Jon Bilbao - Still the Same Man

“Yes, sir.”

There was a pause, and then Joanes asked, “Sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now I want you to cover them up. Use the blankets on the bed.”

Another pause.

“Is Gagarin all right?” the man wanted to know.

“Do what I tell you!”

A moment later the man was knocking again.

“I’ve done what you asked,” he shouted.

“Now I want you to go into the bathroom, and I don’t want you to move. Once you’re inside, shout so I know you’re there. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I see you when I open this door, I’ll kill your monkey. Understood?”

“But you promised me that—”

“I don’t give a shit what I promised you! I see you, I kill it.”

A second later the man said, “OK!”

A few moments passed, and he heard the man calling that he was in the bathroom. His voice sounded far away. Joanes decided it was best to leave the monkey where it was. Then he picked up the flashlight from the floor and took a deep breath. But he still didn’t leave. He stayed there unmoving, his hand on the door handle, allowing himself a few more seconds, making the most of the refuge afforded him by those four walls.

The door to the cabin was open and swinging in the wind. The night and the storm were blasting in. The bed had fallen apart. The mattress was lying on the dirty floor. The bricks that had supported the corner of the frame had fallen over. The bucket where they’d made the fire was tipped on its head, and the cinders were scattered all around. The wind made glowing threads appear in the embers and whipped up the trash.

Joanes moved toward the door. He found the woman lying with her legs on the inside of the cabin and the upper part of her body sprawled across the stoop. The professor was next to the car. The two bodies had each been carefully covered with several blankets. The wind was doing its best to carry away their shrouds. A brick lay in the mud, and the rain was washing away the blood on it.

As he looked down at the soaking lump that was the professor’s body, Joanes didn’t feel any relief. His only thought was that now he wouldn’t have the chance to clear up their unfinished business. The disconcertion he felt at his own response would later transform into a kind of bitterness he’d have to consciously reflect on in order to properly define.

He called the man, who came out of the bathroom leaning against the wall for support. On seeing him, Joanes stifled a cry of surprise. The man’s face was covered in scratches, as if he’d been attacked with a rake. One of the wounds cut across his eye. His torso was bare and his chest scored with more cuts.

“I’ve done everything you asked me to.”

When the man spoke, Joanes caught a glimpse of his teeth, which were covered in blood.

“So the old man put up a fight,” Joanes said.

“And her. She put up a fight, too. Will you give me Gagarin now? Can we go?”

“First close the door.”

“You’re going to leave those two out there, getting wet?”

“I don’t think they mind.”

The man closed and braced the door. In order to do so, he had to move the woman’s body to one side.

“Where’s Gagarin?”

“In the other room.”

“Is he all right?”

“Perfectly fine.”

“Can we go now?”

“Soon,” said Joanes.

Then he added, “It’s raining hard now.”

“But—”

“Sit, please.”

The man obeyed.

“Can I see my friend?”

“Don’t worry about him,” said Joanes, then he lit the oil lamp and turned off the flashlight.

“That’s better,” he said, taking a seat on the floor at a safe distance from the man. “What’s your name?”

“Abraham.”

“Do your friends call you Abe?”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“Your acquaintances, then?”

“Some.”

“All right. I’ll call you Abraham.”

And then he added, “Abraham, we should be clear about what’s just happened. You’ve just killed two people. You’ve taken their lives. Let’s not forget that. And I’m telling you this is case you should have any intention of going to the police.”

Abraham didn’t say a word.

“If you told anyone I forced you to do it, nobody would believe you. And if it came to that, I could show them how you attacked me, which would make your story even harder to believe,” said Joanes, holding up his maimed hand.

Now Abraham lowered his head and began to cry.

“Who were they?” he asked after a while.

“That doesn’t matter. They weren’t anybody to you. You don’t need to know what they were called or who they were. It’s enough for me to know. You, Abraham, are not really responsible for what happened tonight. You didn’t have any choice but to act as you did, because you had to protect Gagarin. And you love him as if he were a son, isn’t that right?”

Abraham nodded.

“He’s the only friend I have.”

“Of course he is, Abraham. You had to defend him. You did well. You fulfilled your duty.”

And with that, Abraham burst into tears again. Joanes stretched out his legs in an effort to get comfortable. He was trying not to think about the pain in his hand and nose.

“Why not tell me a bit about yourself,” he said, “while the storm blows over.”

Abraham looked at him, uncomprehending, his eyes full of tears.

“I want to know all about you, Abraham.”

“Why?”

“Because now, Abraham, you are someone very important to me.”

And he repeated, “Very important.”

A moment later, Abraham began to talk.

“Louder. I can’t hear you.”

Abraham began again.

Above them, the hurricane continued its northward course, transforming the thermal energy it had drained from the Caribbean Sea into kinetic energy, consuming itself in the process. It pressed on anxiously toward the Gulf of Mexico, into which it would flow hours later, gaining even more force, puffing up like a magnificent male in mating season.

The air was still unsettled in the morning. The clouds looked like they were resting on top of the trees. It was raining and windy, though not like the night before. At around noon, a jeep came by, careening down the track that led to the cabin. It stopped when it reached the building, and all four doors of the vehicle opened at once. The owner of the English Residence got out, escorted by three relatives, and looked at the place, frowning.

They couldn’t see Joanes’s car anywhere. The door to the cabin was wide open. They went in. Inside, the place was wet and covered in dead leaves and trash. They saw a bed frame with one leg missing, a soaking mattress, and the remains of a fire. In the middle of the main room, a load of boards were heaped one on top of another. When o n e of the relatives asked about them, the owner of the English Residence said that they used to shield the windows, and that some son of a bitch had ripped them off. The wind and rain had breezed in and swept the cabin clean.

The hotel owner said that nobody would spend the night in a place like that, least of all on a night like the one they’d just seen. His relatives agreed. They all took it as a given that the Spaniards, on seeing the state of the place, would have moved right on, looking for a better option.

Even so, the hotel owner was hesitant to leave without at least checking for signs that they’d been there. He inspected each and every one of the rooms but came across no more than some sodden trash. Before climbing back into the jeep, he took a second to study the vegetation around the cabin. He didn’t see a thing, not a single clue, and he said a silent prayer in the hope that the man and those elderly folks were safe and well.

From where he was, in the middle of the thick vegetation, Joanes couldn’t make out the sound of the jeep’s motor. Now both his hands hurt, the maimed one and the other, which was riddled with splinters from where he’d wrenched the boards from the windows.