He tries to stay calm, but then he thinks of the tape and last night’s conversation, and how easy it must be for Ignacio to judge him. “What were you doing in the darkroom? What’s the one thing I asked you not to do?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You should be very careful right now. Think about what you’re about to say next, because it had better not be a lie.” He opens Ignacio’s armoire, where he keeps his television and Super Nintendo, and takes out a remote control. He sets it on the bed next to the headphones, with both tips of the cables facing up, tucked into themselves. It’s obvious that Ignacio tied them both, obvious that he knows there’s no longer a point in denying anything. At first he says nothing; his breathing quickens as he sits up to take a closer look. He rubs both eyes with one hand and stretches his fingers to his temples. When he finally looks at Andres, his eyes are full of accusation.
“How could you tell them you need more time when they’re hurting her? Every hour that passes she’s in danger, and you’re just sitting around having breakfast as if nothing has changed,” Ignacio says.
“Did I ask for your opinion? You think you understand the situation enough to give me advice? It’s not as simple as you think. There are hundreds of factors that you don’t know the first thing about—”
“Then tell me! Let me help. Let me log the tapes and stick stupid stickers on them with the dates in permanent marker. Or something. Anything, Dad. I want to help.”
“I can’t. I can’t let you do that.” He knows he can’t drag his son into this. “I don’t want you anywhere near those tapes. I don’t want you playing with them, I don’t want you thinking about them, and I certainly don’t want you listening to them. Understand?”
“She’s my mother.”
“Exactly. She’d want me to protect you from this. It’s too much for a boy.”
“I’m not—”
“I’m not discussing this anymore. I have too many important things to worry about right now.” Andres picks up the headphones and starts unraveling them, staring down his son as he does this. “Don’t you dare pick the lock again,” he says on his way out. As he steps into the hallway, Guillermo’s silhouette startles him.
“Would it kill you to make some noise when you come in?!”
They haven’t even been in the darkroom for five minutes before Consuelo knocks on the door to tell them that Andres’s mother is waiting for him downstairs with a visitor. He waves her away, annoyed that her gaze shifts back and forth between Guillermo and Andres as she speaks, implying that she requires both their permission to interrupt their meeting. Guillermo may have better control of the situation—he may be the only one in this house with any semblance of calm nerves—but Andres is still the one in charge. Ignoring Consuelo and his mother, Andres continues discussing the next steps with Guillermo. They’ve agreed that if they told Hades they were selling the car and taking out a loan, they will have to do just that. There’s no sense in risking him finding out otherwise. No one, especially a criminal who thinks he is a god, would be willing to negotiate with a man he can’t trust.
“Then of course there’s the issue of a backup negotiator, in case for some reason you’re ever unavailable,” Guillermo says.
“Can’t that just be you?”
“I don’t recommend it. If they know you’ve hired someone like me, they’ll assume you have a lot of money. It’ll only make negotiations more difficult. Which is why you need a backup . . .” Guillermo’s voice, deep and heavy as it is, is no match for Lorena’s downstairs. Even though he can’t decipher her words, Andres understands her tone, much like a song’s bass when the volume is turned down low. He knows she’s throwing a passive-aggressive insult his way. The more he tries to ignore her, the more he finds himself filling in the blanks of her fragmented sentences. Every few words he hears another person’s voice, soft and steady and almost familiar. He can’t place it, and he knows he won’t be able to concentrate until he does. Andres excuses himself and heads downstairs.
“Oh, good. Mr. Graves was just saying that this must be a bad time for you, but I assured him that you were expecting him and looking forward to revisiting his offer.”
In an instant it hits him, but he can’t believe his mother would be so devious. Yesterday, while they shared an afternoon cigarette, Lorena had brought up the possibility of him selling his company. He said he hadn’t given it much thought since turning down an offer from Eugenio Graves months ago; they’d been barely a few signatures shy of finalizing the deal, with all the paperwork and inspections completed, before Andres changed his mind. But everything was different now. He feared if it came to that, he’d reconsider.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Lorena said, and Andres had brushed it off, apparently underestimating his mother’s connections. He’d forgotten her tendency to keep promises even before she’s made them.
Now Mr. Graves, Andres’s biggest competitor for the last eight years, rises from the white couch that’s just for guests and extends his right hand. It takes a moment for Andres to extend his own hand in return; his mind is so preoccupied with thoughts of ransom negotiations and bank loans that the shock of seeing Graves in his home barely registers. In that small delay, the tension in the room multiplies. Though they’ve always been cordial, today Graves’s smile is more like a smirk, and he squeezes Andres’s hand harder than usual, as if trying to make a point.
“Please, sit down,” Andres says, gesturing toward a chair next to the couch. Half the chair’s legs rest on the living room carpet while the other half rest on the tile, and Andres is pleasantly surprised to see that the chair wobbles as Graves takes his seat. “Excuse us,” he says, guiding his mother into the kitchen.
“Why is he here? Why would you pick a time like this to bring him into my house?” He tries to whisper, but the words hiss out of him. At the stove, Consuelo and Carla pretend not to hear anything, but their slowed movements give them away.
“We discussed this. Better to talk to him now and know your options than to wait until the last moment when you’re desperate. A time like this is exactly when you need a man like him. You should be thanking me. Do you know how many of your father’s old contacts I had to call to get him here? You’re lucky he even agreed. Now you don’t have to go to the office and pretend like you’re not in talks to sell the company.”
“You told him? Do you realize what can happen if he knows how desperate I am? He can offer me practically nothing and I’d have to take it!”
Lorena waves her hand across her face, as if tossing his words aside. “I’m insulted you would think that after forty-five years of being married to a man like your father, I wouldn’t know how to negotiate. Who do you think your father came to for advice at the end of the day? You think he did it all on his own? Of course not, and neither should you. I know that’s hard for you to believe, seeing as how Marabela’s never once supported this company of yours, but I don’t agree with letting someone you love carry a burden like this on his own.”
“Mother, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I told him that you’ve turned down several offers since last time. That much is true, isn’t it? I told him you’re stubborn, and you work too hard, and that you think nothing’s worth selling the company only because you haven’t gotten the right offer yet. He thinks he and I have teamed up to convince you to finally let it go.”
“That much is true, isn’t it?” Andres says, mocking his mother’s tone.
“I’m just trying to help, Andres.”
“I know, I know. Thank you. But I’m not thinking about selling the company. It hasn’t gotten to that point yet.”
“Good. Just keep that up and see if we can drive up the price,” she says, her eyes wide with excitement. “Think of this as a backup plan for your backup plan. Now, don’t make him wait any longer.”
On their way out, Lorena tells Consuelo to bring refreshments to the living room. “A whisky for the men,” she says, and j
ust like that she’s back to a version of herself Andres recognizes—a main character disguised in a supporting role.
They dance around the topic of business for several minutes, at first talking about the traffic that only seems to worsen and about each other’s children, who are all growing so fast. Mr. Graves mentions that he isn’t originally from Peru; his company sent him from Mexico to expand their presence in South America nearly a decade ago.
This isn’t news to Andres, but Lorena seems very interested in his transition. “Do you feel you can ever completely adjust? Being in a new country?”
“Well, it’s all so relative. Nothing will ever replace my home country, but Mexico City is changing so quickly that even when I visit there are places I no longer recognize. I’m starting to think the only way to go back home is to invent a time machine.” He laughs, leaning forward to rest his elbows against his thighs. He looks uncomfortable on the chair, fidgeting to find a better position. Andres tries to contain his smile.
“And you travel to Mexico City often? To visit family?” Lorena says.
“I do. Though I’m afraid it’s more often for business than pleasure.”
“I can only imagine, with the way Primatec is prospering.” She smiles at Andres as she says this, but he can only marvel at her finesse, wondering how many steps ahead she choreographed this conversation. He knows she would just love it if he’d cut in, but he’d rather listen and let the two of them take the lead.
“It’s true,” Graves says. “Our main focus now is on expansion.”
“That’s wonderful,” Lorena says, making a big fuss out of reaching behind Andres for her purse. She passes around her pack of cigarettes and lets Graves offer her a light. “You’ll have to forgive my son’s silence. When he told me he’d reconsider your offer, he said he’s not saying yes but he’s not saying no. I didn’t realize this meant he wouldn’t say anything at all.” Her laughter is so strong and guttural it startles Andres.
“I’ve always thought listening is just as important as talking.”
“You’re so right, dear.” Lorena pinches his chin, her cigarette dangling in front of his lips.
“Good then. I’m glad to hear you’re open to the conversation,” Graves says. “Since I’m sure much has changed since the last time we spoke, I’d like to reevaluate where things stand with your company so we can come up with a number that’s more in line with the present situation.”
“Of course. Andres, you mentioned you’ve already had Edith set aside some of the paperwork, right?”
The ones Marabela meant to pick up, he thinks, but he nods and has to clear his throat before he can speak. “I’ll arrange to have those and others next time we meet.”
They chat for several minutes more but nothing they say registers. When they’ve said good-bye to Graves and he’s halfway to the gate, Lorena closes the door and claps her hands together, bringing them pressed to her lips.
“I think that went well.” She places a hand on his shoulder and kisses him on the cheek. “Remember, nothing’s happened yet. We’re just talking right now.”
He sighs, exhausted from it all. That’s precisely the problem.
Andres and Marabela’s secret had a short life span: it could only sustain itself and their passion for so long. When he looks back at their beginnings, Andres tries to bury his suspicions that Marabela was more enthralled by the idea of their relationship than the reality.
They kept to themselves that first summer. He successfully avoided his family and Elena’s, but hiding from their shared holiday traditions was nearly impossible. As they’d done for nearly twenty years, the Duarezes and Jimenezes got together for New Year’s at the Club de Regatas. They had two adjacent bungalows facing the ocean, where the rooms that Andres and Elena slept in shared a thin wall. As children, when their parents were asleep, they’d communicate through a system they’d devised of light taps against the wall with their knuckles. It was mostly simple words like yes, no, good night, and are you awake, but the rush of it came from the language’s secrecy, that it belonged to only them.
Andres was unpacking his suitcase in his room the night before New Year’s Eve when he heard Marabela’s laughter next door. It was high-pitched and short, almost engine-like. Impossible to mistake.
He rushed to the Duarezes’ bungalow and found the two women settling into Elena’s room. It had a set of bunk beds with plaid-patterned blankets and sky-blue sheets folded over them. Elena’s clothes were stacked in neat piles on the bottom bunk, waiting to be arranged in the closet; Marabela was climbing to the top. They looked so young and happy, like sisters.
“It’s about time we invited her, don’t you think?” Elena asked. “It wouldn’t be fair to keep this beach all to ourselves.” The club was one of the most exclusive in the country; since the late 1800s, only men had been allowed to join. Everyone else was either a family member or a guest, and although Andres had fantasized about bringing Marabela here himself, it would’ve been impossible to escape speculation from other members.
As the days passed Andres and Marabela discovered it was easier to ignore each other than it was to feign casual acquaintance. When they sat down at the balcony for meals, Andres chose the chair farthest from Marabela. He served her drink last even when her cup was closest within reach from the bar. At the beach, he laid his towel next to Elena’s, barely looking in her direction if Marabela happened to fall within the same line of sight.
On the third day, Elena announced that she was going for a swim. Andres and Marabela watched her from the shore, eyes squinting, heads fixed straight ahead, and discussed when to tell her about their relationship.
“It’ll make the rest of the week awkward if we do it now,” Andres said.
“This isn’t awkward enough already? I can’t imagine it being any worse,” Marabela said. “You’re not the one who’s sharing a bedroom with her. She keeps asking me what I think of you. I feel so guilty. She should’ve never invited me here. I don’t deserve it.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“About what?”
“When she asked about me.”
Marabela’s scorn quickly gave way to a smile. She paused, playing with her thoughts. “I said you seem like a good guy. I don’t know. I try to keep it vague. I can’t remember what I am and am not supposed to know about you. She thinks the only time we’ve spent together is when it’s been us three.”
Up ahead, they watched as the waves seemed to swallow Elena and spit her out. Each time, she stood up stronger, welcoming more. Keeping her back toward the horizon, she’d lengthen her body in anticipation of the ocean’s punch. It came upon her so fast it thrust her hair over her head. When she’d come up for air she’d only laugh, adjust her top, and wait for more.
“It’s got a lot of fight in it today,” she said when she came back. “I think I need a drink.” She signaled to a young man dressed in white linens and brown loafers, then ordered two pisco sours and a fresh pineapple juice.
“Which room, señorita?” he asked.
“Mine’s Duarez,” Elena said before Andres could speak. “The two of them are together. Under Jimenez.” She pointed at them with one finger, left it suspended in the air as she rested her elbow against the wooden chair. The anger in her eyes quickly faded into sadness under the heat of the sun.
“Don’t act so surprised—it’s hardly a secret. And I gave you every possible chance to tell me.”
He hadn’t realized it until then, but she had. In the most mundane way, in the moments when the rush of party preparations and meals together seemed to pause for breath, Elena had commented on how happy Andres looked, how good a friend Marabela was. Her bitterness revealed itself draped in kindness, carefully crafted and hardened by pain.
“We didn’t know how—” Andres said.
“It was my idea,” Marabela interrupted. “I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it was worth it.”
Elena remained calm, gentle, like she was tired f
rom a fight she’d never even started. “So you were trying him out to see if you wanted to keep him? If not, I could have him as planned?”
It was the first time Elena had spoken about their relationship in such certain terms. She was claiming it and relinquishing it all at once.
“Ele, please. We just didn’t want to hurt you. I was trying to think of the right time. I thought we’d go to dinner, talk things through . . .” Andres said.
“Break it to me gently,” she said, finishing his sentence for him. “You really flatter yourself. And you underestimate me. I can’t believe you’d think I’m that fragile.”
“So you’re okay with this?” Andres said.
She shrugged and brought her sunglasses from her forehead over her eyes. “What does it matter now?”
“It matters to me.”
He waited for Elena to respond, but she only lounged back and fell asleep with her feet buried in the sand. Andres relaxed and allowed himself to do the same, assuming her silence was a truce, but when he woke and walked Marabela back to their room, Elena had already left, her bedsheets tucked tight under the mattress, smooth as a fake smile.
DAY 9
The end of the week comes, carrying the worst kind of anticipation. He can’t stay away from work any longer without arousing suspicions, so today Andres will go back to his routine even though everything is different. Jorge drives him to work, taking a new route. This is just a quick trip in and out of the office, to keep his employees from asking too many questions, but secretly Andres wishes he could stay there forever and forget any other obligation.
In the elevator, he feels his nerves grow tense with every passing floor. When the doors slide open, he gets the sensation he’s been dropped into a chaotic yet structured operation. It’s the reason why he chose this building, but in this moment he regrets it. Stepping out of the elevator makes him feel like a lonesome ant, out of place where everyone else is busy. The company headquarters are in a large, high-ceilinged room filled with wooden desks arranged like dominoes, buttressing one another in random, unified order. Windows line the entire upper half of the walls, too high up for workers to gaze out at the busy streets, but perfect for letting in lots of sunlight, which makes the space feel larger than it is. Andres’s office, along with the other top executives’, is in a private room along the perimeter. It is impossible for him to arrive unnoticed.
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