Laura Restrepo - Hot Sur

“Change that ringtone, Greg,” I asked him. “Get something more serious.”

But he always had the same response. He liked it, so why should he change it. So that night, the night of his birthday, past eleven, I couldn’t wait anymore and I called his cell. It had gotten too late, something must have happened. But the only response was ABBA and “Mamma Mia” from our bedroom, which woke up Hero, who began to bark. So there wasn’t anything I could do.

Something had happened or else this was a repeat of the old story of the man who tells his wife he’s going to the corner to buy some cigarettes and never returns. But no one spends all day making a soup if he knows that before eating it he is going to flee from his house. I went down the five floors and out onto the street. I remember that there was a strong wind blowing, a cold wind with the smell of Chinese food. I walked a couple of blocks to the right of the building and then a couple of blocks to the left but found nothing. And then I realized that just at that moment Greg might have been trying to get in touch with me so I raced back up to the apartment, climbing two stairs at a time. Maybe he had called while I was out, or when I slept on the chair. Could I have been sleeping so deeply that the phone ringing didn’t wake me? It would be strange but possible, and what was more strange was that Greg would be gone so long without calling. He wasn’t that type of guy, least of all on such an important date. I was just about going out of my mind when the doorbell rang and I ran to answer it, convinced it was him, but in truth not so sure because he had a key and never rang the doorbell. That had always been an issue during my affair with Sleepy Joe, because I never knew when Greg would burst in and catch me with my hands in the cookie jar, as they say. So I opened the door and it wasn’t Greg. It was Sleepy Joe.

He was wearing a wool hat pulled down to his eyebrows and a wifebeater, with his marvelous arms on display in spite of the windy weather. That was him, as I’ve told you, an exhibitionist, showing off his goods whenever possible, so I wasn’t surprised by the getup.

“Hello, my hot ass,” he said, pinching my butt.

“Stop it, not now,” I whispered, convinced that Greg was right behind him.

It was a logical assumption, given they had been together, or at least that’s what I had imagined. But there was no one behind Sleepy Joe.

“Where’s Greg?” I asked him.

“Greg?”

“Yes, Greg, your brother.”

“Greg, yes, Greg. I was waiting for him and he never showed up.”

“What do you mean he never showed up?” I said. “He left here to go meet you.”

“There you go, and he never showed up.”

“What are you talking about? You called him. He went to meet you.”

“I don’t know. He never showed.”

I noticed something strange about him. He was trying hard to seem calm, coolheaded, but he was shaken up, disturbed. He was trembling. He who is white as can be that night was almost transparent.

“You’re lying,” I said. “You were waiting for him for two hours.”

“I waited for him for a bit, and then I just found things to do,” he responded with a nervous, wry smile I wasn’t quite sure how to interpret.

“Stop it with the hands,” I told him, because he kept trying to feel me up. “Can’t you see I’m worried?”

“Calm down, calm down, no hysterics, please.” It was more an order than an attempt to console me.

“I’m telling you that Greg went out to meet you when you called him and he hasn’t returned yet.”

“And I’m telling you to calm down. You don’t want to make me nuts. And you will.”

It was true. I realized that he was on the brink of bursting, so I opted to change my tone. Besides, I was still worried about Greg but not as much anymore. Joe had begun with sucking on the back of my neck and the dirty words in my ear, and I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Rose, I have never been able to resist the bastard, I don’t know what it is about him that makes me abandon all common sense. Maybe it’s the testosterone, youth and testosterone, a big juicy plate of food when one is starving to death. But why do I need to explain it to you when you already get it? And besides, it’s too late, what good is it understanding when calamity has already struck? If I go on with these clarifications it is out of guilt that eats away at me. Not a pretty thing on my part, my Greg disappeared on his birthday and me happy with his delay and making the best of it with his handsome little brother. But things were weird, very weird that night. There was something strange with Joe, even in the careless way he touched me, as if his mind were elsewhere. Because he was lazy and a bum about everything except sex. In that arena he always put forward his best effort and was very dedicated. But not that night. He was unrecognizable that night.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked him.

He didn’t respond. He went into the kitchen and had a few spoonfuls of the cold kapustnica straight from the pot.

“Do you want me to heat it up for you?” I asked him, and he pressed me against the wall, placing his package in between my legs.

“Yeah, heat it up,” he said, but it was soft. He, who was always hard, was soft that night.

“Something is wrong with you,” I told him, “now I’m sure of it. Does this have to do with Greg?”

“Be quiet and hurry up, there’s no time” was all he said. “And take off those heels; you look like a cheap whore. Put on some comfortable shoes and grab a coat. Quickly.”

“We’re going to go look for Greg?”

“Yes, exactly, we’re looking for Greg. Go, the minutes are ticking. Hola, Colorado , viva amigo mios de Rio Huerfano,” he screamed, going in a second from down in the dumps to a euphoria that sounded artificial, put on. He screamed it in Spanish, tilting his head back and howling like a mariachi, which startled me.

“Tell me what’s going on,” I said. “You’re up to something.”

“Our time has come, Hot Ass. We’re out of here for good. Cucucurrucucu the pigeon!”

“What are you saying…?”

“Nothing. Get your coat. But get me a cold Diet Coke first. Now, come on. Move that ass. A Diet Coke. Not that one, you moron, that’s regular. Diet, I said, diet. Don’t make me repeat everything a hundred times. The regular one has sugar and this is going to be stickier than used candy.” Again his mood changed and he was beginning to lose it, which could happen quickly if his wishes were not fulfilled right away.

He took a knife out of his pocket and showed it to me, but pulled it back when I reached for it.

“Easy,” he warned me. “Look but don’t touch.”

“Why do you have that?”

“I bought it for Greg.”

“A birthday present?”

“Yeah. A birthday present.”

I detest weapons, and this was one of those horrible knives, with an ugly black blade, something a gangster or a mugger would have. But it wasn’t strange enough that I suspected anything; often, the brothers would spend whole Sundays with their weapons. It was their thing. There are some men obsessed with metal, and that was them. So it wasn’t strange that Joe would have brought a knife as a birthday present. I went to our bedroom, changed my shoes, and returned to the living room with a coat in one hand and Hero in the other.

“I’m ready,” I said, “let’s go look for Greg.”

Joe was cleaning the knife with his handkerchief soaked in Diet Coke. When he was finished he dried it with a cloth napkin, then wrapped it in the same napkin and put it on a high shelf.

“I’ll be right down,” he said as he went up the stairs to the roof. “Wait for me here. Don’t move. And put that dog down, he’s not going.”