James Frey - Existence

Alicia is intimidated by his father, Guitarrero Tlaloc, who she assumes is the head of the family. Jago’s mother, on the other hand, greets her at the edge of the property and immediately envelops her in a warm hug, and afterward Alicia whispers to Jago, “I don’t know what you were so worried about; she’s lovely.”

Jago murmurs a noncommittal response.

The kitchen staff has gone all out, preparing an opulent spread of lomo saltado, aji de gallina, pollo a la brasa—the best Peru has to offer. Alicia eats heartily, and doesn’t bat an eye at the roasted guinea pig served whole, on a spit. She takes a small bite and pronounces it “interesting.” This is her highest compliment.

“Jago says you’re a dancer.” His mother’s English is flawless. Like Alicia, she refuses to call him Feo, but not because she thinks the nickname doesn’t fit. Naming a son is a mother’s prerogative, she always says. She’s not about to abdicate that responsibility to the streets.

“ Was a dancer,” Alicia corrects her.

Jago’s father raises an eyebrow. “You quit?”

“I think there might be something better out there for me. Or at least, I just want the chance to find out.”

“And what do your parents think of all this?” Jago’s mother asks pointedly.

Alicia shrugs. “They’re parents. They like what they know. You know?”

“Mmm.” Jago’s mother frowns.

“But in the end, they want me to be happy,” Alicia adds, perhaps sensing things are going awry. “I mean, isn’t that what you want for Jago? For him to find whatever makes him happy?”

“What makes Jago happy is fulfilling his duties,” Jago’s father says.

“There’s got to be more than that,” Alicia argues. “I know you have a lot of family traditions here, but don’t you want him to find his own way?”

Jago takes her hand under the table and squeezes gently, hoping she will understand the message: Stop, please .

She does, and the subject abruptly shifts to the movies, and the difference between Hollywood and South American heartthrobs, something Jago’s younger sister and mother can both discuss at length, and Alicia does an excellent job pretending to care.

He knows it’s too late; the damage has been done. He waits through dessert, through after-dinner drinks, through his mother’s extended good-bye rituals, the compliments and hair stroking and promises traded, to keep in touch, to be family, to love each other because they both love Jago. He can tell from Alicia’s radiant smile that she thinks she’s aced her test, and she kisses him good night in full view of both his parents, promising to meet him for breakfast first thing in the morning. Then she climbs into the bulletproof car with the red talon slashing across its shiny black paint. Jago’s men will see her safely home.

They’ve already arranged to meet long before breakfast—Jago will slip out later and rescue her from her dorm, “like my very own Prince Charming rescuing me from a tower,” she likes to say.

But for now, she leaves—and leaves him alone with his parents.

“No,” his mother says, reclining into her favorite leather armchair. “I don’t like this one.” This house is several generations old, but when his parents got married, his mother redecorated it from floor to ceiling. She chose furnishings and tapestries that would look ancient, as if they’d always been there—as if this were her ancestral home. The bloodred eagle claw that serves as a family crest is emblazoned on the archway over the door, and etched into each of the stone tiles beneath her feet. This estate is her domain, now. She may have married into the family, but sometimes Jago thinks his mother is more of a Tlaloc than any of them.

“ I like her, Mamá. That seems somewhat more relevant.”

His father, as usual, remains silent on questions of love.

“She’s going to put ideas in your head,” his mother says.

“How do you know I’m not going to put ideas in her head?”

“Oh, Jago.” His mother leans forward and clasps his hands. “You think you’re such a strong man, but you’re still a soft boy. You’re weak, here.” She taps his chest. “You always have been.”

“What are you worried about, Mamá? That I’ll be happy?”

“This is a girl who doesn’t understand anything about your life or your responsibilities, Jago. If it were simply a distraction, if you were merely slacking off …” She stops him before he can object. “Yes, I know all about the training you’ve missed, and I don’t care. Boys will be boys, and all that. I want you to have your fun, Jago. But you can’t go thinking it’s anything more. This girl, she doesn’t fit into your life—not now, not ever. And you can’t afford to start thinking that the two of you are the same. What you do … you can’t just quit because you get bored.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he snaps.

He’s thought about it plenty, what it would take to walk away, how much he would have to want it and how much he would be giving up.

“Watch your tone, Jago.”

“Alicia isn’t just some girl, Mother. She’s not a distraction, but she’s also not a bad influence. She’s … Alicia. She’s amazing. And you would see that, if you weren’t so judgmental.”

He’s the only person who dares talk to her this way, and often she likes it. Not tonight.

“I could forbid you from seeing her,” his mother muses, as if weighing the idea.

“Don’t do that,” he warns her. “Don’t make me choose.”

Her eyebrows shoot sky-high. “Oh?”

He can’t look at her.

“I see,” she says. “Then I suppose I’ll simply have to live with it, won’t I?”

She stands up with great dignity, turns her back on him, and strides out of the room. He’s won, he thinks. But he doesn’t feel that way. Maybe because she’s right about one thing. Alicia has put ideas in his head, made him wonder whether violence and duty are his destiny, or only one choice among many.

He could be the Player without being a criminal, he thinks. He could choose a different life without renouncing his obligations. Isn’t that possible? He could walk away from the family business, be a poet or a musician or some anonymous man selling fried meat in an alleyway … couldn’t he? The Tlaloc family’s rule over Puno has been inextricably linked with Endgame and the Players for as long as any of the Olmec can remember, but just because something once was, must it always be?

He could even walk away from Endgame altogether, renounce his status as the Player, hand the sacred duty over to someone else. He could be free of all the training, of having the fate of his line rest on every choice he makes.

Jago remembers the first time he truly felt like the Player. He was 13 years old, just months past swearing the oath, binding himself to this life and this duty. He had been on training missions before, of course, but this one was different. This wasn’t simply some exercise put to him by his uncles, an attempt to hone his skills. This was real. Meaningful.

He had scaled a skyscraper in Buenos Aires, disabled an alarm system, slipped past a security force armed with machine guns, cracked a safe owned by the richest man in Argentina, and taken an ancient Olmec knife that this man’s ancestors had stolen from Jago’s people long ago.

There have been so many missions since then that Jago barely remembers this one. He left some bodies behind, he remembers that. There was a bit of a mess on the way out—an alarm, an explosion, a hasty escape down the Rio de la Plata—but mostly, it’s a blur.

What he has never forgotten, what he will never forget, is how it felt to arrive home with the ceremonial knife in hand. How his uncle, a former Player himself, kissed his forehead, and said, “You have done well for your people.”