Don't Come Back Here Any More

by Pedro Menchén

“Well you have to get me one, mate. I can’t take a chance on catching the bus or the subway, get it? And I don’t want to steal one. Understand what I’m saying?”

  “No. I don’t know how I’m going to get a car. I can’t borrow one from anybody. However ...” I say thoughtfully, “I could ... I could rent one. Would a rental car work?”

  “Yeah, sure. That’s what I’m talking about. You rent a car and bring it to the door, or they bring it to the door. I’ll come downstairs, then, if there’s nobody waiting for me, I’ll get out of here. I’ll go far away. You win, mate. I won’t kill this guy. I’ll get out of here and let them work it out.”

  “And what if they’re waiting for you?”

  “Well, tough luck. They’ll pull out their guns and ...”

  “And you’ll pull yours out too, won’t you? But I can’t believe that they’re waiting for you. Nobody followed us. How would they know you’re here?”

  “They might have been watching you for days. Haven’t you seen anything strange? They know that you and I are in contact, that we’ve got something going on, and maybe they’ll control you too. But don’t worry. They won’t hurt you. They’re only after me.”

  “I haven’t detected anything. I can’t believe ...”

  “Those guys are out there, mate, I tell you. Somebody saw us come up last night. I know they’re there. That’s why I need a car. With a little luck, I’ll manage to escape and get out of here.”

  “And after that?”

  “Don’t worry about the car. I’ll leave it at some train station, in Barcelona or Valencia. I don’t know where yet. The rental company can pick it up from there.”

  “I’m not talking about the car. What are you going to do after that? How are you going to survive?”

  “I’m a survivor, mate. I’ll survive. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Okay. I’ll get the car.”

  “Make sure they don’t follow you. Nobody can know that you’ve rented a car.”

  “Wait a minute,” I say in a sudden inspiration. “If I rent it online, I don’t even have to leave the house, right?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know … Do it however you want, but get me a car.”

  “Okay, I’ll get you a fucking car, but on one condition.”

  “What condition? This is not the best time for ... I don’t think we’re going to fuck right now.”

  “Forget that, will you? What kind of person do you think I am? Do you imagine that I only think about sex? No, no sex at all. Thank you. I only want you to warn this guy so they don’t kill him. That’s my condition.”

  “Are you going on about that again? You’re crazy!” mumbles J.J. crossly. “I’m not doing anything. They’ll kill me along with him, if they haven’t killed him already!”

  “I’ll go and warn him myself then. Don’t worry. All you have to do is give me his photo and tell me where he lives.” J.J. starts pacing back and forth in the kitchen, very nervous and upset. I don’t even know him, I say to myself. I don’t know anything about this guy and I’m playing with fire. Why don’t I just leave well alone? “Give me the photo,” I insist. “Come on, give me the photo!”

  “Lead, that’s what I’m going to be giving you!” he says in a low voice, as if he’s talking to himself.

  “Please!”

  “Lead!” he shouts, pushing me away with a smack.”

  “Give me the fucking photo!”

  J.J. either doesn’t understand what I say or just isn’t listening to me. He looks at me with haunting, vacant eyes. I have the feeling that he’s going to throw a plate at my head or pull a gun out of his pocket and take a couple of shots at me. Even so, he seems to control himself. He heads into the living room and comes back in with a sheet of paper folded in half, on which is printed a poor quality photograph. I almost don’t dare to look at it. It’s too obscene, I tell myself, to see the face of someone who’s going to die when he himself doesn’t know it. Even so, I look at the photo a little sideways.

  “Hey! But there are three people here!” I say, surprised. Then I study the image carefully and I understand. In the center is a dark-skinned man, undoubtedly Latin American, not very tall, about forty years old; on his left, a woman of his same age, surely his wife, and on his right, a boy of ten or twelve years. “Is that him? But he’s got a family! You’re going to leave that woman a widow and the boy an orphan?”

  “Go on!” says J.J., impatiently. “You have no idea what you’re doing! And come back soon! I need a car to get out of here!”

  The man, to tell the truth, has a very unsavory look. His face provokes a certain antipathy. Maybe he was angry about something when they took the photo, a photo he didn’t pose for, but was taken by surprise, just as he was entering or leaving his house, perhaps. The woman and the boy seem frightened. Of course, I say to myself, he looks like a mafioso. But even so, the guy deserves to live like everybody else.

  “I need the address,” I say. “I have to warn him as soon as possible.”

  “And what are you going to tell him?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think of something on the way.”

  “Don’t go inside his house. Talk to him in the doorway when he opens it. Tell him whatever you want and then get the hell out. Don’t let him grab you. Don’t answer his questions. You hear me? If he’s not stupid, he’ll understand right away.”

  “Give me the address.”

  “Okay,” says J.J., resigned, while he pokes around in his wallet. He pulls out a small wadded scrap of paper and hands it to me. “Here’s the fucking address!”

  I take a quick glance at the paper.

  “Aluche!” I say. “I’ll be gone a good while. That’s clear on the other side of Madrid.”

  “Don’t take any longer than you have to. I need that car to get away from here.”

  “J.J.,” I say, putting on the jacket and heading toward the door. “Don’t budge from here. Leave the door locked and don’t open for anybody. Don’t even answer the phone! When I come back, I’ll ring the bell three times before I open the door. Don’t mistake me for somebody else and shoot me.”

  It’s almost night when I get down to the street. The cold cuts right through and I walk quickly to the subway. I’m tired and shivering from the long night of watching. I don’t know how I’m going to endure. I try not to look anywhere so as not to invite suspicion. I’d like to turn my head and look at the other corner, toward the interior of that car, but I keep walking ahead, trying to look natural. They’ll think I’m going to work. In fact, I was supposed to go to work today. And at this same time, more or less. But I’m not going to go to work. I’ll have to call in to explain my absence. Friday. Today is Friday, the twenty-third of December. He didn’t just arrive and go. Just one night and then he’s gone. We didn’t even ... I don’t want to think about sex! No, no sex at all. But I can’t stop thinking about sex! And now I’m going to save the life of a guy I don’t know or care about. Who told me to get in such a fix? I suppose I wanted to impress him. That’s it. I wanted to move him with my romantic attitude, with my sense of ethics. A lot he cares! Boys like him are not romantic. They don’t give a damn about ethics. They only know about survival. I’m a survivor. Don’t worry about me. And who knows how many people that guy has killed! The way he looks, he couldn’t have done anything good. He must have held back money that wasn’t his, or something like that. He must have deceived someone. Something about drugs white slave traffic. Oh, J.J., and not even a blowjob! At least a blowjob! Instinctively I catch the same subway line as every other day. Out of inertia, I head for work. But no. I’m going to Aluche. I have to go to Aluche. Unfortunately, I’m already on the train and it has started up. I’ll change direction at the next stop. But no. No way. I’ll go to work. I’ll go to the office, like always, and, if they follow me, they’ll see I’m living my normal life just like always and they’ll leave me alone. Although I don’t believe they’re following me. What nonsense! It’s absurd! For God’s sake!
It would be so exciting! But no. What do I have to do with J.J.’s affairs? Who cares about me? Okay, I’ll greet my colleagues briefly and then I’ll leave with some excuse. I’ll leave the building through the back door and then, yes, then I’ll go to Aluche. I’m going to take too long and J.J. is by himself there, locked in. I’m afraid of what I have to do. I’m afraid that things are not going to turn out well. My intuition tells me that something’s going to go wrong, of course, and that I will pay the consequences. Who told me to get involved in things that don’t matter? Who ...? Who told me?

  It’s too early when I get to the office and I don’t see any of my colleagues. Only that guy Fidel, from the main office, one of those boring types who always arrive before anybody else and leave after everybody else, one of those incompetent, uncritical people with no initiative, who appreciate big offices so much. I thought about giving him an oral message for my section head, but I think again and leave a post-it note stuck to his computer screen:

  I have to go to the doctor. I’m not feeling very well. Sorry,

  Ramón.

  Oh, and Merry Christmas!

  I leave through the garage to the street behind the building. Nobody is waiting for me and nobody follows me. What nonsense! Who would want to follow me and why? I’ll take the subway in Plaza de España. From there I have to change for Aluche. Oh, but first I have to rent a car. I know that there’s a car rental agency around here. I’ll have to sign papers and all that, besides paying for it. But I’ll ask them to take it by the house afterwards. If someone is watching the door, they would see me arrive with the car and nobody has to know that I rented a car, since that would make them suspect.

  Number 132 belongs to a yellow brick building of four or five floors, that looks out on Casa de Campo. Not a bad place. Popular but decent. No noise, no traffic or pollution. Let’s see. Yes. On the paper he wrote “3º, A”. It’s twenty after nine. A little early, perhaps, to go banging on the doors of strange houses.

  There’s no doorman and the building entrance is open. An older woman is wearily scrubbing the floor with a mop and grumbles when she sees my footprints on the wet tiles.

  “Sorry,” I say, as I press the elevator button. The woman runs the mop over my footprints again and doesn’t even answer me.

  The elevator stops on the third floor with the anxious snarl of a wounded animal. That produces bad vibrations in me. Before getting out, I look at myself in the mirror. Bags under my eyes, neither combed nor shaved, I have a disgusting look. Or rather, I look like a hitman. This guy is going to have a hard time believing that I’m there to save his life, instead of killing him. And then I remember: The guy knows already. These things are known. They give advance warning. Nothing is completely undeserved. They always give you a chance to correct your mistake. Death is the final solution, even for mafiosos drug dealers. He already knows, I tell myself, trying to convince myself of it. He knows they’re coming for him. That’s why he looked like that in the photo, that’s why he had that expression of mistrust. Somehow he suspected that his killer was nearby and he seemed to be saying: You don’t matter to me. The woman and the boy know it too. They’re afraid of something, even if they don’t know exactly what, only what this guy might have told them. Their look in the photograph gives them away. They’re showing too much of their insecurity and powerlessness. They know it, they know it. So then, what am I doing here? Why don’t they go away? What are they waiting for? Things are known, they’re always known. J.J. already knows it. He’s clever and he knows it: he hasn’t kept his part of the bargain and he’s on a tightrope. He knows it. But he’s going to escape. I’ll help him. There’s still time. This guy, on the other hand, must be very stupid or very arrogant and thinks that nothing’s going to happen to him. Not to him, he trusts, that’s for sure. It’s always the same. We’re so narcissistic that we believe that none of these bad things that happen to other people can happen to us. Not me, no way, the guy thinks, they wouldn’t dare do that to me. It’s not that big a deal. They know that I’ll settle my accounts with them later, just like I told them. They have to trust my word. They wouldn’t do this to me. No way.

  I ring the doorbell and wait a few seconds. I wait and I wait. I don’t hear anything inside. Silence. Absolute silence. I keep waiting. Two minutes pass ... three. I ring again. Nothing. I have to get out of here, I tell myself. What I’m doing is stupid. They know. J.J. is right. I’m not romantic or sentimental, just a fucking idiot. Everybody helps himself. They know, they know. But I decided to go forward to the end, and I ring the bell again. I’m an idiot. What am I doing here? Silence. Absolute silence. Maybe they’ve already gone away. I hope to God they have. Maybe they’ve been smart and got out in time. Or maybe all three have been killed. Hitmen don’t care whether they kill one or three. They have no pity for women or children. Besides, witnesses cause them trouble, even more if they scream or cry. One or two more bullets and silence. Absolute silence. Who knows. Maybe all three of them are in there dead. Or maybe they killed them in the street. I should have watched the news last night. I should have listened to the radio this morning. “Three Colombians murdered in their own car. Two adults and a child. The police are investigating the facts. Apparently, it was a settling of scores.” Always a settling of scores. And always, or almost always, they’re Colombians.

  I ring the bell again. I don’t hear anything, but I notice a small flicker in the peephole. Before it was clear there and now it seems that the glass button has darkened. And it’s an eye. I notice an eye looking at me. I notice it and I look at it. I notice the fear in that eye. In this eye that I don’t see, but which is there, without a doubt. I notice it. As I also notice the terror and the insecurity behind the door. And I’m the one who provokes terror and insecurity, I tell myself, with the same terror and the same insecurity.

  “Please,” I whisper, “Open up. I have to tell you something.”

  Silence. Absolute silence.

  “I know there’s somebody there. Please,” I insist after a minute, “open up. I’m Spanish. I’m a friend.”

  This time I start to hear some noise inside. I notice that something is moving within. And, finally, after a soft metal click, I see the door open. It opens slowly and there appears in the shadow a dark-skinned woman, short, with an unkempt appearance. I’m not sure it’s the woman in the photo. Or maybe it is, I don’t know. I thought the other one was younger or prettier. She looks at me with sad and tired eyes and presents me with a deceitful smile.

  “Your husband,” I say, almost in a whisper. “May I see your husband for a moment?”

  “He’s not here. He’s not at home,” she says, stepping to one side, as if to invite me in, although without opening the door all the way. I remain quiet and indecisive, hoping to see what’s happening. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “He doesn’t know me. But I have to talk to him about something.”

  “About what?” she says, increasing her smile, a smile that seems to me more and more false.

  “Something personal. I want to give him a message. But it’s not important. I ...”

  “You want to give him a message? Who from?” asks the woman, now inviting me in with a gesture.

  “Well,” I say. “He already knows who from. Or rather, he already knows what about. But it ... it doesn’t matter. I ...”

  I have to get out of here, I tell myself. The game has already taken too long. I don’t like this woman’s eyes at all. Besides, I know he’s here, maybe behind the door, listening to every word we say. I don’t like this at all. I’ve got bad vibes. Almost without realizing it, I start to back away. They know. They know. I’m definitely getting out of here. This has already taken too long. I back away. I take a step backward and in the semidarkness I look for the elevator door. Now, now it’s here ... But no. It’s late. A couple of hands grabbed me violently by the neck, while another hand immobilized my right arm behind my back with a chokehold. Those hands, oh
, if the squeezed a little more, they would end up strangling me. They drag me quickly inside the house and close the door. They threw something at my head. Some kind of plastic bag. They’ve stuck my head in a plastic bag! I can’t breathe! Everything is extremely unreal and confused. I don’t want this to be the end. But I know I can’t hold my breath very long, with my head stuck in a plastic bag or whatever it is.

  An irrational effort, a blind impulse, an uncontrollable energy, dormant in my genes for generations, suddenly loosens movement within me for the desire to live. Surprised, my captors step back from me for a few moments, unable to hold me, and I start kicking and punching right and left. In the dark, I hit without knowing where or what at everything that surrounds me. I lash out blindly and at times the blow misses, but at other times it connects and I feel my fist on a face, an arm or a chest. I hear chairs falling, pictures, tables ... I hear glass breaking, I hear the loud crash of some metal object rolling on the floor. I thought I had gotten free of all those hands that with so much fury grabbed me before by different parts of my body, four hands at least, but no. They fall on me again. There are six of them. I think there are six. The ones that are back to confine me like shackles on my feet are thinner and smaller, but more daring and obstinate than the others. I struggle to break free of them and I almost make it, when some sharp teeth like those of a rat embed themselves in the flesh of my calf. Fucking kid, apprentice hitman! Something covers my mouth, a hand or a cloth. I’m at the point of passing out from the pain. Already. Now. I think I can get the other leg free. Now. Already. It’s time. I’ll crush him like a cockroach. I’ll lift my leg and I’ll stomp him with my heel. I’m going to get my foot loose with all my might against this glob of flesh that’s stuck to me like a strange parasite when something hits my face, something blunt and heavy, which makes me stagger and which frees me unexpectedly from pain.