Daniel Alarcón - At Night We Walk in Circles

One friend of Nelson’s that I spoke to, Elías, was almost sheepish about the way they’d all forgotten their old classmate. We met in a creole restaurant not far from the Conservatory, on a warm afternoon in late January 2002. The tile floors were sticky and we tried three different tables before we found one that didn’t wobble. Nelson’s friend smoked one filterless cigarette after another, a compulsion which seemed to bring him no pleasure at all, but which I finally understood when I noticed that he was studying himself in the mirrored walls of the restaurant, as if critiquing his performance. He caught me watching him — our eyes locked momentarily in the mirror — and blushed.

“I’ve been thinking of quitting,” he said, raising the cigarette above his head.

I nodded, not out of solidarity or comprehension, but out of sheer politeness. Pity. It was clear he was a terrible actor, or perhaps he was simply suffering a bout of low confidence. In any case, he didn’t want to say anything bad about Nelson, so he shared a few memories instead, funny anecdotes about their time studying together, the mediocre scripts they’d endured, the dreams they’d had, which neither, he guessed, would ever achieve. Elías was working at his father’s advertising agency now, making photocopies, fetching coffee, receiving far-too-generous pay for such simple and mindless work. He resented this bit of good fortune; told me it was, in fact, debilitating to his art (he blew a plume of smoke in the direction of the mirror as if to underline the point) and that he was all but torturing his old man, doing everything he could to get fired.

“If it’s so bad,” I asked, “why don’t you just quit?”

The would-be actor stared at me. His expression told me I hadn’t understood a single thing he’d said. He began to answer, but instead picked a bit of tobacco off his tongue. It was a practiced gesture of disdain, which he pulled off fairly well. Then he asked me how I knew Nelson.

“I’m a friend of the family,” I said, which was, by that point, true.

“Sure,” he said.

I brought us back to the subject: Elías carefully blamed the generalized indifference toward Nelson’s disappearance on the actor himself. You reap what you sow, after all.

“He’d always cultivated this air of superiority, this sense of not belonging, of standing apart.”

“I’ve heard that,” I said. “But you were still friends?”

Elías said they were, in a manner of speaking. “But the longer he was gone, the farther away he began to feel. No one said anything at first. But it wasn’t as if he called us. It wasn’t as if he made any effort to reach out to us, to stay connected. He disappeared. Just like he’d always said he would. He’d always pretended not to be one of us. I guess we began to assume it was true.”

BACK IN T—,in his free moments, Nelson was asking himself similar questions. And there were many free moments, plenty of time for a young man of Nelson’s character to ask himself all sorts of uncomfortable things. About his past, his mistakes — many of which he cherished — and his future, which he found unsettling. With each passing day, he was more anxious to leave. He said as much to Ixta by phone.

“I knew he meant it,” she told me later. “I could hear in his voice that he was serious.”

“When are you coming home, then?” she asked him.

“Soon,” Nelson said.

A week passed after Jaime’s message, and still they heard nothing. On the seventeenth day, Nelson demanded Noelia call. “Your brother promised me money,” he explained. “It isn’t a lot, but it’s a lot to me.” She said she understood, but Nelson wasn’t finished. Then there was the matter of the ID card; it was technically illegal to travel without one. Any police checkpoint could spell trouble. “Did you know that? Did you know I could be arrested on the road? While they confirm my identity, I’ll be enlisted in the army, clearing land mines on the northern border!”

Noelia had not known that. He was exaggerating, she was sure of it. Still, she’d never really traveled, except to San Jacinto. And she hadn’t even been there in a few years.

“I tried to tell Nelson there was nothing I could do. I assured him Jaime hadn’t forgotten, and that he hadn’t lied.”

“So where is he?” Nelson asked. “Where is this powerful brother of yours?”

“Jaime’s always busy,” she said carefully. “That’s all it is. He’ll be here soon. I bet we’ll hear from him tomorrow.”

But when they didn’t, Nelson insisted they go to Mr. Segura’s bodega to make the call. The bus from San Jacinto had come and gone; no news from Jaime. Noelia relented. Mrs. Anabel saw them getting ready to leave, and began to panic.

“Where are you going?”

She hadn’t been alone since Nelson had arrived, a fact neither he nor Noelia realized until that moment.

“Just to the plaza, Mama,” said Noelia.

Mrs. Anabel opened her eyes wide. “Without me?”

I almost snapped at her, Nelson wrote in his journal that night, without guilt, only wonder. He saw it as further proof that it was past time to leave this place, to abandon the performance before he made some mistake.

“No, Mama, of course not. We’re all going together.”

And they did: across town to Segura’s shop. It took them more than twenty minutes to make the six-minute walk. Segura was just closing up, but he seemed happy to have company. Noelia went in to call and Nelson waited outside with Mrs. Anabel. He and Segura lowered her delicately onto the steps so she could sit.

“It’s like I’m a queen,” she said.

Nelson had never been with Mrs. Anabel outside the house. Her eyes darted about the plaza, marveling at everything she saw. The heat of the day had passed, and a few locals were out for a stroll. Mrs. Anabel seemed happy to watch them go by. The shawl around her shoulders slipped, and Nelson helped her rearrange it.

“This is my boy,” Mrs. Anabel said.

“And a very nice boy, indeed, madam,” Segura answered. “Are you enjoying your stay?”

“Quite a bit,” Nelson said.

“And how much longer will you visit us?”

Mrs. Anabel looked on. They’d never discussed it.

“A while longer yet.”

“Wonderful,” said Segura.

A moment later Noelia came out of the bodega, apologizing. There’d been no answer on Jaime’s phone.

“What are you sorry about?” Mrs. Anabel asked. She smiled gamely at Segura. “These children are always so polite.”

Nelson sighed. “We need to talk to Jaime, Mama. That’s all.”

The old woman nodded as if she understood. “That sounds nice.”

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” said Noelia.

NELSON DID GO BACKthe next day, in fact, only this time he went alone. Segura was friendly, as usual. “Calling your brother?” he asked, but Nelson shook his head.

“Calling the city,” he said, and Segura nodded.

He was calling Ixta. There was very little in Nelson’s journals about the content of those conversations, but he scrupulously noted the length of each call: five minutes, eight and a half, three, seventeen. He made no mention of the long silences she reported to me, just these numbers, now rising, now falling. Perhaps the simple fact that she wasn’t hanging up on him was what mattered; perhaps what he feared most was that one day she might.

Segura had a weather-bitten face and a heavy brow. His hair was mostly gone, so he wore a red cap on his head to protect it from the sun. That day, he dialed the number, then drifted outside to wait. It was his habit, a way of showing respect for his client’s privacy. The call was four minutes long, and when it was over Segura came in to write the amount in his red notebook. Nelson stood at the counter, tapping his fingers and forcing a smile.