At Night We Walk in Circles (20 page)

If Mónica and Ixta had been in touch during those final weeks of Nelson's absence, they might have had a lot to talk about.

So now, with only the clue of Nelson's last phone call from San Jacinto to guide her, Mónica began to consider the scope of Diciembre's travels, and do what she'd always done, perhaps what she did best: fill in details where there were few to be had. Her younger son, her Nelson; he'd been gone about two months by then, longer than he'd ever been apart from her. Too long—though she felt guilty for begrudging him this adventure he'd surely earned. There was, it seemed, nowhere in the country that he couldn't have seen on this journey. Were there any villages left to explore? Any hamlets? Any rural roads he hadn't yet taken? And if there weren't, why didn't he come home already? It was June, the dry season, a healthy time to be in the mountains. On the coast, the cold had begun in earnest. The heavy sea air clung to the shoreline, enveloped the city. She prayed that her son was enjoying himself, that he'd learned what he needed to learn on this trip, grown in the ways that he'd expected, and in others that would surprise him. She hoped most of all that he would come home soon, though she wrestled with this notion, and wondered if it was selfishness, if a better mother wouldn't prefer that her son wander and live every adventure he desired. Mónica imagined young village girls falling in love with her son; she found it easiest of all to picture this, since she was in love with him too: with his bright brown eyes and crooked smile, with his curls and the way the edges of his mouth dropped into a frown when he was deep in thought. He looked like a young Sebastián; everyone remarked on the resemblance. She hoped he was careful, at least, if there happened to be an affair in the offing, and that no hearts were broken unnecessarily along the way—especially not Nelson's. In truth, his was the only heart she cared about. Never mind the girls.

In the city, her days went on without him; not in a blur, but yes, actually, in something of a blur. There was little to distinguish one from the next. Mónica hoped for news, but didn't expect any. She fell asleep every night, certain that there was no greater torture than an empty house, than
this
empty house. When she told me this, she gestured with a delicately waving hand, palm up, pointing to the lifeless rooms that surrounded her. I asked if all her careful imagining had been useful at all; if, in all that conjuring, she'd managed to have a sense of what Nelson was going through. Not the details—she couldn't have had an idea of the details—but a sense.

She thought about it. I think she wanted to say that she had, but found it dishonest, given what came after. That mother's intuition—she was forced to admit that perhaps it had failed her.

“Maybe I didn't want to think of him in any real trouble.”

“It wasn't trouble,” I said. “Not exactly.”

She shook her head. “But it was close enough.”

•   •   •

CERTAINLY THERE WAS NO ONE
who missed Nelson more intensely than Mónica. Other people in his circle admitted that his absence in those months was noted, but not often. He was missed—but only in the most abstract sort of way. It was as if in the process of becoming Rogelio, he'd completed some mystical erasure: Nelson almost ceased to exist, temporarily, though it would eventually be seen as a prelude to a more serious kind of erasure. Again and again, I heard versions of the same sentiment: Nelson was well liked, but hard to know. The role they'd all wanted, to form part of Diciembre's historic reunion tour, had gone to him, their talented, arrogant friend; and now he was off in the provinces, becoming a new, if not improved, version of himself. There was a hint of jealousy to all this, but little curiosity about the specifics of the tour; and in truth, what curiosity there might have been was soon eclipsed by the news of Ixta's pregnancy. The world over, people are the same. They love to gossip. They love scandal. People asked the usual questions: If Nelson knew, if he was heartbroken, if he was the father, the jilted ex-boyfriend, or both. If he had regrets. If it was true love, or just sex. Any hint of squalor made ears perk up—it was what they lived for. Old girlfriends offered theories and shared indiscreet stories. Those who'd been friends of the erstwhile couple chose sides; and most, it should be said, chose the proud but ultimately likable Ixta over the absent Nelson. No one knew for certain that Ixta and Nelson had been sleeping together until just before he left—their discretion had been absolute—but taken as a group, the students and alumni of the Conservatory were a rather promiscuous bunch, so many suspected it. The conversation among this particular generation of Conservatory alumni played out along the sordid lines of a television talk show, the kind where couples proudly displayed their dysfunction in front of enthusiastic audiences who pretended to disapprove. More than a few of Nelson and Ixta's friends had played roles on those shows, as drug dealers or teenage mothers, as no-good boyfriends or lying girlfriends, so they understood the tropes well. Betrayal and infidelity had been normalized long ago. They were actors, after all.

One friend of Nelson's that I spoke to, Elías, was almost sheepish about the way they'd all forgotten their old classmate. We met in a creole restaurant not far from the Conservatory, on a warm afternoon in late January 2002. The tile floors were sticky and we tried three different tables before we found one that didn't wobble. Nelson's friend smoked one filterless cigarette after another, a compulsion which seemed to bring him no pleasure at all, but which I finally understood when I noticed that he was studying himself in the mirrored walls of the restaurant, as if critiquing his performance. He caught me watching him—our eyes locked momentarily in the mirror—and blushed.

“I've been thinking of quitting,” he said, raising the cigarette above his head.

I nodded, not out of solidarity or comprehension, but out of sheer politeness. Pity. It was clear he was a terrible actor, or perhaps he was simply suffering a bout of low confidence. In any case, he didn't want to say anything bad about Nelson, so he shared a few memories instead, funny anecdotes about their time studying together, the mediocre scripts they'd endured, the dreams they'd had, which neither, he guessed, would ever achieve. Elías was working at his father's advertising agency now, making photocopies, fetching coffee, receiving far-too-generous pay for such simple and mindless work. He resented this bit of good fortune; told me it was, in fact, debilitating to his art (he blew a plume of smoke in the direction of the mirror as if to underline the point) and that he was all but torturing his old man, doing everything he could to get fired.

“If it's so bad,” I asked, “why don't you just quit?”

The would-be actor stared at me. His expression told me I hadn't understood a single thing he'd said. He began to answer, but instead picked a bit of tobacco off his tongue. It was a practiced gesture of disdain, which he pulled off fairly well. Then he asked me how I knew Nelson.

“I'm a friend of the family,” I said, which was, by that point, true.

“Sure,” he said.

I brought us back to the subject: Elías carefully blamed the generalized indifference toward Nelson's disappearance on the actor himself. You reap what you sow, after all.

“He'd always cultivated this air of superiority, this sense of not belonging, of standing apart.”

“I've heard that,” I said. “But you were still friends?”

Elías said they were, in a manner of speaking. “But the longer he was gone, the farther away he began to feel. No one said anything at first. But it wasn't as if he called us. It wasn't as if he made any effort to reach out to us, to stay connected. He disappeared. Just like he'd always said he would. He'd always pretended not to be one of us. I guess we began to assume it was true.”

BACK IN T—,
in his free moments, Nelson was asking himself similar questions. And there were many free moments, plenty of time for a young man of Nelson's character to ask himself all sorts of uncomfortable things. About his past, his mistakes—many of which he cherished—and his future, which he found unsettling. With each passing day, he was more anxious to leave. He said as much to Ixta by phone.

“I knew he meant it,” she told me later. “I could hear in his voice that he was serious.”

“When are you coming home, then?” she asked him.

“Soon,” Nelson said.

A week passed after Jaime's message, and still they heard nothing. On the seventeenth day, Nelson demanded Noelia call. “Your brother promised me money,” he explained. “It isn't a lot, but it's a lot to me.” She said she understood, but Nelson wasn't finished. Then there was the matter of the ID card; it was technically illegal to travel without one. Any police checkpoint could spell trouble. “Did you know that? Did you know I could be arrested on the road? While they confirm my identity, I'll be enlisted in the army, clearing land mines on the northern border!”

Noelia had not known that. He was exaggerating, she was sure of it. Still, she'd never really traveled, except to San Jacinto. And she hadn't even been there in a few years.

“I tried to tell Nelson there was nothing I could do. I assured him Jaime hadn't forgotten, and that he hadn't lied.”

“So where is he?” Nelson asked. “Where is this powerful brother of yours?”

“Jaime's always busy,” she said carefully. “That's all it is. He'll be here soon. I bet we'll hear from him tomorrow.”

But when they didn't, Nelson insisted they go to Mr. Segura's bodega to make the call. The bus from San Jacinto had come and gone; no news from Jaime. Noelia relented. Mrs. Anabel saw them getting ready to leave, and began to panic.

“Where are you going?”

She hadn't been alone since Nelson had arrived, a fact neither he nor Noelia realized until that moment.

“Just to the plaza, Mama,” said Noelia.

Mrs. Anabel opened her eyes wide. “Without me?”

I almost snapped at her,
Nelson wrote in his journal that night, without guilt, only wonder. He saw it as further proof that it was past time to leave this place, to abandon the performance before he made some mistake.

“No, Mama, of course not. We're all going together.”

And they did: across town to Segura's shop. It took them more than twenty minutes to make the six-minute walk. Segura was just closing up, but he seemed happy to have company. Noelia went in to call and Nelson waited outside with Mrs. Anabel. He and Segura lowered her delicately onto the steps so she could sit.

“It's like I'm a queen,” she said.

Nelson had never been with Mrs. Anabel outside the house. Her eyes darted about the plaza, marveling at everything she saw. The heat of the day had passed, and a few locals were out for a stroll. Mrs. Anabel seemed happy to watch them go by. The shawl around her shoulders slipped, and Nelson helped her rearrange it.

“This is my boy,” Mrs. Anabel said.

“And a very nice boy, indeed, madam,” Segura answered. “Are you enjoying your stay?”

“Quite a bit,” Nelson said.

“And how much longer will you visit us?”

Mrs. Anabel looked on. They'd never discussed it.

“A while longer yet.”

“Wonderful,” said Segura.

A moment later Noelia came out of the bodega, apologizing. There'd been no answer on Jaime's phone.

“What are you sorry about?” Mrs. Anabel asked. She smiled gamely at Segura. “These children are always so polite.”

Nelson sighed. “We need to talk to Jaime, Mama. That's all.”

The old woman nodded as if she understood. “That sounds nice.”

“We'll try again tomorrow,” said Noelia.

•   •   •

NELSON DID GO BACK
the next day, in fact, only this time he went alone. Segura was friendly, as usual. “Calling your brother?” he asked, but Nelson shook his head.

“Calling the city,” he said, and Segura nodded.

He was calling Ixta. There was very little in Nelson's journals about the content of those conversations, but he scrupulously noted the length of each call: five minutes, eight and a half, three, seventeen. He made no mention of the long silences she reported to me, just these numbers, now rising, now falling. Perhaps the simple fact that she wasn't hanging up on him was what mattered; perhaps what he feared most was that one day she might.

Segura had a weather-bitten face and a heavy brow. His hair was mostly gone, so he wore a red cap on his head to protect it from the sun. That day, he dialed the number, then drifted outside to wait. It was his habit, a way of showing respect for his client's privacy. The call was four minutes long, and when it was over Segura came in to write the amount in his red notebook. Nelson stood at the counter, tapping his fingers and forcing a smile.

“You wanted to talk to your brother, didn't you?” Segura said, and without waiting for an answer, he reached below the counter. “Take a look at this.” It was a drying, crinkled newspaper from the previous week. “Go ahead, you can take it. If I had to guess, I'd say your brother is busy these days.”

Nelson thanked the shopkeeper and left.

Months later, I found this paper folded into Nelson's journals. By then it was yellowed and fading, but entirely legible, a copy of San Jacinto's local tabloid, dated June 21, 2001. On the cover was a photo of a truck surrounded by policemen. The headline read
BUSTED
, and the accompanying text recounted the seizure of eighteen kilos of processed cocaine at a checkpoint just fourteen miles outside San Jacinto, on the road to the coast. It was the largest seizure in the area in more than three years. There was another fact, mentioned only in passing, but which Nelson, or perhaps Segura, had underlined: the seized truck was registered to Jaime's company, but had been reported stolen three months prior. Police were investigating. The driver, a young man surnamed Rabassa, was being held in the local jail. The paper said his transfer to another facility was imminent.

•   •   •

THAT NIGHT,
Nelson dreamed of the play. In the dream, he and Henry and Patalarga switched roles at random and constantly, even within a scene. It was dizzying and frenetic, but they couldn't stop. The feeling was terrifying: to be onstage and not be in control. Nelson tried to apologize to the audience, but he couldn't; nor was it necessary. Far from being put off by these sudden and confusing shifts, the crowd seemed to be loving them. Peals of laughter rose from the dark theater. Bursts of applause. Each time the actors changed characters, the spectators roared wildly, as if the members of Diciembre were acrobats on a wire, improbably cheating death. Henry, Patalarga, and Nelson barreled along. Nelson might begin a line as the president, and finish it as the servant, then shift immediately to Alejo, all without the consent or agency of the actor himself. In the midst of all this chaos, Nelson realized the stage was familiar to him: it was the Olympic, only now the theater was filled with miners and farmers and half-starved children with windburned cheeks, the people he'd been performing for up in the mountains. His head hurt. It was like running on a speeding treadmill, and he couldn't keep up. He didn't want to. Meanwhile, Henry had given in to it: the playwright flashed a manic, energized smile, nodding toward the audience with each new round of applause. At a certain point, Nelson realized they were saying “Olé!” as if it were a bullfight; as is often the case in dreams, the metaphor seemed right for an instant, and then fell apart. Who exactly was the bull? Who was the matador?

In the audience, Nelson caught sight of Ixta. (
How?
he wrote in his journal.
Wasn't the theater dark? It was, and yet, I could
see
her
.) And just like that, he was free of the play. Volume dropped off. Henry and Patalarga went on without him, while Nelson tiptoed to the edge of the stage, and peered out into the dark (which was not so dark, in fact). It was her. It had to be. He could see her clearly: Ixta's hands rested gently on her very pregnant belly, her black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was frowning. She was the only person in the theater who appeared not to be enjoying the play at all.

She and Nelson himself, that is. Ixta didn't call his name or wave or offer any gesture to acknowledge him. She just sat and watched.

Nelson woke with the disturbing sense that many years now separated him from the heady days of his past. From the tour, his life before, and the optimism he'd once had. It was still early, an hour before dawn, the time of day when one's doubts are most devastating; they hang heavy on your bones. The room was very cold: if there'd been light enough, Nelson might have been able to see his breath. He didn't understand why he felt the way he did, but there was no denying it. That morning, he was afraid of becoming old, and it was a very specific kind of old age he feared, one which has nothing to do with the number of years since your birth. He feared the premature old age of missed opportunities. He turned on the bedside lamp, but the bulb flashed and burned out all at once. In that brief instant of light, Nelson was able to make out the contours of the messy sculpture with which he shared this icy space. A monster, he thought, and forced his eyes closed. He felt very alone.

He forced himself to sleep again, and this time he did not dream.

Morning came, as it always did, and Nelson readied himself for the day's performance. He wrote down the dream in his journal and gathered his thoughts. This was what he must have expected of the hours to come: a few quiet moments sitting in the sun with Mrs. Anabel; a sputtering conversation, reminiscent in rhythm and tone of the squeaky up and down of an old children's teeter-totter. A day like all the others, spinning in place. At some point, he would go for a walk, moving through the streets like a ghost. No one would speak to him unless he spoke first. No one would approach him, or ask where he was from. He'd been introducing himself as Rogelio, and no one in T—— questioned him. Some people shrugged, as if they knew already; others nodded without skepticism. A few even smiled. Not complicit, knowing smiles, but ordinary, guileless expressions of approval, of satisfaction: Of course you're Rogelio, they seemed to be saying. Who else would you be?

When Nelson emerged from his room, Mrs. Anabel was up already, sitting in her usual place in the courtyard. One of the cats, the gray and black tabby, had curled up at her feet in a patch of sunlight. At the sight of Nelson, the cat yawned and stretched, then retreated into the tall weeds. Mrs. Anabel, on the other hand, smiled at him, a hopeful, contented smile, just as she had each of the previous twenty days. But this morning was different. Nelson didn't smile back, not right away.

“What's wrong?” Mrs. Anabel asked when he sat.

“Nothing, Mama,” he responded.

Noelia watched from the kitchen window as she cleaned up after breakfast. She saw Nelson sit by Mrs. Anabel's side and rub the back of his neck. He sat for a long time without talking. She was in and out of the kitchen that first hour, her usual flurry of morning activity; scrubbing, cleaning. As soon as she was finished, she started right in on lunch. Nelson hadn't mentioned leaving again, not for two days, and she had come to hope he might stay, just awhile longer. She'd miss him when he was gone. At around ten-thirty, she went to the market for some vegetables, leaving her mother and Nelson alone. “They had their heads bowed and were whispering. I even saw my mother smiling, heard her laugh, and I thought everything was fine.”

But when she returned an hour later, things were not fine. Mrs. Anabel's face was full of worry and her eyes rimmed with red. Nelson wasn't there.

“Is everything all right?” Noelia asked. “Where's Rogelio?”

“He's packing,” Mrs. Anabel said, despairing.

“He's what?”

“He said he's leaving. He said he has to go.” The old woman shook her head, then shuffled her feet, as if to stand. “I'd like to talk to your father. Is he out in the fields?”

When she recounted the events of that day, Noelia paused here. There were, she said, some things I should know about her mother. Mrs. Anabel's deterioration had come slowly, over the course of many years, a process so subtle that at times you wondered if it was happening at all. And even now, when that deterioration was an indisputable fact, her mind was always shifting: there were days when the old woman seemed completely lost, unable or unwilling to connect; and then, just when you'd begun to lose all hope, she'd recover. Like a fog lifting. There might be a spell of three days or more when she was something like her old self. Nelson's stay in T—— had coincided with a relatively consistent period. While Mrs. Anabel was not exactly sharp, she was not lost in the muddle, something Noelia attributed to Nelson's steadying presence. This was the context, part of what made Mrs. Anabel's remark about her husband all the more disconcerting. She had scarcely mentioned him in the previous days, and when she had, he'd always been dead.

Noelia took a deep breath. “No, Mama. Papa's not in the fields.”

“And Jaime?”

“He's in San Jacinto.”

“Then why won't he pick up his phone?” The old woman frowned. “Who's going to give this boy the money he needs?”

Mrs. Anabel slowly got to her feet.

“Where are you going, Mama?”

“I must have something in there somewhere,” Mrs. Anabel said. She was standing now, gesturing toward the room where she slept. “Something I can give him.”

“Sit down, Mama,” Noelia barked. “I said
sit.
”

Mrs. Anabel gazed at her with big eyes.

“Sit! Now wait here.” Noelia called out for Nelson. She was angry. She wanted an explanation. She deserved one.