Colum McCann - Thirteen Ways of Looking

It is then they must pause and change the tempo — not a good idea to walk out of the room and leave Pedro alone, in case he decides to clam up further, or engage a lawyer, but it is time to shift the territory a little, so Carla rises from her chair, leaving Pedro alone with Rick, the big damp white loaf, making the room so very male and somehow even more cramped. And it is here that Rick employs the direct gaze, the lean forward, the half-menace, and asks Pedro if he can explain again where he was at the time of the assault, and why did he move from his dishwashing station, and what was the earlier argument he had with Dandinho, and when he went to the bathroom is it possible that he took the employee exit to the street — can you answer me that, Pedro? — and is it possible perhaps he even ducked back in the same door just seconds later, is any of that viable at all, because it’s understandable, man, it’s his son, it’s your daughter, you know what I mean? We’re here to help, frankly I’d like to put that Elliot asshole behind bars, he’s the one who should take the rap, know what I’m saying?

When Carla returns she has one glass of water and three orange sodas in glass bottles, and she slides the Jarritos across the table, and it is as if they are in a distant cantina together, somewhere safe and warm, somewhere they can trust one another, but Pedro leaves the soda sitting in front of him. Carla leans forward and asks again about Maria, what she was like growing up, if she had any problems, if she ever mentioned any difficulties at work, if she got upset, if she said anything about going to Connecticut. Pedro takes the water, but leaves the soda untouched.

The time slips away from them, the clockhands on the wall turn, the fluorescent light in the office remains constant. The detectives ready themselves for their last-line flurry.

So, Pedro, did she tell you? Tell me what? About her thing with Elliot Mendelssohn? Her what ? Her liaison, you know, her monkey business. Don’t know what you’re talking about. How do I say it delicately for you, Pedro? Say what? She was fucking this guy, Pedro, now calm down, Papi, calm down, cálmese . I’m calm, don’t talk about my girl that way. Okay, okay, what do you know about their re-la-tion-ship ? I don’t know nothing about that. Because the way I see it, she was living a good life, wasn’t she, Pedro, at one stage, she was happy, right? I got nothing to say. She was a good girl, doing a good job, went to secretarial school, got a good husband, he was a nice guy, second generation, she’s making you proud, you like your son-in-law, you like your grandkids, life is good, she’s happy, she’s got herself a little place in Rockaway, picket fence, you know what I mean, the American dream, are you there, Pedro, we gotta play knock-knock again? I’m listening. Working for an investment firm, wearing nice clothes, making some good money, assistant to the CEO, and here she is, now, she’s working in Midtown, an office on Lexington Avenue, big glass tower, and then one day, poof, it’s all gone, in a flash of smoke, her boss turns out to be the asshole he always threatened to be, and he flat-out fires her. I don’t know nothing about that. And then you hear that he’s in the restaurant? I didn’t hear nothing. Maybe Dandinho tells you? Dandinho didn’t tell me nothing. You’re just talking fútbol ? That’s it. Dandinho, he’s your best friend, right? What’s Dandinho got to do with this? And you’ve confided in him maybe, about how your little girl lost this job at the Barner Funds, and he puts two-and-two together, says the old man is out there right now — Pedro, is that what happened? — because it’s perfectly forgivable, man, I can see it plain as day, by the time Dandinho tells you that Elliot Mendelssohn is in the restaurant, he’s gone, and you, you been washing his dishes. We were arguing about fútbol . But it’s not just fútbol, is it, Pedro? Huh? Are you a baseball fan, Pedro? Sí, claro. What’s your team? Don’t really have one. So, how much do you get paid again, Pedro? Eight bucks an hour, ten-fifty for overtime. Not a great job, dishwashing, is it? It’s okay, I do some other things too. Like what, Pedro? Some vending, you know. Is that right? Yeah. You push the peanuts then, do you, Pedro? I don’t know what you mean. Where do you do your vending? At the Cyclones. You mean the Brooklyn Cyclones? Yeah, the Brooklyn Cyclones, what’s the problem? And by any chance do they give you a uniform to wear, Pedro, a hat maybe? Sure, I wear a hat sometimes, everyone wears a hat, in the kitchen anyway, you got to wear a hat. But you wear a Brooklyn Cyclones hat? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mami.

Slowly they draw back their words, form them into a fist, hold them in mid-air a moment, then propel them forward.

Because we got a guy on camera wearing a Brooklyn Cyclones hat and he looks like a dead ringer for you.

Where?

Outside Chialli’s, leaning over the dead man.

I don’t know nothing about it.

On camera, Pedro. A dead ringer.

For me?

You and him, Pedro, dos gotas de agua .

The river is moving.

The blackbird must be flying.

More to the point, the endless journey home. Let freedom ring, Sally, from the hilltops. Throw another log on the fire. Warm the pan, boil the milk, melt the chocolate, position the chair, unfold the blanket, hear the lumber hiss. Perhaps I should call her and let her know I’m on my way. Then again, she’ll probably rush out into the storm. What in the world are you doing, Mr. J.? I’m coming home, Sally. Jilted by my very own son. He left me high and dry. Not even dry, come to think of it. I could have done with some winter gear. He even let me pay the check. Still, we’ve a little salmon and a lot of steak to see us through the storm. Unwrapped for some reason. Dandinho didn’t do his job.

Awkward this, having to hold the plastic bag and the walking stick at the same time. But here we go, onwards, upwards, away.

Well, almost.

He stands in the outer foyer and hears the restaurant door close behind him. Goodbye now, Mr. Mendelssohn. Her sweet Rhodesian Zimbabwean voice and the last strain of music from inside. Should hurry back in and order myself a hot brandy. A spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down.

Good God, but it is curtaining down. Never seen anything quite like it. Slantways, broadside, edgeways. A theater, a blockbuster, an opera of snow. All the taxi drivers onstage, sliding left, right, sideways into the pit. An applause of windshield wipers. Trucks and vans, headlights blazing, and some poor idiot on a motorcycle. An actual biting snow. Like those little circular weapons, a million flying chakri aimed my way.

Hardly a soul on the street. A tad early for the mommies and the nannies on their way down to PS 6. No flowerboys. No deliverymen. No one shoveling. No rock-salt rollers.

Should hail a taxi, really, but he would have to take me past the synagogue, up to Eighty-eighth, down the block, back down Park Avenue, along Eighty-sixth again, and who knows what sort of trafficjam there might be in that direction. Car horns blaring everywhere. A terrible sound, really. Isn’t the snow supposed to deaden the sound? How is it that my hearing gets worse but the awful sounds get louder day after day? A cacophony. That’s the word. The pianist playing the contrabass. The saxman on the violin. The flautist on the horn, so to speak.

Isn’t there supposed to be a fine for overuse? Listen up, Elliot. They have it for car horns, they’ll get you yet.

What is it that happened to him? Why couldn’t he be the boy he promised he would be? He did well in his final exams, threw his graduation hat in the air, took his mother by the arm, walked her proudly around Cambridge. She was happy then, she laughed, we did, together. Moved back to the city. Lived in the Village. Found himself a little French girl. What was her name? So long ago now. Chantal. And she could. Sing, that is. Eileen was a big fan. A voice like a wren. At the holiday parties she was always there. And then she wasn’t. A ladle dipping down into the well of the mind. The strangest things appear and disappear. Who was it who gazed into the bottom of the well? Who was looking for their reflection in the dark?