After Elias

by Eddy Boudel Tan

  “Hey, kids,” he grunts, struggling to carry the weight of the awkwardly shaped load, sweat running down his face. “We’re just clearing the wreckage away from the entrance.”

  “I thought you were going for a swim,” I say.

  “This is more important,” he grunts back. “These guys need our help. Don’t just stand there. Pick up a piece.”

  One of the men hands us gloves and we clear the debris from the parking lot, gingerly transporting the sign piece by piece. I’m surprised by the weight of each fragment as I carry it toward the heap of jagged metal at the side of the building.

  Once all the larger pieces have been cleared away, Clark and I begin picking up the smaller shards while Vivi goes inside to find a broom. The sun travels across the sky until there is nothing left of the shattered sign. The only things that remain are the charred blotch on the concrete and the empty support beams that jut out where the sign was once mounted.

  The five men smile at us and shake our hands, speaking exuberantly in Spanish. We’re exhausted and coated in a mixture of sweat and soot, but we smile back and wish them luck. “I sure as hell hope they’ve got good insurance,” Clark says as we return to our room.

  After showering, changing into a fresh set of clothes, packing our bags, and scouring the wicker-and-floral-covered room for anything we might have left behind, we take one last look inside before closing the door behind us.

  “We survived the storm,” Clark says as we throw our bags into the car. “That can only mean one thing.” He looks at me and Vivi with an air of suspense. “It’s top-down time.”

  We help him retract the convertible roof and fasten it behind the back seat. Clark gets behind the wheel. Vivi joins him up front. I stretch out in the back, breathing in the fresh ocean air that surrounds us.

  “¡Adios, Paraíso!” Clark shouts, revving the engine before peeling out of the parking lot. I twist around in my seat to get one final look at the lonely building behind us, now nameless.

  The wind blows through my hair as we speed down the highway across the countryside. Verdant mountains tower in the west while the ocean glistens to the east. It’s how Elias had described it once — an endless seam of ochre and blue, though today there’s no mist in the mountains.

  We pass stalls overflowing with fruit and roadside shops with bright signs, solitary houses surrounded by sapodilla trees and clusters of buildings painted in all the shades of the sky. Every now and then the road curves around the calm surface of a lagoon or over the rush of a stream. I sit back and soak in the simplicity of the beauty around us.

  I don’t know how long we’ve been driving when Vivi turns around from her seat to face me, snapping me out of my trance. She takes the sunglasses off her face and says, “I think that’s it.”

  Following her pointed finger, I see that she’s right. The pale red boxes are unmistakable. They loom in the distance like a joyless mirage. After so many attempts at putting myself in Elias’s shoes, picturing this view every day and every night, it feels anti-climactic to finally be here. There is nothing extraordinary about this place — no sizzling neon sign, no magnolia-covered courtyard, no candlelit cave, no forgotten house of glass. It is as Elias had described it.

  Our eyes are fixed on this industrial temple as we drive closer. My heart beats forcefully in my chest, but the ache is even fainter today. As we approach, we see that the complex is protected by a tall fence lining the perimeter. There are several trucks and smaller buildings enclosed within, all uniformly white and angular. Electrical lines dangle overhead from giants made of beams and bolts.

  Soon the temple is behind us, and there is no sign of a roadside repair shop. “Do you think we passed it?” Vivi shouts over the noise of the wind.

  I pull the photograph from my pocket and compare the configuration of buildings with the view that is now behind me. “No,” I shout. “Keep going. It should be up ahead.”

  The road winds around a small lake before continuing up a gradual hill. As we clear the top of the hill, Vivi looks at me and doesn’t need to say a word. I see it too.

  Up ahead, tucked a short distance away from the side of the road, sits a little building. Its walls are made of concrete blocks surrounded by trees with broad green leaves. The roof is a sloping sheet of corrugated metal, rusted red over time.

  A larger version of this building stands beside it. Painted across the front wall in bold orange letters are three words: Santos Servicio Automotriz.

  “What’s the plan, little brother?” Clark asks as he slows the speed down to a crawl. “Do we roll up to the front like the pride parade?”

  “Yes,” I say, trying to steady my breathing, timing each inhale and exhale to every four beats of the heart. “The front door.”

  He turns onto the unpaved driveway that leads to the little house. The wheels send up a cloud of dust around us. He pulls the car to a stop, and we are so close to the front door. Clark and Vivi turn around to face me in the back seat.

  “You can do this,” Vivi says with a reassuring smile.

  Clark pats me on the cheek. “It’s now or never.”

  We climb out of the car and walk slowly toward the door, the dirt crunching underneath our feet. The pale red boxes of the power plant can be seen beyond the house, and I realize this is the spot where young Elias stood in the photograph. For the first time, I see this view framed by the endless sky.

  The wooden door is white with flowers painted across it in colourful swirls. I study the flowers for a minute, buying time as I maintain control of the air in my lungs and the pounding of my heart. My fists are clenched. Vivi and Clark stand on either side of me, but they don’t move. This moment is mine, not theirs.

  For a second, I fear I’ll be unable to lift my hand and knock, like that day in the white brick building with the magnolia courtyard so many years ago. Then, without warning, my fist rises and delivers three sharp thumps against the painted door.

  I hold my breath. There is silence. I am about to knock again when the door swings open.

  Standing there in the entryway is a woman. Her face has been moulded by time, motherly and kind. There are wrinkles around the eyes from years of laughing or crying. Her wavy hair is streaked with silver and tied together by a blue ribbon. She wears a simple cotton dress, brilliantly white with blue and orange flowers embroidered along the neckline. I know right away that she is Elias’s mother. Her eyes are as dark as a starless sky, but the satellites sparkle with life.

  She looks at the three of us curiously before smiling. “Good afternoon,” she says.

  “Buenas tardes,” I respond. “I mean, good afternoon. You speak English?”

  She lets out a good-natured laugh. “It is not very good English, but I am still learning. I can see you are not Mexican.”

  “You’re right. We’re not.” I glance at Vivi and Clark. They flash me looks of encouragement. After a brief hesitation, I say, “Are you Señora Santos?”

  She nods.

  “My name is Coen. This is my brother, Clark, and my friend, Vivi. We’re from Canada. We came here to find you.” She listens patiently with a calm expression on her face. None of this seems out of the ordinary to her. I take a deep breath before going on. “Do you have a son? A son named Elias?”

  Her face glows as she smiles, the slightest hint of tears forming in her eyes. She takes a step toward me and places her hands on my face. She looks at me with such warmth and understanding. “You are his love.”

  My mouth hangs open, unable to speak, and my eyelids blink erratically like they’re transmitting a message in Morse code.

  “Come in,” she offers, stepping aside to let us through the door.

  The air is cool, and the walls are awash in the lazy sunlight bleeding through the windows. It’s a cozy space with embroidered rugs under our feet and wooden furniture covered in knitted blankets.

  One feature of the room catches my attention. On the far wall sits a wooden cabinet, the kind used to display china.
Every surface is covered in candles, their flames flickering gently as they cast a glow throughout the room. A garland of fresh orange marigolds is strung along the highest shelf. Vases filled with flowers surround the base.

  At the centre of one shelf is Elias. His unsmiling face looks noble. My breath catches in my throat as I see how handsome he is in his pilot’s uniform. It’s the photograph that has appeared in every newspaper over the past two weeks. I can tell by the faint colours that the image is made of newsprint, now displayed in a simple wooden frame.

  “I knew it was my Elias as soon as I saw his picture on the news,” she says. “Those eyes.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say. “We weren’t sure if you would have heard about what happened.”

  “I lost him long ago,” she responds, the lines in her face softening. There’s a wistful look in her eyes that I understand all too well. She wraps her arms around herself and I know how she feels, torn between the past and the present. Despite the tragic end, I imagine her pride at seeing this magnificent man that was once her young son.

  She returns to reality seconds later and faces me. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  We sit at a table covered by a yellow cloth. In the centre stands a thin glass vase with a single purple dahlia. Señora Santos places a plate of biscuits on the table and hands each of us a glass bottle of fizzy soda before taking a seat.

  “You have travelled a long way from home,” she says. “I am thankful for your visit. You are all so young.” Her face lights up, though her eyes wander past us with a rueful gaze. “Tell me. What brings you here?”

  “Elias never said much about his past,” I begin uncertainly. “It was important to me to see this place and to meet you. Otherwise, how could I say that I truly knew him?”

  She smiles and nods with understanding. “It is a blessing you are here,” she says. “Otherwise, how could I say that I truly knew him either?”

  “I’m happy you feel that way,” I respond, the relief showing itself on my face through a nervous grin. “I didn’t know what to expect would happen.”

  “How did you find this place?” she asks.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out the faded photograph. “I found this picture of Elias as a young boy,” I say, handing it to her. “We pieced together a few clues and figured out where your house would be.”

  She’s been holding back tears since we arrived, each eye the glassy surface of a well, and now they spill over the edges as she looks at the photograph in her hand. She smiles in the way people do when remembering the past, a mixture of happiness and regret.

  “It has been so long …” she says, the sentence forming, then fading. Her chin trembles as her head nods in silent agreement to the thoughts in her mind. “This brings me much happiness. But this boy is not Elias.”

  Vivi and Clark glance at me from across the table, their expressions reflecting my confusion. “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “This is not Elias,” she says again. “It is his brother.”

  “He had a brother?” I manage to stammer.

  “Yes,” she says. “He had a brother. Pedro was his name.”

  “Elias never told me about Pedro. Why would that be?”

  “Guilt,” she says simply.

  • • • • •

  Elias was always different. He was not like the other children in our town. He dreamed of more than we, or this town, could give him.

  “I will live in the city one day,” he would say to me. “My life will be extraordinary.” We tried to convince him that he belonged here with us, but I knew we would lose him one day.

  The only thing that brought him joy was his brother. Pedro was younger than Elias by five years, but they were the closest friends. They would laugh at jokes only they understood. They lived in their own little world, those two.

  Pedro and Elias were very different boys. There was always a smile on Pedro’s face. He was filled with curiosity, but he was also happy with this simple life of ours. This family, this house, this town — it was enough for him.

  I would bring my two sons to church. I felt so proud with them by my side, dressed in their finest clothes. Neither of them believed in god the same way I did. I accept this now. I raised them to be devout, but they were too headstrong to be told what to believe.

  To them, everything was a joke. They would even taunt god. They shared one joke they would laugh at whenever we prayed. They would scream it to the sky, then laugh until they fell off their chairs. It used to anger me. Now, I would do anything to hear their laughter one last time.

  The years went by and Elias grew into a man, strong and proud like a mighty tree. He also became restless. His roots refused to settle for the ground from which they grew. Our time with him was coming to an end.

  I could not have predicted that everything would happen so quickly.

  We hired a boy to help with repairs in the shop. He and Elias became close. They would spend hours watching the sky. Elias would tell me about the stars. His father and I found their hobbies strange, but we were glad he had found a friend.

  It was the day after his seventeenth birthday when we found the two boys kissing. They were inside a car that was being repaired in the shop. Elias’s father did not mean to surprise them. He only wanted to see if they would like something to drink.

  I stepped into the garage to find the boy on the floor. “Do not touch him!” Elias screamed at his father. The light was dim, but I could see the furious look on my husband’s face. The boy got to his feet and ran away.

  I convinced Elias and his father to come into the house. I tried to calm them down, but there was so much anger.

  “I love him,” Elias said to us. “I do not care that he is a man. Can you not let me love him?”

  We said hurtful things. I regret this now. Two men in love was not something we understood.

  Pedro was still so young, but he came to his brother’s defence. “Why is it wrong to love a man?” he asked. “Because your god tells you so?”

  It was too much for me to bear. I ordered Pedro to go to his room and close the door. Then I looked at my eldest son. He waited for me to speak, to hear what I had to say.

  “I feel shame for you.”

  Of all the things I could have said to my son, these are the words I chose to speak. He was shaking with fear. I could have held him in my arms. I could have told him I loved him. Instead, I let shame overcome love.

  He looked at me with such sadness in his beautiful eyes, and I knew he was lost to me then. He did not say a word. He turned around and walked out the door.

  I regretted what I had said as soon as the words passed my lips. I tried to run after him, but his father stopped me. “Let him go,” he said.

  We did not know what Elias was going to do. We did not realize that Pedro was no longer in his room. We did not know something was terribly wrong until we heard the screams.

  You see, Elias had climbed into the car that was sitting in the shop — the same car his father had found him in with the other boy. Elias did not know that Pedro had run after him as he was driving away from the house.

  We went outside to follow the sound of the screams. Elias was crouched on the ground in front of the car. The engine was still running. He looked like an angel, illuminated in the headlights. There was something held in his arms, something precious. As we came closer, we could see it was his brother.

  Pedro was covered in dirt and blood. He was still alive, but he must have known he did not have much time. Before he died in Elias’s arms, he looked at his brother and smiled. They shared one last joke together — the same joke they had created to taunt god.

  “Pronto dios,” Pedro said as he laughed.

  • • • • •

  Clark’s eyes catch mine, and I know that everything he has said these past three days is true. The regret, the guilt, the pain, and, most of all, the hope — I see it all in his emerald eyes.

  We wait for Señora Santos to
continue, but she looks down at her hands placed neatly in her lap and the silence hangs above us all. The tears have dried on her cheeks, leaving trails of salt she doesn’t bother to wipe away.

  Finally, her head tilts upward. She sits straight in her chair, proud and resolute, and places her hands on the table. The longing in her eyes has transformed into something more present.

  “It was painful,” she says, looking at us with a piercing directness that reminds me of Elias. “But the joy they brought me is more powerful than the pain.”

  “What does it mean?” I ask. “Soon god?”

  Señora Santos laughs unexpectedly, diluting the sorrow in the room with a substance that’s vital and alive. “It does not mean ‘soon god.’ My sons said it in a way that means ‘quickly, god.’ They would say that joke whenever we prayed — ‘Pronto dios!’ — as though impatiently asking for a miracle. ‘Hurry up, god!’ is what they were saying. ‘Grant us a miracle!’ It is supposed to be funny.”

  Clark looks around the table with disbelief on his face. A laugh escapes him, and soon we are all laughing. The sound cuts through the sorrow like a jet through a cloud. Tears stream down our faces as we laugh at a joke from so many years ago that is now misunderstood around the world.

  “So you think that Elias was speaking to his brother when he said those words on the plane?” Vivi asks.

  “I know he was,” Señora Santos responds. “His brother brought him comfort in those final moments. Pedro gave him peace. I also like to think he wanted his father and me to hear his voice one last time.”

  I look around the peaceful room and imagine the emotional scene that fateful night. I see Elias crouched on the ground in front of the house, his silhouette radiant in the beams of the car’s headlights, his brother cradled in his arms. That moment would haunt him for the rest of his life. Many years later, in the cockpit of a plane, he would leave one final message — not for me, not for the world, but for the brother he lost, the parents he abandoned, and the past that was buried but never forgotten.