Like a Fading Shadow

by Antonio Munoz Molina

  * * *

  The time has come, for what he does not know. He pays the hotel bill and loads the Mustang with his few pieces of luggage. The typewriter, the Polaroid, the Super 8 camera, the clothes he’s just picked up from the dry cleaner, a small radio, a portable television. He drives to New Orleans, taking the same route he took in December. This time he’s alone for several days. He sleeps in the car. He listens to music or the voices on the radio to stay awake; sometimes he talks to himself aloud, his voice hoarse and strange from hardly speaking.

  In New Orleans, the Bunny Lounge is as empty as the previous time but Raoul is not there. He waits two hours and then calls from a pay phone on the street. A voice he has not heard before says there has been a change of plans. Now Raoul is waiting for him in Birmingham, in the same place as the previous year, the Starlight or Starlite Cafe, across the street from the post office. The point of no return is at the end of the full circle.

  Raoul’s presence is increasingly lacking in details and explanations. He meets him in Birmingham on the morning of March 23. Raoul asks him to drive him to Alabama, a three-hour trip in a straight line east. He does not explain why they couldn’t just meet in Atlanta. We don’t know what they discuss during the trip. He drives and Raoul is next to him, Raoul who does not answer any questions, a figure almost featureless, with no history, not even a full name, just Raoul, or Roual, in different versions.

  * * *

  In Atlanta Raoul tells him to find a place to stay for one or two weeks. The arms-smuggling operation must be planned slowly, cautiously. He finds a room at a boardinghouse where the owner has been drunk for ten days and forgets to actually register him. The only thing the man will remember later is that the guest was very well-dressed and seemed out of place in that neighborhood of junkies, drugs, and beggars. But he will not remember the other man who was apparently with him. He always saw him alone, dressed in dark colors, with a suitcase in hand, white shirt and a tie.

  No one will remember seeing Raoul in any of the places where they supposedly met. No waiter at the Starlight Cafe or the Bunny Lounge, no receptionist, no other guest. If anything, they remember him, alone. There was no trace of Raoul anywhere. But that doesn’t mean there is no proof of Raoul’s existence: on the contrary, the very lack of any tracks is evidence of Raoul’s cunning and his flawless plan.

  Raoul reveals the next step of this plan in a cafeteria in Atlanta. That’s where he gives him the order that will send him directly to his ruin, the trapdoor. It involves another trip and another purchase. He must return to Birmingham. He must buy a hunting rifle with a scope. Once the purchase is complete, he must continue the journey north to Memphis. In Memphis, he will have to find the New Rebel Motel and rent a room. Then, he must wait.

  * * *

  It’s Wednesday night, April 3, and there’s a heavy rainstorm. The radio says there’s a tornado approaching. He is registered at the New Rebel Motel and is waiting for the next order. The suitcase remains unopened on the floor because he doesn’t know when he will have to leave. Next to the suitcase, there’s a long cardboard box, also unopened. It’s the rifle. Before they parted ways, Raoul mentioned he was going to New Orleans for a few days to work out the last few details.

  He waits, listening to the radio, reading a novel, leafing through the newspaper. (He bought newspapers every day, read weekly and monthly magazines, followed the news on the radio and television, but he claims he had no idea sanitation workers were on strike in Memphis, or that Martin Luther King had arrived in the city that same morning.) The rain and the wind were roaring on the window when he heard the knocking on the door. It was Raoul. Drenched, he wrote, in a trench coat. He looked like a Hollywood spy.

  * * *

  Raoul looks around the room and sees the box with the rifle right away. Even though it is dark and pouring outside, he draws the curtains. He opens the box and pulls out the rifle. Sitting on the bed, with only the light from the nightstand, he checks the weapon carefully: the scope, the safety, the wooden stock, the trigger. He doesn’t use gloves but his fingerprints will be nowhere on the weapon. He seems satisfied. He puts the rifle back in the box and gets ready to leave. Raoul tells him that the next day they will close the deal, at last. The twelve thousand dollars, the passport, he will get it then.

  There is only one more thing he needs to do, says Raoul, handing him a piece of paper with something written on it: tomorrow at 3:00 p.m., rent a room in the boardinghouse located at 422 South Main Street, above a bar called Jim’s Grill. Impossible to miss: the sign for Jim’s Grill is always on. At this point Raoul disappears from the scene, as if he had walked away into that stormy night, beyond the lights of the New Rebel Motel. In some versions, he takes the rifle with him.

  * * *

  The narrative for the next day is just lazy. The morning is peaceful and clear. It had rained all night. He gets up slowly, pays the motel bill, and drives to downtown Memphis. No hurry. He still has a few hours to find the address Raoul indicated. There is plenty of time to familiarize himself with the layout of the city.

  A turn west takes him to the banks of the Mississippi. He buys a newspaper, the Memphis Commercial Appeal, and reads it while eating breakfast on the sunny terrace of a cafe. He stares at the current of the river, the forests of Arkansas, the great iron bridge. Somehow he misses the story on the front page of the newspaper with the photo of Martin Luther King at the Lorraine Motel and the article with information about his visit to the city. The photo shows him leaning on a railing, in front of a door with an unmistakable number, 306.

  He finds South Main Street and drives slowly, looking for the house number. As the numbers increase, the neighborhood gets more run-down. He goes inside a pub to ask directions and is surprised to see two men in suits and ties, completely out of place, staring at him. He drives around lost for some time. When he finally finds Jim’s Grill and goes inside, he sees the same two men in suits. Those two figures go in and out of the successive versions, secondary details that are forgotten or that seemed promising and now prove irrelevant, or they’re modified. Sometimes there’s only one man; sometimes there are two but one of them is wearing some kind of uniform.

  He parks the car in front and goes up a stairway that has the word ROOMS painted in white on every step. He rents a room and pays for a week in advance, just as Raoul ordered. He uses the name John Willard.

  When he comes down to Jim’s Grill for a drink he sees Raoul at the bar. The two strange men are no longer there. Together they go up to the room. They sit. He doesn’t know what they’re waiting for. Raoul has a small radio or walkie-talkie in his jacket pocket. He says they might have to stay there for a few days. Perhaps he is waiting for the buyers or his Mexican contacts in the operation. He asks him to go to the armory and buy a pair of binoculars with infrared lenses.

  It is 4:00 p.m. when he leaves and gets in the Mustang, glad to no longer be breathing the foul air of the boardinghouse. Everything is vague in the narration, threads that lead nowhere, false starts and gaps. He drives around for some time but can’t find the armory. He goes back to ask Raoul for the address again. When he finally finds it, they tell him they don’t carry infrared lenses. He buys a pair of regular binoculars on sale. He goes back to the room and Raoul is still there by himself.

  Now Raoul says he won’t need him for the next few hours. He’s free to go walk around, see the sights, grab a drink. He could even go to the movies, Raoul says. He goes back to the car and sits inside for a while trying to decide what he is going to do. It’s already afternoon. Once again, the account changes throughout the years. He went into Jim’s Grill, ordered a burger and a Coke, then decided to go to a nearby gas station to change a tire. Or not, he did not go into Jim’s Grill, he just drove by, following South Main, until he got to the Hotel Chisca, where he had an ice cream. He noticed that the young black waitress who served him was probably new, because she made mistakes and had to ask for help.

  In other versions he buys a
sandwich at a cheap restaurant called Chickasaw. He doesn’t identify with certainty the gas station where he changed the tire or got it patched; sometimes he’s helped by a mechanic, other times there are too many people in line and he leaves.

  Around 6:00 p.m. he returns to the boardinghouse and parks in front of Jim’s Grill. He’s still sitting in the car when a loud noise, like a gunshot or a firecracker, startles him. Moments later, he sees Raoul approaching in the side mirror. He’s walking fast and carries a bag and a bundle of things, a blanket or a quilt with the barrel of the rifle sticking out. Raoul drops the stuff on the sidewalk, quickly gets in the backseat and lies down, covers himself with a white bedsheet and orders him to drive. He drives off and begins to hear the sound of police sirens. Raoul tells him to stop at the next light, gets out of the car, slams the door, and walks away. His figure quickly disappears in the rearview mirror. He never sees him again.

  * * *

  In another version, he does not go back to Jim’s Grill in the Mustang and does not see Raoul. The ending is even more abrupt, a draft that has been revised several times but it’s never resolved. Around 6:00 p.m. he is driving down South Main. He’s almost at the boardinghouse when he sees a police patrol with the flashing lights on.

  Perhaps the appointment with the Mexican arms smugglers was a trap and Raoul is a snitch. Perhaps something went wrong with the transaction and there was a gunfight. He turns right on a residential road and drives out of the city. He’s a fugitive and if they find him they’ll lock him up again until the end of this sentence of twenty years. He is panicking. There are now police sirens sounding from all sides.

  He drives south, along the river, trying to reach the state border as soon as possible. It is only when he turns on the radio that he learns about the crime, and it takes him a few minutes to understand the role he’s been made to play. The key to the plot that’s been woven around him for the last year finally turns. It’s a sudden revelation, as in the final pages of a novel. The agitated voices on the radio repeat the alert every few minutes, announcing the target of the manhunt: a white man, thirty-five to forty years old, brown hair, dark suit, driving a white ’66 Mustang with Alabama plates.

  He will drive all night along local roads, heading toward Atlanta, stopping only once to get gas: in his story he’s an innocent man who must now find those who framed him before the authorities find him. The next morning he gets on a bus in Atlanta and falls asleep with his sunglasses on. Around 1:30 a.m., the bus arrives in Cincinnati. The bus to Detroit will not leave for another two hours. The station is dark and desolate so he walks to a nearby pub.

  Later on, as the bus drives off, he notices the distant glow of the fires in the city. Rows of military trucks are moving in the opposite direction. Young soldiers, numb with cold, stare at the passengers from the bus. There’s fear in their faces. There are police checkpoints at the intersections, flashing lights, bulletproof vests, helmets, automatic rifles.

  He falls asleep and a few hours later the first rays of sun wake him up with the alarming sensation of not knowing how long he slept or where he is. In the distance, he sees the smoke rising over Detroit. The city smells of wet ash and burnt tires. The same headline and the same face are on the front pages of every paper.

  He goes into a barbershop that’s just opened to get a haircut. The barber is old and has expert hands, albeit wobbly. The radio is on but the man does not seem to be paying attention. They’re still looking for the driver of the white Mustang with Alabama plates. He will cross the Canadian border in a taxi and then take a train, where he will fall asleep again. At 5:00 or 6:00 p.m. on Saturday, April 6, he walks out of the Toronto station with his bag and a newspaper and wanders off. The farthest point on the map he will reach is a month and two days into the future. It is Lisbon. The story or the novel about Raoul is never completed.

  24

  I have searched for his trail in Lisbon and now I search for it in Memphis. I walk along a deserted street. I’ve just left the hotel, the room on the ninth floor with a view of a street corner and not a soul. There’s an immense parking garage next to the hotel, and a Holiday Inn across the street. To the east, over the rooftops, the metallic blue sheet of the Mississippi River turns to gold as the sun sets and the orange disk melts away in the fog above the river. Beyond the forested horizon that marks the beginning of Arkansas.

  I say aloud the names of the places I’m seeing for the first time, places that are now more than just glowing words in literature: Memphis, Tennessee, Mississippi, Arkansas. I have been watching the river and the city from the hotel window, my suitcase still unopened. I’m getting impatient to go out before it gets dark.

  I read the word Memphis on the boarding pass and it still did not feel real. Then I saw it on the flight display monitor at Newark Airport and it began to dawn on me. Three hours later our plane was descending over the green forests and the mist and the pilot was making the announcement, “Welcome to Memphis, Tennessee.”

  The name appeared again as white letters on green signs along the highway, before the great river opened up before us and occupied the entire horizon, crowned in the distance by the double arch of an iron bridge. “The mighty Mississippi River,” said the taxi driver with reverence, pointing to the current with his hand. His skin was dark and thin like paper. Gold rings and a watch adorned his left hand.

  Among the green jungle, abandoned factories decay into rusted frames and broken windows, their brick walls covered in ivy. The taxi driver’s voice was slow and deep. He said the U.S. government plotted the assassination of Dr. King, that F. D. Roosevelt had known in advance about the attack on Pearl Harbor, and that not a single Jewish person had gone to work at the Twin Towers the morning of September 11, 2001. He told us, proudly, that his name was Ulysses. Born and raised in Memphis. Lived there his entire life. He dressed with the elegance of a Cuban gentleman. His skin was the color of hard coal, accentuating the bushy white sideburns. He wore an impeccable light-brown Sahariana jacket; his pants were perfectly pressed, and his leather shoes were very polished. From the ninth floor of the hotel, Memphis was a deserted crossroads in the heat of the afternoon, Second Street and Union Avenue. There was no one on the sidewalks and the lights changed from green to red without any cars beneath them. Union Avenue stretched in a straight line to the west toward the river.

  * * *

  The stories we choose to tell borrow from what we have seen and lived. The writer who narrates a journey in the first person is a literary and lonely projection, a familiar figure in literature. I walk through Memphis one afternoon in May, searching for his trail, but I’m not alone. You’re with me. We’re walking together in these desolate streets and you were in the hotel room when I was watching the river in the distance and the yellow disk turned red in the violet haze above the water.

  I asked the receptionist how far to the Lorraine Motel by foot and she seemed confused. “It’s just five minutes by car,” she said. She puts a map on the counter and traces the route with a pencil. It’s almost a straight line south, parallel to the river.

  * * *

  It is very hot when we go out. There’s an immediate desolation that is characteristic of certain American cities and it’s accentuated the farther we get from the hotel. More parking garages, strip malls, stores with metal shutters down. There’s barely anyone in the few commercial spaces that remain open. The ghost streets of the American city without open shops or people walking.

  Life bursts suddenly in the parenthesis of Beale Street, with its neon signs and the sound of R&B coming from the bars. The oblique afternoon sun descends in a straight line and shines on the windows and redbrick walls. But time is of the essence. Soon it will be dark. We leave Beale Street and continue down the avenue. More empty buildings, more garages and parking lots with weeds growing through the cracks in the pavement. At the intersection of Second Street and Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue, the traffic lights swing from high cables in the wind. Not another soul on the
street, just a passing car here and there.

  There’s a church with gothic towers to the east in the middle of a construction site. To the west, against the glare of the invisible river, we see a parking lot and the outlines of a structure of red bricks occupying the whole block. Rows of boarded-up windows line its side and ivy grows over the surfaces. A big metal framework must have held an electric sign that was once visible from very far away. The faded letters, at the height of the top floors, read: HOTEL CHISCA. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t remember why. I have seen it somewhere, just one time.

  Now we pass a long one-story building with door lintels and Art Deco window frames with broken glass. The interior is filled with heaps of trash, graffiti, and broken furniture from long ago. The front door is sealed with bricks and wood, and above, an old sign indicates that this was a supplier of equipment and food for cinemas. A young black woman is standing on the other side of the street looking at us. A small child holds her hand and she’s pushing a stroller. Their long shadow is projected toward us.

  * * *

  It’s easy to lose a sense of time and distance when walking through an empty city. We must be close to the Lorraine. A memory comes back: it was in the Hotel Chisca that James Earl Ray claimed to have eaten that ice cream on the afternoon of April 4. Thick vegetation has grown inside the abandoned buildings that line the street. Prodigious magnolias have occupied entirely what was probably a backyard once upon a time. The trunks have lifted the pavement around them and knocked down a few walls. A twisted trunk of ivy has fractured the stairway of another abandoned hotel and climbed all the way to the oxidized frame that once held its name. On a more recent ruin, there is a blue and pink sign that reads HOLLYWOOD DISCO.

  An entire wall is painted with a Mexican mural that features skulls with hats and Virgin Marys and agaves and intensely colored sunsets. There’s ranchera music coming from an open door. It leads to an internal courtyard filled with empty tables and two waiters standing at the far end. They see us peek in. They look bored, perhaps hopeful that we’ll go in.