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Fiction

Amir

By Rodrigo Fuentes
Translated from Spanish by Kate Newman
Rodrigo Fuentes’s wary adult son is drawn into his mother’s remarriage to a haunted man.

This one’s family, Amir would say with a hand on my shoulder, his fingers large and heavy but kind. The other person would look at me, then look at him, then smile slightly before putting out his hand and saying it was a real pleasure to meet any relative of Amir’s. Later, when they knew each other better, Amir would explain to the person that he was actually my stepfather, that’s why we didn’t look alike. But that’s how Amir was, not overly careful when it came to speaking—not out to fool anyone, because he was actually fairly reserved, but hungry for laughter and to make others laugh, even if that laughter emerged from the shadows of discomfort. Amir didn’t grant much importance to words (which are slender and slippery, he’d say), but rather to those strange, invisible waves that bodies radiate, to the gestures that lie beneath friendships, he’d explain with a twinkle in his eye, holding one of the cigarettes we’d share when my mother wasn’t around. But that was already after the rum, the rum and conversation, once Amir was in tune with his surroundings and navigating the smooth space of alcohol.

They met at night, by the lake, my mother and Amir. He’d lost his wife eight years before and his face still held the subtle marks of sleeplessness, of races to the hospital, and a certain proclivity to tears which surprised my mother on that first encounter.         

Both were sitting in the rocking chairs a mutual friend had set up in the little garden in front of her house. Out there, the sound and the warmth and the silence of the party reached them like messages from an indecipherable world. My mother too had lost her husband, and if she visited her friend that weekend, it was only through the sort of sleepwalking she had fallen into since the separation, a state which prompted one or two friends to take her in, helping her down the road of what they called her convalescence.

I can picture my mother wrapped up like that, her small head sticking out from the blankets that cover her body. She breathes deeply and looks out at the water from her rocker. Amir also looks at the lake, trying to make out the lights on the far shore, though it’s hard to say if he’s really watching anything. He could just as well be gazing off at something else—when he loses his sight he finds his memory, as he likes to say after being distracted. Time goes by, and Amir breaks down crying. He cries and cries and my mother waits in her chair, sheltered from the cold by a poncho, those thick, rough ponchos her friend buys in the towns along the lake. Amir cries and my mother is silent and both of them are shaking, but in the darkness they can hardly be seen and it doesn’t really matter.

I’d just moved out of the house when my mother called to invite me for lunch. She wanted me to meet someone, she said, and the vagueness of her words, her reluctance to explain, made me fear that a questionable character had found his way to our inner circle. I didn’t know anything about Amir, nothing of his immense hands nor the involuntary twitch in his left cheekbone, a small tremor which made him drop his gaze and feign concentration on his food. A few references to his family in Algeria, and a couple of facts on the sowing and harvesting of cardamom—that’s all I remember from the conversation. But I also know he managed to carry the weight of the table, a round, wooden table which had been in the house for more than twenty years, one with stains and scars unknown to Amir, concealed beneath the green tablecloth on which his hand rested, his palm open to hold my mother’s small fingers. I was wary of his reserved air, sizing him up from my seat, but I had to give in to the candor of his silence.

He called a couple of days later to ask if I wanted to have a drink with him. The Hotel Lux still had a dark wooden bar, long and nicely polished, but Amir was waiting for me at a rickety table in the back. He shook my hand and I could see he was making an effort to tense the muscles in his face. He began in a slow voice, with no particular subject, and mentioned, among other things, his father, the only relative to whom he was still speaking, although their contact was sporadic, even fragile. But we only get one father, he concluded with some sorrow, exhaling as he rested his hands on the table. He wanted to talk to me, he said at last, to see what I thought of him moving in with my mother. For the sake of correctness, he said, that’s why I must ask, he added, and I had to avoid his eyes and hide behind a sip of rum and Coke. My answer was lacking, maybe even unkind, but Amir had the decency to toast to family and the future and we kept on drinking, by then without much purpose but without the need for one either.

I knew little about Amir or the road to ruin he was already traveling. His easy laugh and satisfied expression after our Sunday lunches suggested a calm, leisurely descent into old age. Home life suited him, he told me once, just before leaving on a weekend trip my mother had planned, no doubt so Amir and I could get to know each other better. Amir was beaming the entire ride, holding the steering wheel with a firm grip, his hands strong and ready to solve any problem that might arise. My mother would watch him from her seat and smile, bringing her hand to his, and she’d smile later too, while we waited for supper at a roadside diner and Amir would introduce us to some stranger, a waiter or a customer with whom he’d start chatting, a person with whom it was a pleasure to speak, especially in this town, Amir would say, especially with the family, sitting beside this beautiful woman, on a night like tonight, we wouldn’t call it starry, exactly, but pleasantly illuminated nonetheless, and what do you mean you can’t sit with us to have a drink, nights like this are made for enjoying.

The price of cardamom plummeted the year after our first lunch, and so began the shitstorm, the goddamn Harmattan, as Amir called it. His father, who had plantations in the highlands and was well into his eighties, disappeared during one of his trips to La Corregidora, his cardamom finca. Amir received a call on Tuesday at three in the morning, telling him that his father had been found. He explained to my mother, phone still in hand, that his father had just been taken down from the branch of a ceiba tree, where he’d been hanging for more than twelve hours.

We went together to the funeral. Amir had already made the arrangements. He had been there for the body’s ablutions, the shrouding of the corpse, even if in this case, he told us, under these circumstances, it wasn’t really appropriate. He held my mother’s hand, composed, while we listened to the chants in the cemetery. I guess he was already beginning to have other concerns, new worries caused by the letter found at the foot of the ceiba and the strange and somewhat incoherent words his father had written there.

I began to stop by the house more frequently. Amir would come back from work before my mother and we’d sit in the two plastic chairs they kept in the garden. He’d prepare the drinks, using tongs to fish ice cubes out of a red bucket and drop them into the glasses. The first fragments of the letter began to filter through that way, though I soon understood that his words were part of a correspondence covering much more than those six handwritten pages. Some of the references were over my head, we both knew it, and Amir saved us the discomfort of having to explain himself. He just talked, mentioning details between sips, or after exhaling cigarette smoke, touching his fingertips to his cheekbones to make sure everything was still in order.

There was trouble rising on several fronts, he said. He spoke of hazy, sometimes dark characters, contacts in rural areas, people who moved in and out of his story without a clear purpose, and he also spoke about La Corregidora, first seized by the bank and then taken over by the workers. Kind of a nasty move by the boys, he mumbled, hurt. He had liquidated his father’s assets. His salary from the export house grew thinner each month, a trickle beside the flow of debts he’d inherited. His partner in the company had agreed to lend him some money which, naturally, had cooled their friendship. He had to make payments to the bank, to the workers, to his partner, and a certain fatigue began to show in his movements, his once calm hands now looked defeated.

He suggested we start having drinks outside the house. He’d call me after the workday to meet in a bar in the city center. His job with the export house kept him out in the country, which allowed him to attend to his father’s lands. I was concerned to see him prolonging those evenings, extending our silences until there weren’t enough customers to hide behind. My mother would be at home, awaiting Amir’s return, and we’d be there, awaiting the return of god knows what.

He held his glass between both hands, making it turn on the table with those big, heavy, friendly fingers. The men had money, he told me on one of those occasions. You have to take that into account, he said, that they have money, because there’s not much of that going around these days, but those guys certainly have it. They’d come to La Corregidora to visit him, just as he was arriving, and it was obvious they were well-informed, because he never told anybody when he was going to be at the finca. Otherwise, the workers would block his way at the entrance, the entrance to his own father’s finca, he sighed, even if he was going there just to talk with them, even if his only purpose was to negotiate something to get them all out of this whole mess. Anyway, he said, the men came to visit and they were very kind, very polite, real gentlemen, they treated me with respect. Don Amir, they said, you’re wasting this land, you’re bleeding out this very second. Just look at your harvest, those wilted cardamom plants, why don’t you let us give you a hand before things take a turn for the worse, Don Amir, just look at the boys, or even worse, look at the bank, no one’s going to help you there. We’re right here, Don Amir, we’ll gladly take this load off your shoulders, these problems with the bank, with the boys, can always be sorted out.

I saw my mother some afternoons for coffee at the house, but we tried to avoid the subject. She knew that Amir and I met every so often, and seemed to regard those evenings with a distant, benign curiosity. I bumped into him one day, as he was leaving the house. He stopped when he saw me looking at a strange new object on the wall. He came closer, we exchanged a few words, and then looked at the object together, in silence. Hamsa, he said at last, the hand of Fatima. It was a flat hand, made of tin or aluminum, its fingers pointing to the floor. In its palm was an eye, the pupil seemingly of emerald. For the evil eye, Amir explained. He raised his finger slowly and drew a circle around the hand. That’s what they say in Algeria: this protects us from the evil eye. Then he said good-bye, glancing at the hand on the wall before leaving.

She liked that we were spending time together, my mother said that afternoon, especially now that Amir seemed to walk with drooping shoulders, closer to the ground. Of course, she was much better informed than I, more aware of his gestures and his silences, knowing, too, details from the letter which I didn’t. That’s what Amir had told me, that there were things in the letter which couldn’t be explained, or couldn’t be spoken of, except to my mother, of course, from whom nothing should be hidden.

She sensed the abyss Amir was beginning to skirt, the harm caused by each trip to the bank, each return from the finca. Things weren’t getting better. She told me, over coffee at home, that his partner had sued him for failing to repay the loan. A lawsuit, she said, is only for enemies. Amir was beaten down, she continued. He couldn’t understand how a loan made in friendship could lead to such a thing. At least, she said, looking at the bottom of her cup, in moments like these, the wolves lose their sheepskins.

***

We’re here to celebrate, Amir said when he saw me. The bar at Hotel Lux was empty at that hour of the afternoon, but Amir already had a bottle of rum on the table, unusual for him since he always drank by the glass, ordering them one by one, gesturing toward the bar so that the waiter would come to the table and share a word or two—Amir hadn’t lost his taste for small talk, though now it was limited to polite formalities. But tonight he had the bottle on the table, two glasses and a small metal bucket filled with ice, and slices of lime he squeezed over my drink before pointing to a chair and asking me to take a seat, because this time there was reason to celebrate. His face shone a bit and his cheekbone was twitching powerfully, as if he’d given the tremor free reign. Things changed today, he said, raising his glass to toast me. We reached an agreement with the gentlemen, he said, I’ve accepted their offer, and now it’s just a matter of drawing up the paperwork, and meeting with the lawyer and the notary. But they’ll arrange all that, the lawyer and the notary. You just worry about the deed, Don Amir, they said, so I only have to bring the deed, and something to sign with. He took a long drink. Sign, of course, and turn over the finca.

We drank late into the night. Amir’s initial talkativeness subsided with each drink, his words fading between the alcohol and the sound of the few people at the bar. Silence soon arrived, reliably as ever, taking a seat at our table with no one there to make it leave. Amir began playing with a slice of lime, lifting it between two fingers and observing it closely, then crushing it against the table’s wooden surface. He annihilated half a lime this way. Then he lifted the last slice and held it up against the light from the bar.

Not one ounce of finquero in them, he said. These men, they’re not one bit finqueros, apart from their mustaches. He gave a hint of a smile, bitterly, which was rare for him, and brought the slice of lime to his lips. But what can you do, he said, if the bank falls short and the boys just go too far. He sucked the lime, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked me in the eye. You understand what I’m saying, right? Tell me, he said, raising his voice, do you understand what I’m saying? One of the waiters turned to look in our direction. I wanted to answer, even if deep down I didn’t want to understand at all—all I knew was that the rum and the silence were making it difficult. There’s always the family, I mumbled after a while, aware of the vagueness of my words, and I felt my face reddening, the warmth of the drink now mixed with another warmth rising up my neck. Amir observed me, almost with curiosity, and then he nodded, bringing in his glass to clink with mine. That’s true, he said, there’s always the family.

There were just a few lights on by the time I made it out to the street. He’d stay a while, he said, he wanted to sweat it out a bit longer. He approached the bar, his steps steadier than mine, and let himself drop onto a stool. There were no more customers, but Amir’s loyalty was rewarded in the Lux with the privilege of one last drink at his discretion. We parted with a handshake and after walking out to the street I had to lean up against a wall. I let the concrete bear the weight of my body for a while, and then I stumbled back to the pension where I lived.

I woke up in bad shape the next day, only leaving my place to buy something to eat. I spent most of the weekend in bed, and by late Sunday I knew I wouldn’t be talking to Amir that next week, to him or my mother, that it would be better to give them some space, and something about that understanding made me dress warmer those days, eat well, prepare myself for things I could sense despite knowing nothing about them. The call came on Monday.

This is Amir, said the voice on the phone. He coughed a couple of times and I said hello. Your mother is a bit indisposed, he said, she had a little scare, nothing serious, but you know how these things are. He paused a moment, as if waiting for a confirmation from me, but I didn’t actually know what kinds of scares he was talking about. I asked him. He ignored me. You should know I didn’t sell the finca, he said. It didn’t seem like the right thing to do, he added, and then he repeated those words, more slowly: the right thing, it didn’t seem right. In any case, he said, some issues have come up, and it would be good if you could stop by the house. It’ll be better to talk at home, he said, better at home than like this.

It was Amir who opened the door. He glanced behind me before shaking my hand and inviting me in. Then he took me to the living room and we waited there. She’s coming now, was all he said, and shortly after my mother stepped out of her room and came close to hug me. She sat next to Amir on the couch, and looked out the large window on the other side of the living room. The dark silhouettes of the plants moved back and forth in the garden. It’s better if you explain, she said to Amir. She held his hand and her own seemed to disappear in his large, kind fingers. From my rocking chair, my mother looked fragile but at peace.

What can I say, said Amir, only that the men were upset. You know these are tricky people, he said, turning to my mother, nothing new about that. I told you before, he went on, now looking at me, that they were true gentlemen when they spoke to me at the finca, always very well-mannered. But with such good manners, they expect something in return. I looked over Amir’s shoulder, where the hand of Fatima hung on the wall. Or that’s how they see it, he added, otherwise the call would’ve been different.

They were very rude, my mother said. Her tone threw me, because she sounded hurt, as if a close friend had insulted her. They treated her badly, Amir said. They asked for me, and she asked who was calling. I asked what they wanted, my mother interrupted. She moved closer to Amir. Then they insulted me, a bunch of nasty words, and hung up.

The second call was different, she went on in a softer voice. It had been a couple of hours since the first and I answered thinking it was Amir, because he was on his way home from the highlands and said he would call me. The phone rings and I pick it up and someone starts speaking to me immediately, without asking a thing. The voice tells me that first, before anything, I must put my fears aside, because if I’m afraid, my thoughts will be clouded and I won’t understand, and if that happens I’d have good reason to be afraid. But that’s only the worst-case scenario. The voice asks me to listen. I listen. It says there are certain commitments that can’t be forgotten. Because that’s how they want to interpret what happened, the voice says, as a simple oversight, and they wouldn’t want to imagine that the agreement had been broken, because an agreement is, above all, a matter of honor, a pact between gentlemen, an understanding, and what are we left with if we can’t even understand each other. Fear, the voice says. That’s what’s left. Because we’ve been very generous and Amir knows that, the voice adds, and to refuse that generosity, to renege on that agreement, could only lead to one thing. We all know what that is.

That was two days ago, Amir says now. We got those two calls two days ago, but the important thing is to keep calm. Your mom knows I always keep a .22 in the car. We have it in the house now. We have to keep calm, he says, and we have to protect ourselves: only in an emergency would we use the .22. The house must be protected, and that’s why I’m here, better to stay in the city these days, because I won’t allow your mom to be alone like this.

And, well, Amir continues, today I saw the neighbor out front, and he told me that a man was hanging around here, standing on the other side of the street, smoking, leaning against the gate, and he stayed like that for a while, according to the neighbor, smoking and watching the house. He had a very strange habit, the neighbor said, a way of smoking which first caught his eye and then annoyed him, because he’d only take one drag from each cigarette, the guy would light the cigarette and take one drag before flicking it against the sidewalk nonchalantly, as if distancing himself from the used cigarette, and he kept going like that, cigarette after cigarette, taking his time between one and the next, but sticking to his method, watching the house, just one drag from each, until he left.

Amir gets up from the couch and lights a cigarette. I’ll be right back, he says as he walks to the kitchen. He returns with glasses and ice. He places them on the coffee table and raises the bottle, bringing it to the lip of each glass for a generous pour of amber rum, going around the table, a glass for my mother, another for me, a third for him, until he sits down again, cigarette in one hand and drink in the other, and then he says something about the twists and turns and especially the somersaults of life, the somersaults where everything goes to shit, he says, and then he stays very still, the silky smoke of the cigarette rising up between his fingers.

They get up when they finish their drinks. We need to rest, my mother says, rest and consider our options, she adds, looking at him. They walk together toward the room, hand in hand, taking small steps, but there’s something in the way they move, a shared balance, which reconciles my mother’s small figure with Amir’s prodigious one. Before entering her room, my mother turns and tells me that it’s late, it’s dangerous to be out on the streets, that it’d be better if I stayed over. I say good night and serve myself another drink before moving to the couch. The burn of the rum, and the soft pillow against my back, give me a pleasant sense of well-being. I must be on my third drink when I fall asleep.

A rough fabric, something like a coffee sack, surrounds my body and my head, and I wake up panicked, with the sharp sensation of being suffocated. But it’s Amir that’s covering me, with one of the ponchos from the towns by the lake. I keep my eyes closed, trapped between sweat and surprise. I can feel the rum in his breath as he pulls the poncho over me, taking care to cover my feet. Wood creaks and I half-open my eyes to see that Amir has taken a seat in the rocking chair, drink in hand.

When I wake again it’s cold and the first thing I see is the poncho on the floor. I try to cover myself, pulling the poncho toward the couch, and notice Amir standing on the other side of the living room. He’s leaning with his face against the glass of the large window, holding the curtain slightly open. He glances at me and brings his index finger to his lips. A huge white robe covers his body. He brings his head back to the glass, and it takes me a second to realize that the thing in his hand is the .22.

The outside light is on and dimly filters through the greenery of the bushes. In the back, the dark silhouettes of the plants sway in the breeze. Amir starts moving away from the window, still looking outside, his back to the wall. His steps are uncertain, and as he walks by the hand of Fatima I hear it fall to the floor. Amir grunts as he kneels down and crawls in search of the hand, until he gets up again and continues to the other side of the window, where the door goes out to the garden.

He opens it with his left hand and takes a tentative step outside. His white robe glows in the darkness. He takes another step forward. I get up on my elbows and see the gun in his hand, held tightly against his waist. He stays still, head tilted forward. He’s inspecting the plants in the back of the garden. He must not be able to see too well, because he stays like that for a few long seconds, with the gun very still, trying to keep his balance. I feel another presence in the room and when I turn around my mother’s there, pale and wrapped in a blanket. Easy, she says. Amir raises the gun at the plants, his hand shaky, and I start to get up, too. Easy, my mother says again. She puts her hand on my shoulder, holding me back. Wait here, she says, wait here. She slowly sits down next to me and we both keep still. Amir moves his head up and down, and we hear a murmur coming from outside. It’s Amir, there’s no doubt about it, but his words, the sounds that might be words, come from somewhere very different. We keep silent, my mother and I, watching the window, the shuddering body, sitting side by side. Amir turns toward us, looking in, tears streaming down his face, and he raises the gun to the sky. Then the shots begin.

“Amir” © 2014 by Rodrigo Fuentes. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2014 by Kate Newman. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

This one’s family, Amir would say with a hand on my shoulder, his fingers large and heavy but kind. The other person would look at me, then look at him, then smile slightly before putting out his hand and saying it was a real pleasure to meet any relative of Amir’s. Later, when they knew each other better, Amir would explain to the person that he was actually my stepfather, that’s why we didn’t look alike. But that’s how Amir was, not overly careful when it came to speaking—not out to fool anyone, because he was actually fairly reserved, but hungry for laughter and to make others laugh, even if that laughter emerged from the shadows of discomfort. Amir didn’t grant much importance to words (which are slender and slippery, he’d say), but rather to those strange, invisible waves that bodies radiate, to the gestures that lie beneath friendships, he’d explain with a twinkle in his eye, holding one of the cigarettes we’d share when my mother wasn’t around. But that was already after the rum, the rum and conversation, once Amir was in tune with his surroundings and navigating the smooth space of alcohol.

They met at night, by the lake, my mother and Amir. He’d lost his wife eight years before and his face still held the subtle marks of sleeplessness, of races to the hospital, and a certain proclivity to tears which surprised my mother on that first encounter.         

Both were sitting in the rocking chairs a mutual friend had set up in the little garden in front of her house. Out there, the sound and the warmth and the silence of the party reached them like messages from an indecipherable world. My mother too had lost her husband, and if she visited her friend that weekend, it was only through the sort of sleepwalking she had fallen into since the separation, a state which prompted one or two friends to take her in, helping her down the road of what they called her convalescence.

I can picture my mother wrapped up like that, her small head sticking out from the blankets that cover her body. She breathes deeply and looks out at the water from her rocker. Amir also looks at the lake, trying to make out the lights on the far shore, though it’s hard to say if he’s really watching anything. He could just as well be gazing off at something else—when he loses his sight he finds his memory, as he likes to say after being distracted. Time goes by, and Amir breaks down crying. He cries and cries and my mother waits in her chair, sheltered from the cold by a poncho, those thick, rough ponchos her friend buys in the towns along the lake. Amir cries and my mother is silent and both of them are shaking, but in the darkness they can hardly be seen and it doesn’t really matter.

I’d just moved out of the house when my mother called to invite me for lunch. She wanted me to meet someone, she said, and the vagueness of her words, her reluctance to explain, made me fear that a questionable character had found his way to our inner circle. I didn’t know anything about Amir, nothing of his immense hands nor the involuntary twitch in his left cheekbone, a small tremor which made him drop his gaze and feign concentration on his food. A few references to his family in Algeria, and a couple of facts on the sowing and harvesting of cardamom—that’s all I remember from the conversation. But I also know he managed to carry the weight of the table, a round, wooden table which had been in the house for more than twenty years, one with stains and scars unknown to Amir, concealed beneath the green tablecloth on which his hand rested, his palm open to hold my mother’s small fingers. I was wary of his reserved air, sizing him up from my seat, but I had to give in to the candor of his silence.

He called a couple of days later to ask if I wanted to have a drink with him. The Hotel Lux still had a dark wooden bar, long and nicely polished, but Amir was waiting for me at a rickety table in the back. He shook my hand and I could see he was making an effort to tense the muscles in his face. He began in a slow voice, with no particular subject, and mentioned, among other things, his father, the only relative to whom he was still speaking, although their contact was sporadic, even fragile. But we only get one father, he concluded with some sorrow, exhaling as he rested his hands on the table. He wanted to talk to me, he said at last, to see what I thought of him moving in with my mother. For the sake of correctness, he said, that’s why I must ask, he added, and I had to avoid his eyes and hide behind a sip of rum and Coke. My answer was lacking, maybe even unkind, but Amir had the decency to toast to family and the future and we kept on drinking, by then without much purpose but without the need for one either.

I knew little about Amir or the road to ruin he was already traveling. His easy laugh and satisfied expression after our Sunday lunches suggested a calm, leisurely descent into old age. Home life suited him, he told me once, just before leaving on a weekend trip my mother had planned, no doubt so Amir and I could get to know each other better. Amir was beaming the entire ride, holding the steering wheel with a firm grip, his hands strong and ready to solve any problem that might arise. My mother would watch him from her seat and smile, bringing her hand to his, and she’d smile later too, while we waited for supper at a roadside diner and Amir would introduce us to some stranger, a waiter or a customer with whom he’d start chatting, a person with whom it was a pleasure to speak, especially in this town, Amir would say, especially with the family, sitting beside this beautiful woman, on a night like tonight, we wouldn’t call it starry, exactly, but pleasantly illuminated nonetheless, and what do you mean you can’t sit with us to have a drink, nights like this are made for enjoying.

The price of cardamom plummeted the year after our first lunch, and so began the shitstorm, the goddamn Harmattan, as Amir called it. His father, who had plantations in the highlands and was well into his eighties, disappeared during one of his trips to La Corregidora, his cardamom finca. Amir received a call on Tuesday at three in the morning, telling him that his father had been found. He explained to my mother, phone still in hand, that his father had just been taken down from the branch of a ceiba tree, where he’d been hanging for more than twelve hours.

We went together to the funeral. Amir had already made the arrangements. He had been there for the body’s ablutions, the shrouding of the corpse, even if in this case, he told us, under these circumstances, it wasn’t really appropriate. He held my mother’s hand, composed, while we listened to the chants in the cemetery. I guess he was already beginning to have other concerns, new worries caused by the letter found at the foot of the ceiba and the strange and somewhat incoherent words his father had written there.

I began to stop by the house more frequently. Amir would come back from work before my mother and we’d sit in the two plastic chairs they kept in the garden. He’d prepare the drinks, using tongs to fish ice cubes out of a red bucket and drop them into the glasses. The first fragments of the letter began to filter through that way, though I soon understood that his words were part of a correspondence covering much more than those six handwritten pages. Some of the references were over my head, we both knew it, and Amir saved us the discomfort of having to explain himself. He just talked, mentioning details between sips, or after exhaling cigarette smoke, touching his fingertips to his cheekbones to make sure everything was still in order.

There was trouble rising on several fronts, he said. He spoke of hazy, sometimes dark characters, contacts in rural areas, people who moved in and out of his story without a clear purpose, and he also spoke about La Corregidora, first seized by the bank and then taken over by the workers. Kind of a nasty move by the boys, he mumbled, hurt. He had liquidated his father’s assets. His salary from the export house grew thinner each month, a trickle beside the flow of debts he’d inherited. His partner in the company had agreed to lend him some money which, naturally, had cooled their friendship. He had to make payments to the bank, to the workers, to his partner, and a certain fatigue began to show in his movements, his once calm hands now looked defeated.

He suggested we start having drinks outside the house. He’d call me after the workday to meet in a bar in the city center. His job with the export house kept him out in the country, which allowed him to attend to his father’s lands. I was concerned to see him prolonging those evenings, extending our silences until there weren’t enough customers to hide behind. My mother would be at home, awaiting Amir’s return, and we’d be there, awaiting the return of god knows what.

He held his glass between both hands, making it turn on the table with those big, heavy, friendly fingers. The men had money, he told me on one of those occasions. You have to take that into account, he said, that they have money, because there’s not much of that going around these days, but those guys certainly have it. They’d come to La Corregidora to visit him, just as he was arriving, and it was obvious they were well-informed, because he never told anybody when he was going to be at the finca. Otherwise, the workers would block his way at the entrance, the entrance to his own father’s finca, he sighed, even if he was going there just to talk with them, even if his only purpose was to negotiate something to get them all out of this whole mess. Anyway, he said, the men came to visit and they were very kind, very polite, real gentlemen, they treated me with respect. Don Amir, they said, you’re wasting this land, you’re bleeding out this very second. Just look at your harvest, those wilted cardamom plants, why don’t you let us give you a hand before things take a turn for the worse, Don Amir, just look at the boys, or even worse, look at the bank, no one’s going to help you there. We’re right here, Don Amir, we’ll gladly take this load off your shoulders, these problems with the bank, with the boys, can always be sorted out.

I saw my mother some afternoons for coffee at the house, but we tried to avoid the subject. She knew that Amir and I met every so often, and seemed to regard those evenings with a distant, benign curiosity. I bumped into him one day, as he was leaving the house. He stopped when he saw me looking at a strange new object on the wall. He came closer, we exchanged a few words, and then looked at the object together, in silence. Hamsa, he said at last, the hand of Fatima. It was a flat hand, made of tin or aluminum, its fingers pointing to the floor. In its palm was an eye, the pupil seemingly of emerald. For the evil eye, Amir explained. He raised his finger slowly and drew a circle around the hand. That’s what they say in Algeria: this protects us from the evil eye. Then he said good-bye, glancing at the hand on the wall before leaving.

She liked that we were spending time together, my mother said that afternoon, especially now that Amir seemed to walk with drooping shoulders, closer to the ground. Of course, she was much better informed than I, more aware of his gestures and his silences, knowing, too, details from the letter which I didn’t. That’s what Amir had told me, that there were things in the letter which couldn’t be explained, or couldn’t be spoken of, except to my mother, of course, from whom nothing should be hidden.

She sensed the abyss Amir was beginning to skirt, the harm caused by each trip to the bank, each return from the finca. Things weren’t getting better. She told me, over coffee at home, that his partner had sued him for failing to repay the loan. A lawsuit, she said, is only for enemies. Amir was beaten down, she continued. He couldn’t understand how a loan made in friendship could lead to such a thing. At least, she said, looking at the bottom of her cup, in moments like these, the wolves lose their sheepskins.

***

We’re here to celebrate, Amir said when he saw me. The bar at Hotel Lux was empty at that hour of the afternoon, but Amir already had a bottle of rum on the table, unusual for him since he always drank by the glass, ordering them one by one, gesturing toward the bar so that the waiter would come to the table and share a word or two—Amir hadn’t lost his taste for small talk, though now it was limited to polite formalities. But tonight he had the bottle on the table, two glasses and a small metal bucket filled with ice, and slices of lime he squeezed over my drink before pointing to a chair and asking me to take a seat, because this time there was reason to celebrate. His face shone a bit and his cheekbone was twitching powerfully, as if he’d given the tremor free reign. Things changed today, he said, raising his glass to toast me. We reached an agreement with the gentlemen, he said, I’ve accepted their offer, and now it’s just a matter of drawing up the paperwork, and meeting with the lawyer and the notary. But they’ll arrange all that, the lawyer and the notary. You just worry about the deed, Don Amir, they said, so I only have to bring the deed, and something to sign with. He took a long drink. Sign, of course, and turn over the finca.

We drank late into the night. Amir’s initial talkativeness subsided with each drink, his words fading between the alcohol and the sound of the few people at the bar. Silence soon arrived, reliably as ever, taking a seat at our table with no one there to make it leave. Amir began playing with a slice of lime, lifting it between two fingers and observing it closely, then crushing it against the table’s wooden surface. He annihilated half a lime this way. Then he lifted the last slice and held it up against the light from the bar.

Not one ounce of finquero in them, he said. These men, they’re not one bit finqueros, apart from their mustaches. He gave a hint of a smile, bitterly, which was rare for him, and brought the slice of lime to his lips. But what can you do, he said, if the bank falls short and the boys just go too far. He sucked the lime, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked me in the eye. You understand what I’m saying, right? Tell me, he said, raising his voice, do you understand what I’m saying? One of the waiters turned to look in our direction. I wanted to answer, even if deep down I didn’t want to understand at all—all I knew was that the rum and the silence were making it difficult. There’s always the family, I mumbled after a while, aware of the vagueness of my words, and I felt my face reddening, the warmth of the drink now mixed with another warmth rising up my neck. Amir observed me, almost with curiosity, and then he nodded, bringing in his glass to clink with mine. That’s true, he said, there’s always the family.

There were just a few lights on by the time I made it out to the street. He’d stay a while, he said, he wanted to sweat it out a bit longer. He approached the bar, his steps steadier than mine, and let himself drop onto a stool. There were no more customers, but Amir’s loyalty was rewarded in the Lux with the privilege of one last drink at his discretion. We parted with a handshake and after walking out to the street I had to lean up against a wall. I let the concrete bear the weight of my body for a while, and then I stumbled back to the pension where I lived.

I woke up in bad shape the next day, only leaving my place to buy something to eat. I spent most of the weekend in bed, and by late Sunday I knew I wouldn’t be talking to Amir that next week, to him or my mother, that it would be better to give them some space, and something about that understanding made me dress warmer those days, eat well, prepare myself for things I could sense despite knowing nothing about them. The call came on Monday.

This is Amir, said the voice on the phone. He coughed a couple of times and I said hello. Your mother is a bit indisposed, he said, she had a little scare, nothing serious, but you know how these things are. He paused a moment, as if waiting for a confirmation from me, but I didn’t actually know what kinds of scares he was talking about. I asked him. He ignored me. You should know I didn’t sell the finca, he said. It didn’t seem like the right thing to do, he added, and then he repeated those words, more slowly: the right thing, it didn’t seem right. In any case, he said, some issues have come up, and it would be good if you could stop by the house. It’ll be better to talk at home, he said, better at home than like this.

It was Amir who opened the door. He glanced behind me before shaking my hand and inviting me in. Then he took me to the living room and we waited there. She’s coming now, was all he said, and shortly after my mother stepped out of her room and came close to hug me. She sat next to Amir on the couch, and looked out the large window on the other side of the living room. The dark silhouettes of the plants moved back and forth in the garden. It’s better if you explain, she said to Amir. She held his hand and her own seemed to disappear in his large, kind fingers. From my rocking chair, my mother looked fragile but at peace.

What can I say, said Amir, only that the men were upset. You know these are tricky people, he said, turning to my mother, nothing new about that. I told you before, he went on, now looking at me, that they were true gentlemen when they spoke to me at the finca, always very well-mannered. But with such good manners, they expect something in return. I looked over Amir’s shoulder, where the hand of Fatima hung on the wall. Or that’s how they see it, he added, otherwise the call would’ve been different.

They were very rude, my mother said. Her tone threw me, because she sounded hurt, as if a close friend had insulted her. They treated her badly, Amir said. They asked for me, and she asked who was calling. I asked what they wanted, my mother interrupted. She moved closer to Amir. Then they insulted me, a bunch of nasty words, and hung up.

The second call was different, she went on in a softer voice. It had been a couple of hours since the first and I answered thinking it was Amir, because he was on his way home from the highlands and said he would call me. The phone rings and I pick it up and someone starts speaking to me immediately, without asking a thing. The voice tells me that first, before anything, I must put my fears aside, because if I’m afraid, my thoughts will be clouded and I won’t understand, and if that happens I’d have good reason to be afraid. But that’s only the worst-case scenario. The voice asks me to listen. I listen. It says there are certain commitments that can’t be forgotten. Because that’s how they want to interpret what happened, the voice says, as a simple oversight, and they wouldn’t want to imagine that the agreement had been broken, because an agreement is, above all, a matter of honor, a pact between gentlemen, an understanding, and what are we left with if we can’t even understand each other. Fear, the voice says. That’s what’s left. Because we’ve been very generous and Amir knows that, the voice adds, and to refuse that generosity, to renege on that agreement, could only lead to one thing. We all know what that is.

That was two days ago, Amir says now. We got those two calls two days ago, but the important thing is to keep calm. Your mom knows I always keep a .22 in the car. We have it in the house now. We have to keep calm, he says, and we have to protect ourselves: only in an emergency would we use the .22. The house must be protected, and that’s why I’m here, better to stay in the city these days, because I won’t allow your mom to be alone like this.

And, well, Amir continues, today I saw the neighbor out front, and he told me that a man was hanging around here, standing on the other side of the street, smoking, leaning against the gate, and he stayed like that for a while, according to the neighbor, smoking and watching the house. He had a very strange habit, the neighbor said, a way of smoking which first caught his eye and then annoyed him, because he’d only take one drag from each cigarette, the guy would light the cigarette and take one drag before flicking it against the sidewalk nonchalantly, as if distancing himself from the used cigarette, and he kept going like that, cigarette after cigarette, taking his time between one and the next, but sticking to his method, watching the house, just one drag from each, until he left.

Amir gets up from the couch and lights a cigarette. I’ll be right back, he says as he walks to the kitchen. He returns with glasses and ice. He places them on the coffee table and raises the bottle, bringing it to the lip of each glass for a generous pour of amber rum, going around the table, a glass for my mother, another for me, a third for him, until he sits down again, cigarette in one hand and drink in the other, and then he says something about the twists and turns and especially the somersaults of life, the somersaults where everything goes to shit, he says, and then he stays very still, the silky smoke of the cigarette rising up between his fingers.

They get up when they finish their drinks. We need to rest, my mother says, rest and consider our options, she adds, looking at him. They walk together toward the room, hand in hand, taking small steps, but there’s something in the way they move, a shared balance, which reconciles my mother’s small figure with Amir’s prodigious one. Before entering her room, my mother turns and tells me that it’s late, it’s dangerous to be out on the streets, that it’d be better if I stayed over. I say good night and serve myself another drink before moving to the couch. The burn of the rum, and the soft pillow against my back, give me a pleasant sense of well-being. I must be on my third drink when I fall asleep.

A rough fabric, something like a coffee sack, surrounds my body and my head, and I wake up panicked, with the sharp sensation of being suffocated. But it’s Amir that’s covering me, with one of the ponchos from the towns by the lake. I keep my eyes closed, trapped between sweat and surprise. I can feel the rum in his breath as he pulls the poncho over me, taking care to cover my feet. Wood creaks and I half-open my eyes to see that Amir has taken a seat in the rocking chair, drink in hand.

When I wake again it’s cold and the first thing I see is the poncho on the floor. I try to cover myself, pulling the poncho toward the couch, and notice Amir standing on the other side of the living room. He’s leaning with his face against the glass of the large window, holding the curtain slightly open. He glances at me and brings his index finger to his lips. A huge white robe covers his body. He brings his head back to the glass, and it takes me a second to realize that the thing in his hand is the .22.

The outside light is on and dimly filters through the greenery of the bushes. In the back, the dark silhouettes of the plants sway in the breeze. Amir starts moving away from the window, still looking outside, his back to the wall. His steps are uncertain, and as he walks by the hand of Fatima I hear it fall to the floor. Amir grunts as he kneels down and crawls in search of the hand, until he gets up again and continues to the other side of the window, where the door goes out to the garden.

He opens it with his left hand and takes a tentative step outside. His white robe glows in the darkness. He takes another step forward. I get up on my elbows and see the gun in his hand, held tightly against his waist. He stays still, head tilted forward. He’s inspecting the plants in the back of the garden. He must not be able to see too well, because he stays like that for a few long seconds, with the gun very still, trying to keep his balance. I feel another presence in the room and when I turn around my mother’s there, pale and wrapped in a blanket. Easy, she says. Amir raises the gun at the plants, his hand shaky, and I start to get up, too. Easy, my mother says again. She puts her hand on my shoulder, holding me back. Wait here, she says, wait here. She slowly sits down next to me and we both keep still. Amir moves his head up and down, and we hear a murmur coming from outside. It’s Amir, there’s no doubt about it, but his words, the sounds that might be words, come from somewhere very different. We keep silent, my mother and I, watching the window, the shuddering body, sitting side by side. Amir turns toward us, looking in, tears streaming down his face, and he raises the gun to the sky. Then the shots begin.

“Amir” © 2014 by Rodrigo Fuentes. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2014 by Kate Newman. All rights reserved.

Amir

Éste aquí es familia, decía Amir con su mano sobre mi hombro, los dedos grandes y pesados y aun así amables. La otra persona me observaba a mí y lo observaba a él y luego insinuaba una tímida sonrisa antes de darme la mano y decir que era un verdadero gusto conocer a algún pariente de Amir. Tiempo después, cuando ya había más confianza, Amir le explicaba al desconocido correspondiente que él era en realidad mi padrastro, y quizás agregaba más bajo, con alguna indecisión, que ser padrastro era parecido a ser padre, para luego añadir, cambiando de tono, que no por padre o padrastro, pederasta, y con esto se reía y nos reíamos, aunque su chiste fuese extraño y hubiera causado algún desconcierto. Pero así era Amir, sin grandes escrúpulos a la hora de hablar, no por una impudicia particular, pues tenía un temperamento más bien recatado, sino por la gana de reír y ver reír, aunque esa risa se deslizara, por así decirlo, entre las sombras de la incomodidad. Y es que Amir no le daba mayor importancia a las palabras (que son flacas y flojitas, decía él), sino a esas extrañas e invisibles pulsaciones que irradian los cuerpos, a los gestos y el candor en que se cifra la amistad, como explicaba con un destello en sus ojos, sosteniendo alguno de los cigarros que convidaba cuando no estaba mi madre. Pero eso ya era después de los roncitos, claro, de los roncitos y la plática, cuando Amir entonaba con su ambiente y se manejaba en el fluido territorio del trago.

Se conocieron de noche y frente al lago, mi madre y Amir. Él había perdido a su esposa ocho años antes y en su rostro quedaban las sutiles marcas del desvelo, los resabios de carreras al hospital, y también cierta proclividad a las lágrimas que sorprendió a mi madre en su primer encuentro.

Ambos descansaban en las mecedoras que una amiga en común había sacado al pequeño jardín frente a su casa. Ahí afuera, el rumor de la fiesta y el calor de la fiesta y los silencios de la fiesta les llegaban como mensajes de un mundo indescifrable. Mi madre también había perdido a su marido, y si visitaba a su amiga ese fin de semana era por el sonambulismo en que se había sumido desde la separación, y que permitía que una o dos conocidas la acogieran de esa forma, guiándola por los derroteros de lo que llamaban su convalecencia.

Imagino a mi madre emponchada, su pequeña cabeza despuntando entre los paños abultados alrededor de su cuerpo. Respira profundo y observa el agua desde su mecedora. Amir también mira al lago, enfocado en las luces de la otra orilla, pero es difícil saber a ciencia cierta si en realidad observa algo, porque bien podría estar con la mirada perdida, atento a algo más, pues si pierde la mirada es porque encuentra la memoria, como acostumbra decir tras distraerse. Pasa el tiempo, y Amir rompe en llanto. Llora y sigue llorando y mi madre se queda en su silla, protegida del frío por el poncho, esos ponchos gruesos y rudos que su amiga consigue en los pueblos a la orilla del lago. Amir llora y mi madre guarda silencio y ambos cuerpos se sacuden, pero en la oscuridad eso se ve poco y tampoco importa mucho.

Acababa de mudarme fuera de casa cuando mi madre me llamó para invitarme a almorzar. Quería que conociera a alguien, dijo, y la vaguedad de sus palabras, su resistencia a las explicaciones, me hizo pensar que algún individuo cuestionable se había infiltrado en nuestro círculo más íntimo. Nada sabía yo de Amir, ni de sus manos inmensas ni del latido involuntario de su pómulo derecho, un pequeño temblor que le hacía bajar la mirada y fingir concentración en su comida. Algunas referencias a su familia en Argelia, y ciertos datos sobre la siembra y la cosecha del cardamomo, son lo poco que recuerdo de esa conversación. Pero también sé que aguantó bien el peso de la mesa, una mesa redonda y de madera que llevaba más de veinte años en la casa, con manchas y cicatrices desconocidas para Amir, escondidas bajo el mantel verde sobre el cual descansaba su mano, la palma abierta y sosteniendo los pequeños dedos de mi madre. Desconfié de su aire reservado, midiéndolo desde mi silla, pero tuve que entregarme ante la candidez de su silencio.

Me llamó algunos días después para que tomáramos un trago. El Hotel Lux aún conservaba una oscura barra de madera, larga y bien lustrada, pero Amir esperaba en las mesitas precarias del fondo. Me dio un apretón de manos y pude ver que se esforzaba por tensar los músculos del rostro. Empezó hablando en voz pausada y sin tema en concreto, mencionando entre otras cosas a su padre, el único pariente con quien aún hablaba, si bien el contacto entre ambos era esporádico, incluso frágil. Pero padre solo hay uno, concluyó con cierta pesadumbre, soltando el aire con lentitud mientras descansaba sus manos sobre la mesa. Quería hablarme, dijo al fin, preguntarme qué pensaría si se mudaba con mi madre. Por corrección, dijo, por eso es necesario preguntarlo, agregó, y tuve que evitar su mirada y esconderme momentáneamente tras un sorbo del ron con cola. Mi respuesta fue insuficiente, quizás por eso cruel, y Amir tuvo la decencia de brindar por la familia y por el futuro y seguimos bebiendo, ya sin mucho tema pero sin necesidad de tenerlo.

Poco sabía yo de Amir o del sendero hacia la ruina en el que estaba encaminado. Su risa franca, y el rostro complacido tras los almuerzos de domingo, presagiaban un descenso calmo y prolongado hacia la vejez. La vida hogareña le estaba cayendo bien, me dijo una vez, justo antes de salir en un viaje de fin de semana que mi madre había organizado, sin duda para que Amir y yo nos conociéramos mejor. En el camino Amir  siempre estuvo radiante, sosteniendo el timón con fuerza, las manos resueltas y listas para solucionar cualquier contratiempo. Mi madre lo observaba desde su asiento y sonreía, acercando su mano a la de él, como también sonreía después, cuando esperábamos la cena en un comedor al lado de la carretera y Amir nos presentaba a algún desconocido, un mesero o comensal con el que había entablado plática, un individuo con quien era un gusto estar compartiendo, sobre todo en este pueblo, decía Amir, sobre todo con la familia, junto a esta bella dama que es mi mujer, en una noche así, no vamos a decir estrellada, pero sí de iluminación agradable, y cómo va a ser que no se sienta con nosotros a tomarse un traguito, una noche así hay que aprovecharla.

El precio del cardamomo se desplomó al año de ese primer almuerzo, y con ello empezó el vendaval de mierda, el maldito harmattán, como se acostumbró a llamarlo Amir. Su padre, quien tenía tierras en el altiplano y más de ochenta años, desapareció en uno de sus viajes a La Corregidora, la finca de cardamomo. Llamaron a Amir a las tres de la mañana de un martes para avisarle que lo habían encontrado. Amir le explicó a mi madre con teléfono aún en mano que a su padre lo acababan de bajar de la rama de una ceiba, donde había estado colgando por más de doce horas.

Fuimos juntos al entierro. Él ya había hecho los arreglos. Asistió al proceso de ablución del cuerpo, al amortajamiento, aun si en este caso, nos dijo, bajo estas circunstancias, no correspondía. Sostuvo la mano de mi madre, sereno, mientras escuchábamos los cantos en el cementerio. Supongo que ya entonces empezaba a tener otras preocupaciones, nuevas inquietudes, efecto de la carta encontrada al pie de la ceiba y de las frases extrañas y a veces incoherentes que su padre había escrito en ella.

Comencé a visitar la casa con más frecuencia. Amir regresaba del trabajo antes que mi madre y nos sentábamos en dos sillitas de plástico que se mantenían en el jardín. Él preparaba los tragos, usando unas tenazas chapeadas para pescar los hielos de la cubetita roja y luego soltarlos en los vasos. Los primeros fragmentos de esa carta empezaron a llegar por ahí, aunque pronto entendí que sus palabras pertenecían a una correspondencia que abarcaba mucho más que las seis cuartillas escritas a mano. El diálogo me excedía, lo sabíamos ambos, y Amir me ahorró la incomodidad de tener que explicarse. Simplemente habló, mencionando detalles entre sorbos, o después de expulsar el humo del cigarro, mientras palpaba su pómulo con la punta de los dedos para asegurarse que todo siguiera en orden.

Se le habían levantado varios frentes, dijo. Habló de personajes difusos y a veces oscuros, contactos en la provincia, individuos que entraban y salían de su historia sin propósito concreto, y habló también de La Corregidora, embargada por el banco e invadida por los campesinos. Una estrategia de la muchachada un tanto vil, murmuró sentido. Había liquidado los activos de su padre. El sueldo de la exportadora se diluía cada mes entre el caudal de deudas heredadas. Su socio en la empresa había aceptado prestarle algún dinero, lo cual, naturalmente, había enfriado la amistad. Tenía que hacer pagos al banco, a los jornaleros, al socio, y el cansancio empezó a asomar en sus gestos, cierto desaliento que ahora transmitían sus manos, antes tan serenas.

Por iniciativa suya decidimos compartir nuestros tragos fuera de casa. Me llamaba después de las jornadas de trabajo para que nos reuniéramos en algún bar del centro. Su trabajo en la exportadora lo mantenía en la provincia, lo que le daba cierta libertad para atender a la finca de su padre. Descubrí con preocupación que dilataba esas veladas, extendiendo el silencio que compartíamos hasta que ya no quedaba suficiente clientela para disimularlo. Mi madre estaría en casa esperando el regreso de Amir, y ahí seguíamos nosotros, esperando el regreso de quién sabe qué.

Mantenía el vaso entre ambas manos, sobre la mesa, haciéndolo girar con esos dedos grandes y pesados y amables. Los señores tenían dinero, me dijo en una de esas ocasiones. Hay que tenerlo en cuenta, continuó, que tengan dinero, porque de eso no hay mucho ahora, pero estos señores sí que lo tienen. Habían llegado a La Corregidora a visitarlo, dijo, nomás entrando él, y era obvio que estaban bien informados porque él no avisaba cuándo iba a llegar a la finca. Ya le había pasado que la muchachada le cerraba el paso en la entrada, la entrada a la finca de su propio padre, suspiró, aunque él fuera ahí precisamente a hablar con ellos, aunque su interés fuera negociar algún acuerdo con la muchachada para empezar a salir de todo el despelote. En fin, dijo, me fueron a visitar los señores y fueron muy amables, muy correctos, unos caballeros en realidad, me trataron con mucho respeto. Don Amir, dijeron, usted está desperdiciando esta tierra, ahorita mismo se está desangrando. Si no mire qué marchita esa siembra, sus plantitas de cardamomo tan desganadas que andan, mejor déjenos echarle una mano, porque si no se lo va a llevar el río, Don Amir, solo es cosa de mirar a la muchachada, o peor aun, mire al banco, que ahí no le van a hacer ningún favor. Pues ya sabe, Don Amir, aquí estamos, con gusto le alivianamos la finca, ya sabe que estos problemas con el banco, con la muchachada, tienen cómo resolverse.

Yo veía a mi madre algunas tardes, cuando la visitaba en casa para tomar el café, pero entonces tratábamos de evitar el tema. Ella sabía que Amir y yo nos reuníamos y veía esas veladas con una curiosidad distante pero benigna. Me lo topé a él una de esas veces, mientras esperaba en la sala a que mi madre se desocupara al teléfono. Iba saliendo pero paró al notar que yo observaba el objeto extraño que colgaba de la pared. Se acercó, y después de unas cuantas palabras observamos el objeto juntos, guardando silencio. Jamsa, dijo al fin, la mano de Fátima. Era una mano de aluminio u hojalata, aplanada y con los dedos apuntando hacia el suelo. La palma abierta hacia nosotros albergaba un ojo cuya pupila parecía de esmeralda. Para el mal de ojo, explicó Amir. Elevó su dedo con lentitud y dibujó un círculo alrededor de la mano. Así se dice en Argelia, esto nos protege del mal de ojo. Luego se despidió, echándole un vistazo a la mano que colgaba de la pared antes de partir.

Le agradaba que estuviéramos compartiendo, dijo mi madre esa tarde, sobre todo ahora que Amir caminaba con los hombros más caídos, como apachado contra el suelo. Claro que ella estaba mucho más enterada que yo, conocedora de sus gestos y silencios, conocedora, también, de detalles de la carta que yo ignoraba. Así me había dicho Amir, que en esa carta habían cosas que no se podían explicar, cosas que no se podían decir, a no ser que fuera a mi madre, claro, porque a mi madre no había por qué esconderle nada. 

Ella intuía el abismo que Amir empezaba a bordear, el daño que causaba cada ida al banco, cada retorno de la finca. Las cosas no mejoraban. Me contó, mientras tomábamos un café, que su socio le había puesto una demanda a Amir por préstamo incumplido. Una demanda, dijo, es para enemigos. Amir estaba golpeado, continuó. No entendía cómo le podían hacer esa jugada por un préstamo hecho en amistad. De tronco caído, dijo mi madre, y luego guardó silencio. Pero al menos, continuó, observando el fondo de la taza, en momentos como éste, los lobos dejan el disfraz.

 

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Estamos aquí para celebrar, dijo Amir cuando me vio. El bar del Hotel Lux estaba vacío a esa hora de la tarde, pero Amir tenía ya una botella de ron sobre la mesa, algo inusual considerando que siempre bebía de trago en trago, pidiéndolos por separado, con un gesto hacia la barra para que el camarero se acercara y pudieran charlar un rato, pues Amir no había perdido el gusto por la charla pasajera, aunque ésta se mantuviera dentro de los límites de la cordialidad. Pero ahora tenía la botella sobre la mesa, dos vasos y una cubetita metálica de hielo, el limón rodajeado que exprimió sobre mi trago para luego señalar la silla y pedirme que tomara asiento, porque esta noche había motivo para celebrar. Su rostro brillaba un poco y el pómulo palpitaba fuerte, como si le hubiera dando rienda suelta al temblor. Hoy cambiaron las cosas, dijo mientras acercaba su vaso y brindábamos. Llegamos a un acuerdo con los señores, dijo, los señores aceptaron la propuesta, y ya solo es cosa de hacer la escritura, de juntarnos con el abogado y el notario. Pero eso lo traen ellos, al abogado y al notario. Usted solo encárguese de la escritura, Don Amir, dijeron, así que yo solo tengo que traer la escritura, traer con qué firmar. Tomó un trago largo de su vaso. Firmar y claro, entregar la finca.

Bebimos hasta tarde esa noche. La locuacidad inicial de Amir empezó a ceder con cada trago, las palabras desdibujándose entre el alcohol y el rumor de unos cuantos clientes en la barra. En algún momento llegó el silencio, tan confiable como siempre, tomando asiento en nuestra mesa con toda la tranquilidad del mundo. Al rato empezó Amir a jugar con una rodajita de limón, levantándola para luego observarla de cerca, antes de ponerla sobre la mesa y triturarla entre el dedo y la madera. Así aniquiló medio limón. Alzó la última rodajita y la sostuvo contra la luz que llegaba desde la barra.

De finqueros no tienen nada, dijo. Los señores estos, de finqueros, solo el bigote si mucho. Insinuó una sonrisa, amarga como pocas, y acercó la rodajita a sus labios. Pero qué se le va a hacer, dijo, si el banco se queda corto y la muchachada se queda larga. Chupó el limón y se limpió la boca con el dorso de la mano antes de verme a los ojos. Entendés lo que te digo, ¿no? Decime, repitió alzando la voz, ¿entendés lo que te digo? Uno de los meseros volteó a ver en nuestra dirección. Quise responder, aunque en el fondo no quería entenderle del todo, y si algo entendía entre el ron y ese silencio era que yo no estaba para dar respuestas. Siempre está la familia, murmuré después de un rato, consciente de la vaguedad de mis palabras, y me sentí sonrojar, el calor del trago mezclándose con otro calor que subía por mi cuello. Amir me observó, casi con curiosidad, y luego asintió, acercando su vaso para chocarlo contra el mío. Cierto, dijo, siempre está la familia.

Salí a la calle cuando solo quedaban unas cuantas luces prendidas. Él se quedaría un rato, dijo, quería sudarla un poco más. Se acercó a la barra con pasos más firmes que los míos y se dejó caer sobre uno de los taburetes. Ya no había más clientes, pero la lealtad de Amir era recompensada en el Lux con el privilegio de tomar el último trago a su discreción. Nos despedimos con un apretón de manos y después de salir a la calle tuve que apoyarme contra una pared. Aguanté el peso de mi cuerpo contra el concreto por un buen rato, y luego emprendí el camino hacia la pensión en que vivía.

El siguiente día amanecí mal y solo salí a la calle para comprar algo de comer. Pasé casi todo el fin de semana en cama, y al final del domingo ya sabía que no estaría hablándole a Amir esa próxima semana, ni a él ni a mi madre, pues sería mejor darle su tiempo, darles a ellos su tiempo, y algo relacionado a esa certeza me hizo abrigarme mejor esos días, comer más completo, prepararme para cosas que creía intuir aunque no las conociera del todo. La llamada entró el lunes. 

Te habla Amir, dijo la voz. Tosió un poco y lo saludé. Tu mamá está algo indispuesta, dijo, un pequeño susto que se llevó, nada grave, pero ya sabés como son los sustos. Esperó un momento, como si aguardara una confirmación de mi parte, pero yo no sabía, en realidad, cómo eran los sustos de los que hablaba. Le pregunté. Me ignoró. Sabrás que no vendí la finca, dijo. No me parecía lo correcto, agregó, y luego repitió esas palabras, con una voz más pausada: lo correcto, no me parecía lo correcto. En fin, dijo, han surgido algunos contratiempos, y sería bueno que pasaras por la casa. Será mejor hablar en casa, repitió, mejor en casa que así.

Fue Amir quien abrió la puerta. Alcanzó a echar una ojeada a mis espaldas antes de estrecharme la mano y hacerme pasar. Luego me llevó a la sala y ahí esperamos. Ahorita viene, fue lo único que dijo, y al rato mi madre salió del cuarto y se acercó para saludarme. Se sentó al lado de Amir, en el sofá, y miró hacia el ventanal al otro lado de la sala. Las siluetas oscuras de las matas se mecían al fondo del jardín. Mejor explicas tú, le dijo a Amir. Tomó su mano y pareció que la suya desaparecía entre los grandes dedos amables. Desde mi mecedora, mi madre se veía frágil pero en paz.

Pues qué se va a decir, dijo Amir, excepto que los señores se molestaron. Ya sabés que esa es gente delicada, agregó volteando hacia mi madre, eso no es nada nuevo. Te decía yo antes, continuó, ahora viéndome a mí, que fueron unos auténticos caballeros cuando me hablaron en la finca, muy finos todo el tiempo. Y por tanta fineza, ni modo, pues creen que en deuda está uno. Miré sobre el hombro de Amir, donde la mano de Fátima descansaba contra la pared. O así lo ven ellos, agregó, porque si no la llamada hubiera sido diferente.

Fueron muy groseros, dijo mi madre. Su tono me extrañó, porque sonaba sentida, como si una amiga cercana la hubiera injuriado. Amir tomó su mano entre las suyas y empezó a acariciarla. La trataron muy mal, dijo él. Preguntaron por mí, y ella les preguntó quiénes eran. Les pregunté qué querían, terció mi madre. Acercó su cuerpo al de Amir. De ahí me insultaron, un montón de palabras, y luego colgaron.

La segunda llamada fue distinta, continuó con voz más apagada. Habían pasado un par de horas desde la primera y contesté pensando que era Amir, porque venía camino del altiplano y había dicho que llamaría. Suena el teléfono y lo levanto y me empiezan a hablar directamente, sin preguntar nada. La voz me dice que primero, antes de cualquier cosa, debo dejar el miedo, porque si tengo mucho miedo, si empiezo a temblar y se me nubla la mente no voy a entender nada, y entonces sí tendría que tener miedo. Pero eso es solo en el peor de los casos. La voz me pide que escuche. Escucho. Dice que hay ciertos compromisos que no se pueden andar olvidando. Porque así prefieren interpretar lo que ha ocurrido, dice la voz, como un simple olvido, y ni quisieran imaginarse que el compromiso se ha roto, porque un compromiso es, antes que nada, una cuestión de honor, un pacto entre caballeros, un entendimiento, y en qué quedamos si ni entendernos podemos. Miedo, dice la voz. En eso quedamos. Porque hemos sido muy generosos y eso lo sabe Amir, agrega la voz, Amir conoce la generosidad de la que disponemos, y renegar de esa generosidad, renegar de ese compromiso, resultaría en una cosa. Todos sabemos cuál es esa cosa.

Eso fue hace dos días, dice ahora Amir. Hace dos días recibimos esas dos llamadas, pero lo importante es mantener la calma. Tu mamá sabe que yo siempre cargo una veintidós en el carro. Esa la tenemos en la casa ahora. Hay que mantener la calma, dice, y hay que protegerse: solo en caso de emergencia se usará la veintidós. Ante todo hay que cuidar de la casa y por eso estoy aquí, mejor quedarme en la ciudad, no salir estas jornadas, porque no voy a permitir que tu mamá se quede sola así.

Y bueno, continúa Amir, hoy que salgo a la puerta de la casa me cuenta el vecino que un hombre andaba por aquí, un hombre se paró del otro lado de la calle y ahí se mantuvo, fumando, recostado contra una reja, y así siguió un buen rato, según el vecino, fumando y viendo hacia la casa. Tenía una manía muy particular, me contó el vecino, una forma de fumar que al principio le causó extrañeza y luego indignación, porque solo le daba un jalón a cada cigarro, el tipo encendía el cigarro y daba un jalón antes de tirarlo a la banqueta con un movimiento despreocupado, como desentendiéndose del cigarro usado, dijo el vecino, y así se iba de cigarro en cigarro, dándose su tiempo entre uno y otro, pero ateniéndose a su método, observando la casa, fumando una calada por cigarro, hasta que se fue.

Amir se levanta del sofá y enciende un cigarro. Ahorita vuelvo, dice yendo a la cocina. Regresa con los vasos y el hielo. Los pone sobre la mesita frente al sofá y luego levanta la botella, acercándola al labio de cada vaso para dejar caer un chorro generoso de ron ámbar, y así se va dándole la vuelta a la mesa, un vaso para mi madre, otro para mí, un tercero para él, hasta sentarse nuevamente, con cigarro en mano y el ron en la otra, y entonces dice algo sobre la vida y los giros de la vida y sobre todo las volteretas que da la vida, las volteretas donde todo se va a la mierda, dice, y así se está muy quieto, con el humo del cigarro subiendo sedoso entre sus dedos.

Se levantan al terminar el trago. Hay que descansar, dice mi madre, descansar y hablar de opciones, agrega viéndolo. Caminan juntos hacia el cuarto. Van de la mano, avanzando con pasos pequeños, pero hay algo en su forma de desplazarse, un equilibrio compartido, que concilia la figura reducida de mi madre con la presencia abarcadora de Amir. Antes de atravesar el umbral mi madre se voltea y me dice que ya es tarde, que es peligroso andar en las calles, y que sería mejor si me quedo en casa. Les doy las buenas noches antes de servirme otro trago, y luego me paso al sofá. El ardor del ron, y el cojín esponjoso a mis espaldas, me causan una grata sensación de bienestar. Debo estar en mi tercer trago cuando caigo dormido.

Un tejido grueso y como de costal me envuelve el cuerpo y la cabeza, y despierto asustado, con una aguda sensación de asfixia. Es Amir quien me cubre, con uno de los ponchos del lago. Mantengo los ojos cerrados, preso entre el sudor y el sobresalto. Siento su respiración a ron mientras extiende la manta sobre mí, cubriendo mis pies. Cruje algo de madera y entreabro un segundo los ojos para ver que Amir se ha sentado en la mecedora con un trago en mano.

Cuando despierto otra vez hay frío y lo primero que veo es el poncho en el suelo. Intento arroparme, jalándolo hacia el sofá, y descubro a Amir parado al otro lado de la sala. Está inclinado sobre un lado de su cuerpo, el rostro contra el vidrio del ventanal, y sostiene la cortina ligeramente abierta con al punta de los dedos. Me echa un vistazo y se lleva el índice a los labios. Lleva puesta una gran bata blanca y unos calcetines claros le cubren los pies hasta la altura de los tobillos. Acerca la cabeza otra vez al vidrio, y me toma un segundo entender que el objeto en su mano es la veintidós.

El foco está encendido y una tenue luz se diluye entre el verdor de las plantas. Al fondo, las siluetas oscuras de las matas se mecen con la brisa. Amir empieza a alejarse del ventanal, sin dejar de ver hacia fuera, la espalda contra la pared mientras le da la vuelta a la sala. Sus pasos son inciertos, tambaleantes, y al pasar por donde está la mano de Fátima la escucho caer al suelo. Amir resopla mientras se hinca y gatea en busca de la mano, hasta levantarse al poco tiempo y seguir hasta el otro lado del ventanal, donde la puerta da al jardín.

 Abre con la izquierda y toma un paso indeciso hacia afuera. Su bata blanca resplandece en la oscuridad. Toma otro paso hacia delante. Me levanto sobre el sofá y veo la pistola en su mano, asida fuerte contra la cadera. Se mantiene quieto, con la cabeza inclinada hacia el frente. Examina las matas del fondo del jardín. No debe distinguir mucho porque se mantiene así varios segundos largos , con el arma quieta, intentando mantener el equilibrio. Siento que hay alguien más en la sala y cuando volteo a ver mi madre está ahí, pálida y envuelta en una cobija. Calma, dice ella. Amir eleva la pistola hacia las plantas, la mano titubeante, y empiezo a levantarme yo también. Calma, repite mi madre.  Pone su mano sobre mi hombro, me hace aguardar. Esperá aquí, me dice, esperá aquí. Se sienta a mi lado y ambos nos quedamos quietos. Amir mueve su cabeza de arriba para abajo, y escuchamos un murmullo que viene desde afuera. Es Amir, sin duda alguna, pero sus palabras, los sonidos que quizás son palabras, provienen de un lugar muy distinto. Guardamos silencio, mi madre y yo, observando la ventana, observando el cuerpo estremeciéndose, sentados uno junto al otro. Amir voltea hacia nosotros, mirando hacia adentro, las lágrimas corriendo por su rostro, hasta elevar el arma al cielo. Entonces empiezan los balazos.    

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