The Man With No Borders

by Richard C. Morais

  He was so eager, so hungry, I let him take over the cooking. I looked up from our fire. Rob had the Super 8 trained on John and me, recording us as our heads were bent over the sizzling fish. Serious Sam, meanwhile, was down by the lakeside, almost in shadow, poking in a pool, studying the plants and bug life with a little flashlight he had brought along.

  And I remember thinking—One day they will be grown men and all working with me at Privatbank Álvarez. The notion filled me with pride, that special, ruinous Spanish pride that only a man born on Iberian soil can really understand.

  And it came to me then, how I would have Franz Deutwiller anonymously send the Swiss attorney general an address of a suburban house just outside Panama City, with nothing else on the note. If the Mexican authorities chose to monitor that nondescript Panamanian home, they might quickly discover what remarkable visitors were coming and going from the general’s safe house.

  It was not an easy decision. It went against every private-banker instinct in my body—to maintain a client’s secrets was sacrosanct—but I would do this for my sons, so the family had a large deposit of goodwill in Switzerland’s vault, to be drawn on if and when it was needed. Family always came first, after all, and we Álvarezes had our own secrets that needed protecting.

  PART V

  2019

  ÄGERI, SWITZERLAND

  TWELVE

  Darkness has settled on the chalet and I can smell that dinner is ready.

  Big Bertha clutches me on the left. She grabs me hard and barks instructions like a drill sergeant. Sam is on my right, holding me, as we inch our way up the staircase. I can hear Lisa breathing heavily behind me, as she drags my drip in our wake.

  “Stop squeezing my arm so hard!”

  They haul me, like movers with a large commode, and it takes us ten minutes to get up the staircase. But, finally, we are on the first-floor hallway, panting and catching our breath.

  Bertha, my personal angel of death, is insufferably chipper today.

  “See? Not so bad, Herr Álvarez.”

  “For whom?”

  “Dad, relax a little. Please. Be grateful for what everyone is doing for you.”

  Lisa moves down the dimly lit hallway and opens the dining room’s larch door. I want to get away from my hectoring son and the bossy Bertha, so I shuffle as energetically as I can after her.

  The burl-yew oval table in the paneled dining room is covered in the best Swiss linen. Late-nineteenth-century Tiffany candelabras, passed on to Lisa from her grandmother, are filled with white tapered candles that cast their elegant and flickering light across the room. Cut-crystal vases sparkle in the light and are filled with African irises. There are three ceremonial gold plates around the table, on which sit smaller dinner plates in black enamel. The heavy Sheffield silverware from our wedding, engraved with Lisa’s and my entwining initials, sits next to each plate. Even my mother’s green-stemmed crystal wine and water glasses have been brought out of storage for the occasion.

  “Also wunderschön,” says the admiring Sister Bertha.

  I have to agree. “You have outdone yourself, Lisa. We haven’t done this in so long. It reminds me of Christmas, when they were all boys.”

  “Amazing,” says Sam. “Let me take a picture. I want to send it to Sharon and my brothers.”

  Lisa is flushed with pleasure at our reactions.

  “Come,” she says, holding out a chair and making me sit in my usual place, at the head of the table, my back to the window. Sister Bertha, now that I am seated, excuses herself to eat in the kitchen next door. The wood-slatted drop-down curtain of the kitchen portico rattles up suddenly and Susi Iten sticks her head out.

  “Gruezi wohl, José! We make you better with good Swiss food that erupt the strength!”

  “Thank you, Susi. What was in Walter’s net today?”

  Their son, Walter Junior, whom we sometimes hire to help us, brings out starters of gravlax and nüssli salad.

  “Father had a good morning. Three pike. And seven Felchen.”

  That cheers me up. I try to shake out my linen napkin but have trouble, so Sam leans forward, snaps it open for me, and tucks it into my bathrobe collar.

  There is something in the back of my mind I can’t retrieve.

  “I remember we had a family dinner party in the formal dining room. It was years ago. Something important happened.” Lisa and Sam exchange glances, but relax when I add, “But I can’t remember why or what happened. I can’t recall the memory.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing. You had an argument with the boys.”

  “Really? Was it that bad?”

  Walter Junior stands at my elbow with a bottle of Rioja. “Wine?”

  “No,” says Lisa.

  I hold out my glass. “Pour.”

  I look over at Lisa. “What are you worried about? It might kill me?”

  Sam reaches out and touches my hand. “Pop, the combination—Oxycontin and wine. Not a good idea.”

  “I am just going to put the wine to my lips. Taste it.”

  I pick up my fork and lift, with shaking hand, a paper-thin slice of gravlax to my mouth. It takes forever to chew. A chant goes off in my head.

  Make amends. Make amends.

  “Sam, you’re very talented. I don’t say that enough. Your idea to turn global warming to your advantage and build salmon rivers in Greenland is really quite brilliant, I have to say.”

  I hold out my glass, to drink in his honor.

  My son lifts his water to clink glasses and buy himself time, knowing he has just heard an apology. “Thanks,” he finally says. “Appreciate it, Dad.” He lowers his head back over the gravlax and brown bread.

  The evening is pleasant. Lisa and Sam talk for some time about John and Rob arriving the next day, what we will all do together. My wife’s voice is filled with spirit, for the first time in a long while.

  I try to follow their conversation, but it’s hard in my current state and I can’t add anything of value to their plans. So I stay quiet, just content to be. Calf’s liver is put down before us, one of Sam’s and my favorite dinners, and we both make the proper noises of appreciation.

  Susi’s head pops through the portico again. “Eat! Liver is brain food!”

  Lisa and Sam continue talking, accompanied by the sound of cutlery scraping plates, but Sam notices my silence after a while and tries to draw me into the conversation.

  “So, Dad, I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  I take a gulp of wine. “Ask me what?”

  “Can you share with us what’s happening to you? Can you articulate it? It might help.”

  “I’m dying of cancer.”

  “Umm . . . yes. But what else. What does it feel like?”

  “I am going on a trip.”

  “What do you mean?” Lisa says.

  “I am going on a fishing trip. There are choices to be made, routes to navigate, obstacles to overcome.”

  Lisa and Sam again exchange glances. Lisa dabs her lips with the serviette and then strokes my hand with her thumb.

  “What obstacles, darling?”

  I push away the plate. Can’t eat any more.

  “Joder. So many. My brother, Juan, he is very definite and clear. He wants me to go home with him and won’t leave my side until I do. He says I need to get my house in order. That’s all very good, I can handle that. But the Frog Queen . . .”

  “The what?”

  I look up. They both stare at me, eyes wide with alarm.

  “The Frog Queen. She has other plans for me.”

  “Dad, what does the Frog Queen want from you?”

  I shrug. “No sé. Juan is clear. He says what he wants outright. Coño. He’s a Spaniard. But the Frog Queen . . . well, she’s a mystery. Very enigmatic. But when I get the pain, the headaches, it’s because she is banging my head with her scepter, like she is trying to beat something into my cabeza . . .”

  Lisa stands, comes around, and puts a hand on my shoulder. She leans forw
ard and says, with great feeling, “Darling, is this dinner too much?”

  “Sí, Mamá. May I be excused? I am tired from the day’s fishing.”

  The morning sky is bright blue outside the French doors. Lisa is sitting in a chair opposite, reading the local Swiss newspaper, Zuger Zeitung.

  “What was that?”

  “Sam. He just left for the airport to pick up John and Rob.”

  “Are they coming? Here?”

  “Yes, José. I told you. They’re coming home.”

  “But why?”

  “To see you.”

  “We have to be on guard with John. He likes to steal my things. That cabrón. Whenever I turn my head, he’s running off with my best fishing rods.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “Don’t be so naïve, Lisa. They steal, our boys.”

  “I am sorry. But I have to leave.”

  She gets up and slams shut the door.

  I’m in trouble. She left the newspaper.

  A few hours later, she is back. I open my eyes and she is again sitting in the blue armchair, slumped over the left armrest, staring out the French doors, listening to me sleep. Her cell phone is in her lap. Her face is as lined and weather-beaten as the granite of the mountain outside our window.

  “Hello, my love.”

  She turns her head and tiredly says, “Hello, José.”

  “Have the boys arrived?”

  “No. Not yet. But their plane just landed. Sam sent me a text.”

  I pull myself up and onto the pillow. “I am so excited to see them. Like a child. I haven’t felt like this for a long time.”

  She smiles a little. “My husband is back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Thank you for bringing them home.” I reach out and pat her hand. “I am just so happy that we will all be together again, without their wives. I know I shouldn’t say that, but it’s like Christmastime again, when the boys were young.”

  Lisa bends down to kiss my hand. Her affection, so genuine, it pains me. My breast is full of flutterings, tremors, and thumps of the heart. I am about to say something, but her phone buzzes, and she looks at her lap.

  “Oh no. No. No. No.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Sam. He says they aren’t coming right home. They’ve decided to drop by the apartment first. They’re having lunch in the Niederdorf, before they continue on to the house. That means they won’t be here until evening.” Lisa lowers her head and begins to cry. “How could they? Don’t they know how much we need them now? We’ve been waiting for them to come home for such a long time.”

  “Don’t be upset, Lisa. Please.”

  Everything she has been holding in for so long suddenly erupts within her, and there is no stopping the rush of tears now. She puts her head down into her hands and weeps hard, pulling out the handkerchief she always keeps up her cardigan sleeve. I reach out, trembling, and manage to grab her hand.

  I gently pull her to me. She comes, reluctantly, and sits at the edge of my bed. I make her put her head down on my shoulder. “Lisa, please, don’t cry. It upsets me so. They are boys. They will do boy things.”

  “They are not boys! They are grown men. How selfish can they be?”

  “Pobrecita.” I stroke her head. “You’ve been so brave, for so long. But remember, the boys haven’t seen each other for a long time either, and they just want some time to catch up and have fun, like they did when they were young, and before they have to come sit with their dying old man. Can you blame them?”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I think it is inconsiderate.”

  I imagine the three brothers, walking down the cobblestones of the Niederdorfstrasse, recalling when they, as teenagers, had been stumbling drunk on the very same thoroughfare and laughing and up to mischief on a Saturday night. And I am not sure why, perhaps because my own brother and I never got to experience those years, but I find myself happy and proud of them that they have taken this time together, before coming to the chalet.

  “Sweet mama. We’re home.”

  Alfredo jumps up and whines, his stumpy tail furiously wagging, looking back to see if I will open the door.

  It is John’s unmistakable voice in the hall.

  I look at the clock. It is just past midnight.

  “I’m in here.”

  They come through the door, grinning and red-cheeked, rolling their luggage.

  “Hello, Pops.”

  “Hey there.”

  They are glassy-eyed drunk. They come and kiss my forehead, one by one. Sam stands back a little, allowing his younger brothers to step up to my bed, and it is Rob, the youngest, who darts forward first.

  I check my memory, panicked for a second that I won’t remember who he is, but I do remember, just in time, that he is the professional bass fisherman with his own cable TV show in America. Rob throws his arms around me, his car coat chilly and smelling of beer and fried rösti.

  “Shit, Dad, sorry we’re so late.”

  “Don’t be. I am glad you had some fun. This is all grim enough.”

  John comes forward then, tall and lanky, the New Yorker with the midtown fish restaurant called Upstream. He bends down, like a giraffe, the diamond in his pierced ear glinting. His head is entirely shaved, like a misshapen billiard ball. I have not seen this look before. He wraps his arms around me, and I am engulfed in his smell, the shimmering fumes of cognac and sharp cheese.

  “Dad, I have to say, you look like shit. Like you had a big one on and your fuckin’ line just broke.”

  We all laugh and that, I realize, is precisely what I have been craving—male energy, a little gallows humor, less of the pinched and terrified female faces that have been surrounding me these last weeks. It makes me so happy. I am suddenly teary again. I wipe my eyes and John looks away, unsettled to see me so emotional. They are not used to seeing me this way.

  “Perdóname. I am sorry. I can’t tell you how much it means to me. To see you all here.”

  The door pushes open and Lisa, her face still stupid from half a sleeping pill, stands in the doorway, in her cotton nightgown and silk blue bathrobe. She is visibly trying to take it all in. The boys rush at her in unison, their arms out, yelping, “Mom!” Lisa disappears in their arms, a group hug of flailing limbs and pursed lips, and her face, so severe at first, melts in their embrace. Her blond tufts and heaven-looking eyes are just visible over their shoulders, and everything about her is beaming joy and light.

  “I should smack you all.”

  But she is laughing and kissing each of them, hugging whatever flesh she can hold on to. Then it is over and they all stand awkwardly for a few moments, silent, at a loss for words now that the initial greeting has passed, and I have a sense that everyone is thinking about but not addressing the unseen visitor standing in the room—death.

  “Well,” Lisa finally says, wiping her eyes. “I am sure you are tired after your long flight, and your father needs his rest. Kamila has all your beds made up.”

  They turn back to their bags.

  “So, what’s on the agenda?” Rob asks.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Sam says, taking command now that I am incapacitated. “We’ll draw up a list of tasks . . .”

  “No control freakery, Sam,” warns John. “First thing I am doing tomorrow morning is having a double espresso in a Swiss, up-to-my-chin bath. Dying for one.”

  “And I’m going to go for a run,” adds Rob. “Maybe up to the Itens’.”

  Sam smiles at his brothers. They have the gift of making him relax. “We’ll figure it out. It’s just great to be together again.”

  And then they come and kiss me one more time, grab their bags and their mother’s elbow, and disappear out the door and up the stairs.

  It is sometime in the small hours.

  I don’t know what time exactly, but it’s very dark and quiet.

  Only the owl and I are awake. The garden is pitch-bl
ack through the French doors, so I can’t see him, but I hear him insistently asking his questions.

  “To who? To who?”

  I turn my focus back to the room. Juan and the Frog Queen sit opposite my bed in stiff-backed chairs, mostly lost in the shadows. But I can see enough. Their expressions are grave and they are studying me with great intensity. Their looks make me uneasy. I feel my heart racing. They are judging me. I know it.

  Say something, goddammit. Say something.

  Alfredo, sensing I am agitated, gets up from under my bed and nuzzles my hand clutching the handrail meant to keep me from falling out of bed.

  The Frog Queen opens her mouth, smacks her lips. “Men,” she says, with a tinge of disgust. She is not really talking, but must be communicating through some form of telepathy, because both Juan and I can hear what she is saying.

  “When men tell their stories, they always talk about how their business is doing. They never talk about how they are and what they are feeling—whether they are happy or depressed or manic or crazy or angry or frustrated. It’s always all about their work.”

  Juan smiles sadly. “I know my brother. He will come through. He’ll get around to it. I admit, he’s a slow learner. But he’ll get there eventually. Trust me.”

  “I hope so. He doesn’t have much time left.”

  “Well, at least you’re talking,” I yell at them.

  Alfredo whines, backs up, and scratches at the door, like he is trying to fetch Lisa. He lets out a muffled bark. The door flies open and a large figure in white comes billowing into the room. It is Sister Bertha and she is suddenly by my side, looking at my eyes, monitoring my pulse.

  “Was ha’mer da? You are sweating, Herr Álvarez.”

  She puts a cool cloth on my forehead.

  Her voice is unusually soft and gentle.

  “Are you having a hard night?”

  “Yes. Yes. I think I am.”

  She sits down on the stool beside the bed and takes ahold of my hand.