The Man With No Borders

by Richard C. Morais

  “A wonderful idea.”

  I try not to show how much pain is coming at me. “Kiss me, my lovely wife.”

  Lisa kisses me full on the lips and says, “Goodbye, you old grump. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, good woman. Now go have fun with the boys.”

  “Love you, Papá,” says Rob. “Anything you want?”

  “Just a full report on what the fishing boats brought in. My brother and I used to love watching the fishermen unload their catch.”

  “Will do.”

  John gently brushes my hair. “Try and sleep, Dad. So we can all enjoy dinner together. I’m going to cook us a fish feast tonight.”

  “Bueno. I will do my best. If you get a chance, get the almond-and-hazelnut biscuits at the corner bakery, just off the river. They’re fantastic, with a coffee and Fanjul, the local cider brandy. You’ll see the cookies in the bakery’s window.”

  “Sounds great. Later.”

  Sam kisses my forehead and quietly says, “Get some rest, Dad.”

  I grab his hand and say, “Please, do that again.” He furrows his brow but leans forward. I grab him around the neck and pull him tight to me. “You make me so proud,” I whisper. “My great regret is that my brother and father never got to meet you.”

  Sam pulls back and stiffly says, “Yeah, thanks. Me too.”

  He turns and joins the others, who are across the grass and opening up the doors of the BMW. Rob jumps behind the wheel this time, as John solicitously helps his mother get into the front passenger seat. Before she swings her second leg up into the high SUV, she twists and turns in my direction and waves at me.

  I lift my hand. “Goodbye.”

  Sam is arguing that Rob should be in the back and he should drive. John waves one last time, the light of Asturias briefly catching his earring. He hops into the back seat. They all yell at Sam to shut up and just get in, and he, too, slides into the back seat. Sam never looks back in my direction, but then, I don’t expect him to. We cannot expect miracles.

  The BMW’s white reverse lights go on. The car rolls back, stops, and rolls slowly forward toward the parting in the hedge. Rob honks the horn twice, his hand shooting out the window in a final wave goodbye, and then the car turns right onto the country lane.

  They are swallowed by the trees.

  The afternoon light comes in slanted over the oak trees.

  “Felipe. Will you be my guide?”

  “Of course, Don José.”

  “I want to fish with my brother. I miss him.”

  “Then let’s go fish with Juan. The pool over there, the one your father loved, is filled with salmon.”

  “No. No. I want the pool where we swam that time Juan was stung by the bee.”

  “Aah. The Dead Priest’s Pool. Good choice. It’s special.”

  “Let’s go.”

  We walk, two old men, down to the river.

  Felipe carries my fly rod, as ghillies do, careful not to get it entangled in the low-hanging branches. We talk about the old days, as we follow the goat track along the riverbank. Felipe is in a talkative mood and recalls stories about his grandfather, Ignacio, the man who reared him. How, when they fished together, his grandfather insisted they take a break every few hours, in order, he said, to give the fish a chance to swim upriver without being harassed and caught.

  “God demands we give the fish a fighting chance,” he used to tell Felipe.

  In such time, during the forced pauses in their fishing, Ignacio would cut thin pieces of chorizo, place them on a dip in a slab of riverside granite, and then douse the chorizo and stone in aguardiente. He’d set it all alight with his battered brass lighter, until the alcohol was burned off and the oily sausage slices were crispy and sizzling in the dips of the rock.

  After lunch, his grandfather would yawn, lie down on the riverbank, his hat over his eyes, and sleep for exactly twenty minutes. You could set your watch by it, and after the allotted time, Ignacio would unhurriedly rise, scratch, drink some water, and piss in the bushes—before they took up their rods and started fishing again.

  Felipe has me mesmerized by the story, about him and his grandfather and the slow way things used to be done, but, as we walk up along the gurgling river, I am also noticing what is around us. There is constant movement in the corner of my eye. To the left, in the tangle of brambles, I see the eyes of rabbits staring out of warren holes; to the right, the snout of a badger pokes from under a hedge. A sleek silver vixen crosses the goat’s path ahead of us, two cubs in her mouth. She pauses, one foot up like a dog, and stares curiously back at us, before unhurriedly continuing her journey with her offspring. The land is teeming with life. Butterflies flutter, the bees hum and buzz, the spiders spin their platinum webs between the branches. Hawks cry overhead, squirrels dash up a tree, wild boars rummage for acorns in the copse across the field.

  Suddenly, in a run along the riverbank, there are repeated flashes, deep in the pool. I am too moved and teary to speak. All I can do is point at the river, so Felipe can see them as well.

  Fish.

  Everywhere I look, the waters are filled with fish. A massive salmon—twenty kilos and of the purest silver—takes a roaring jump in the deepest part of the shimmering pool, hitting the water with such force there is a thunderous splash.

  “Oh Dios mío.”

  “Claro. You can walk across their backs. You picked the perfect day to fish with Juanito.”

  We come up to a bend in the river. Felipe sees I am struggling a bit and grabs my hand, helping me over a difficult bit of rock. I am panting.

  “It’s hard for me now.”

  “Hombre. It’s hard for all of us.”

  At the top of the rock, I must catch my breath. I glance upriver and see where we are heading—Dead Priest’s Pool. I think of how this pool has repeatedly visited me in my dreams, over the decades I wandered the globe. It’s engraved in my soul, in my imagination, like no other patch of earth.

  Now, here it is, for real.

  My heart pumps with life. I feel vital again.

  The pool is still bottle green and deep, as I remember, the far side of the river sharply defined by that sheer wall of black rock dotted with saplings. I look over and up, at the top ledge of forest above the pool. I am reassured. It is all as I have imagined it over the years. High up on the rock stands the tiny chapel with the naïve painting of the friar. The chapel is still catching the day’s light, while recently lit candles flicker. I am so excited to be here. I feel youthful again.

  “Push ahead, old man,” I say. “We’re almost there.”

  Felipe laughs and turns toward the river. I follow my guide, down the other side of the rock, through a side stream choked with crayfish, and then up along the Sella’s baked riverbank and the path sprinkled with goat droppings.

  Felipe takes off his fedora and wipes its brim. We are standing at the bottom of Dead Priest’s Pool, where we used to tie up the horses.

  “All right. Here we are. I can go no farther.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He squints up at the blue sky. “The wind is coming from the west. You need to fish the sandbar on the far side of the river, up near the falls, so the wind is at your back. See, up there? There’s a big line of resting fish, just off that sandbar.”

  I follow his pointing finger. Near the top of the pool, there is a natural cove hollowed out in the rock face; in it stands a tangle of very old and leafy trees. There is a fairly shallow bit of green-blue water off this bank; and then, ten meters from the shore, a long sandbar of gray, chestnut-size pebbles sits in the stream. I see what he means. You can easily fish a fine stretch of fly water, starting just below the falls, if you stand on the sandbar. That’s where the resting fish will be lined up.

  “I’m staying on this side, Don José. But it’s perfectly all right for you to cross to the other side. Go on. You don’t need me to guide you any farther.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He points at th
e shallow end of the pool, just before the water starts heading down a rapid. “See that white stone in the middle? When you cross, stay above the white stone, and you’ll be fine. Perfectly safe. But mind your step—below the stone there is a ledge that drops off. The water there is strong and deep.”

  “Come with me.”

  “No, sorry, old friend.”

  He hands me the rod. “My granddaughters are expecting me for dinner. Not this time. But look—Juan is there. He’s waiting for you on the other bank.”

  My brother comes out of the trees on the far side. A cigarette dangles from his mouth, trailing smoke. He walks down to the water with his fly rod. He is wearing green waders and our father’s canvas fishing coat. He pisses in the water and spits on his fly, as we used to do, and then expertly gets out his line and starts casting long across the river. Juan throws the red-and-black fly with grace and elegance, like he once flicked his cigarettes. The waxed-canvas line unfolds across the river, languidly and powerfully, full of elegant thrusts and curls, and then just as sweetly, he retrieves it, and casts again. He makes it all look so effortless. And then it occurs to me that Juan is no longer the long-haired man I have been seeing these last months, but at that beautiful and youthful age just before he died.

  I am filled with my unbearable ache. I remember Juan pleading to go sea-trout fishing with Manuel and me, so he wouldn’t get stuck alone with our parents—and how I prevented him.

  But it’s as if Juan and I are one, like he can read my mind, because he suddenly looks up from his focused fishing—and smiles at me.

  “What are you waiting for? Come fish with me.”

  “Is that really you, Juanito? How do I know my mind isn’t playing tricks again?”

  He rolls his eyes, just like he used to. “Cabrón! Just cross the fucking river and fish with me. Don’t be such a pussy.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re going to let me catch all the fish? What happened to you? Where are your balls? You’re missing all the fun.”

  A massive fish rises and takes Juan’s fly, almost in slow motion. He leans back and sinks the hook. His rod bends in two and the air fills with the sound of the screaming reel, as the mighty salmon makes a run.

  Seeing what he has hooked, the desire to fish with Juan turns overwhelming, an ache so deep and burning it’s like molten lava bubbling in my veins. But I am still torn, vaguely anxious, and wondering if I should go back and wait for Lisa and the boys to return from town. But the hunger and ache won’t go away. I want to stand shoulder to shoulder with Juan, to work the pools, to again cast our long lines out into the blue reaches of the river, like we once used to, so many years ago.

  “Bueno. I am ready. Here goes.”

  I take a step into the river, but then remember my guide and turn to say a final thanks and goodbye. Felipe has already moved away from me. He is standing on the rock where I had to catch my breath, lighting a cigarette and looking calmly in my direction.

  I wave at him. He snaps shut his lighter and waves back.

  There is another massive splash and I turn to face the river. Juan is impatient and too soon trying to beach the fish, which is not nearly ready to come in. He’s just about to lose the fish, I can tell. He needs my help.

  “Relájate, Juanito! Stay calm! I’m coming.”

  “Hurry!”

  I move deeper into the current. The water is cool and surprisingly gentle and comes just to my knees—as I cross the river to be with my brother.

  EPILOGUE

  Hans-Peter Grieder is waiting for us when the elevator doors ping open in the bank’s reception. He kisses Mom on both cheeks, shakes my hand. “My deepest condolences, John,” he says. I murmur something back. Several of Dad’s employees come out of their offices to express their sorrow as well.

  “Thank you,” Mom and I say. “How kind.”

  Hans-Peter ushers us into the conference room. Gisella Ohrbach, the bank’s trust lawyer, is seated at the table with legal documents spread in front of her. She rises and greets us politely, as does the large woman next to her, who extends a beefy hand.

  “Sister Bertha,” Mom says. “What are you doing here?”

  “Ja, Frau Álvarez. It’s a mystery. I don’t know. I was summoned by Herr Grieder.”

  Hans-Peter talks quietly to a secretary, who leans over and fiddles with the speaker at the center of the table. Sam and Rob have dialed into the room by conference call.

  “Hi, Mom,” says Sam.

  “Hi there,” Rob adds. “Thanks for being there with Mom, John. I would be too if I wasn’t closing the deal with ESPN.”

  “It’s OK. We’re good. Aren’t we, Mom?”

  “Yes. We’re fine.”

  There isn’t much conviction in her voice.

  “We are all here,” says Hans-Peter, standing at the front of the conference room. “Thank you for coming. Let us start first with an announcement that concerns all of you. This morning, as per José María’s instructions, Privatbank Álvarez GmbH was sold to Zürich Union Bank for two point two billion Swiss francs.”

  Mom takes the news rather coolly, like she kind of expected it, but my brothers and I freak out. We all start talking at once. That was the last thing we expected. It never entered my mind that Dad might sell the bank he loved so much. Sam is actually pissed. “He was busting my balls about taking over the bank just days before he died,” he fumes through the phone.

  We finally settle down and let Hans-Peter continue. “We are here now to distribute the proceeds of the sale and to carry out José María’s last wishes, as laid out in his final will and testament.”

  He turns in Mom’s direction. “‘To my beloved wife, Lisa, I bequeath the Hechtplatz penthouse and the Sutton Place apartment in New York City.’”

  Hans-Peter peers at her over his eyeglasses. “José has also left you all the cash in the money-market accounts, currently worth forty-six million Swiss francs, and all private equity proceeds, as they get paid out over the coming years. Knowing that you intend to move back to New York, José María also instructed me to set up an endowment that will give an annual fifteen-million-dollar gift to the Metropolitan Opera, in your name, which is, as we speak, getting chiseled into the marble wall of the opera house’s lobby. I spoke with the chairman of the Metropolitan Opera, and he will shortly be inviting you to join the opera’s board.”

  Mom has a strange look on her face. I can’t tell if she is happy or enraged or both.

  “Why did José do that?” she says in a strangled voice.

  Hans-Peter pulls off his thick-rimmed glasses, drops his officious Swiss-banker’s tone, and talks to her more as a family friend. “José was deeply concerned that you would have few friends in New York, after living so many years overseas. He reasoned that the gift would plug you into New York’s social scene and provide a springboard to quickly make friends around your great passion.”

  “I specifically asked him not to micromanage my affairs after he was gone.”

  It’s all too much for her, the mixed emotions she’s feeling, and Mom again starts crying. She’s been like that since he died. One minute she is depressed and flat; the next minute recalling sweet memories of Dad, and laughing about some of his weirder habits, like his love of sheep’s cheese covered in honey; and then blink again and she is angry and crying and scared for her future. She’s all over the place.

  I do the only thing I can do—I reach out and rub her arm. She pats my hand, to signal she is OK, and then blows her nose in a tissue.

  Hans-Peter moves on to his next item.

  “‘All my sons—Sam, John, and Rob—are to receive ten million dollars each, enough to enjoy life but not enough to kill off their professional ambitions.’”

  Ouch. That’s virtually like cutting us out of his will.

  I do not say a word, neither do my brothers, but I suspect our silence speaks volumes. I fight the impulse to get up, leave the room, and punch a wall. I could really use some serious mon
ey to get me out of my hole. Moving my restaurant, getting it reestablished in a new location, will easily burn through the ten million in a few months. Mom, bless her, she’s red-faced angry and has no problem voicing what we’re all thinking.

  “That’s disgraceful. I can’t believe your father would do such a cruel thing.”

  “Please, be patient,” Hans-Peter says. “We are not finished. ‘To my youngest son, Roberto, I additionally bequeath the farmhouse and boathouse in Ägeri, which he, more than anyone else, loved and appreciated. However, the top-floor bathtub of the chalet is to be ripped out as is, and delivered and installed intact at John’s New York apartment.’”

  We all laugh. We can’t help it.

  “Nice one, Dad,” Rob says.

  Mom’s lioness hackles have settled down a bit. She whispers to me, “I’m so happy I don’t have to deal with Ägeri anymore but that it’s still in the family.”

  Hans-Peter has not finished with me, apparently, because he is staring intently in my direction and waiting for my undivided attention.

  “John, your father has instructed me to use estate proceeds to buy the building where your restaurant, Upstream, is located.”

  I can’t speak.

  “I am currently in negotiations with your landlord to buy the building, a deal that I hope to conclude by the end of the month. Your father wanted you to own the property, so you can generate additional income as a landlord and never again have to worry about being evicted or gouged.”

  “What if the landlord won’t sell?”

  “He will. Your father’s instructions were very clear—I should buy the building ‘at any price’ and give it to you, free and clear.”

  I am so moved I don’t know what to say. It takes me a moment before I can manage a lame “OK.”

  But a thousand thoughts are going through my head. I am first and foremost elated that I can climb out of my financial hole and save my restaurant. I can’t wait to tell my wife. But then I am ashamed that I ever doubted Dad and his generosity, and also amazed that he registered what I told Rob about the restaurant’s lease. He seemed so out of it at the time.