Life continued on its way. I forgot about the thing with Repollo. My work routine imposed itself against my will. Getting up at six to avoid traffic. Tying my tie, driving to the office. Punching in before eight, taking a break at ten. Eating lunch, filling out forms, attending meetings. Drinking coffee, smoking, snacking on donuts. Monday to Friday: the automation reflected on the computer screen. I was waiting for the bell, and my existence turned into a silent movie.
One day, near the end of my Semana Santa vacation, I was heading up to Hooters when I noticed a crowd gathering around one of the watchtowers, including some police officers and reporters. A soft breeze blew, dragging in an intense, salty odor. I went over to see what was going on, removing my hat, and from a distance I made out the sailboat retrieving a solitary swollen arm, floating out to sea, chewed on by fish.
“It must be from a Dominican,” someone speculated.
I moved away silently, heartbeats pounding in my chest, sweat running down my thighs. My soul made a junkyard of words, convinced they were wrong. The robberies in the area had stopped, and I hadn’t seen him standing on the corner of Ballajá lately, absently peering out of the graveyard. I went out and looked for him everywhere, I must confess, aware of his fate and of the futility of my effort, the top he’d given me clenched in my fist, dancing inside me, inaudible. It’s hard to know what his last minutes were like. He was impulsive and antisocial. Brave with little effort. I just hope that they killed him before cutting off his limbs, to spare him the pain. But hired thugs tend to be sadistic, and they have their methods. There’s no way to know.
The Infamy of Chin Fernández
by Tere Dávila
Barrio Obrero
“Invisibility!” he commands, like a superhero from an action comic. But he humbly prays for it from the Almighty too. Chin Fernández asks for the protection necessary to enter the neighbor’s patio, cross behind the plantain trees, slip between the trash bins, and make it to the clothesline, where the sheets that were left out all night will provide him the necessary cover on that patio — which is foreign to him, but identical to his own and to all the others in the neighborhood: a narrow U bordering a squat, sweltering house. That familiarity helps him feel less like a scoundrel than he should, crouching behind the three-foot cement wall that separates one residence from the other. There, Chin waits, ready to jump.
The neighborhood is still asleep — Maritza too, Chin is used to getting up and dressing without waking her — as the sky turns from black to violet, and the shapes of things start to emerge. Not a soul in the street, or nearly, because suddenly there’s another presence on the pavement. Chin almost jumps from fright, but it turns out to be Prieto, who won’t give him away. Better than that, it’s good that he’s out and about and was able to escape again from Angelito; hopefully he’ll get away for good, disappear; but when the dog, recognizing him, comes over, weakly wagging his tail, Chin notices that he’s been beaten and maimed, in such pain that he won’t be going anywhere. What kind of person abuses their own animal like that? he wonders, remembering the afternoon he found him bleeding in an alley.
“Don’t bring that dog in the house!” Maritza had scolded him when she saw them approaching.
“But look what that thug did to him...”
Maritza shook her head, making it clear that, as usual, Chin didn’t understand anything. “Aha, and what will you do when Angelito finds out where his dog is? I don’t want that madman showing up here.”
She had a point. The next day, Angelito had shown up looking for him.
“Give him back,” he said to Chin, one foot inside the house, poisoning everything with his bad blood and demonic appearance: face like a skinhead, skinny as a cable, veins protruding from his neck; like one of those guys who smile just before stabbing you.
“Why don’t you leave him with me?” Chin had responded, but the request lacked conviction, like when you ask for a privilege that you know beforehand won’t be granted.
“If I see you with my dog again, I’ll kill you,” Angelito had threatened before taking Prieto away on a chain leash.
Most men named “Angelito” come out just the opposite, Chin thinks, and then fantasizes, with more than a little pleasure, that the guy falls down dead, that someone burns him with the same cigarettes he uses to torture Prieto, that he gets a beating instead off doling them out... but no — better to remove bad thoughts from his head. According to the reverend, we sin not just in action but also in thought and, considering where he is now, it would be better to keep his thoughts pure, so God won’t abandon him.
Invisibility, he repeats to himself. It’s a matter of jumping over, running to the far side of the patio without being caught, grabbing what he wants — he saw it yesterday when the neighbor came out to hang up the clothes — and returning quickly to the street. He feels his heart beating so fast that it’s difficult to breath.
I can’t handle this kind of stress anymore; lots of forty-year-old men kick the bucket for less.
On the bus heading to work, he keeps his hand in the pocket of his handyman jumpsuit. He punches in. Pours coffee. Cleans the bronze banisters in the lobby where his coworkers hurry by. He eats lunch alone in the cafeteria. And all day long, his hand going in and out of his pocket, stroking his treasure every five minutes: he plans how he’ll care for them, how he’ll give the stolen panties the value and importance they deserve.
“Can you change Gómez’s lightbulb?” says the receptionist, pulling him out of his daydream. And there goes Chin with his screwdriver. Gómez doesn’t even greet him or stand up from his desk; he just moves his ergonomic chair to one side so Chin can do his thing without getting in the way.
Where would she look for them? Chin imagines his neighbor looking through drawers, closets, and inside the washing machine, searching for the panties. But she won’t find them. Chin smiles and gives his pocket a little pat, thinking about the other women, the previous women, looking for their missing garments; some that must have been their favorites, others that they almost never used, but were reserved for special occasions and for that reason, perhaps, they miss them even more. Because that’s the point: they belonged to someone. It’s no good to go to a department store and buy a dozen pairs with no history. That someone misses them is precisely what gives them value.
He punches out at six and is on his way, running late, to the church, where everyone is already sitting — Maritza, in the tenth row, hasn’t saved him a seat — so he listens to the sermon, which is quite long, standing in the back. When the service is over, he heads to the dais, where the reverend is talking to a few congregants. Normally he avoids greeting him, his wife does that, but considering that morning’s activities, he feels the need to earn some points with God.
He waits his turn, looking for a pause in the conversation to greet the reverend, but no one gives him a chance; someone jumps in front of him, or someone else cuts in with another question. So there he is, in front of everyone, his nose buried in chitchat, nobody noticing him, like they don’t even see him. He wonders if he really has become invisible; so he gives up and goes back Maritza.
“And that outfit?” she asks, definitely seeing him, or really just his jumpsuit.
She’s right, he should’ve changed. Chin starts to explain: he got held up in the office, he didn’t want to be even later — but Maritza doesn’t listen, she’s busy doling out kisses.