Derek Haas - Dark men

Would you listen to a story told by a dying man? Would you listen to me tell it in the present, like it is happening now? It seems I’ve been telling my story and living my story for so long, the two have mixed, and I’m no longer sure which is accurate, which informs the other: the story or the life. I try to tell it the way it happened, as it is happening, but how close am I to the truth?

I’ll do my best to finish, to give you closure. You’ve been with me this long; I owe you that. But at some point, forgive me if my story suddenly ends.

In Fresno, California, in 2007, a tiger mauled a woman. The tiger was six years old and had arrived in the United States as a pet purchased by Lori Nagel through dubious channels in the Far East. Her friends told investigators the tiger was quite docile toward Lori, even affectionate, right up to the moment its five-inch dew claw severed an artery in Lori’s left leg. She survived, but her leg didn’t. She insisted the unfortunate incident was her fault; it was her carelessness, her inattentiveness that was the cause. Nevertheless, at the behest of animal control, a veterinarian euthanized the beast a few weeks after the incident.

The tiger’s only crime was being a goddamn tiger.

A little over two years has passed since Risina Lorenzana and I moved to the little village on the sea. I am still here. It is the longest I have lived in one place, and I have almost stopped looking over my shoulder. Instincts die hard, however, and for most of my life, I’ve survived by keeping my guard up, my defenses engaged. I spent my youth incarcerated in a juvenile detention center named Waxham outside of Boston, Massachusetts; my adult life I spent as a contract killer, and a damned good one at that. I was what the Russians call a Silver Bear, a hit man who never defaults on a job, who takes any assignment no matter how difficult, and who commands top fees for his work. As such, I survived this professional life by honing my peripheral vision. I killed, I escaped, and when hunters came for me, I put them down.

Risina changed everything. She gave me a glimpse of what my life could be without a Glock in my hand, and when the opportunity arose to break free, I leapt at it.

She’s the only one who knows my complete story, the only one alive who knows my true name.

I crack an egg, and the yolk spills out whole into a white bowl. A little salt, a little milk, a quick stir with a fork, and I pour the contents on to a pan set on low heat. Risina walks out of the bedroom, yawning, tying her black hair up so I can see all of her neck. When she puts her hands up, her pajama top pulls away from the bottoms, exposing her stomach, and something in me stirs. It’s been over two years, and something in me always stirs.

“You’ve finally given up on my cooking.” Her Italian accent has softened, but only a bit, like the hint of spice in a pot of strong coffee. She pours herself some juice and plops down in a mismatched sofa chair we bought off a yard in a neighboring town.

“I’m just giving you a breather.”

“Ha. You can tell me the truth.”

“I’d rather not.”

She laughs. “I’m terrible, I know. But I’m getting better.”

Risina has forged a relationship with a fisherman’s wife, Kaimi, one of the few village natives to venture to our house after we settled. Kaimi’s a plump woman, with a broad forehead and a broad smile. She’s been teaching Risina the basics of cooking-how to season the meat before grilling it, how to add spices to the pot before boiling the water-but it’s a bit like teaching music to a deaf man. Risina can get the mechanics right, but for some reason, the end result is as flavorless as cardboard.

Still, she continues to try, undaunted. Her inability to get frustrated fascinates me. Maybe it’s an indigenous side effect to this place, where the rhythm of the day is always a few beats slower, a few notes softer. Or maybe it’s just Risina, whose beauty has grown even more pronounced since we arrived. Something unnamed has relaxed inside her, and her inner calm now wafts off her in waves. She always had an underlying sadness just below the surface on her face, in her eyes, but it seems to have diminished like her accent. The sun has brought out the gold in her skin, and the simple dresses and the longer way she wears her hair combine to make her look even more radiant and alive.

I look decent. I’ve kept in shape by running on the beach and swimming in the water. My body’s not as hard as it was, but I’m far from sluggish.

Kaimi’s husband Ariki heads to his boat six days a week. He leaves his home before the sun rises, and walks into the town center before descending the cobblestone path to the bamboo huts that dot the dock. Here he cuts bait until 5:45, and then he pilots his long boat out to deeper water, alone, waiting for the sun to arrive and the fish to start biting.

I followed him from the shadows for five days once. I tracked him carefully, noting points that held the highest probability of success. I could kill him shortly after he leaves his house, drag his body to the jungle and have him buried before anyone else awakens. I could lie in wait at one of his favorite fishing spots, have him come to me, then shoot him and weigh his body down so it never floats to the surface. I could wait until Kaimi leaves to do her laundry and waylay him in his own shower after a long day on the water, when the man is at his most vulnerable.

I have no intention of killing Ariki, ever. But I’m keeping in shape in other ways, too.

Once every three months, I head to the only city of any size on this side of the country. I amass several things we’re lacking: clothes, batteries, light bulbs and other assorted knick-knacks. But the true purpose of these trips is to stock up on the one necessity Risina can’t do without: books. She’s given up so much of her life to escape with me. Literature is like a lifeline for her, a connection with everything she left behind. When I met her, she was acquiring rare books for a small shop named Zodelli on the Via Poli in Rome, and the job was more than an occupation to her; it was a passion, a necessity, a fix. Something I understand well. Her dark eyes dance whenever I return with a few dozen hard covers, half written in her native Italian, half written in English. She makes a list of ten authors she wants me to find before I set out-Goethe and Poe and Dickens and Twain and Moravia-and leaves the rest of the purchases to my discretion. It takes me hours to make my selections, ranging from contemporary authors like Wolfe and Mailer and King, to my favorite writer, Steinbeck. I get no greater pleasure than opening the boxes for Risina when I return and then watch the color rise in her cheeks. In minutes, she is curled in a chair, her feet tucked under her, absorbed in the fresh pages.

I am near the front of the bookstore, a half-dozen classics in my hand, when I first notice a man marking me. He’s a black guy with a wide face and a freshly purchased linen shirt. I can still make out the starched fold lines, since the shirt hasn’t been washed.

The city attracts its share of tourists, but this man is no vacationer. I can see it in his hard eyes and the stiff way he holds his shoulders. He’s watching me, only me, in the glass across the street, I’m sure of it. If he’s trying to be stealthy, he’s not very practiced at it.

My heartbeat slowly rises, and I have to admit, it’s a welcome feeling, like finding an old jacket in the closet and discovering it still fits. Fuck, this is not right… I should be angry, worried, embarrassed I’ve been discovered, that my hard-fought-for independence has suddenly been compromised without warning. So why am I feeling the complete opposite? Why do I feel elated?