by Jon Bilbao
He spent the days in the run-up to their Saturday meeting wracked with nerves and deliberating what to wear and whether he should bring a gift. He’d barely thought about the professor since passing his class. The curiosity he’d once inspired in Joanes had become buried under a sea of other day-to-day concerns and new relationships. But ever since the professor had sent him the note, he’d become a bag of nerves, jumping at the slightest touch.
He decided to see their get-together as an opportunity to talk about his studies, just like many meetings he’d had with other professors. Even so, his girlfriend noted how tense he was and asked him more than once if he was all right. He told her he was fine, but she didn’t believe him. The last time she asked, on Friday evening, he snapped at her. She’d walked out of the bar without even saying goodbye.
On Saturday, at two minutes to twelve, Joanes rang the doorbell of a large house near the waterfront. He’d dressed in slacks and a shirt he’d rolled up to his elbows to give the look a laid-back air. In the end, he’d decided not to take a gift.
An old lady dressed in housekeeping attire opened the door. He introduced himself, and she asked him to follow her. She led him through an elaborately decorated lounge out onto a balcony that overlooked the sea. On the way there, Joanes caught a glimpse of the stairs that led up to the second floor. Attached to the banister was a stair lift painted the same color as the walls in an obvious effort to have it blend in with the décor. Out on the balcony, on a wrought-iron table, there were two place settings for coffee, the cups placed upside down. The housekeeper asked him to wait there.
He passed the time looking out at the view. A bank of dunes and a beach divided the house from the sea. Gusts of wind whipped up the sand and sent plastic bags and bits of paper somersaulting through the air. The balcony floor was covered in a carpet of dirty-looking sand. A heavy, salty fog, cold and hostile, drifted in off the sea. Joanes thought that he’d rather take his coffee, or whatever it was they were going to offer him, inside.
“Good morning.”
He turned around, surprised, and came face to face with the professor, who was standing right behind him. He hadn’t heard him approaching.
“I’m so pleased you were able to make it.”
“Me too.”
The professor smiled widely and made a gesture for Joanes to take a seat at the table. A second later the housekeeper appeared with an espresso maker. The professor said that he’d do the honors. Joanes sat in uncomfortable silence as he served him a coffee as thick as motor oil.
“I couldn’t help but hear about your triumph.”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“Don’t be modest. Most of your fellow students would give their right arm to be in your place.”
Joanes didn’t reply, a silent admission that the professor was right. It felt like something was expanding in his chest.
“Are you familiar with the company?” asked Joanes.
“A little,” said the professor, in a clear show of false modesty. “They’re doing interesting things. A few of my alumni have ended up there. All of them very fine. They deserve it. And I’m very pleased for them,” he said.
He stared at Joanes and took a sip of coffee, making a slight sucking sound.
The professor then proceeded to tell Joanes about his own beginnings, a definite note of nostalgia in his voice. He looked out at the horizon over the dunes as he spoke. Joanes nodded from time to time, but he was so uncomfortable, he barely registered a word of what his former teacher was saying. The professor was wearing pants not dissimilar to his own, a polo shirt with the logo of a fishing club on the chest, and some huarache loafers without socks. As is often the case with people who tend to dress formally, finding him in more casual clothes came as a shock to Joanes, as if he were seeing him in some sort of costume. He was freshly shaven, and the trace of aftershave hung on him. His sagging jowls quivered each time he laughed or sighed recalling his early professional years.
“It was harder starting out in those days,” he said. “The first stage was harder, and longer. Dull, to be precise. Nowadays you all want everything right away. You think you’re entitled to the whole pie from the word go. You have no concept of or interest in sacrifice.”
With this, the professor returned his gaze to Joanes. The thick lenses in his glasses made his eyes look bigger than they should. He flashed Joanes a little smile and said, “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out well for you.”
And after a pause, he repeated, “Don’t worry. That’s the most important thing.”
The next thing, he was on his feet wrapping up their meeting. He thanked Joanes again for coming and accompanied him to the door, where he said goodbye and offered him his hand. The sound of the housekeeper bustling around in the kitchen reached them, along with the fatty smell of fried liver. That was the last time that Joanes saw the professor, until fifteen years later, when he found him on the side of a Mexican highway.
Joanes got home relieved by how quickly the meeting had flown by but at the same time disappointed. He’d never have expected anything so hackneyed from the professor as a diatribe on the immaturity of the younger generations.
He decided that their meeting wasn’t worth bringing up with anyone and never said a word about it. That night he took his girlfriend out for dinner. He apologized for his behavior over the last few days. She forgave him without giving him a hard time.
First thing the following Monday morning, Joanes received a call from Robot Systems. Someone from HR let him know that the company had undergone some restructuring and that the post that he was going to fill no longer existed. The employee apologized profusely, wished him luck, and hung up.
Joanes was speechless. It took him a good several moments to hang up the telephone.
When at last he was able to think clearly again, he blamed the professor. It was clear as day—the professor had called the company to advise them against employing him. The professor was a well-known, prestigious figure whose opinion was respected, there was no doubt about it. He had clearly played down his links to Robot Systems during their meeting on Saturday. The restructuring story was, of course, a load of bull.
What he couldn’t see so clearly was why the professor would do such a thing, what he’d seen in Joanes—or what he hadn’t seen—in the little time they’d spent together that would lead him to give a negative report of Joanes.
But he couldn’t prove anything. He couldn’t even know for sure that it had really happened as he was imagining it.
And yet he knew. The cause-and-effect relationship was crystal clear to him.
The idea of paying a visit to the professor and putting him on the spot occurred to him, but it dissolved as rapidly as it had appeared. In the same way that he knew the professor was guilty, he also knew that he would deny any and all charges flatly, feigning offense.
He spent a few days taking the news in before sharing it with his family and girlfriend. He stuck to the version about the company restructuring. They were understanding and shared his disappointment, but they also assured him that there was no need to worry. He’d find something similar, if not better, in no time. He had his whole life ahead of him.
The road leading to Los Tigres wasn’t as busy. It was a narrow road, riddled with bumps and potholes that looked to have been repaired countless times with tar. More homemade signs hung from the branches of trees: GOD’S GIFT TAVERN; RELIABLE ELECTRICAL PLUMBER; MECHANICAL REPAIRS BY THE GRACE OF OUR LORD JESUS …
Los Tigres was a dump made up of low-rise houses that somehow managed to look old and at the same time only half built. The fronts of the houses were painted in gaudy colors—ochre, yellow, and lime green—but they were dirty and the paint was flaking off. Only the main road was properly paved. On first sight, its residents didn’t seem to have taken any measures against the hurricane. There was an almost festive mood in the air.
The streets were busy, and groups of people stood drinking outside bars.
Joanes stopped to ask for the English Residence. He was told he should go all the way to the end of town and from there keep going another third of a mile; he’d then come across a turn-off on the right. Taking that road, he’d eventually arrive at the English Residence.
Minutes later they were heading along a dirt track that led them to a two-story building painted a mustard color. It was entirely lacking in architectural adornment and in no way distinguishable from the other houses in the town, apart from the fact that it was bigger. It, too, appeared only half built. The roof was no more than a flat surface covering the upper floor. Metal rods poked out of it, presumably the building’s supports. Joanes imagined they’d stay uncut like that, just in case the owners decided to add another story. The bunches of rods, several yards high, bending under their own weight and rusting, lent the English Residence a disheveled, even lunatic appearance.
The buzzy mood in the town extended to the hotel, too. The front yard—an unpaved area of earth in front of the house—was a hive of people and vehicles. A kid directing traffic pointed to where they should leave the car.
Everyone there was Mexican. When Joanes, the professor, and his wife showed up, conversations stopped and all eyes fell on them.
“Good afternoon,” said Joanes as he got out of the car. And he repeated his greeting in different directions, turning to each of the various huddles of people.
They responded with nods and murmurs.
The professor also got out. His wife stayed in the car.
One of the Mexican men was slaving away at a barbecue constructed out of a metal gas drum cut in half lengthways and mounted on sawhorses. On seeing them, he walked toward the newcomers, wiping his hands with a cloth. Joanes guessed the man was about fifty. He was built like a barrel and had one lame leg. His right foot swung, tracing an arc as he walked, and this movement drew attention to his sneakers, which had air vents snipped into the instep.
“Afternoon,” said the Mexican man, introducing himself as the hotel’s owner, “How can I help you?”
The professor piped up before Joanes could get a word in.
“My wife and I had a setback on the bus that was taking us to Valladolid, and we had to get off halfway through our journey. We were forced to,” he clarified. “Now we’re looking for accommodations for the night. In Los Tigres, they directed us this way. But before I say more, may I have a glass of water?”
The owner of the establishment went over to a table where a group of women were preparing platters of food and returned with two glasses of water.
“I’m sorry, we’re out of ice.”
The professor took the glasses and lifted them up to the light.
“Is it mineral water?”
“I’m sorr y?”
“Is it purified?”
The Mexican man nodded unconvincingly. The professor threw him a disapproving look and went over to his wife, who drank holding the glass with both hands and spilling part of its contents down her chin. The professor stood beside her, stroking her hair. Once she’d finished, the professor offered her the other glass, which she also gulped down. Then the professor whispered something to her, to which she nodded, once again with a pained expression. Finally, the professor went up to the table of food, where he helped himself to more water and drank.
“Do you have any rooms?” Joanes asked the hotel owner.
“You’re in luck. I have one. The last one. Do want to see it?”
“Just one?”
The hotel owner nodded and pointed toward the elderly couple.
“Are they your parents?”
“God no.”
The professor walked back over to them, and Joanes gave him the bad news.
“It wouldn’t be possible, for example, to relocate someone?” the professor proposed. “I’m sure we could come to some sort of arrangement.”
“I’ve got people crammed in like sardines,” the hotel owner answered. “Six or seven to a room. I’m not going to move them just to make more room for you.”
“Is there room in any of the other hotels in Los Tigres?” interrupted Joanes.
“There aren’t any other hotels in Los Tigres. Do you want to see the room?”
“We may as well, now that we’re here,” Joanes said.
The owner called over a vacant looking girl who was seasoning the meat for the barbecue.
“My daughter. She’ll show you the room. I have to attend to the food. If you’re happy with what you see, come back down and we can talk.”
The professor told his wife to wait for them a minute, and he and Joanes followed the girl. Inside there was nothing vaguely resembling a reception desk. In fact, there was nothing really resembling a hotel. And this impression was heightened when they stopped in front of a room with no number on the door. The girl opened it and invited them to go in.
It was pretty large, and reasonably clean. The floor was tiled and the walls painted a muted tone of green. By way of furniture there was a bed, and next to that a bedside table with a lamp, then one sole chair set aside in the corner. A print of the Virgin of Guadalupe hung over the bed. The window faced out onto the back of the hotel, where a rusty swing set stood among weeds and garbage.
When Joanes asked if there was any chance of having an additional bed, the girl said that they could hang a hammock and pointed to some meat hooks screwed into the ceiling for that purpose.
“The bathroom is next to the kitchen,” she added.
“Just one for the whole hotel?”
“There are two,” answered the girl, monotone. “A ladies’ room and a men’s room. There are two showers, too.”
Joanes flicked the lamp switch, but it didn’t go on.
“There’s no light,” he said.
“It’s been cut,” said the girl. “For the hurricane.”
“A lready?”
“Yeah, a while ago.”
Joanes let out a sigh and then asked, “How far to Valladolid from here?”
“Fifty miles or so,” said the girl. “Driving it’s around an hour, but if the road’s backed up . . .”
“It is.”
“Impossible to say, then. Are you gonna take the room?”
She looked from one to the other, waiting for an answer.
“What do you think?” Joanes asked the professor.
“It has four walls and a door. Just what you wanted.”
“It could be we just have to stay one night. We’ll leave tomorrow, if the weather clears up.”
“Are you here because of the hurricane?” the girl asked.
Joanes nodded.
“A load of people have come because of that. If you don’t take the room now, someone else will,” she said, in her usual lifeless tone, barely opening her mouth.
The professor shot her a less than kindly look.
“I have to discuss it with my wife,” he said, leaving the room.
Shortly after, Joanes joined the elderly couple out by the car. They were bickering under their breath.
“Have you made up your minds?”
“I’m just explaining to my wife that the room isn’t very comfortable.”
“It’s more comfortable than the car. And it’ll seem even more so when the wind picks up. She won’t be any better off in Valladolid sleeping in a hallway or a gym.”
“Listen to the boy,” said the wife. “He’s right.”
“You don’t want to stay?” Joanes asked the professor.
“I don’t like this place. I’d take our chances and keep going.”
And after a pause, he added, “We have one vote in favor of staying and another against, so you decide.”
Joanes thought how with the electricity already cut, charging his phone was no longer a
reason to stay. But he was tired and hungry, and he didn’t feel like heading back into that traffic jam for God only knew how long. To say nothing of the hurricane. Without them even noticing, the sky had filled with heavy, gray clouds.
“We’ll bed down here till tomorrow,” he said. “I think that’s best.”
“What about your family?” asked the professor.
“They’ll be fine. I’ll call them and explain what’s happened.”
The professor stared at him.
“So it’s decided,” he said. “Even though, given that we’re dependent on you, the truth is our opinions count for little. We’re in your hands.”
“I’ll talk to the owner,” responded Joanes, refusing to take the bait, and he walked off, leaving the elderly couple to go on exchanging whispers.
“We’ll take it.”
The owner nodded, satisfied, and without taking his eyes off the barbecue. He was putting a lot of care and attention into his work. Despite the fact that there were other men around, not one offered him their help or advice on how best to cook the meat, as one might expect.
“How much is the room?”
The owner gave his price. It was more than the room was worth, but in the current circumstances, reasonable enough.
“How long are you going to stay?”
“A night. Two, at most. Do you want payment now?”
“No, don’t worry. We’ll discuss that tomorrow. There’s a lot of folks here,” he added, waving his meat fork toward the mass. “There’s no way of you slipping away without me knowing about it.”
“Why is it called the English Residence?”
“An English couple lived here before. Archeologists. They came for the ruins and stayed twenty years. This was their house. When they died, it was abandoned. We tore it down and built our own on top.”
“So there are no English people now.”
“Not one.”
