“Everyone will be relieved. Won’t they. You depend on that.”
“I hurt a lot of people. I know that. But it was truly self-preservation.”
Renata was quiet with thought. “He was killed in your house. Are you in danger?”
“I have to lie low, that’s all. Look: I forgot my passport and visa in the guest room. Will you try to find them for me tomorrow?”
“I’ll have to try to get them with your father there.”
“Stay the night if you have to. You can pull it off. And see if a Lufthansa ticket was delivered. María hides my mail in the dining room sideboard.”
“Lufthansa.”
“To Germany. Reinhardt ordered it.”
“I really really hate this.”
She was still sitting there when I went out.
Half a lifetime ago an international consortium of petroleum companies invited some regional oil producers to a conference in New York, and since I was painting there I threw a party in the East Village for my father. But I was too hyped, too shy of his powers of detection, and I spent the night hustling out of whichever room he entered; he even found me behind the kitchen door once. “Why are you so spooked, son?” he asked. The question was rhetorical, he only had to fleetingly meet my friends to know how I’d failed to live up to his standards. But there was no blame in him, no scold or pontification, he was never one of those not-in-my-house-you-don’t fathers, there was only that calm, see-all, X-ray stare that told me This is not healthy and you know it.
Waking up in the church basement on Friday, I got the usual frightened watchfulness, the mothers hushing their children’s questions, but also Stuart’s beggar, Hector, tilted over me on his crutches and informed me that four Mexican men had walked through the basement the night before, wondering aloud where the blond American was. “We didn’t know,” he told me in Spanish, implying that no one there felt especially protective of me. And then he gave me my father’s stare before going off on his rounds.
I took the hint and from nine until six hung out on the salt-white beach of the Maya Hotel not far from my glamorous, rented house, hiding behind sunglasses, the blue bandana, the frayed straw cowboy hat, my thighs and feet getting fried in a Speedo racing suit I bought in the Maya’s haberdashery, a hundred strangers having a whale of a good time in my company as I dully drank piña coladas at the outdoor bar, using Reinhardt’s pesos now, and was vigilant for any glimpse of my father in the house on Avenida del Mar. So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
At four or so—the Mexican police had my watch—I finally took the hotel elevator up to the fifth floor and walked the hallway to the observation deck. A homely mother with a Mississippi accent was expertly explaining oceanography to her four children, otherwise I was alone up there, spying on the upstairs terrace of my white stucco hou
se. A few floors below me a frail old woman in green pajamas and a flowing green robe leaned on a balcony with a highball glass in both hands. And there, Hi Dad!, was himself in my house, half a hundred yards away, staring at her in his starched white shirt and old-fashioned tie, his face tired and aching, five hundred years old, his heart full of melancholy, a fresh grief for me to handle before he withdrew into my bedroom again. My father was too much an outdoor man to stay inside the house for long, so I hung out up there on the fifth floor as the sea breeze lost fifteen degrees and the roof of the world was shingled with clouds. Twenty minutes later and Atticus was stepping down the staircase of tiered railroad ties and peering out at the constancy of the sea before going up to the terrace, where he sat with his hands knitted atop his head, a picture of misery, his mind wholly on me. You’ve put him through hell, I thought. Again and again.
Went out to the jungle in a fulminating bus filled with hotel workers, getting off a half mile from Eduardo’s and hiking in through high weeds and face rakers until Eduardo was frontally there in the path like a fastened door, a fierce machete in his hand. He asked in Spanish, “Are you a ghost?”
I told him in Spanish I wasn’t.
Eduardo smiled. “Then I’m happy to see you, my friend.”
I fell into my usual pattern there, knocking myself out on their whiskey, then waking so late and lazily that Eduardo’s children were able to paint my face and affix green fronds to me as decoration. The heat and sun were like that of eleven o’clock. I was half-tempted to attend the funeral, Huck Finn on the half-shell, if only because it presented such a movie moment, The Phantom of the Opera, The Hunchback of Notre Dame: if I wanted to I could bellow from the high choir loft that this funeral should halt, it was all a horrible sham, and heads would turn and the gloom and melancholy in that holy place would change into something gloriously weird. Wisely, I headed instead to the sea and felt the high sun on my face and chest and tried to force pictures of Atticus out of my mind—my father offering prayers for me, my father painfully watching Reinhardt going into the ground. Would there be a dinner afterwards? Wasn’t like him. I heard him telling Stuart and Renata he was a little off his feed. My father was a thoroughly practical man, far more like him to want to go out to the casita. And he’d see what others missed. Wildly panicking, I walked on all fours over high hills of rock or fought my way around them in my khakis and shoes, wrestling against the tougher swells, often flattening against a hard limestone shelf with the force of a half ton of water. I finally swam out fifty yards or so, just past the great wave breaks, finding help in an undertow that took me north and farther out to sea, where there was a change in the current, a fierce pull toward the cliffs and the gray cathedral of stone, and I floated with it until one foot touched sand and I fell and sloshed through the churning water just below my studio.
Climbed the faint earthen path up to it and forced open a front door that humidity was fastening to the frame. Everything was pretty much as I’d left it, though fallen hangers had been hung and Reinhardt’s white underpants had been used to mop up blood from the floor. The kitchen still carried the hint of scorched coffee. I was halfway toward rinsing out the full pot of coffee before common sense got the better of habit. I fetched a Coca-Cola from the refrigerator and finished it as I strolled the house hunting the giveaways and forgetfulness of my harried Wednesday night. I failed to check my off-brand tape player or even think of my feeble toss of Reinhardt’s fancy shoes. And then, fully in love with my brilliance, I put the Coca-Cola can on the kitchen counter and walked out—just try to find something there, Dad.
That evening I took Eduardo’s wife’s Schwinn to the Pemex station on the highway. Telephoned Renata but Stuart answered and I hung up. Dialed my own number and heard myself saying, “Hi. You know the routine, name and number. I’ll get back atcha later.”
And I was about to hang up again when Renata got on the phone. “Hello?”
“You’re there.”
“And so is he.”
“Still? Can you talk?”
“I have to turn the machine off.” I heard her stab at a button and get back on. I heard fierce irritation with me in the flat tone of her voice. “Your father’s sleeping. El turista.”
“Damn.” I half-turned in the telephone booth. A handsome Texan was filling the tank of an old Volvo with high-octane gas. “Are you going to cancel his flight?”
“I’ll ask tomorrow.”
“Any sign of the Lufthansa ticket?”
“Nope.”