Daniel Alarcón - At Night We Walk in Circles

“Okay,” Nelson said. “I’ll try.”

When they’d finished for the night, Nelson went back to his room and sat on the cot with his back to the window. He’d heard many stories, some true, some invented; his journal was filled with notes, and his head was spinning. He stared at the clutter on the bunk bed, as if examining the gears of an inscrutable machine. It was impossible not to appreciate its size, the stunning illogic of its composition, and the history embedded within. He felt duty-bound to understand it, or attempt to. All this junk was something more: it was a family’s history, and wasn’t he, at least temporarily, part of this family?

If Nelson had known more about T—, known more about the region and the relentless out-migration that had changed it, he’d have known that all the houses in town had rooms like this. That some houses, in fact, were nothing but large, sprawling versions of this room, no living space left, no people, only assorted objects gathering dust behind padlocked doors. He might have appreciated that Mrs. Anabel and Noelia had managed to contain the past, more or less; that by holding it within the four walls of the boys’ old room, they were living, to a greater degree than many of their neighbors, in the present. It would have impressed him, certainly, but for an entirely different set of reasons. For now, he couldn’t escape the sense that this lawless room was simply the physical representation of Mrs. Anabel’s mind, that if only he could place these many items in some kind of order, he might discover the secrets of her dementia. He might resolve it. And find a place for Rogelio within it.

NELSON WOKE THE NEXT MORNINGto find the family in the kitchen, chatting over a simple breakfast. He crossed the courtyard, wearing his best smile, and joined them. There was no mistaking Mrs. Anabel’s happiness; it was evident in the way she greeted him — brightly — and in every gesture thereafter. He drank tea, ate a hard-boiled egg and not-quite-fresh bread with cheese, and sat by the window, letting the sun hit his face. Mrs. Anabel kept her eyes on him, which might have been unnerving in another context, but which here seemed exactly right, and even expected. He performed for her.

“How did you sleep?” the old woman asked, and though his back hurt and his neck was sore, he didn’t hesitate: “The best I’ve slept in years, Mama. It’s so nice to be home.”

Her contentment was palpable, and it meant something to Nelson. When she took my hand, it made sense somehow, he wrote later. At least as much sense as the tour did.

That morning, his first full day alone in T—, would be the template for each of the mornings to come. The work of impersonating Rogelio, of convincing an elderly and senile woman of this identity — it was a task to be accomplished at the local rhythm, that is, slowly, carefully, making no hasty or unnecessary gestures. The breakfast table was cleared, and he helped Mrs. Anabel to her spot in the courtyard, where she sat with her back against one of the adobe walls. She asked him — Rogelio, that is — to sit with her, and he did, very close, in fact, side by side on the sunken top of an old leather chest, the outsides of their thighs touching. Their conversation could barely be called that: they enjoyed long silent spells, interrupted by Mrs. Anabel’s occasional questions, queries which did not require specific answers. Here and there, she made the odd statement about which there could be little or no disagreement: “The sky is good” or “The wind is nice.” She’d smile afterward, nodding at her own insight with an air of satisfaction. Nelson smiled back, and gently squeezed her hand to show her he was listening.

She asked Nelson about his life, and he improvised based on the general script he’d heard the night before: his Rogelio was a version of the lie Jaime had invented. He lived on the outskirts of Los Angeles, in a working-class neighborhood of small, tidy houses. There was an industrial area nearby, where giant factories ran all day and all night, frantic and bustling, belching thick smoke into otherwise blue California skies. In his description, the factory was good work, and everyone was happy to be there. Satisfied to be making something . It was the sort of cliché of which Henry might have disapproved, but still, Nelson owned it, holding his hands out, palms flat, when he said this.

“But your hands are so soft,” Mrs. Anabel said, not skeptical so much as delighted by her son’s lovely hands.

“I wear gloves. We’re required to wear gloves.”

Nelson had never been inside a factory. Still, Mrs. Anabel accepted his answer with a contented smile.

“What do you make?”

“Movie sets,” he said, because it was the first thing that popped into his mind.

She seemed to take this answer in stride.

Nelson’s Rogelio, like his brother Jaime, was a mechanic; unlike Jaime, he’d never married. He lived a quiet life, though he spoke with great conviction about his desire for a family. Soon, he told Mrs. Anabel, but insisted it would all come in due time. “I’m still too young for that,” he said that morning, a statement which worked on a variety of levels. At the sound of those words, time collapsed for Mrs. Anabel. If Rogelio was still young, then she must still be young too!

“Oh yes, you’re very young,” she said, and her eyes glistened with a pleasing confusion.

Then it was time for her nap, and Nelson was left alone with Jaime in the courtyard. A cat meowed from somewhere inside the weeds. Nelson had done good work that morning; he was sure of it, but his employer (for that is what Jaime was) kept his distance, observing him from the kitchen doorway.

Finally, Nelson said, “Were you watching? How did I do?”

“Not bad.”

“Did I get anything wrong?”

Jaime shook his head. “Not really.” He stepped out of the doorway, and into the courtyard. “A matter of degree, I guess. I see you and I don’t see Rogelio. But that’s not your fault. You’re not doing anything wrong, it isn’t that. My mother sees what she wants to see. And she likes you. I don’t know how you people do it.”

Nelson shrugged.

“How it is you pretend, I mean. Come with me. Let’s take a walk.”

It would become habit to break up the tedium of the morning with a stroll just before lunch. This was the dry season in the mountains, when every day is a replica of the day before. Above, a smattering of white, cottony clouds. They walked the few blocks to the plaza in silence, passing only a few people along the way: a girl skipping in the direction of the school, and an elderly gentleman with his hat pulled low against the sun. The narrow side streets of T— were shadowy and cool, but the plaza was blanketed in boiling sun. And it was empty, but for a few people milling around the bus that would leave in a few hours. The owner of the bodega sat on the steps outside his store, reading a newspaper. He waved to Jaime, and they walked over to greet him.

“Mr. Segura,” Jaime said, “you remember my brother, Rogelio, don’t you?”

Nelson narrowed his eyes. He was being tested.

“Of course,” said Segura, and he nodded deferentially.

Nelson stretched out his hand. “So nice to see you again. It’s great to be home.”

Jaime bought a couple of sodas, then told Nelson to wait outside while he made a phone call. Segura motioned for Nelson to join him. “It came today,” he said, waving his newspaper in the air proudly. “The bus driver gave it to me. Look.”

The front page carried the story of the accident between the mango truck and passenger van. Twelve people had died. There were photos.

Nelson had gone many weeks without much interest or curiosity in something as abstract as “the news.” It was a concept that had no relevance on tour but which suddenly seemed necessary. Not because of these deaths, but because of everything else. Another world existed, and he felt suddenly reminded of it. Now that leaving T— was temporarily out of the question, Nelson felt a very keen desire to know what was happening. It was something he hadn’t realized until he saw the newspaper.