Jon Bilbao - Still the Same Man

The hurricane alert came that very night. The newlyweds had arranged for themselves and their guests to stay on in Cancún for a few days, but under the new circumstances had decided to change that plan. They hadn’t, however, counted on the crush of tourists, all of them desperate to fly out, sending the airport into a total meltdown. There’d been no way to move up their return flight.

Joanes wiped the sweat from his brow, putting off answering. His father-in-law seemed to have expanded in the heat, his butt cheeks spilling over the brick bench.

“We still haven’t signed the contract,” he said.

His father-in-law said nothing and waited for details.

“There are still a few points to clear up.”

“My daughter says that everything that needed to be cleared up already has been.”

“Not exactly.”

“What’s the problem?”

Joanes held in a sigh.

“It’s a complicated deal.”

“Lucrative, too, according to my daughter.”

Joanes nodded. A brief, understated gesture, barely visible in the pungent steam.

“I’d like you to be a little more specific,” his father-in-law asked.

“I’d prefer not to talk about it for now.”

“You think I don’t know that? But I’m concerned about the well-being of my daughter and granddaughter, so tell me something I want to hear.”

“You don’t need to be concerned about your daughter or granddaughter.”

“Don’t tell me what should or should not concern me, sonny.”

“So let it concern you all you want, just let me take care of them.”

The father-in-law leaned in toward him.

“Sonny, you can’t afford for me to not take care of them. When are you going to sign the contract?”

“It’s in their hands.”

“Soon?”

“Soon.”

“That’s more like it. Now, clarify ‘soon.’”

“Weeks. Or days. It might have already been wrapped up if I hadn’t had to come to your wedding.”

The father-in-law took this blow without so much as batting an eyelid.

“Weeks or days,” he said, chewing over the words. “Do you need me to throw you a bone till then? I can whip you up a couple of paintings. It won’t take me long. At this stage in the game, I can do them with my eyes closed.”

That was how his father-in-law helped them — with paintings that they then sold. He would show up at their house unannounced, rest the canvas ceremoniously against the back of the sofa, and wait for the family’s response, in particular that of his son-in-law. Expressing an opinion on modern art was, for Joanes, like having to speak in some unknown foreign language. His incomprehension couldn’t be blamed solely on his limited artistic knowledge, rather it was rooted in the very depths of his being. It didn’t help that all his father-in-law’s works looked the same to him, nor did his incredulity and irritation at the price fetched for a few depressing, monotonous paintings that crumbled away like the façade of an old building and left his sofa covered in gravel and spongy, paint-soaked wood chips. Under the delighted gaze of his father-in-law, Joanes did his best to say something that wouldn’t come across as altogether dumb and could also pass for a thank you.

“No problem,” his father-in-law would respond, patting him on the back. Then he would kiss his daughter and granddaughter and leave again, triumphant.

A few days later he would call to find out how much they’d sold the painting for, and without fail, no matter what the amount, he would find it insultingly low. Then he’d rant and rave, insisting he didn’t know why he bothered trying to help when they were determined to undersell his work, whose value they either failed to acknowledge or were incapable of appreciating. Finally, he would vow never to give them another painting.

Until a few months later, when he’d turn up at their house, a new canvas in hand.

“Thanks,” said Joanes, “but there’s no need.”

“You sure?”

Joanes nodded and looked away from his father-in-law, who now had torrents of sweat pouring from his shoulders and belly.

The sound of hurried steps and voices could be heard on the other side of the adobe wall. The hotel staff and guests were making their final preparations for the evacuation. The hurricane, named Gerald by the Miami Meteorology Service, was approaching Mexico, picking up energy from the mild Caribbean waters. If their predictions were right, the hurricane would hit the Yucatán peninsula near the island of Cozumel. By this point it would be a Category 2 on the Saffir-Simpson scale. It was expected that after hitting land, it would then shift northeast, sweeping the coastline before heading off into the Golf of Mexico. The Civil Guard declared an orange alert; the hurricane would reach land within the next 24 hours, by tomorrow afternoon.

“How are your girls?” his father-in-law asked. “Nervous?”

“More like mad because they can’t go home. And your wife?”

“She’s spent the afternoon glued to her computer, chatting with her astrologer. She thinks the hurricane is a bad omen for our marriage.”

Joanes refrained from commenting.

“I’ve spoken to the receptionist,” said the father-in-law. From what it looks like, this hotel they’re sending us to doesn’t exactly have rooms to spare. We’re going to have to share.”

“Who?”

“The five of us. Two double beds and a cot for the girl,” he added.

Joanes wiped more sweat from his face.

“It’ll only be for a few days,” he said, speaking more to himself than to his father-in-law, who guffawed then cleared his throat and spat on the stones that were topping the fire. His spittle evaporated into steam.

“I doubt it very much, sonny. The receptionist told me that the hotels along the coast are basically uninhabitable after a hurricane. And the last two times, the Cancún airport was out of service for quite a while. A whole bunch of tourists were trapped in the evacuation hotels for weeks. And they were the lucky guys. Others were forced to stay in schools, garages, warehouses. .”

Joanes couldn’t listen to any more. He crawled outside without so much as a goodbye. His father-in-law asked him where in the hell he thought he was going and demanded he come back inside, but Joanes didn’t pay him any attention.

He stood leaning against the adobe dome. After the steam bath, even the suffocating air outside seemed cool. Inside the oven, his father-in-law, who couldn’t get through the tiny door by himself, shouted for help. Two maintenance men looked at Joanes. One of them asked if everything was all right, and he nodded. They were working next to the pool. The water had been drained to a third of its usual depth and sun loungers and other waterproof furniture had been tossed into it. It would all be better protected from the wind and the rain there than in any other place.

His wife and daughter were quarrelling and didn’t even notice when he entered the room. His wife was waving a piece of paper in front of the girl’s face. It was a document from the hotel outlining the safety measures they were supposed to take.

“It says here that in the event of a hurricane, you have to dress in white.”

“Mom, I refuse to wear anything white. It’s a matter of principles. You know this,” said the girl unequivocally. “I don’t even own anything white. Not even panties.”

“I can lend you something of mine.”

The girl’s bangs fell over her eyes. She flicked them aside in a theatrical gesture of boredom. Her hair was black and shone like a beetle’s armor. She was wearing a T-shirt (also black), denim cut-offs (her only concession to the tropical climate), and some fuchsia Converse sneakers decorated with hand-drawn, black flies. She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. The request was completely non-negotiable.