Laura Restrepo - Hot Sur

“It’s about María Paz,” Pro Bono told Rose, ignoring Rose’s greeting and glaring at him with yellow-hazel eyes.

“I figured,” Rose said.

“It’s serious.”

“How serious?”

“Serious.”

“Did something happen last night?”

“It’s been happening for a while, but just I found out about it last night.”

“What makes you think I can help you?”

“We have to be at Manninpox before 9:15. You know the way because you live right near it.”

“How do you know that?” Rose asked. The day before he had given Pro Bono the phone and address of the studio on St. Mark’s; he had not mentioned the house in the mountains.

“They know everything in my office.”

Rose tried to explain that he wasn’t going back to the Catskills yet because he had unfinished business in the city. But Pro Bono wasn’t one to take no for an answer, and simply pretended not to hear. He had assumed that Rose would go on this trip and that was the end of the discussion.

“He said it like that, ‘you have to leave early, my friend,’” Rose tells me, “that’s it, as if I were one of his employees — and then to top it off calling me friend whenever he wanted me to do something. That’s who Pro Bono was. It really threw me off when he called me friend. Why would he call me his friend if we weren’t friends? One day I told him to fuck off and the next day he was Paris Hiltoning me, making me his new BFF.” Rose decided that was how that kind of person — one who is used to maneuvering others to do his bidding — acts.

Pro Bono told him that he had received a call from Mandra X, and Rose knew right away who that was. María Paz had mentioned Mandra X in the manuscript, and the name had stuck in Rose’s mind. Was it some kind of homage to Malcolm X? A reference to mandrake? She was a terrifying creature for whom María nevertheless seemed to express only gratitude, even affection, one might say.

“Mandra X is not the type to just run her mouth,” Pro Bono said.

“What did she say?”

“She says it is urgent we find María Paz, or she will die.”

“We’re all going to die.”

“This is not a joke, my friend.”

“A matter of life and death, huh? And you want me to believe that you have no idea where María Paz is?” Rose asked.

“I lost track of her a while ago, that’s why I need you.”

“All I know is what I read in that manuscript that I brought to you yesterday.”

“Stop acting all innocent, Rose. María Paz spoke to me about you. Although I have to say the girl is a bit in la-la land. She made it seem to me that you were much younger.”

“And to me that you were much more handsome.”

“Help me be of use to her, Rose. The girl is your friend, and she must have gotten herself into a mess. A new mess, I should say. Don’t turn your back on her now. She trusts you, told me so herself various times.”

“She trusts me? She doesn’t even know me. Unless… wait, I think I get it now. You came here this morning looking for Cleve Rose.”

“That’s who you told me you were, Cleve Rose.”

“I never said I was Cleve Rose.”

“Cleve Rose, María’s writing instructor.”

“No, you don’t understand. Maybe your office doesn’t quite know everything, sir. Check into that when you get back. I told you my name was Rose, but not Cleve Rose.”

“I’m not following.”

“Cleve Rose was killed in an accident, sir. I am Ian Rose, his father.”

“Cleve Rose is dead?”

“I thought you knew everything.”

“And you’re his father?”

“Like I said, I am not Cleve, I am Ian. And I have never met María Paz.”

Pro Bono seemed upset with that bit of news. It flustered him for a moment; he who was always so obnoxiously sure of himself was now a bit befuddled.

“Sorry to have to tell you,” Rose told him, “but my son can no longer help you.”

“Then you will have to do.”

“I can help you even less so, I’m afraid.”

“But you sought me out, asking all those questions about her, and besides you have that manuscript, those papers.”

“Only because the chain of mistaken identities is long. That manuscript was sent to Cleve, not me. But Cleve was already dead, so it came to me.”

Knowing there was no way to get out of the situation, Rose nevertheless tried to impose a few conditions before leaving for Manninpox with Pro Bono. For one, he needed to know what this was all about. For another, no more calling him “my friend.”

“About one, I can’t tell you because I myself don’t know,” Pro Bono said. “About the other, that’s fine, my friend, I’ll stop calling you my friend. I’ll be downstairs.”

On the road in Rose’s car, leaving Manhattan through the Lincoln Tunnel, Rose asked why they were using his car and not Pro Bono’s.

“I’ve heard that you have a much finer car than this one,” Rose said, “a red sports car that makes you very popular with the ladies.”

“It’s black, not red.”

“Socorro said it was red. That woman from Staten Island, a friend of María Paz’s.”

“Socorro is a manipulating freak. Take anything she says with a grain of salt. My car is black, a black Lamborghini.”

“So what the hell are we doing in a blue Ford Fiesta?”

“Let’s just say they made me hang up my driving gloves, too many speeding tickets.”

“And that’s why you need me to take you to Manninpox? Couldn’t you just have hired a driver?”

“So you’re telling me that the renowned Mr. Rose who taught María Paz’s writing workshop was your son,” Pro Bono said, changing topics.

“He was.”

“And he was murdered?”

“I didn’t say that. I said he was killed.”

“Are you certain?”

“Only death is certain, as the saying goes.”

“How do you know he wasn’t murdered?”

“Murdered by whom? Cleve had no enemies. He was a good boy.”

“Everyone who deals with María Paz makes enemies.”

“Cleve was simply her teacher. He didn’t have any dealings with her.”

“Or so you would think. Look, Rose, maybe it’s best if you just keep your eyes on the road. Didn’t anybody teach you that when the line is solid you can’t cross over it?”

Rose lowered the windows to see if the cold air would help a bit. All this bossing around unsettled him, as did not knowing the purpose of their trip, and the cologne of this character, which filled the car with the aroma of something like horses. Pro Bono’s person, like his office, was infused with the supposedly aristocratic smell of horses, but not just the whiff of any old horse grazing in the field — more like the smell of a Thoroughbred’s riding saddle. Rose had a wealthy friend obsessed with equestrianism who had told him once how much money it took to develop and maintain a champion. Rose had thought it absurd; it was more than the friend spent on himself. Pro Bono smelled like that ilk of horses and could not stop himself from blurting out commands on how to drive: slow down, watch out for that car, light is about to turn red, start veering right, look out.

“Who’s the one without a license?” Rose protested. “Just let me drive.”

“You’re not very good.”

“You want to get out? I can still drop you off at the bus station and go back to sleep. If I’m not all that good, it’s because you’re driving me crazy with your tyrannical little orders.”

“Fine, I’ll shut up and you focus on the road.”

“How about this? You shut up and listen to me,” Rose said, taking an off-ramp and parking the car on the shoulder. He let go of the wheel and faced Pro Bono. “Look, I’m not quite sure what you want, but I can tell you what I’m looking for. The only thing I’m interested in is finding out what happened to my boy. Is that clear? You, María Paz, that Socorro woman, I couldn’t care less about any of you. I just want to know what happened to Cleve. I’m not sure what that has to do with María Paz. Maybe nothing. But for now, she is the only lead I have. Now if you can kindly tell me what made you change your mind about me from one day to the next, that would be a good start.”