Chapter 12
I had been in Hector's apartment for over an hour before I got a chance to see Noribel's face. She was in the room, but her head was turned to the other side, and I did not get off the couch to walk around. Hector propped her head on the pillow when he saw that her eyes were open. He wanted her to see me; and I am certain now, though he gave no indication at the time, that he saved the time when I would see her face for a point in his tale that would accentuate such a sight. He made it appear as though he was merely allowing her to have a better view of the room, but I knew he wanted me to see her.
I cannot describe in mere words just how beautiful a woman Noribel was. It would be like describing a great painting, or a natural wonder to a person who has never seen anything like it, anything from which one could draw a comparison. She was unspeakably beautiful—the sort of beauty that catches one off guard, and makes one fear that the object gazed upon is more than real. All other senses drifted off, and I had just my eyes to see just her eyes, to touch her with what I had, and to be touched with all she had left. I stared, and I should say that I am not the type to stare at people, especially those who have been afflicted, until Hector resumed his tale.
He told me of what he had left behind to come to the U.S., and he told me some of the troubles they had along the way. The apartment, though it was certainly large enough for the two of them, and though there were signs of food in good supply, had been bought, he said, by what was thought to be good fortune, or, as he later put it, by God. Hector questioned this assumption using Noribel as his prime example. He asked me what I thought of good fortune that gives one a place to live for free, all the food one could ever want, but does not supply the security one instinctively begs for when one has all one's prayers answered. That, I told him, was something I could not answer. I told him that we all live with a certain amount of uncertainty, and that misfortune does not care whether it comes to those who have plenty, or those who have nothing. He considered what I had said, and I could see from his eyes, and also from the eyes of Noribel who he told me could hear perfectly, that what I had said was more clear to them than it could ever have been to me. I felt foolish and pompous explaining to them, for it was to both I spoke, that their life had turned barren and futile because of forces beyond their control. I vowed at that point in the conversation to answer more delicately, to listen closely, and to keep in mind that I was the first one from the 'outside' to be in their home—to see firsthand their terrible situation.
Hector went on with his story. He stood for some of the telling, and he sat across from me at other times, but he did not break to offer me a drink, and he did not show any indication that he was interested in my reason for being there. He took it for granted, I think, or he thought he knew. Perhaps he had rehearsed the story in his head a thousand times in the event that he would need to someday tell it to a person who would listen, feel the pain that they felt, look upon Noribel with pity or a sense of duty, and then see to it that she was brought back to her former self. I could see it in his eyes: he had put on his straw hat, and the brim sat low on his brow making a sharp shadow that only allowed the green of his eyes to be seen. When he looked at me, all I could see were the tense, wide open eyes of one who has endured an unending nightmare — a nightmare that started as a perfect dream but changed simply and quietly making the dream, the pleasantness of life before the accident, seem like the cruelest trick by the cruelest god. He did not blame God though; he told me, as he stood looking into the eyes of Noribel, that God had been thanked for what he had given them, and it could not have been Him that set the whole thing in motion. I agreed, but I said no more. I did not want to make the mistake of offering my views on God, or God's will; no, that would have been like telling Lazarus that God is able to manifest His will regardless of Earthly laws and beliefs.
When Hector had finished telling his tale, and after he had made an effort to see to the comfort of Noribel, he looked to me for my response. I had not prepared myself to answer questions regarding the availability of insurance policies to those who have already suffered, and I began to feel nervous — guilt began to creep up my spine as I thought that I may be the one to tell then once and for all that their situation was hopeless. And it was his look, and the way that Noribel's eyes concentrated on mine, that brought about this fear. Surely, I thought, the logical conclusion of such a tale being told to a person associated with the cure would lead to a last and final question. He would want to know how I could help. But he did not ask, and after a long time of sitting and looking at me, he stood and walked toward the door.
"Now you know," he said. "That is what happened to us when we came to the U.S. I have to attend to Noribel now, so, if you do not mind, we have to be alone."
I looked at Noribel for the last time. She did not return my gaze, and I could tell that her eyes, the only part of her body that moved, were looking out to some other place, some other time. I said goodbye to her in my mind, and I only nodded to Hector as I walked out the door. There was nothing I could say, and saying goodbye to him after he had told me what had happened seemed cruel and almost comically inconsiderate.
I walked back to the office, but I knew that it would be closed. I had taken my keys with me thinking that my meeting with Hector, if there was going to be a meeting, might possibly take longer than the four hours that were left of the workday. Passing the front of the office on my way to the garage, I tried to see the place as Hector might have when he first decided this would be his one and only insurance office—his first and last place of redemption for a sin he did not know he committed, knew not how to repent. But I could not get the feeling I was hoping for, and there was no way that I ever would. I had not come as far as they had, could never hope to have what they thought they had, and the feeling left me empty.
I did not expect to see Hector come to the office the next day, and I hoped that I would not be asked where I had disappeared to when I had left to follow him. I was not asked, as I could have predicted, but Hector did return to repeat his attempt. I could not believe it: he walked past me as if I was not there, as if we had never met, and proceeded to the same two desks he had gone to for the last three years. Surely, I thought, he allowed my visit as an attempt to acquire the policy for Noribel, and surely he would do all his dealings, if any, with me. He knew nothing of how the office was organized, so it made perfect sense that he would assume that I was sent to his apartment to investigate the situation, and that I was handling the case from now on. I could not think of why he had seen me but made no effort to walk the few steps away from the receptionist and sit across my desk with his hat in his hand. I did not want to take over his case, but I had resigned myself to it and told myself that that is the price I would have to pay for hearing their story and seeing the force that kept him coming back. I felt betrayed in a way, as if he had used me as a sounding board to hone his story and to gauge the effectiveness of allowing someone to see her, to see the person the policy was to be given to. I fully expected to see Julie, coat on and briefcase in hand, following him out the door. But even this conclusion was dashed: he simply walked past me alone on his way out as he had every other time he had come. The amount of time he had spent talking to Julie was neither increased nor decreased, and again he did not even look at me though I was within ten feet of him as he left.
I was due back at the office in Florida by the end of the following week. They needed someone who spoke Spanish in the Miami branch, and because I was usually the one who made little noise about being transferred, I was asked to go. I spent the remainder of my time in the Hartford office finishing what I could have finished in the first month there, but had chosen to linger on to get to know the area and to solve the mystery of Hector. I had not succeeded at either. Hartford would remain a city of little character, and Hector would remain a mystery.
Later in life, much later when I had settled in New Orleans and married, I called the Har
tford office and found that Julie had retired, but Susan was still there. I asked her what had happened to Hector, and she said she did not know. "One day he stopped coming," she said. "It was as if the sun had never come up." I told her that I would not be getting back there any time soon, and to say hello for me to anyone who remembers me, and she said she would. I hung up the phone and had a feeling that there was more to the story of Hector and Noribel than he had told me or that I had invented in my own mind based on what I heard him say and what I saw of his life. Maybe they went back to Puerto Rico, I thought. Maybe the sun came up for them one day and they floated up its beams and soared through the heavens to land in a quiet spot by some trees where the air is warm and there is a pond and there are two country people enjoying the simplicity of their movements and the glory of their forms.
#####
Hector Page 12
