wish I could come along.”

  “I wish you could too, but you need to go home. You have a pregnant wife who has been patiently waiting for you. I won’t keep you away from her any longer than I already have.”

  He wrapped his arms around me, and we stood there for a long moment. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said.

  What am I looking for? I’ve been struggling to find an answer. I don’t have a plan. I don’t know what I’m going to say to Elias’s parents, if we’re even able to locate them. I don’t know what I expect to gain. Peace? Closure?

  All I know is that it can’t end here. There is more to this story, and I’m going to see it through to its end.

  I pull the photograph out of my pocket, being careful not to lose it to the wind. Behind young Elias stand the concrete blocks and corrugated metal that formed his childhood home. Beyond that, two large buildings loom ominously in the distance. They are painted a sad shade of red.

  “I think this terrible place produced nuclear energy,” Elias had told me once, long ago. “I grew up looking at it every day from my bed, a reminder of how trapped we were between the beautiful and the ugly.”

  It hadn’t taken me long to find the place where Elias must have come from. I located it years ago, the night of Decker’s Christmas party, when Elias had found the evidence of my search. I still don’t know what possessed me to dig up the past that Elias tried so hard to bury, but I felt a thrill when I came across images online of this lonely place that he had only once described to me.

  I couldn’t find images of his house or his father’s shop, but the red rectangles of the power plant were unmistakable. There aren’t many of these complexes in the state of Veracruz, let alone those that produce nuclear energy. They matched the buildings behind young Elias in the photograph. Finding this secretive place he used to see from his window every day gave me a new sense of connection to him, despite having to hide the discovery.

  As it turns out, our destination is only a two-hour drive from the dock that we’re sailing toward. The road will take us along the coast, through the city of Veracruz, past the little towns and rolling fields of the countryside, and straight to his old home. His past has never been more within reach.

  A rumble of thunder echoes across the smoky sky before the clouds unleash curtains of rain. Soon it feels as though there is as much water above as there is below. We retreat to the lower deck for cover as the boat lists from side to side.

  An elderly man mutters indecipherably to me as we walk past. He’s wearing a thick wool sweater fit for a fisherman.

  “Pardon me?”

  “The gods must be angry!” he says loudly, enunciating each syllable with care. He grins to reveal a mouth of teeth that are either crooked or missing.

  I smile back at him politely and hurry away. “What did that man say?” Vivi asks, looking back at him.

  “Nothing.”

  We huddle together on a bench, holding on to one another as we slide from one side to the other in rhythm with the rocking of the boat. Clark and I grew up being on the water during countless family sailing trips, but I can tell Vivi is struggling. I see she is not alone as I look around at the other passengers.

  Finally, a voice blares over the intercom speaking Spanish in between bursts of static. “Thank god,” Vivi says. “We’re approaching the dock.” I’m hoping that Vivi’s Spanish skills come in handy. She spent a year studying abroad in Seville where she learned the language, more so from several local romances than in the classroom.

  It takes longer than usual for the boat to secure itself to the dock. Once we are able to disembark, we rush out onto the pier and are whipped from all sides by the lashing rain. I run toward the welcoming doors of the terminal building with my jacket held above my head.

  The stark fluorescent lights greet us as we find refuge inside. It doesn’t take long for the yellow-tiled floor to be covered in muddy footprints.

  The curved walls of the building are lined with booths representing bus companies and car rental agencies. We follow Clark as he finds the company that he reserved our car through. The sign hanging above the counter is a string of bright green letters.

  “Hola,” Clark says to the smiling woman behind the counter. “Do you speak English?” The woman’s smile widens as she shakes her head. “I have a reservation,” he goes on.

  “She just told you she doesn’t speak English,” I say.

  “Well, what am I supposed to do then?” he asks, flustered.

  “Let me handle this.” Vivi pushes him aside. Her Spanish is stilted and uncertain, but the agent seems to understand what she’s saying. After a brief exchange and a few taps on the keyboard by the agent’s manicured fingernails, Vivi turns to us and says, “They can’t find your reservation.”

  “What? That’s absurd,” Clark responds. He turns to the agent. “Listen, I made a reservation through the Ōmeyōcān Hotel. They confirmed there would be a car here.”

  “Clark, she doesn’t understand you,” I say, trying to stay composed.

  Vivi elbows him out of the way and resumes her conversation with the agent. After another crossfire of words, she turns to us and says, “They have something.”

  We’re taken through a back door to a covered lot where the agent reveals a sporty black convertible with a retractable roof.

  “Not bad,” Clark says, pleased. “Not bad at all.” He takes the keys and within minutes we’re speeding away from the terminal. Clark is in the driver’s seat beside me, and Vivi is perched in the middle behind us. The vinyl interior emits a faint odour of cigarettes and bleach.

  “You’ll have to guide me, little bro,” Clark says. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re in a town called Antón Lizardo,” I say, studying the fold-out road map that I bought from the hotel’s gift shop. “We’re going to take Highway 150 to Veracruz, which is probably about twenty minutes away. It looks like we’ll need to cut through the city before turning onto Highway 180. That should take us straight to Elias’s home.”

  Saying those words out loud doesn’t make this feel any less surreal.

  “Next stop: home of young Elias Santos,” Clark says, flashing me a reassuring glance.

  The storm doesn’t weaken as we glide through the streets.
The windshield wipers are on full speed, swishing back and forth with an aggressive sense of purpose. The ceiling of clouds above darkens as dusk begins to fall.

  Clark switches on the radio and finds a station playing what sounds like new-wave Latin disco. “Cha cha cha!” he sings with a laugh. The upbeat energy of the music can’t combat the gloom outside. I gaze out the window at the wind terrorizing the trees and the sheets of rain battering the pavement.

  We enter Veracruz and even the lights of the city are smothered by the storm. The streets are deserted. The entire cityscape is grey and featureless. It’s certainly not the colourful place I passed through thirteen days ago.

  Before long, the city is behind us and the surrounding scenery is dark except for the occasional flash of lightning in the distance.

  “So we probably should have talked about this earlier,” Clark says, breaking the silence, “but what are we going to do when we get there?”

  “Good question,” I say. “I have no clue.”

  “What do you mean you have no clue?”

  “I don’t know. I thought we’d figure it out when the time comes.”

  “It’s getting kind of late to show up at their door unannounced, don’t you think?” The pitch of his voice heightens when he’s irritated. “Especially when you don’t even know what you’re going to say.”

  “He has a point,” Vivi interjects, sticking her head between us.

  “Of course,” I say. “We could just scope things out tonight. Let’s find somewhere to sleep in town and then make our move in the morning.”

  “Are you sure there’s going to be a hotel there? I thought this place is supposed to be pretty desolate.”

  “I don’t know, Clark. We could just —”

  I’m interrupted by a loud thud as a bundle of palm fronds hits the windshield with force. The leaves get tangled in the wipers, obscuring the road in front of us.

  “Pull over!” Vivi screams.