Like a Fading Shadow

by Antonio Munoz Molina

  He lies in bed reading newspapers, his shoes and coat still on, eating chocolate bars and potato chips. He dozes off and his own racing heartbeat wakes him up. The headaches are unbearable. He imagines sharp knives or drill bits piercing through his skull. He is sure he has the symptoms of a brain tumor. He keeps swallowing aspirins with water from the tap.

  When he gets tired of the newspaper or when he is suddenly convinced that the books about psycho-cybernetics and hypnosis are a scam, he looks for one of the novels. Risking your life to rob a bank or traffic drugs is a game of idiots. It takes no effort and no risk to write books that lie to ignorant, gullible people and make millions. He reads novels about spies involved in risky international missions. He reads Tangier Assignment, where Robert Belcourt, secret agent of Her Majesty, uses the cover of a film producer who flies all over the world first class and stays at luxury hotels. Robert Belcourt is an extraordinary name, masculine and distinguished. Belcourt produces films and also writes them. On white beaches, surrounded by palms, and beside hotel pools, he meets beautiful women who sunbathe in bikinis and drink cocktails and want to be with him.

  Reading this makes him think of his days in Puerto Vallarta. Memories blend with the images from the novel. The head of the British secret service sends Belcourt to every corner of the world on the most dangerous and top-secret missions, those that must leave no evidence of government involvement. Belcourt speaks French, Spanish, Italian, German. It’s his mastery of Italian that allows him to infiltrate the Mafia that controls drug trafficking in Tangier, although his real mission is to execute the head of the Soviet secret service in North Africa.

  * * *

  He is falling asleep, his eyes hurt, but he forces himself to continue reading. He knows that as soon as he puts the book down and turns off the light, sleep will leave him.

  He counts the coins and the British bills and stacks them on the nightstand. Then he leaves his room and checks phone booths for change. He walks staring at the floor in case he finds stray coins. There are not a lot of white people on the sidewalks and inside the shops and at the newspaper stand. He sees black people, Pakistanis, women from India wearing saris, men with beards and turbans. The smell of spicy food turns his stomach and the shops are blasting Caribbean or Asian music. He walks past a newspaper stand and something makes him turn abruptly. He thought he had seen his name on a big headline, his face in the mug shot of a thief or killer the police are after. But it’s someone else.

  It seems they’re not looking for him anymore. He’s still spending money every day on newspapers, but getting them at different stands, so it doesn’t call too much attention. He starts reading them on the street and bumps into people. Even when it’s raining he can’t help but take a quick first look at the sections.

  He looks to the right and is about to cross the street when a black car or a red bus almost runs him over from the left. He can’t get used to the change in traffic direction. He still confuses the different values of the coins and makes mistakes when converting to dollars. The Indian or Pakistani men at the newsstand are surely giving him the wrong change. He hasn’t talked to anyone since the night with the blond woman at the Texas Bar, just a few words here and there with waiters and the hotel receptionist. He lives inside his assumed identity like a castaway on a desert island, an ape in a cage, he thinks, as he stares at himself in the small mirror by the sink in front of the bed. The mirror is the cell’s only window, the bulletproof glass that separates him from his only visitor, himself. He looks at himself and no longer has patience for another attempt at autohypnosis. He looks for bars that might be showing the TV program with the FBI’s Most Wanted. It’s possible that he is no longer in the top ten.

  Not seeing even the smallest news report about the search makes him nervous. It accentuates that rare sensation he has of not existing. He will end up being erased or just vanishing like the money he counts every night.

  But he knows they are still working on it, obstinately, like termites, adding every little detail he left behind, the fingerprints he forgot to wipe, perhaps the passport application, or the testimony of one of the receptionists or the person who took his passport photo. They said they had found a fingerprint on the rifle, a receipt for dry-cleaning, and later the prisoner number he thought he had scratched entirely from his transistor radio. They must be so close they don’t want to give him even the slightest clue that might put him on alert. Three thousand seventy-five FBI officers, said the person on the radio. That’s how many people were on the case. Three thousand seventy-five agents against one man and they haven’t been able to catch him—he prides himself though the feeling of exaltation doesn’t last long. Even with their laboratories and their microscopes, their networks of informers, their fancy weapons and their golden badges. How many more would be looking for him in Canada, Mexico, or even here, in London. If they’ve discovered the new name on the passport, all the checkpoints at the airports have been alerted. He doesn’t have the means of acquiring a new identity; this is a skin he can’t shed. He has no choice but to remain Ramon George Sneyd. He dislikes the name more and more, every time he says it or writes it in the logbook of the hotel.

  Despite the familiar language, London feels even more alien than Lisbon. The city of Memphis and the leading newspaper of the city are offering one hundred thousand dollars for anyone who can provide information that will lead to an arrest. That was a real headline, a front-page announcement, unlike the rumor of a secret fifty-thousand-dollar bounty for whoever did what so many boasted of wanting to do, but only he had the guts to execute. The head in the crosshairs of the scope, the single shot that had left the ringing sound in his ears and pushed him back, almost making him fall inside the bathtub. His brother had told him: “There ain’t no money in killing a nigger.”

  He remembered the times when he had wads of hundred-, fifty-, and twenty-dollar bills in his pockets. He peeled money from the deck, counting very fast. One part of his brain counted and the other remained vigilant. He paid the hick who sold him the ’66 Mustang two thousand dollars in one hundred twenty-dollar bills, counting them in broad daylight, in front of the bank, with a level of confidence that intimidated the other. Both were looking at the money, the hick and his son, a slob just like the father, also with glasses and looking almost as old. Both had big stomachs and sparse hair, both had that churchgoer face, both were itching with impatience, dying to get their dirty hands on his money, even though later they would say that he seemed suspicious, that he had to beg them to sell him the car. Posing together for the newspaper photos, father and son.

  * * *

  The receptionist would always greet him with a smile when she saw him enter with all his newspapers. She was very young. Her name was Janet Nassau. She didn’t get discouraged from all the failed attempts at starting a conversation with him. About the weather, the traffic, Canada, a modern country, with its vast open spaces. Every time he came in or left was like the first time. There was no air of familiarity even after a few days of being there. He always seemed puzzled, like someone who has entered a dark room after being under a bright sun. In ten days he did not receive a single letter or phone call. He always said his room number when asking for his key, as if he expected the receptionist to have forgotten.

  She felt pity for him. She felt the urge to protect him, to defend him against whatever was tormenting him, whatever misfortune had brought him to this hotel, to England. He never made eye contact, but sometimes she caught a glimpse of the light blue eyes behind the glasses. He always left before nine in the morning like someone going to an office. He came downstairs and left the keys on her desk, which she took in an almost affectionate way. If it was raining, she reminded him to take an umbrella. He listened for a moment with his head slightly cocked, as if not understanding what she was saying. She wanted to fold his coat collar down, recommend that he use less deodorant, brush the dandruff from his shoulders. If he was going through a financial hardship and was trying to get
a job, he needed to look his best.

  As soon as he left, she asked the bellhop to keep an eye on the reception for a moment. She went up to his room. She knew it was risky, but she could not help it, she wanted to know more about him. Sometimes he would not return for hours, other times he was back in less than half an hour with a few newspapers under his arm, like a professor carrying books from the library. He could be a professor. A scholar at a secluded and respectable Canadian university. A professor of theology or Semitic languages, something detached from the vanities of the world.

  She opened the door carefully, and closed it behind her right away. She looked around the tiny room. There was very little natural light. She was moved by the fact that he had made his bed. He had smoothed the blue quilt so there were no wrinkles and folded it perfectly below the pillow. A hand-washed shirt hung by the window. There was a small hand radio and a paperback novel on the bedside table. On the cover of the book there was a woman in a bikini seen from behind; she was looking over her shoulder, her mouth was half-open and her lips were red, she wore black eyeliner and had a wild mane of hair. She took a step toward the table and stepped on one of the newspapers. She should leave now. She could hear a vacuum cleaner somewhere in the building. She opened the drawer carefully. It was dark and she could barely see what was inside. She turned on the table lamp, making sure not to move the novel or the radio. There was a pornographic magazine inside. It looked worn and did not have a cover. There was a full-color close-up. It took Janet Nassau a few seconds to realize what she was seeing. She closed the drawer right away and felt dirty. In the closet there was a jacket and a pair of sport pants, also the small suitcase he had brought with him. The spray can of Right Guard deodorant was on a shelf by the sink, next to a plastic glass with a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste with an airline logo.

  She opened the latch quietly to leave the room, feeling remorseful, afraid that he would show up right that second. She returned to her desk. It took a while to calm down. When he returned a few hours later, she tensed up and almost could not smile. She gave him the key along with an envelope from the hotel manager. The guest looked at the envelope with some confusion, perhaps thinking that it was a letter. “I have to go to the bank,” he said, not looking at her, as if talking to himself. “I will go today and get some money.”

  * * *

  He sat on the bed without taking his coat off and stared at the wall and the closet. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It was 2:00 p.m. on a Monday at the beginning of June, but the rain and the cold made it feel like an evening in December. The room was not much different from a prison cell. It was only missing the toilet without a lid next to the sink. In one coat pocket he had approximately twenty-five British pounds in bills and coins. In the other one, next to the bill from the hotel manager, he had his gun, the handle wrapped with tape. He had swallowed two aspirins without water. If he closed his eyes and remained still the medicine would act faster. He had to concentrate so he could get on the right frequency for psycho-cybernetic autosuggestion. Perhaps it did not work because he had missed some crucial step in the book, he had not had enough faith, he had not made a real effort to project the right image of himself, the one he wanted others to see. The blond ditz at the reception desk, for instance. If he had looked her in the eye with the necessary intensity and sent telepathic orders to put the envelope away, now he would have extra time to find the money. He could have just gone to his room and stayed there for a day or two reading his novels, looking for another article from that reporter who wrote about the wars in Africa and the mercenary armies. Then he could have left without paying by hypnotizing the bellhop and the maid and the receptionist and anyone else who crossed his path.

  * * *

  He seemed absentminded when he left and forgot to leave the key on the desk. The receptionist was going to call him, but stopped herself, her mouth half-open, the name on the tip of her tongue, a hint of a smile. He was probably in a hurry to get to the bank before it closed. It had stopped raining and the streets were filling up again.

  He was looking for a shop he had passed several times. It was a narrow jewelry shop, tucked between an electronics store and a textiles store. It reminded him of the old shops in Lisbon, where he would see old people behind the counters, hunched over, examining jewels or watches.

  He found the place. There was a pale man with gray hair discussing something with a customer. He was holding a little black box with a shiny object inside. A bell rang when he went inside. There was a glass door in the back and he could see the profile of a woman with gray hair, glasses, and a dark dress working at a small table. He walked around, looking at the display windows while the old man finished with the customer. The woman had looked up when the bell rang. A black ribbon hung from the legs of her glasses. She looked sick, like someone who has aged prematurely. He reached inside his pocket and squeezed the gun. He could feel the sweat on his palm against the tape. He should have taped his fingertips as well.

  When he saw the client get ready to leave he turned around so the person could not see his face. The bell rang again as the person exited and the sound of traffic entered for a few seconds. The old man asked how he could help. His nose was covered with small purple veins and he had a pale complexion.

  He looked at the scrawny arms under the short-sleeved shirt, then grabbed the man by the collar and jabbed the gun barrel in his neck. The small eyes stared at him from under the white wiry eyebrows, showing more incredulity than fear. He twisted the old man’s arm and pushed him against the wall.

  The woman was suddenly gone from her post. A bit more force and the frail arm would break. He pushed the old man toward the cash register and demanded the money. A shadow and her breath alerted him but it was too late. He caught a glimpse of some heavy object and instinctively recoiled toward the exit. The blow almost knocked him to the ground but he caught himself on the counter. He could hear their heavy breathing behind him and then he felt the old man’s fingers in his eyes. The alarm went off and he felt his head was about to explode.

  He pushed the old couple back as hard as he could and ran for the door. In a flash of panic he noticed that the coat had gotten caught on something and one of the pockets had torn. But he didn’t stop running. The alarm blared in the distance. He saw the entrance to the metro and pushed his way in through the rush-hour crowd. Seconds later, he was locked in a toilet stall trying to catch his breath. He fixed his clothes and checked all the pockets: the revolver, a few coins and crumpled bills, the hotel bill, a comb, the passport. How stupid of him to have taken his government ID to the robbery.

  He went over to the sink, splashed water on his face, and combed his hair, parting it carefully to one side. The receptionist noticed the tear in the coat when he returned to the hotel, even though he was holding the pocket to hide it. She knew there was no way he would have made it to the bank before closing.

  The next morning, she was happy to see the pocket was already sewn. It’s great to see a man who can make his own bed, wash his shirts, and use a needle and thread when necessary. He put the key on the desk and, without looking at her, said he would pay his bill when he came back. He was going to his bank, he said, not just any bank. This is a man who is going through a hard time but you know he is trustworthy, the hotel employees recognize him and say hi, they imagine what he’s going through, the death of his wife, perhaps a bad divorce that has forced him to live in a hotel.

  * * *

  She saw him return three hours later. Police and ambulance sirens had been sounding for a while. According to the bellhop, there had been an armed robbery at the bank nearby. He had heard that the bank teller had resisted and the burglar had shot him or hit him in the head with the gun. She had worried that it was the same bank where the guest had gone to withdraw his money. She asked him as she handed the key with a smile. He heard the question but could not understand it at first due to her accent. He seemed confused, his head cocked to one side. Finally, he
shrugged his shoulders and said he hadn’t heard anything. Up close, the stitching in the coat pocket looked very rough. His forehead was covered in sweat. Something fell as he pulled the money out of his pocket, and the glasses slid down his nose as he bent to pick it up. She could see the bulk of a heavy object in the stitched-up pocket.

  It was the passport that had fallen out. He paid with brand-new bills, five- and ten-pound notes, and said he was checking out, he had a flight to catch that afternoon. She said she hoped it wasn’t an emergency. Once again, he stared at her lips as if he didn’t understand what she was saying.

  The bellhop had been leaning on the counter but did not offer to help bring down the man’s bag. The guest had not tipped him even once in ten days. The police sirens faded and rain began to pour. There was thunder and hail. Janet Nassau felt bad for him. What if he didn’t find a taxi that could take him to the airport. He would get drenched. She saw him come down with his suitcase, a plastic bag, several newspapers under his arm, and a camera around the neck. She gave the bellhop a dirty look. The guest was feeling through his pockets, probably trying to find the keys. Janet Nassau prepared a smile for him, she was ready to ask him if he needed anything, she could call him a taxi, or perhaps it was best if he waited until the rain ceased. It thundered and she lost her train of thought. The guest put the keys on the desk and a moment later he was gone, just like that, without a word.

  * * *

  The rain fogged up his glasses. The street was barely visible. He could only see the moving headlights and the traffic lights. Water ran down his face, getting in his eyes. He turned a random corner and found himself on a quiet street with low houses, identical facades and red or black doors with golden doorbells. There was no way he would find a hotel on this street. But he couldn’t have stayed in the other after the robbery. As soon as he had taken off running from the bank he realized just how close the hotel was. The confusing topography of London’s streets had made him think it was actually farther.