I was living where I’d been born, in a town outside of Boston, in a house
for sale. The mayor’s son was class president. The sheriff’s son
distributed the marijuana. A handful of people tried suicide. Some
succeeded. It was March of 2016 and I was on the verge. Of graduation, for
the most part. I was eighteen. Soccer season had just ended, in the
semifinals, in the rain. The game had gone to penalties. I didn’t save one.
In the six shootouts in which I’d ever featured, I’d never saved a penalty.
I had flat feet and a habit of guessing. My guessing never did pay off.
Maybe I was easy for the penalty takers to read. Maybe I was bad at
reading. Nobody had blamed me and neither had I. Still, I wept. Weeping was
another habit of mine. I’d had it since birth.

In April I mailed a love letter to the English teacher who’d listened to me
for the better part of two school years. The letter stated that I was
drinking wine and included a proposal that her and I get together and do
the same. I sent it to her mailbox at school. The principal placed a call
to my house a few days later. I went to his office. The English teacher was
there. They told me they hadn’t wanted to call me in but that they’d had
to. They said they were doing their jobs. You shouldn’t be drinking wine,
they said, you shouldn’t be in love with your teachers. We’re all adults
here, I said.

My sister was in Alabama, gone as ever, busy drinking and defending the
public out in the middle of the confederacy without a word for my parents
and I. My mother was preparing her divorce. My father was doing the same.
The house was warm. The house was clean. The realtor was around. The market
was good and I was in the way. I had an uncle. His name was Nico and he
lived alone. I don’t remember exactly how it happened. He might’ve sent for
me. I might’ve sent myself. It was May and the days were growing longer. I
went.

#

The last time I’d seen Nico was Christmas. He’d been his usual self.
Discreet, drunk, and watching. In other words, a good uncle. I’d gone up to
bed before the conversation inevitably wandered offshore and into banter.
Nico and my father had remained by the fire until morning. I’d fallen
asleep, upstairs, to the dim sound of their drunken song. I woke up to a
different noise. Laughter and some weeping.

Nico lived an hour’s drive west of Boston in a square, red house just big
enough for two people, so long as they got along well enough. A fallen tree
was rotting on the yard. The grass was long and the weeds looked like
flowers. I arrived in the middle of the afternoon. Nico opened the door.
He’d lost weight. His black hair was beginning to thin evenly on all sides
of his square head. His eyes had grown as yellow as his teeth. Regardless,
he smiled. I told him he looked good. You’re late for lunch, he said.

Nico ate slow. He spread the beans over his rice and cut into his steak.
The fat, he said, is the best part. I finished my plate in minutes. Then I
served myself another. I had two plates in the time it took Nico to eat
half of his. Once we’d finished eating, he scraped what was left into his
black cat’s bowl. Tuesday, he called. Tuesday continued lying on the couch.
She opened her eyes, looked at Nico, then returned to sleep. Nico started a
cigarette and set his pack down on the table. He told me to take one and I
did. We talked about soccer. He reminisced about his playing days. He’d
been a forward. He’d been good in the air, good with his head. I told Nico
the story about the many times my father stood behind the goal I was
tending to during any one of my team’s matches, how he would smoke on his
cigarette and tell me, in his most fatherly way, to kick it further. As if
I could.

We got on the inevitable subject of my sister. Thankfully, it was brief. I
asked Nico if he’d heard from her. He shook his head. He asked me if I had.
I said no. We got through the subject of my parents’ divorce almost as
quickly. All Nico asked me was how I felt. I think the divorce is a good
idea, I said. Nico nodded. But how do you feel? he asked. I told him I felt
good. I told him I felt fine. I told him I didn’t know.

Nico showed me to my new, temporary room. There was a twin bed in the
corner and a filing cabinet that doubled as a dresser. I set my bag down
and looked around. Opposite the bed was a framed photo mounted on the wall
of two black stone sculptures. Two doves. One stood round and intact with
its eyes open and forward. The other dove was cracked through its chest and
talons, and though it still had its head, it had little else left save the
tattered void of what had once been its wings. I asked Nico about the
photo. Nico looked at me and then at the picture. Should we really be
discussing these things in the middle of the day? He asked.

Night came. Nico pulled two glasses from the cupboard and a bottle of rum
from the freezer. Again, we sat at the kitchen table. The window beside it
was open. Outside the crickets were doing their tune. I took a sip of the
straight rum and pretended to like it. Nico laughed. I would’ve been
embarrassed if it hadn’t been just us. The first sip was the worst. With
each one that followed the swallowing only got easier. I asked Nico about
the doves. Do you want the short version or the long one? He asked. I
looked at his teeth. I looked at his eyes. I opened my hands and held them
over the table between us as if to say, I’m not going anywhere.

Okay, he said. I was living in Medellín at the time. Where I was born. Your
father too. He was away at university in Bogotá. He had a good life there.
He’s always had an ability to set himself up nicely. He was renting an
apartment downtown, halfway between the two universities he attended. In
the mornings, he attended one. In the evenings, he attended the other. When
he had time, he spent it with his friend, your mother. As far as I know,
she didn’t want anything to do with him at first. Eventually he convinced
her to love him back. You can imagine the rest on your own. Your father’s
told you these things, hasn’t he?

I shook my head. I said that my father didn’t like to talk about himself.
Nico shook his head. That’s not true, he said, he’s just not good at it. He
laughed at his own joke and continued the monologue I’d asked for.

I was living with your grandfather, Nico said, sleeping in the same twin
bed I’d always slept in, next to an identical bunk that had once been your
father’s. I remember it well, lying awake, alone with all of our family’s
ghosts. I’d bring it up to your grandfather in the morning, over coffee.
He’d answer calmly, as if he too had been lying awake at night, next to me,
with nothing but a wall between us. He knew. The ghosts were here first,
he’d say.

Ghosts? I asked. I didn’t believe in ghosts then. Not that I do now, not
always, but back then I was sure I didn’t. Nico sat himself up in his
chair.

My mother, he said, my sister too. They were dead. Both of them. Dead.
That’s another story. That’s another day. We have plenty of them ahead of
us. You do, anyway. What I was trying to say was that, technically
speaking, I too attended university. I left after about a month of classes.
As they say, it wasn’t for me. I ended up working at the Museo de
Antioquia, in Medellín, where most of Botero’s paintings and sculptures
were displayed. Look, if you don’t know who he is, you should. I did
whatever was asked of me. I sold tickets, I made coffee, I answered phones.
I even did some cleaning. Believe it or not, the cleaning was my favorite
part. I’d be alone with the sculptures and the paintings in the still light
of that silent museum. It was sacred, I guess. I was saving money. What
for? At the time, I didn’t exactly know. I was saving money for the same
reasons anyone saves money. I was saving money in case I’d want it, in case
I’d need it, in case your grandfather lost his job or became sick, in case
I found someone to marry, in case I had children. I saved what felt like a
lot of money at the time. It was a lot. It was enough.

Nico reached for the bottle, then for a cigarette. In an effort to keep
pace, I did the same. Enough for what? I asked. Nico took his hand to the
back of his head and messed with what was left of his hair. He stared a
thousand miles into his glass of rum. He coughed, tried to speak, then
coughed again.

To leave, Nico said. To leave. I don’t know if you can comprehend. It’s
history. Maybe it’s more than that. It’s not something you can understand
by reading. It’s not something you, you who grew up here with what you’ve
had, can ever really understand. But I’ll tell it to you anyway. Every time
I left the house, I didn’t know if I would make it back home. Every time
your grandfather left the house, every time I got off the phone with your
father, I knew it could be the last time we’d ever speak. It was that
simple. You couldn’t trust anyone. Generally speaking, you shouldn’t trust
anyone. That’s true anywhere, I know, but Colombia was Colombia. Hell, I
guess. There were bombs. Buses, planes, office buildings, supermarkets. I
knew people who, upon hearing an explosion, looked out their window and saw
the burning remains of a car raining onto their lawns. I’ve seen these
pieces of burnt metal in the baskets next to people’s fireplaces. People
killed people because. They killed children, too. Children killed children.
I know we’re all children, and that all we’ve ever been are children. But
still. There’s a difference between a young child and a grown one. There’s
a difference between the dead child and the one still living. People here,
in America, they’ve asked me questions. They’ve said, hey Nico, don’t you
miss Colombia? I tell them I don’t miss Colombia. It’s half true. I have
missed Colombia my entire life.

I interrupted Nico. I asked him a stupid question.

What does it mean to be Colombian? Nico repeated aloud. To be Colombian is
an act of faith. Nothing more. For many people, that is enough. Most people
have no choice. You don’t know how little a person can have. I don’t
either, but I’ve seen it. I’ve met them. I’ve met their children. I’ve
known their names. In Colombia, hungry parents name their children in
English in hopes that someday their children will land ashore a place where
they can be happy. They name their children after Catholic saints and
Spanish priests. That’s what happens. Here, I live a life in broken
English. Today, all I have to say is hello, goodbye, and good luck. That’s
how I stay silent. When I’m alone, I talk to myself. It’s better that way.
It’s like being alone in a crowded room. It happens to everyone, I hope. To
make a little sense of anything all you have to do is look around. I have
myself to talk to. I have you too, I guess.

Nico refilled his glass and I did the same. You’re drunk, he said. We’re
drunk, I said. He blinked, nodded, waited, then resumed.

Your grandmother spoke of silences, he said. God hears them, she’d say.
Once, when I was very young, I kept her company in the kitchen while she
washed the dishes. Some argument had taken place at dinner, nothing
important. Nothing worth remembering, anyway. She looked at me through the
reflection in the window. Nico, she said, listen. That’s all she said.

I waited. I listened. The doves, I said.

The doves, he said. Originally, there was only one sculpture. A Botero.
He’d donated it to the city. They’d thanked him and put it in a plaza.
Years later, there was a festival there. There was music, food, lots of
people. A close friend of mine invited me to go with her. I stayed home.
Sometimes, I wish I’d gone with her. It would’ve been the right thing to
do.

Nico, I said.

One of the cartels installed a bomb behind the dove statue, beneath the
feathers that stuck out from its backside. It killed more than thirty
people. My friend was one of them. Had I been there, I would’ve died too. I
left Colombia a week later. They asked Botero to replace the dove. He told
them to leave it there. He built another one and made sure it was installed
alongside the original.

You left a week later? I asked.

I left a week later. I wrote my family a letter once I had an address here
in the states. I can only imagine what they must’ve imagined had happened
to me. They must’ve assumed the worst. I should’ve written the letter
sooner. But that’s always the trouble with letters, isn’t it? If you don’t
know what I mean now, you will. In the letter I told them I loved them and
that I was sorry. Every now and then I think about what I wrote, why I did
what I did and said what I said, why I left without telling them. If
there’s anything you learn from me, and I hope it’s not much, it’s this.
There is only one kind of letter. A love letter. To write a real one, you
have to be sorry.

Nico, I said.

Don’t ask another question, he said. I’ve said too much. I’ll finish this
story and we’ll leave it at that. A month later I received a letter from
your grandfather. I still have it. I read it when I need to. It’s very
short. I could show it to you, but I’d rather tell you what it says.
Beloved Nico, we’re not angry you left without a word, what matters is that
you’re happy.

There was a month of school left and attendance was more or less optional.
Nico couldn’t have cared less whether I went or not. I think he would’ve
preferred it if I’d stayed with him while he read through newspaper after
newspaper in the morning, if I’d helped him with his crosswords, if I’d
been there for us to dissect daytime television together. He never went so
far as to try to keep me from going. He just had the habit of pouring me a
drink or two every evening, be it a Monday or a Thursday, then asking me if
I had plans the next morning, knowing full well I had class. In return, I’d
ask him what his plans for the next day were, knowing full well he never
did much of anything. He’d laugh. Tomorrow I’m taking the day off, he’d
say. My father supported Nico. Financially. He’d done so for decades. I
suppose, in some way, Nico had earned it.

School was school. I was mostly surrounded by people I wasn’t going to
miss. Not that they were going to miss me either. I guess I enjoyed going.
Nico was nice enough to lend me his car. I’d wake with the sun and watch it
rise while I waded through the morning traffic. In the evenings I’d take
the long way home, through neighborhoods that looked just like mine.

Despite my failed romance with the English teacher, we remained friends.
She told me about the boyfriend she’d had for eight years who never
proposed. About her absent father and her difficult mother. About the head
of the English Department who demanded that the curriculum be geared
primarily to the state test. The Master’s Administration degree she was
slowly finishing up, night class by night class, and the book she wanted to
write about her imprisoned brother. One morning, I kept her company during
her free period. I helped her make copies to prepare for her next lesson.
The phone rang. She answered. She screamed. My mother died, she said. She
ran out of the classroom. I knew there was nothing I could do. I went to
the library and took a seat on one of the open couches. The principal came
and told me that he’d spoken with the English teacher. He asked me if I was
okay. I asked him if she was okay. He shook his head. I stayed in the
library for a few hours. At one point the frontrunner for Valedictorian
took a seat on the couch next to mine. He did most of the talking, mostly
about his Ivy League future and his growing interest in robotics. I don’t
know why I didn’t leave. The whole thing dragged. He questioned the value
of literature, the value of good books. He dared me to change his mind.
Somehow, I’d inherited a debate. Naturally, I lost.

I had friends. A few of them. Like any circle, we had traditions. Like most
circles, our traditions weren’t very special. We liked to get high and
drive around. Eventually, we’d buy some sandwiches at the deli and eat them
by the river. There we watched the local adventure kids do backflips off
the bridge. My friends and I did our part and applauded. The day the
English teacher’s mother died, we got on the tired subject of our futures.
When questioned about my plans, I said that I was going to sell my blood,
my plasma, and maybe even a kidney. Get a job, my friends said. What’s
that? I asked.

I got especially high that day. Too high to drive. One of my friends
volunteered to take the wheel until I regained direction. We were on our
way to the gas station for tobacco and rolling papers when the driver
misread a sharp turn and drove us into a tree. The driver was the first to
get out. The two guys in the back quickly followed. I remained there, in
the passenger seat of my uncle’s totaled car. I was slow but I was okay. It
was like I was trying to wake up from a dream except there was no dream.
Familiar territory. My friends pulled me out through the window and made me
assure them I wasn’t injured. Once that box had been checked, we proceeded
to throw our weed as far as we could into the woods.

That night I explained myself to my parents. I told them the truth about my
English teacher’s mother and the lie about a family of deer appearing in
the middle of the road. I don’t know if they believed all of what I said or
none of it. The primary takeaway was that everyone was okay. We talked for
a while, over dinner. I mentioned the history Nico had given me some weeks
before. I explained to them what I’d learned. How easy it was to die in
Colombia and how little one could do about it. On the other hand, how
strange and how familiar it was to live in a town where people’s biggest
threats were themselves. My parents thought it would be best if I stayed
the night at home. I talked my way into getting a ride to Nico’s. When I
got there, he was at the kitchen table, rum in hand. Sit down, he said.

I got lucky. My story worked. Nico was compensated for my accident. So
compensated he was able to buy a newer model of the same car. He let me
keep driving. He let me stay. The insurance had paid off and things were
going well.

#

Tuesday was a good cat. Tuesday was tired. Tuesday was dying. In the time I
knew her, the first two weeks I lived with Nico, she kept to herself. She
had no interest in food. She spent her last days beneath Nico’s bedframe,
as if in hiding. Nico told me all about Tuesday’s good life one Saturday
afternoon. I was supposed to get together with some friends of mine. For
the tenth straight weekend, we had big plans to get drunk and stoke a
bonfire in the woods. I had little interest in staring at a fire and even
less in listening to someone learn the guitar. What I wanted was to listen
to Nico and watch him weep. In other words, I wanted to help. I assumed my
position at the kitchen table, opposite Nico, and did just that.

I’ve never been one to keep people from leaving, Nico said, and I’ve never
been any different with Tuesday. She was no more than a kitten, the
equivalent of a teenager, when I first found her. She was sifting through
my garbage can next to the garage. I invited her in and she came. She
stayed. She liked to tap on the window glass and look back at me. It was
her way of asking to go. I was afraid to, at first. I had some
conversations with myself and finally accepted the fact that I wasn’t her
mother. We reached an agreement. A silent one, but an agreement
nonetheless. I’d let her go and she’d come back. When she did, she’d always
bring something with her. At first she’d bring easy things. Crickets.
Roaches. Fallen birds. As she got older, she brought white mice. It was
love. I’d sit with her. I’d talk to her. I’d make sure she had food. I
think she’s grateful. There’s a difference between love and gratitude. Both
are rare enough on their own. But Tuesday loves me, and Tuesday thanked me.
The only ways she knew how, sure, but who am I to choose? I think that’s
what the mice were for, honestly. It wasn’t just instinct. She didn’t toy
with the mice. She didn’t eat them. She’d be gone for a while. Usually
hours. Occasionally for the night. I worried, but I trusted her. When she’d
come back, she’d tap on the glass with a white mouse between her teeth. I’d
open the window and greet her. She’d walk in, slowly, head up, her eyes on
mine, and she’d drop the mouse in my open hand. A couple of months ago, she
began eating less. She got slower. She slept more. She didn’t follow as
closely behind me as she always had. I’d still let her out. She’d come home
empty, no white mice. I don’t let her out anymore. She doesn’t ask. All she
can do is sleep. Tuesday does her best to hide her pain from me, the way
the smartest animals do, but it’s too clear now. It’s time for her to sleep
for good. I owe it to her. She’s earned it.

Tuesday refused the sedatives. Hold still, Nico whispered. He kissed the
top of Tuesday’s black head and looked into her gold eyes. Nico’s trembling
hands moved slowly over Tuesday’s showing ribs. He waved me over to the
kitchen tile and told me what to do. When I open Tuesday’s mouth, he said,
I need you to make sure she swallows the pills. Drop them in the back of
her throat, he said. Once she’s swallowed those, do the same with the
Valiums.

I suggested we take her to a professional. Let them take care of her, I
said. Nico shook his head, disgusted. Why should this be easy? He asked.
Let her die where she lives, he said, let her sleep where she’s slept. Nico
spoke to Tuesday as she tried to cough up. Have faith, he whispered, go to
sleep. He laid Tuesday down on her side. He kissed her stomach until she
stopped moving. Once she’d finally passed, Nico pressed his head to hers
and wept. I asked Nico where he wanted her buried. I don’t want her buried,
he said, I want her here. Here? I asked. Here, he said.

Nico sat and smoked in the passenger seat holding Tuesday, at first
speaking only to give me directions to the taxidermist. He’d never looked
so tired. Half of the sun stuck out over the top of the mountain. The other
half pulled away.

What’s strange, Nico said, is digging a hole for someone you love. I was
younger than you when I left my mother in a hole. I was your age when I
left my sister in a hole. It’s normal, I know that, but that doesn’t make
it any less strange.

It’s not like you can take people to the taxidermist, I said.

Why not? Nico laughed. When I die, take me to the taxidermist. Take me to
the taxidermist and tell them to close my eyes and lay me down, on my back.
Give me a room and lay me down next to Tuesday. Leave me with her and bolt
the door.

If that’s what you want, I said. I drove slow, with both hands. The few
cars on the road sped past mine with ease. When we passed a raccoon that’d
been flattened to the pavement, Nico brought Tuesday to his lips. I waited
a moment. Then another. I asked Nico about his mother.

She was young, he said, 33. She got sick in the heart and was in the
hospital for about a month before she died. She told jokes to make us
laugh, mainly my brother and my sister and I. To make things easier, I
guess. It was what it was. Your mother will die, and while she’s dying,
she’ll tell jokes too. At first you’ll cry, then you’ll laugh, and then
you’ll cry again. Eventually you’ll do both at the same time. It’s called
growing up. I remember her there, in the hospital, smoking. The doctors all
smoked then, too. They said smoking would be good for her, that it would
help her relax. Dying, smoking, telling jokes. That was my mother. She
taught us well. When she was getting close to the end, a sister of hers
brought a priest to pray over her. My mother thought that was funny. When
he came in, poor priest, she told him not to waste his time. Pray for the
living, she said.

And your father? I asked. Nico took two breaths.

He was working in his office when he suffered a stroke. He was always
working. It was his choice, I guess. Your father and I flew back to
Colombia as soon as we heard. Your grandfather was in a coma when we got
there and your father made it clear to the doctors that we didn’t want them
to prolong the inevitable. No heroics, he told them. We decided not to bury
him. We let the doctors take from him whatever might be useful to the
living. I was against it at first, but I gave in to your father’s
pragmatics. It was what your grandfather would’ve wanted, after all. What
was left of him, we had cremated. We spread the ashes atop his favorite
mountain. I cried the way I always do, with my head in my hands and my eyes
on the ground. I looked up at your father. Yes, he was crying too. Of
course he was. But he was standing. He had his hands in his pockets. He
didn’t look at the ground.

I almost missed the exit. Nico had to point it out to me just as I was
about to pass it. What about your sister? I asked. Nico took his time to
speak. It was as if life were a question, he said, and her answer was, No.

Nico carried Tuesday into the taxidermist’s and laid her down on the
counter. The taxidermist asked Nico how he’d like her to remain. Make her
asleep, he said.

At the time of my graduation, I had little experience with ceremony. My
baptism, for example, I do not recall. The only thing I remember about my
first communion is the stale taste of sacrament. That, and trying to come
up with something to say to the priest during my first confession. I told
him that I didn’t always brush my teeth. I was never confirmed. My father
never let me anywhere near a wedding. This was a direct product of his
regrets over his own marriage. In all fairness, he wasn’t exactly an
institutional person to begin with. Everybody that died in my family had
done so before I’d been born. The only funeral I’d ever taken part in, if
it can be called a funeral, was Tuesday’s. Today I like to think that my
entire life has been a ceremony of some kind, but I didn’t know that then.

Everyone looked funny in their hats and small in their robes. I did too. We
were outside of the auditorium, madly arranging ourselves in alphabetical
order, when the English teacher showed up. Wearing a flattering green
dress, she said her goodbyes to her favorite students. She gave me a big
hug. I asked her if she was going to stick around for the ceremony. No, she
said, I’m going on a first date. We congratulated one another. I visited
her in her classroom a couple of years later. She ended up marrying him.
They were expecting a boy.

We were the class of 2016. The speeches were on the mark: optimistic and
forgettable. One by one our names were called. One by one we shook hands
with the principals. The band played. We turned our tassels. Some people
cried. Mostly people rejoiced. I managed to feel. Relief, or something like
it. I wished people luck. I posed for pictures, mostly with Nico and my
parents. I even took one with the principal. My parents thanked him for
allowing me to graduate, despite my grades. It’s my job, he said smiling.
According to my parents, the principal’s comment was reflective of his
commitment to helping his students’ progress in life. I didn’t totally
disagree, although I think it had more to do with the tax money he’d saved
the school by not keeping me around for a second senior year.

My family held a small, celebratory dinner at the local Brazilian deli. We
had skewered beef, chicken wrapped with bacon, rice and beans, and guava
juice. My parents asked me if I’d come up with any plans for my future
since I’d moved out of their house. Things are going well at Nico’s, I
said, I think I’ll stay there as long as he’ll have me. My parents looked
at one another. A silence lingered, a silence I couldn’t read. Nico broke
it. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, You can stay as long as I’m
around.

After dinner, my mother handed me an envelope. It was a gift from the three
of them. Inside were two plane tickets to Colombia. I’d only ever been
once, as a kid. I didn’t know exactly what I’d done to deserve a gift. I
thanked them. Nico explained that he was the one that would go with me. I
asked my parents if they were sure it was a good idea for Nico and I to go
on vacation together. It’s not a vacation, Nico said, it’s a trip.

#

Nico sat passenger in the taxi we hailed at the Cartagena airport. The
driver asked Nico where he was coming from, then asked how long it’d been
since he’d left Colombia. A lifetime, Nico said.

The two spoke of war. The two spoke of peace. The driver asked Nico if
America was actually capable of electing Trump. Nico said yes. When their
conversation paused, Nico made a point to turn to the backseat and tell me
that taxi drivers knew more about politics than anyone else. The driver’s
laminated headshot was displayed on the back of his seat. A rosary swayed
from his rearview mirror. Statuettes of Jesus and Mary shook on the
dashboard. I grew carsick. I rolled the window down and watched the ocean
crash into the walls of the old city.

The hotel was a large house. The clay walls had all been painted white and
the ceilings too. The ceramic tiles kept the ground cool. While Nico
settled our reservation at the front desk of the lobby, I sat on a stool in
the corner and tried to regain my senses. I closed my eyes and made myself
still. A girl no older than fourteen or fifteen woke me from my nausea and
handed me a halved lime. Eat this, she said. I thanked her. She laughed.
Nico called to me from the desk with the half mocking tone of a knowing
uncle. Eat the lime and come back to life, he said. The girl laughed again.
Welcome to Cartagena, she said.

I showered and dressed. While Nico did the same, I watched television. News
of a soccer game, a murder, and the weather. He emerged from the bathroom
wearing a loose white linen shirt and matching pants cuffed up to his
ankles. Who do you think you are? I asked. Who cares? Nico said.

We walked alongside the Laguna. Nico would point at something, a little bar
or café or market, and say something about how he’d spent time there during
his stint with the Navy. I don’t remember all of what he said then because
of how hot it was. I told Nico that I needed a break, to stop and sit for a
little while, that blisters were beginning to form on my soles. It had only
been an hour or so. Blisters, he said, that’s what happens in Cartagena. I
sat down to remove my shoes and take my chances barefoot. Nico stopped me.
No, he said, you’ll burn holes in your feet. He offered to lend me his
sandals and use my shoes. No, I said, I’ll be fine. He’d meant it. He
would’ve helped me, I’m sure, but he seemed satisfied with me for declining
his offer.

We stopped at a small lunch spot by the Laguna, a square concrete shack
surrounded by small tables bolted to the ground. Nico ordered a platter of
ceviche and white rice for us to share. I did most of the eating. Nico did
most of the talking. I asked him why he’d joined the Navy. For something to
do, he joked. I nodded and kept eating. Nico took small, slow bites and
drank from his beer to wash down his food. When he swallowed it looked like
he was swallowing medicine.

When I was your age, Nico said, your grandfather didn’t know what to do
with me. He was busy working and I was busy doing whatever I wanted. My
mother was gone, dead. My sister was gone, dead. Believe it or not, I
didn’t do well in school. I didn’t like it, either. I preferred the movies.
I learned more at the movies than I did at school. I learned even more
walking around. I’d go out at night and I wouldn’t come home. I got into
some fights but not many. I was exercising my independence. A silly thing
to do, sure, but acceptable in moderation. I ended up crossing a line,
maybe several. So I got sent here, to Cartagena, to the Naval Academy. I
don’t blame my father for doing so. It wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve
happened to me. It was a good, customary alternative to my adventures. I
suppose I learned some things. I learned how to shower and shave in two
minutes. How to make my bed. How to march. I learned how to keep my mouth
shut.

We walked to the old part of town; the part carefully preserved and
surrounded by tall, stone walls built by the Spanish. Our guide was a dark,
short man with round glasses. He approached us at the entrance of the old
city and asked us if we’d like a tour. After a quick negotiation, he was
hired. He’d been born and raised in Cartagena and he’d never left. He
taught literature and history at a public high school a few miles away from
the airport. He told jokes that weren’t very funny, that weren’t meant to
be funny, but that made me like him.

We circled the old city for about an hour or so while the Prof gave us a
detailed history lesson. It was difficult to pay attention, I admit.
Whether it was because of the Prof’s coastal accent, my nausea, or the
heat, I’m not exactly sure. I watched tourists buy paintings of the
balconies from street vendors, and pose for pictures with the women selling
fruit. The tourists were amazed by the way the women balanced large woven
baskets on the tops of their heads. Nico tapped me on the shoulder and
gestured to the tourists dressed in safari gear with their cameras hanging
from their sunburnt necks. Nico pointed them out to me and laughed. I
laughed. The Prof laughed, too.

There were churches everywhere, some of them beautiful. I asked the Prof
about them. The Spanish had more money than they could count, the Prof
said, they didn’t know where to put it, so they built churches one next to
the other.

When he spoke of more serious things, the Prof tended to lean in close to
Nico and whisper. He was never quieter than when he pointed out houses that
belonged to important people. He pointed out the house that belonged to
Pablo Escobar’s oldest son. Big parties, he said. Still? Nico asked. Of
course, the Prof said. He pointed out the house that had belonged to Gabo.

We passed a statue of an African prisoner and a Spanish priest who,
according to the plaque, baptized around three hundred thousand slaves.
Just what they needed, Nico said. The Prof nodded. That’s how the story
goes, he said.

The Prof offered to make us a list of good restaurants and music venues.
Proudly, Nico declined, citing the years he was stationed in Cartagena with
the Naval Academy. Yes sir, the Prof said. Nico and I thanked him for the
tour. Before the Prof could leave, Nico handed him some money and asked him
for a favor. We smoked a cigarette and waited for the Prof to come back. He
slipped a pair of joints into Nico’s shirt pocket and was on his way.

Nico proposed beer. I accepted. We sat down at the café and watched the
tourists pass us by. Are you tired? he asked. I shook my head. Good, Nico
said, there’s something you should see.

We finished our beers and thanked the boy who’d brought them to us. We
walked into a large white building with unpainted wooden balconies. This,
he said, is the Palace of Inquisition. Nico bought one ticket and put it in
my palm. I’ll be outside, he said.

There were no tourists. There were no guards. Aside from the ticket man,
there was nobody save myself. There was The Corda, a device designed to
hang prisoners by a rope tied around their wrists with their hands behind
their back. There was the Thumbscrew, which was used to break hands and
feet. There was The Rack, where they tied prisoners by the wrists and
ankles and pulled them until they broke. There was the Breast Ripper. There
was the Head Crusher. There was The Wheel, where prisoners were tied down,
beaten, and left for days until their bodies gave into thirst. All things
considered, it was worth the price of admission.

I left. Nico was smoking, waiting on one of the benches in the courtyard
out front. Sitting next to him was a bottle of rum and two plastic cups.
You missed the sunset, he said. It happens, I said. We walked to the edge
of the old city and set up on a bench by the stone wall, below an old
turret. Cheers, he said.

A different crowd began to colonize the town. Lines began to form outside a
cluster of nightclubs across the street.

Nico asked me if I wanted to join them. I said no. Right answer, he said.
He grabbed my cup and filled it. Drink it slowly, he said, take it little
by little. I know, I said. It didn’t take us very long to finish half the
bottle. I’m a stranger no matter where I go, I confessed. Good, he said.
Good? I asked. Well, he said, you can either be a tourist or a witness;
it’s up to you. A witness? I asked. Yes, he said.

We watched the glittering mob grow larger in the street. I counted the
silver on their wrists, the diamonds on their ears, and the gold around
their necks. Nico asked me if I wanted to hear a story. Tell me a story, I
said.

I knew a man, Nico said, a friend of my father’s. He had a typical man’s
name. I don’t remember exactly, it doesn’t matter. Normal guy. He was an
accountant I believe, or an insurance agent. He did pretty well. But he
drank too much. He drank at home and he drank at work. He’d liked whiskey,
but switched to vodka so people wouldn’t be able to smell it on him.
Eventually, his friends and family convinced him to stop. They made sure he
didn’t go to the bar, made sure there was no liquor at home or at the
office. Do you know what he ended up doing?

What did he do? I asked.

He began to buy his wife perfume. I don’t know if she liked perfume or not,
but that’s not the point. It’s a nice thing to do, I guess. I think people
should smell however they want to smell. That’s another conversation
altogether. What I’m trying to say is that we buy things for people we love
so that they know we love them. Everyone knows that. People buy each other
all kinds of things. Some people buy each other clothes, other people buy
each other diamonds, some people buy each other gold. This man, he began to
buy his wife perfume. A lot of it. Maybe it was a way of saying thank you.
Maybe it was a way of saying sorry. Sometimes it was gold, sometimes
silver. Mostly, though, it was perfume. Every week or so, he would bring
home a handful of new, expensive bottles of perfume. French, Italian,
whatever. Why do you think?

Because he was sorry, I said, because he was grateful.

That’s what you’d think, right? That’s what she thought. That’s what
everyone thought. But no, that wasn’t it. He bought his wife so much
perfume that she’d lost track of all the perfume he’d given her. Just
imagine all that perfume.

Who needs that much perfume? I said.

He did, Nico said.

Why? I asked. To forgive himself?

No. You’d think so. Maybe not. But no. He was drinking the perfume. Think
about it. He found a way. A man drinking his wife’s perfume. I don’t know
what it means. I know it means something. I’ve told people this story and
all they’ve said is that it’s sad. But of course it’s sad. It’s beautiful,
I think. I mean, who drinks perfume?

A man with a typical name, I said.

Right, he said, you’re right.

We ended up at a bar near the hotel. It was an older, local crowd, and
there was a live band playing. Nico and I sat a table near the back of the
bar and watched. He leaned over and screamed in my ear. Vallenato, he said,
the music they’re playing is called Vallenato. Pay attention to this song,
he said, pay attention to the words.

I did just that. I did whatever Nico asked of me. I ignored the happy
dancing couples, the young and the old, the beautiful men and women who
moved in ways I knew, even then, I’d never be able to. The singer wailed
into the microphone.

They took it with them, they took it with them, they took it with them and
it’s been lost. It so happens that an honored rat has it, it so happens
that an honored rat is the one that stole.

I had to help Nico on the way back to the hotel to keep him from falling.
We passed by two men talking to two prostitutes. One of the men used his
finger to inspect her teeth. From what I could hear, he was negotiating the
price.

We were only halfway to our hotel when I was left with no option but to
hail a taxi. I hoped it would be our driver from earlier that day, but it
wasn’t. Still, the driver helped me drag Nico onto the backseat. Is he
going to vomit? the driver asked. He won’t, I said, I promise.

The same girl who’d gifted me a lime in the morning was alone in the lobby.
She didn’t smile. She said hello and nothing else. She helped me walk Nico
up the stairs and into the bathroom of our hotel room. I pulled a bill from
my pocket and held it out to her, as if I were paying a toll. She refused.
I insisted. She kept the money and left with a tired bow.

I smoked a cigarette while I waited for Nico to finish vomiting. Once the
dry heaving began, I flushed the toilet. I grabbed him, turned him flat on
his back, and wiped the vomit from his leather face. I shook him until his
eyes opened. I told him it was okay, that he was going to be fine. Even
then, I knew I was lying. Nico shook his head and tried to speak. Shut up,
I told him. I put the back of my hand against his face and decided he was
too hot. I moved him to the shower and propped him up against the back of
the tub. I baptized him in cold water and let the water run off of his
shivering body, down the drain. I wrapped a towel around him and dragged
him to bed. I put him on his side and made sure he was still breathing. He
was. I kissed his forehead. I picked the newspaper up from the nightstand
and read while I prayed for his heart to slow. I checked the weather
forecast for Cartagena. It was only going to get hotter. Nico’s breathing
normalized. His heart kept ticking. I folded the newspaper and set it back
down on the nightstand. It was then that I noticed the headline on the
front page. I read it aloud. I knew Nico could hear me. I said, Gold miners
say output has peaked.

The following morning, we began our resurrection in the makeshift cafeteria
adjacent to the hotel lobby. I didn’t think I’d be able to stomach anything
aside from a cup or two of coffee. I tried to convince Nico that I didn’t
need to eat anything. Thankfully, he ignored me. We feasted on arepas,
empanadas, pork belly, sausage, eggs, rice, and beans. Nico requested a
second order of the pork belly. The fat, he said, is the best part.

Nico and I set up close to shore on the public beach, just close enough to
the tide so that the water would reach our feet. Nico made a point to tell
me that the ancient cure to each and every hangover was to look directly at
the sun for seven seconds. Somehow, I believed him. I made it to five
seconds before I couldn’t look any longer. Nico laughed at me, apologized,
then laughed some more. Before long, Nico had begun snoring ashore the
Sunday beach. In the shallowest water, naked baby children splashed and
screamed. The school-aged children took themselves more seriously. Three
boys competed with three girls to see who could build the most impressive,
temporary castle. I don’t remember who won. Eventually, both groups outgrew
their little game and retired to the waves. The deeper water was littered
with teenage romances, each couple seemingly attached by the mouth.

A boy asked me if I wanted to buy a flower. Nico mumbled in his sleep. The
boy made a joke of it and claimed that he’d clearly heard Nico say yes. I
chose the healthiest orchid. I watched him as he continued selling flowers
to the world. I pressed the orchid to my nose and breathed until I got
dizzy, then placed it on Nico’s sleeping stomach. I closed my eyes. I woke
up to Nico looking down at me, mouthing an urgent question: Who gave me
this orchid?

We swam, showered, and returned to the old city. After consulting a few
random locals on the street, Nico was able to locate an old favorite
restaurant of his. Once there, we shared a large caldron of fish soup and
two or three pitchers of sugar cane water. Nico said that our day together
had been one of the best hangovers he’d ever had. Of the very few hangovers
I’d experienced before then, that one with Nico was easily the best. I told
him so. He laughed. That’s not saying much, he joked, but thank you.

Before easing into an early, responsible sleep, Nico and I positioned
ourselves, once again, on the bench at the edge of the old city. I listened
as Nico soberly lectured me about money. He spoke of silver. He spoke of
gold. He spoke of entire peoples in the Americas, where exactly I don’t
recall, who decided to commit mass suicide before the Inquisition could
wash upon their shore. We had the land, Nico said, and now we have the
bible. We? I asked.

I didn’t know it then, but I know now that that night was the last time
Nico stood before an ocean. He didn’t say so. He said something else
instead. We were walking along the shoreline, the water washing over our
feet. Nico stopped to gather his breath.

You’re tired, I said.

The tide is low, he said.