Jon Bilbao - Still the Same Man

“Good morning.”

He turned around, surprised, and came face to face with the professor, who was standing right behind him. He hadn’t heard him approaching.

“I’m so pleased you were able to make it.”

“Me too.”

The professor smiled widely and made a gesture for Joanes to take a seat at the table. A second later the housekeeper appeared with an espresso maker. The professor said that he’d do the honors. Joanes sat in uncomfortable silence as he served him a coffee as thick as motor oil.

“I couldn’t help but hear about your triumph.”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“Don’t be modest. Most of your fellow students would give their right arm to be in your place.”

Joanes didn’t reply, a silent admission that the professor was right. It felt like something was expanding in his chest.

“Are you familiar with the company?” asked Joanes.

“A little,” said the professor, in a clear show of false modesty. “They’re doing interesting things. A few of my alumni have ended up there. All of them very fine. They deserve it. And I’m very pleased for them,” he said.

He stared at Joanes and took a sip of coffee, making a slight sucking sound.

The professor then proceeded to tell Joanes about his own beginnings, a definite note of nostalgia in his voice. He looked out at the horizon over the dunes as he spoke. Joanes nodded from time to time, but he was so uncomfortable, he barely registered a word of what his former teacher was saying. The professor was wearing pants not dissimilar to his own, a polo shirt with the logo of a fishing club on the chest, and some huarache loafers without socks. As is often the case with people who tend to dress formally, finding him in more casual clothes came as a shock to Joanes, as if he were seeing him in some sort of costume. He was freshly shaven, and the trace of aftershave hung on him. His sagging jowls quivered each time he laughed or sighed recalling his early professional years.

“It was harder starting out in those days,” he said. “The first stage was harder, and longer. Dull, to be precise. Nowadays you all want everything right away. You think you’re entitled to the whole pie from the word go. You have no concept of or interest in sacrifice.”

With this, the professor returned his gaze to Joanes. The thick lenses in his glasses made his eyes look bigger than they should. He flashed Joanes a little smile and said, “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out well for you.”

And after a pause, he repeated, “Don’t worry. That’s the most important thing.”

The next thing, he was on his feet wrapping up their meeting. He thanked Joanes again for coming and accompanied him to the door, where he said goodbye and offered him his hand. The sound of the housekeeper bustling around in the kitchen reached them, along with the fatty smell of fried liver. That was the last time that Joanes saw the professor, until fifteen years later, when he found him on the side of a Mexican highway.

Joanes got home relieved by how quickly the meeting had flown by but at the same time disappointed. He’d never have expected anything so hackneyed from the professor as a diatribe on the immaturity of the younger generations.

He decided that their meeting wasn’t worth bringing up with anyone and never said a word about it. That night he took his girlfriend out for dinner. He apologized for his behavior over the last few days. She forgave him without giving him a hard time.

First thing the following Monday morning, Joanes received a call from Robot Systems. Someone from HR let him know that the company had undergone some restructuring and that the post that he was going to fill no longer existed. The employee apologized profusely, wished him luck, and hung up.

Joanes was speechless. It took him a good several moments to hang up the telephone.

When at last he was able to think clearly again, he blamed the professor. It was clear as day — the professor had called the company to advise them against employing him. The professor was a well-known, prestigious figure whose opinion was respected, there was no doubt about it. He had clearly played down his links to Robot Systems during their meeting on Saturday. The restructuring story was, of course, a load of bull.

What he couldn’t see so clearly was why the professor would do such a thing, what he’d seen in Joanes — or what he hadn’t seen — in the little time they’d spent together that would lead him to give a negative report of Joanes.

But he couldn’t prove anything. He couldn’t even know for sure that it had really happened as he was imagining it.

And yet he knew. The cause-and-effect relationship was crystal clear to him.

The idea of paying a visit to the professor and putting him on the spot occurred to him, but it dissolved as rapidly as it had appeared. In the same way that he knew the professor was guilty, he also knew that he would deny any and all charges flatly, feigning offense.

He spent a few days taking the news in before sharing it with his family and girlfriend. He stuck to the version about the company restructuring. They were understanding and shared his disappointment, but they also assured him that there was no need to worry. He’d find something similar, if not better, in no time. He had his whole life ahead of him.

The road leading to Los Tigres wasn’t as busy. It was a narrow road, riddled with bumps and potholes that looked to have been repaired countless times with tar. More homemade signs hung from the branches of trees: GOD’S GIFT TAVERN; RELIABLE ELECTRICAL PLUMBER; MECHANICAL REPAIRS BY THE GRACE OF OUR LORD JESUS …

Los Tigres was a dump made up of low-rise houses that somehow managed to look old and at the same time only half built. The fronts of the houses were painted in gaudy colors — ochre, yellow, and lime green — but they were dirty and the paint was flaking off. Only the main road was properly paved. On first sight, its residents didn’t seem to have taken any measures against the hurricane. There was an almost festive mood in the air. The streets were busy, and groups of people stood drinking outside bars.

Joanes stopped to ask for the English Residence. He was told he should go all the way to the end of town and from there keep going another third of a mile; he’d then come across a turn-off on the right. Taking that road, he’d eventually arrive at the English Residence.

Minutes later they were heading along a dirt track that led them to a two-story building painted a mustard color. It was entirely lacking in architectural adornment and in no way distinguishable from the other houses in the town, apart from the fact that it was bigger. It, too, appeared only half built. The roof was no more than a flat surface covering the upper floor. Metal rods poked out of it, presumably the building’s supports. Joanes imagined they’d stay uncut like that, just in case the owners decided to add another story. The bunches of rods, several yards high, bending under their own weight and rusting, lent the English Residence a disheveled, even lunatic appearance.

The buzzy mood in the town extended to the hotel, too. The front yard — an unpaved area of earth in front of the house — was a hive of people and vehicles. A kid directing traffic pointed to where they should leave the car.

Everyone there was Mexican. When Joanes, the professor, and his wife showed up, conversations stopped and all eyes fell on them.

“Good afternoon,” said Joanes as he got out of the car. And he repeated his greeting in different directions, turning to each of the various huddles of people.

They responded with nods and murmurs.

The professor also got out. His wife stayed in the car.

One of the Mexican men was slaving away at a barbecue constructed out of a metal gas drum cut in half lengthways and mounted on sawhorses. On seeing them, he walked toward the newcomers, wiping his hands with a cloth. Joanes guessed the man was about fifty. He was built like a barrel and had one lame leg. His right foot swung, tracing an arc as he walked, and this movement drew attention to his sneakers, which had air vents snipped into the instep.