We were set to finish paying ours in a remote future, the beginning of a new century, the year 2001. I didn’t think much about my second son, who was due in just a few months, except when I was assailed by an irrational fear that he could be born with some congenital disease. I would accompany my wife to the routine tests with the gynecologist and see the grainy shadow palpitating on the ultrasound monitor, slowly moving as if underwater. The doctor placed the transducer on the planetary curve of her belly and we could hear the resounding tapping, like a metallic drumroll, of my son’s heartbeat, his minute stubbornness submerged in that aquatic refuge, warm and dark, where I could not project even my curiosity.
* * *
I bought the electric Canon in installments. Out of the box and the plastic wrap, it smelled so new, a combination of ink and well-oiled metal. I used to keep a stack of blank sheets of paper on my desk at all times. Paper gave materiality to the act of writing; the whiteness of the paper was evidence of the leap into the void that was required to create, the fact that something had to materialize out of nothing. Walking to the stationer to buy paper was the first step in a ritual that back then also included a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and an ashtray. We lived in a fog of cigarette smoke and did not even notice it.
One afternoon in September, I sat in front of the new typewriter with the usual lack of confidence but suddenly found myself writing something unexpected, a first sentence completely improvised, long and full of twists, somehow containing, without tedious preambles, everything that I knew about the story up to that moment and a lot more than I had previously imagined. Until then, in all my drafts, the story had been told in the third person, but now the narrator, in the first person, was someone else, someone who saw himself from the outside, a witness who sometimes knew what was going on and sometimes had to imagine and speculate, someone who saw the story unfold and whose role was marginal at best, a stranger we know nothing about, a nobody.
I had been reading The Great Gatsby and was impressed by the narrative voice and gaze of Nick Carraway. Gatsby was not a hero whose exploits Nick happened to witness: he was a hero precisely because Nick was observing him. His legend was not in his person or his acts but in the perspective of another person; his ultimate ambiguity, that blank space at the center of his character and most of his biography, was the result of missing information. Being largely an invention of himself, Jay Gatsby exists only in the eyes of others. Everything that was unknown or left unsaid about Gatsby added to his persona and deepened his mystery like the negative space that on paper or canvas strengthens a composition. Painting is, in a way, also about not painting, just as writing requires that certain things are left unsaid, outlines that will be completed in the imagination of a reader or in the brain of a viewer examining a painting, instead of the canvas where figures emerge out of loose strokes and a few lines.
But I was not hiding anything: there were simply things that I did not know or that did not matter for the story, and my mistake, all that time, had been to try to fill every gap with unnecessary details, fill all the space in the story like a mediocre painter fills a whole canvas with paint or a pretentious musician leaves no space for silence. I was now sketching the characters mostly through the missing details, and the story was unfolding before me like a series of flashes or quick strokes in a vast, blank space. Like characters in a film, they existed for the most part in the present tense. They might come from a recent past but this would disappear without a trace in the immediate future. They would have no ties, no origins, no childhood memories, no fixed addresses, no jobs that grounded them in one place. They would be everything I was not. Inhabitants of a parallel universe in cities symmetric to the real Granada, where it would have been impossible for me to situate a story, cities consisting mostly of their luminous names, images from my own distant memories and what I had imagined while listening to others talk about their travels. The San Sebastián from my days as a soldier, the simple happiness of wandering the streets on my day off without uniform, hands in pockets, peeking into the Cantábrico at the mouth of the Urumea River, where at night the wind ruffled the furious foam of the waves under the luminous spheres of the Kursaal Bridge; the Florence of those solitary days of winter when a sound technician had been so close to Bill Evans and Chet Baker; the Lisbon of my friend Juan Vida, with its iron elevator and an Eiffel Tower and its square with a staircase that led into the waters of a river that seemed as wide as the sea; with the cliffs of Boca do Inferno, cliffs of shipwrecks and action films where men fight on the edge of an abyss, perhaps a cinematic montage of a face filled with vertigo and terror against a backdrop of breaking waves.
* * *
But in that intuited beginning, in that long first paragraph, another city, even less expected, had emerged: Madrid, real and imagined, reduced to a few scenes from a trip the prior winter, somewhat secret, an intimate failure, two or three days chasing ghosts of desire without success, moving through places that now returned as foci for the story, no longer gray and clouded by my experience: a large, somber hotel where I had stayed in the Gran Via, opposite the Telefonica building at the beginning of Fuencarral Street; Café Central, where I had listened to a jazz group; a small restaurant in Cava Alta, Viuda de Vacas; the moist light of Sunday morning in Santa Ana Square, a cold, golden clarity like that of the beer served at the German Brewery; the afternoon sun fading into the winter night, ascending through the wide and dark sidewalks of Alcalá Street in that sordid Madrid of the mid-eighties, when the mouths of Fuencarral and Hortaleza into the Gran Vía were tunnels of shadows for prostitutes and junkies and drug dealers standing under the neon signs of cheap hotels. Given my limited and somewhat frightened knowledge of the city, those places lacked any connection. Not tied to a continuous topography, they glowed in my mind like islands. They existed only to the extent of my novel, like those meticulous fragments of streets in New York City re-created in Hollywood studios. Literature was antithetical to reality and film was truer than life.
4
It was after midnight when he arrived in the empty city. He had seen it from above, leaning against the window, holding on to the armrests during the descent, when suddenly the wing tilted down and the sea horizon moved into the black sky. He saw the city below, a pale constellation of lights filtering through the fog. He saw the lit deck of a ship gliding on the vast sheet of water, bathed in moonlight. Cargo ships departed from Lisbon every day and headed to colonies in Africa, Brazil, Goa, India, Macao, an island at the mouth of the Pearl River. His flight was the last one that night. Less than half the seats were filled. He was one of the silent travelers, mostly men, sleeping or reading, businessmen or diplomats used to flying, opening and closing briefcases, reviewing documents, constantly checking their watches. They sat in the dark cabin enveloped by cones of reading light, smoking cigarettes, sipping whiskey, clinking ice cubes. No one could say he wasn’t one of them. The coat, the suit, the tie, the white dress shirt, the glasses, any missing detail or imperfection would have been concealed by the dim light. He was only missing a briefcase and papers to spread on the tray table. James Bond carries his gun, ammunition, and silencer in a briefcase like that. But these men probably carried lots of money neatly folded in leather wallets, traveler’s checks, and business cards. A reading light illuminated the open book and his manicured nails.
At Heathrow, his bag weighed twelve kilos. It was a British European Airlines flight, departure time 10:00 p.m., and scheduled to arrive at 1:15 a.m. Trivial yet exact details give a misleading sense of omniscience. He put the glasses on to make sure he would not forget them. He focused and tried to form the same hint of a smile he had in the passport photo. The owner of the boardinghouse in Memphis said he had a forced smile that made her uncomfortable. He would keep that same expression, reserved yet amiable, when he faced the immigration officer in the arrivals area at this late hour. The graying hair on the sides made him look even more distinguished.
He was reading Psycho-Cybe
rnetics by Dr. Maxwell Maltz, the same book that now sits on my desk. He read it slowly, sometimes repeating certain sentences in a low voice, sometimes underlining them. A human being always acts and feels and performs according to what he imagines to be true about himself and his surroundings. He also carried a spy novel and an armful of newspapers and magazines. He had a few when he boarded the plane and also checked the ones the stewardesses passed around. Experienced travelers carried newspapers and magazines under their arms and weekend bags with airline logos. He paid attention to the front pages, scanning the photos and headlines, and focused on the side columns and the bottom corners now that the search for him, or the hunt rather, seemed to have been interrupted or maybe just displaced by other news. Three thousand one hundred FBI agents were involved in the investigation, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the Mexican police. His eyes shone with secret pride. Interpol agents were following a tip that placed him in some shady neighborhood in Sydney, Australia. He wanted to fold his newspaper neatly as he read it but the pages crumpled noisily with every turn. It was necessary to examine every page. Ads and odd news would sometimes distract him.
Newspapers had fascinated him since he was a kid. The photographs, the happy faces of men and women in ads for new cars, the smiles of housewives in their spotless kitchens. He paid attention to their gestures so he could replicate them: how to hold a glass of whiskey, how to make sure your cuff links show, how to light a woman’s cigarette.
But the old name and the old photo, which looked nothing like the new him, were not the only things he was looking for. He also searched with apprehension for the name he was using now, the one he had filled out in forms and repeated out loud when asked. He knew that sooner or later it would appear. He imagined with a sense of impending doom the moment when they identified him. Doom and fear but also pride. According to psycho-cybernetics, imagining future possible scenarios, with as much detail as possible, allowed you to know the best exits ahead of time. A disciplined imagination was like a lab where you could synthesize different experiences.
He would approach the counter and wait behind the white line as the person in front of him was processed without fear or difficulty. When he provided the passport, issued just a week earlier in Toronto, he would notice a peculiar expression in the eyes of the immigration agent, a glance to the side and then toward him, toward his face, which he would turn slightly to the right, out of habit, out of shyness and seeming submission, his eyes fixed on the floor, chin close to the shoulder, the light eyes avoiding direct contact, blinking nervously like the wings of an insect.
He had lived that same moment the night before, or the morning before, he no longer remembered, in another airport, in Heathrow, after a much longer flight, one that lasted the entire night, a night that ended abruptly when the cabin lights came on and it was already seven o’clock, even though it had been no later than two when he closed his eyes and it was still dark outside, the runway shining under the rain. When the person ahead of him approached the desk he moved right behind the white line. They enforce their rules, only let you approach when they decide it’s your turn. Unwittingly, he adopted the same posture he took when waiting in line in prison: shoulders back, legs apart, a vigilant glance left and right. Strict limits, white lines that can’t be crossed without punishment. There was a British flag next to the desk of the immigration agent. There was a .32-caliber revolver in his back pocket. Liberty Chief, made in Japan. The past is full of exotic minutiae. In 1968, security checks at airports had no metal detectors and a fugitive with no documentation could obtain, via mail and without much difficulty, a birth certificate with someone else’s name. That was enough to get a Canadian passport. The immigration agent spoke in such a weird way that it took him a while to realize the man was actually speaking English. On the wall behind him: a color portrait of the Queen of England—007 at the service of Her Majesty. The agent was freshly shaven and smelled of cologne. He was young, a novice, insecure but thorough—the worst combination. And his shift was just starting. He compared the passport and the entry form and noticed the only difference, a single letter spelled wrong. One letter, a split-second mistake, can change your life. The man’s face matched the one in the photograph but the name on the form, written in capital letters, did not match the one printed beneath the smooth plastic surface of the passport. Sneyd, Sneya.
A typing error, he said, forcing a smile, pushing the glasses up his nose, the small nose, thinner after the surgery, beginning to sweat, the face so pale, whiter under the fluorescent lights, the gun in his pocket, successive blackouts lasting milliseconds, incessant blinking. The weapon’s handle was wrapped in tape. The agent looked at the open passport and the entry form, then at his face, trying to make eye contact, glancing at the line of people behind him, extending across the room. Waves of rain were crashing against the windows. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled an envelope with an official letterhead, fumbling nervously with some papers until he found the birth certificate. This one had the correct full name, typed in capital letters, and stamped with an official seal, Sneyd, not Sneya, Ramon George Sneyd, Canadian citizen born in Toronto, October 8, 1932. He said he also had a certificate of vaccination and looked in several pockets until he found it. The hero in the novel he was reading was also Canadian, a veteran of the British secret service during the war. The novel was titled Tangier Assignment. On the cover: a woman with black hair, sitting on the sand, facing away, a tan line across her naked back.
The agent compared the immigration form with the birth certificate and the passport, following the letters with a sharp pencil, the tip suspended a few millimeters above the surface. He had sharpened it so much that it resembled a weapon. He circled the two names: Sneyd, Sneya. The small blade on the sharpener was probably as sharp as the razor the agent had used that morning, still dark, shaving in the mirror, his blue shirt freshly ironed and buttoned. “A typing error,” he said, nodding, docile, guilty, almost grateful, his hands covered in sweat, the buttoned collar pressing against his skin; then walking, gliding away under the fluorescent lights, after the agent signaled him to go, already forgotten, erased from memory to make room for the next person in line.
* * *
He stayed in the Heathrow terminal from seven in the morning until the boarding time that night. A solitary man who spends an entire day at the airport, who just the evening before was boarding a plane for the first time. Everything must have been strange and confusing: the escalator, checking a bag, the myriad of signs. The announcements over the loudspeakers agitated him; flights about to depart, gate changes. He wouldn’t have known what a gate was. He followed others and imitated their actions. Following the fat man eventually led him to the baggage claim.
* * *
He picked up his suitcase and stood there not knowing where to go. Behind the tall glass windows, London was a landscape of hangars and runways, a low and cloudy horizon where the light barely changed even as the day progressed. At the cafeteria, he pushed his tray to the cashier’s counter and paid without making eye contact. He had to observe what others were doing so he knew what to do, where to pick up the tray, a fork, the napkins. He looked for a secluded table near an exit where he wouldn’t stand out too much and where it was easy to survey the area. It was reassuring to blend in with the other travelers. If only an old acquaintance from prison, or a relative, his father, could see him now. His father now lived in a one-room cabin surrounded by junk, trash, and his German shepherds. He had spoken with journalists, probably in exchange for some money, but according to the papers he had refused to have his picture taken. “If the blacks find out I’m his father, they will burn this house down and kill my dogs.” He also said his son wasn’t smart enough to have acted on his own and that he was probably dead by now.
* * *
He recognized uniformed officers in the distance, guards or police. Plainclothes officers would be more of a concern, though he could recognize them at a glance. It was written all
over their faces. On the frosted glass door of a police room, he saw the poster with the big white-on-black letters, WANTED, and the three photos, front, profile—both over eight years old—and a third one that was even less useful, the one where he was dressed in a waiter’s uniform, his eyes like small buttons. It looked nothing like him. The rented tuxedo did not suit him and the bow tie was wrinkled and crooked.
He walked around the terminal kiosks, browsing pocket novels with colorful covers, magazines with nude women, magazines with glossy photos of yachts, sports cars, luxury suites, exotic destinations, blue skies, foamy waves washing over a beach at sunset, gold bracelets and watches on tanned skin, the dark honey color of glasses filled with rum, golden whiskey on the rocks, shimmering beads of condensation adorning the glass. Before taking a paper from the newsstand he reviewed every front page he could lay his eyes on. Perhaps he knew that the extradition treaty between the United States and Portugal excluded any crime that could lead to the death penalty. But it’s also possible he did not plan to fly to Lisbon after arriving in London. He just saw the name of the city on the destinations board, the letters changing with the clicking sound of dominos, forming the name, Lisbon, awakening the memory of something he had heard or read somewhere, perhaps in a newspaper or a conversation with sailors at a bar in the port of Montreal, polished wood shining through the alcoholic half-light of the Neptune Tavern. Perhaps he had planned nothing at all and it was his survival instinct that kept him moving, trying to get as far away as fast as possible, or maybe he could not distinguish between a viable plan and fantasy. An entire day at the airport, looking for rows of seats where he could be the only one, facing the windows, a soft light filtering through the fog as it dissipated throughout the day, or sweeping across the gray and rainy sky, fading into the evening, shaping a block of time made solely out of boredom, while loudspeakers sounded final calls and departure gates for far-off destinations.
Like a Fading Shadow Page 5
