Don't Come Back Here Any More

by Pedro Menchén

  This has happened before, I tell myself. Not to me, but it has happened before. I’ve seen it. Did I just wake up? So I’m not dead. But what’s going to happen now? I’m sitting in a chair with my hands tied behind my back and a sock gagging my mouth. My tongue is swollen. I have a sharp pain in my neck. I can taste blood on my lips and my gums. It looks like I have nosebleed. That hurts too something awful. Oh, yeah, it’s the blow. My leg. Fuck. I’m hurt there. The apprentice hitman sank his teeth in there. My nose is stuffed with blood and I can’t breathe. I’ll try to swallow a little air with my mouth. The taste of the sock is disgusting. Maybe I can get my arms untied. I’ll try. No. Let it go. I’m well tied with the rope. No, there’s no possibility. This has already happened before. I’ve seen this somewhere. And what a mess! More than a family home, this looks like a laboratory or a center of operations. Could I have surprised them at the moment of flight? Have they already gone or are they still here? Let’s see. Oh, yeah. I think they’re still here. Yeah. I hear noises, they’re speaking in a low voice. They’re close by, very close. No, words won’t serve. They won’t believe me. They can’t believe anything so simple. Now what? Are they going to torture me? How stupid I am. I didn’t have to come. J.J. was right. But how to show them ... Who would do something like this? I’m the bad guy. Without a doubt, as far as they’re concerned, I’m the bad guy. Since good guys ... They’re the good guys, of course! From their point of view, the matter is that simple. And if I’m the bad guy, why would they feel sorry for me? No matter how much I explain it to them, they won’t believe me. They won’t want to listen to me. I’m not going to seem convincing! I don’t even believe what’s happening! It’s so absurd! It’s so ridiculous! And of course they will have seen the photograph that I was carrying in my wallet and the scribbled address ... They take me, if not for the hitman, for an accomplice of him. Who knew! It’s okay. Maybe ... maybe a lie would work better than the truth. But what lie can I make up that would be more convincing than the truth?

  The guy in the photo has entered the room accompanied by the woman. Both of them look at me coldly and in silence, like the slaughterer looks at the pig before finishing him off. I make desperate efforts to work the gag loose. I motion to them with expressive grimaces to free my mouth, but they remain indifferent, watching me for a while. Later, I hear them whisper in a low voice. The woman leaves the room and returns after a while with a knife in her hand. She comes over to me and looks at me with an expression of disdain. No. She’s not going to kill me in cold blood. I think she’s capable, but she’s not going to do it. I hold my breath. What is she going to do? Not my nose, please. Don’t cut off my nose! Is she going to take out an eye? I mustn’t show fear. I mustn’t look at the knife. But I have the feeling that I’m going to faint. I know I’m going to faint. Knives have always terrified me and now ... now I’ve reached my limit. I don’t know if I can stand much more. No. If they’re going to kill me, I prefer not to witness it. But no. Not yet. Is she going to cut open my chest? Stab me in the mouth? Oh, no! In the neck! In the jugular! I watch the woman terrified, while she observes me without the slightest glimpse of pity. But why? What’s happening to them? What have I done to them that they treat me this way? They haven’t even given me a damn chance, I think, and I say as soon as the woman cuts my gag: “Are you crazy or what? Why don’t you listen to me? What is it that I’ve done for you to treat me like this? Untie me at once! Come on! Untie me ...! You’re making a mistake!”

  The guy comes over to me and covers my mouth again, not with a gag but with a brutal punch that leaves me with no desire to speak for a while. I whine. I cry. And finally I manage to articulate a few words in a low voice: “You’ve made a mistake!” I say in a pleading tone. “I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in and I don’t care! I told you that I only came to give you a message!”

  “Oh yeah? And what is this message?”

  This has already happened before. I’ve seen it somewhere, although I don’t know where. The man moves away with his head down, toward the other side of the room, while the woman observes me cautiously with the knife still in her hand. She seems too much like a supporting character in a B movie, I tell myself.

  “Please!” I beg. And I also have the sensation of looking more and more like a supporting character in a B movie. “The message I bring you is that ... it’s that somebody wants to kill you. The hitman who is supposed to kill you really doesn’t want to do it. Well, you’re the one he’s supposed to kill. Not her and the kid. But this boy isn’t a real hitman. He made a deal ... He came to Spain in search of a girl and he made a deal ... It’s a very long story. I don’t understand it myself. But the fact is that he doesn’t want to kill you and that ... I know this is hard to believe, but ...”

  The man picks something up off the floor, some kind of electric cable, he tenses it in his hands and comes close to me studying me with a sly look.

  “What message?” he says softly, with a rictus on his lips that almost looks like a smile.

  “The message I gave you before ... But is you don’t believe me ...”

  “So that’s the message. I see now ... Well my answer is no deal. That’s my answer. When they find your body tomorrow floating in the Manzanares they’ll know what my answer is. Nobody plays games with me and they know it! How dare they threaten me ... My associates don’t take deals like these and they know it!”

  So my body will be the reply. No. No way. Not a chance. This would be the time to demonstrate my dialectic skill, I tell myself, but only an asshole would resort to words when the only thing that works in these cases is the use of force. And I can be a confident dreamer, but not an asshole. This guy’s going to kill me, but I’m not ... No way. This guy doesn’t understand. He thinks he’s teaching a lesson to I don’t know who, and I’m going to be the scapegoat, the sacrificial lamb. But no. No way. I don’t want to. I simply have no desire to die. Without thinking one more second, I stand up with a leap, I throw myself on top of him and I give him a gigantic head-butt. The guy is disoriented for a few seconds. Enough to get him out of my way. The woman, for her part, tries to block my way, attacking me with the knife, but I kick her on the arm and she drops it. Next, I run into the hallway, in search of the exit. I’ve reached the end. Now I only have to grab the handle, open the door, and walk out on the street. But with my hands tied I can’t do it facing forward, so I turn around and that’s when I see the man coming down the hall pointing a pistol at me.

  “No! Not here!” shouts the woman.

  Of course. The neighbors could here the shots. But, besides that, she’s the one who would have to clean up the blood afterwards. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? And it’s not a very pleasant job. That saves me for the moment. The little boy appears just then and clutches his mother’s skirt. My calf still hurts where he bit me. But he’s only a child and I think: “Even though you’re an apprentice hitman, you shouldn’t be present at this scene. This is only for those over eighteen.”

  It’s time for eloquence. Right now. I say: “I’m not who you think. I already told you that. I only came to warn you. Somebody paid a hitman to kill you, but he ... I don’t know. The thing is he asked me to come and warn you. You don’t have to thank me, but I’ve just risked my life only to save yours and on top of that ... look how you treat me!”

  “Tell your friends there’s no deal. I’ll take care of my affairs with whoever I have to. And tell them not to threaten me.”

  “What friends? You haven’t listened to what I said! You don’t understand anything! I don’t know what kind of business you’re in and I don’t care! All I know is that somebody paid to have you killed!”

  The man and the woman looked at each other doubtfully and I say to myself: “Is it possible that they still don’t know? Is it possible that they haven’t suspected anything?”

  “Okay,” I say, suddenly recovering my self-confidence. “Get rid of that stupid pistol and let me go. If you want to wait here until
they kill you ... At least untie these ropes and ...”

  “No. You stay here until we’re gone,” he says. “What better guarantee?”

  “I’m no guarantee of anything!” I exclaim with a sigh of discouragement.

  The guy ducks his head for an instant, eluding my glance, and then he says, “Okay. Sit there and don’t move.”

  “When are you going?”

  “Sit there and don’t ask questions.”

  “Go now! Come on, get out of here! Don’t gather your things! What do things matter? Don’t waste a second and get out!”

  “Okay, pal,” says the guy with a gloomy expression and for the first time he seems human. “You’ll find a way later to get out of those ropes.”

  “I hope you can forgive us ...” says the woman. “Not all Colombians are ...”

  “Shut up!”, the man shouts at her.

  “Please!” I say, falling down with resignation into the chair. “What are you waiting for? Get the hell out of here!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  It wasn’t as easy as that guy had told me to get out of my bonds. Filled wit impotence and furious with myself, I lost a lot of time trying to cut the rope with the sharp edge of the lock. You see things like that in movies and they work. But reality is different. There were knives in the kitchen, although I didn’t dare use them for fear of cutting my veins and remaining forever stranded and bled out in that filthy place. Desperate, I studied all my options and finally decided to leave the house with my hands tied. I would ask for help from any person that I met on the street, I told myself. It was ridiculous, but there I was, on the third floor landing, waiting for the elevator with my hands tied. No, I told myself. I’ll have problems pushing the button. Better if I walk down. And that’s what I did. There was nobody in the entrance. Eleven o’clock in the morning, more or less, I supposed. Now in the street, I felt even more ridiculous. I saw a woman coming with a supermarket bag. I tried to explain my situation to her, I tried to tell her that I had been kidnapped and the poor woman fled, terrified. An old man. He didn’t even stop when I tried to talk to him. Nobody my age. At this hour out on the street one only meets older women or old men. But what’s wrong with the way I look? Why do they flee from me? It’s not only my hands tied behind my back. No. That’s not why they run away. There’s something else. I’ve got my face and my sweater stained with blood!, I told myself. Of course, that’s it! I went into a small shabby bar, attended by a bald-headed bartender, who immediately shot me a suspicious glance. The three or four customers at the bar turned around suddenly to take a look at me.

  “Please,” I said, “could you cut this rope for me? I’ve been kidnapped, and ... I just got free.”

  All the customers immediately abandoned their breakfasts: their grilled croissants, their toast with butter and jelly, their chocolate and their churros, their coffee and their orange juice, and began to surround me in silence.

  “Gotta call the cops,” said one of them finally.

  “Yes, of course, but first cut the rope for me, please ...” I pleaded.

  Everybody remained quite. Then the bartender came over pointing a small knife streaked with grease. I turned around and held out my tied hands.

  “Please ...” I insisted when I saw that he wasn’t reacting.

  “Gotta call the cops,” repeated the same guy as before.

  “How do you know he didn’t escape from somewhere ...?” another one whispered in a low voice.

  “I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking!” I shouted furiously. “I’ve been kidnapped and I just got loose! If you don’t help me, I’ll report you for failure to ... whatever! I’m sure there’s a law that charges whoever doesn’t help. What are you waiting for? Cut the damn rope!”

  “Don’t be nervous, friend,” said the bartender. “Easy. Easy. Let me see, Give me your hands.”

  That’s when I noticed the small greasy knife opening a path between my wrists, and all of a sudden, a prick.

  “Careful, please!” I exclaimed. “Be very careful! You’re going to cut my veins!”

  “Don’t get nervous, friend,” said the bartender, although he was the one who was nervous. “Nothing happened. Let’s see. There you are.”

  I noticed a couple of somewhat loose jerks, then a stronger one and the rope came loose. I almost couldn’t believe it. I could move my aching purple hands. I studied them with relief and I rubbed them softly, cleaning a drop of blood next to the thumb.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you very much!”

  “It doesn’t look like they treated you very well,” said the bartender.

  “No, they sure didn’t,” I agreed. “They gagged me and they punched me ... I must look a sorry sight, right? Could I use your bathroom? Where ...?”

  “At the back,” the bartender directed me.

  “Gotta call the cops,” said one of the customers.

  “Of course!” I said, and it was then that I decided to hit the road.

  “The bathroom is back there,” pointed the customer when he saw me going in the opposite direction.

  “That’s okay, it doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ll wash up at home. I’ll find a taxi.”

  “We can call you a taxi on the phone,” said someone blocking my way, while he shot me a knowing glance.

  “Would you like something to drink? How about some coffee?” another customer offered me.

  “Aren’t you hurt? Maybe we should call an ambulance.”

  “It won’t take the police long to get here. Come back and sit down.”

  “Yeah. Have a coffee.”

  “No!” I shouted. “Thank you very much! I’ll find a taxi in the street. I don’t need anything else. Thank you!”

  Nothing as offensive as a group of kind people, imbued with solidarity, trying to offer you help that you don’t need. More than the desire to help, what moves people like that is morbid curiosity. In the end the only thing they accomplish is to bother, to overwhelm, and to annoy. And to make matters worse, I wasn’t the prototype of the victim: I wasn’t crying, I wasn’t trying to move anyone, I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself, nor did I appear to appreciate their demonstrations of generosity.

  “Who kidnapped you?” asked a small stumpy guy with a malicious look, grabbing me by the sleeve of my jacket-

  “The ETA, of course,” I said with a sardonic smile, breaking free from his hand.

  “The ETA? I didn’t hear on television that the ETA kidnapped anybody recently. Hold on. Wait a minute.” He grabbed my sleeve again, but I broke free with a strong jerk. “How long were you held captive?”

  “They let you go without paying the ransom?” asked the bartender, still holding the knife in his hand, in an attitude of clear unbelief. “How strange!”

  “Yes, very strange,” said a fat lady with glasses, also trying to grab me by the other sleeve. “Did they hold you in Madrid or the Basque Country?”

  “And what the fuck does all that matter to you?” I said, nudging open a way and heading for the door. “Why don’t you go back to your damn toast or your disgusting grilled croissants and leave me alone once and for fucking all? J.J. is waiting for me,” I added with a beatific expression. “Don’t you understand? J.J. is waiting for me!”

  All their mouths dropped wide open, showing their horrifying tongues and teeth. Not a very agreeable sight to see. However, I decided to be civil and I said, with a gesture of reverence:

  “Thank you, many thanks! You have been very kind, but now do me the favor of leaving me alone and forgetting me. Ciao, and may we never meet again!”

  The next thing I did was to make my way to the street and take off running nowhere.

  I’m one of those fortunate people who always find taxis. Even this time I managed one as soon as I turned the first corner. Even so, when the driver noticed the blood and everything, it was already too late. Stunned, he shifted gears and turned the wheel.

  “They tried to rob me and ...” I said to calm him. �
�I know I don’t look very good, but ...”

  “You want me to take you to a hospital?”

  “No. Thank you. It’s not serious. I just have to wash my face and change my clothes. I’m not hurt, but my nose ... At the slightest blow, it always bleeds.”