Barefoot Dogs (5 page)

“How do they go?”

“Let me see . . . There was one about how you only really meet the sea once in your life, and another that said,
When you turn forty
/
you become everything you despised
/ when you were twenty
. Something like that.”

“Mr. Mills?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Your phone.”

I gave it to her, and she took one last picture of us—her back resting against my chest, both of us looking away. To this day, the image remains obscure and out of focus.

• • •

I fled Austin the next afternoon. The Mexican government provided a plane to evacuate the consulate personnel to Houston, where I spent the following weeks. Despite the efforts of firemen and the National Guard, the Hill Country wildfires swept through the city’s ever-expanding limits. The state capital had to be temporarily reinstated in Houston. The consulate
in Austin never reopened.

As compensation for our having lost everything, the Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores offered to transfer us anywhere we liked. After visiting my parents in California, I moved to Paris, where I spent the next five years working for the embassy in the mornings, wandering the wobbly cobbled streets of the Rive Gauche and the Rive Droite and Place Vendôme and rue de Saint-Honoré and the Champs-Élysées in the afternoons, looking for Laura. I was later transferred to São Paulo, where I spent five miserable years, and then promoted to consul in Zürich, where my hopes of bumping into Laura on the street reached their lowest point, as I was sure she’d never pick such an aloof place. In all those years, I resisted the temptation to climb into a dryer again. In my fourth year, I learned about an opening in the Protection Department at the consulate in New York, an infamous middle-rank position that would force me to pretend once again that I cared. I wanted it regardless, because I wanted to be back in America.

Shortly after my arrival in Manhattan, an invitation to the opening of an exhibition by a Mexican artist at a SoHo gallery arrived in the consulate’s in-box:

People Bleeding Firecrackers
is a series of 3D holograms in which Nicolasa Gutiérrez-Arteaga (Chimalistac, Mexico, 1991), recreates the cities where she was born and raised, Mexico City and Austin, Texas, as she blends them together into a single homeland, transient and elusive.

I recognized the name of the artist immediately. I looked her up online. When I found her picture, the hairs on my arms curled. The image showed a young woman whose features looked familiar. Her eyes were her mother’s, but Nicolasa’s
looked unfathomably sad. It was like seeing a version of Laura’s distorted by water and memory and make-believe. The invitation said the exhibition was to open in a couple of days, but I couldn’t wait. I dashed out of my office and grabbed a taxicab.

The gallery was located on the grounds of a nineteenth century building with a cast-iron facade, overlooking a quiet, cobbled street. A young red-haired man greeted me ceremoniously at the door. Old-school manners were en vogue once again.

“Ms. Arteaga is not here at the moment, sir,” he said, and my heart prickled. “May I ask who’s looking for her?”

“Plutarco Mills. Mexican Consulate. Is she coming back today?”

“She is, indeed.”

“Do you mind if I wait?”

“Not at all, sir,” he said, looking startled. “Please make yourself at home.” The gallery was a large white empty space flooded with bright light that didn’t invite me to stay, but I didn’t want to leave. I was anxious and filled with anticipation. I was convinced Laura would arrive any minute, trailing behind her now prominent daughter, playing her role of proud and submissive Mexican mother.

An hour later, a woman burst into the gallery, her arms full of shopping bags. It was her. The young man took the bags swiftly away from her, and whispered something in her ear. Nicolasa looked at me warily. The guy left us alone. As I approached her, I cleared my throat.

“Plutarco Mills, Mexican Consulate,” I said, trying not to stammer as I offered Nicolasa my hand, my palm embarrassingly moist and shaky. “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Gutiérrez.”

She was slender and tall, and wore an upsetting citrusy perfume I didn’t recognize. She was dressed all in black. In per
son she wasn’t nearly as beautiful or intriguing as her mother.

“It’s actually Arteaga. Nice to meet you too,” she said. I could tell she didn’t mean the latter.

“I’m here to let you know that everybody at the consulate is very excited about the opening of your exhibition,” I said in Spanish. Beads of sweat broke out on my scalp. “Anything we can do for you, just let me know. It will be my pleasure.”

“Thank you. That’s sweet of you,” she replied, switching back to English, and this broke my heart. She offered me a diplomatic smile, but still looked unsettled. The word
sweet
a product of mere courtesy. I searched for echoes of Laura’s fierceness, but I found none.

“It’s funny,” Nicolasa said, “I know some people at the consulate, but your name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I’m new here,” I replied. “I just moved back to the States after many years abroad. My last position in the country was with the Austin consulate.”

“Really? I lived there for a while,” Nicolasa revealed, as if I didn’t know. Her face lit up. I imagined her mother back in Austin as I never had, shopping for groceries at H-E-B, driving the girls to soccer practice and art class and medical appointments and birthday parties, attending endless PTA meetings, picking her husband up at the airport, driving her Cayenne listlessly along Highway 360, all on her own, a world away from home, making stupid miles up and down a beautiful, meaningless place, looking for something, anything, that gave her a reason to keep on living. “It was my second home. Austin used to be such a gorgeous place.”

I wanted to tell her I remembered the city the same, but her reasons and mine would have collided. I wanted her to repeat that word,
gorgeous
, for when she said it, she sounded like her mother.

Gorgeous
.

“In fact, I think I met your parents there,” I said. My stomach cramped. “How’s your family doing?”

“Everybody’s fine, thanks for asking.” She looked unnerved. “They’re flying in from Houston for the opening. I hope you join us, Mr. Mills.” I knew she wanted me to leave, I knew she didn’t mean to extend any invitation. I was scaring her, but she was forcing herself to say things she didn’t mean out of pure Mexican-bred politeness. She was one of us, after all. I imagined Laura feeling proud of, and miserable for, her daughter’s exquisite, self-destructive manners.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said, my voice trembling. I saw this pale, foreign girl in front of me, a complete stranger, and realized how absurd my presence there was, how disturbing and creepy my visit must have been to her. Excusing myself and leaving immediately was the right thing, the only thing, to do. But I couldn’t help myself.

“I can’t wait to see your mother again, Nicolasa,” I heard myself say, as if the words had been uttered by somebody else. “After all these years, I haven’t been able to forget her.”

“My mother won’t be here,” Nicolasa replied quietly. “She died in the big Austin blaze of 2009.”

“Oh,” was all that came out of my mouth.

And then, as if she knew the right thing to say, she added, “I’m very sorry, Mr. Mills.”

• • •

That last day I ever saw her, Laura woke me up with a whisper. It was very early in the morning.

She said she was leaving. I asked where she was going. She said she didn’t know. I wanted to go with her, flee Austin together.

She said no.

She said she wanted to do this alone. I said we were a sphere, we were an elephant that had found its own lightness on the moon; we needed to remain a sphere.

She laughed as if she were a hundred years old, and her face darkened with sadness. She said she wished me luck, and that she hoped I would find someone who thrilled me.

I insisted, and she cupped my face in her hands. She came close to me, as if there were more people in the room.

“Goodbye, Mr. Mills,” she breathed in my ear as if she were telling me a secret.

I CLENCH MY HANDS INTO FISTS AND THEY LOOK LIKE SOMEONE ELSE’S

“Wait, Homero. Did you hear that?”

“Did I hear what?”

“That noise. Listen. There. In the kitchen.”

“What does it sound like?”

“Like a scratch.”

“Letting you try that shit was not a good idea, Ximena. It’s frying your brain.”

“I’m serious, Homero. There are
noises
in the apartment.
For real.
”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, chimp.”

“Wait. It stopped.”

“Whatever.”

• • •

“Anyway. You were saying—”

“Oh, yeah. Imagine yourself gliding for five hours straight. Imagine you could fly anywhere you want, free of everything and everybody, without having to worry about shit. Like, if you had wings.”

“Like an eagle, all majestic and menacing? Or like a monarch butterfly? Frail and cute, but totally unbreakable?”

“Like an airplane. Like you had steel wings, but they were a natural part of your body.”

“Whoa, dude. This shit’s kind of scary.”

“Like me.”

“Yeah, you wish.”

• • •

“Ximena?”

“What’s up.”

“What are those things on the curtains?”

“Those cute little bugs printed all over them? The blue ones look like flies, no? And the other ones—aren’t they like, ladybugs?”

“That’s gross. And
super
gay. Who’d put curtains with
bugs
in their
living
room?”

“They’re kinda cool.”

“You don’t have to like
everything
just ’cause we’re here, Ximena. We’re not offending Philippe by not liking his apartment. He can’t hear us, you know? They’re
awful
.”

“I’m just trying to like
something
about this place, okay?”

“Don’t look at the windows, then. Those curtains are ugly as shit.”

• • •

“Homero?”

“What now?”

“Remember that time we all came to New York?”

“For Christmas?”

“Where did we have dinner?”

“At the Plaza, I think. Or the Waldorf. One of those places near Central Park.”

“When Mom and Dad said we could stay in Philippe’s apartment, I imagined something like that, around the park, with a doorman and everything. Not
this
.”

“At least we’re not in Harlem, chimp. Or
Brooklyn
.”

• • •

“Did Grandma and Grandpa come with us on that trip?”

“Oh, yeah. On Christmas Eve, Grandpa took you, me, Nico, and Fer to FAO Schwarz while everybody else got ready for dinner. He bought us Tamagotchis. Mom and Aunt Laura were so pissed, but Grandma told them to chill, like she always did.”

“I barely remember Grandma.”

“You were too young, chimp.”

“Do you think she’s looking?”

“From above
?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nah. Better for her, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“’Cause it would kill her again—knowing about Grandpa.”

• • •

“Homero?”

“Yes, chimp.”

“There’s this
girl thing
I used to talk about with Carla and Michelle?”

“If it’s what I’m thinking, don’t even go there.”

“Just got it today. And it’s like,
alive
, man.”

“TMI, dude.”

“Who am I supposed to talk to about these things now?”

“Not to me. That’s
gross
. Talk to Mom when she calls.”

“Are you out of your mind? ‘Hey, Mom! Guess what? I’ve got my period! Five days late. Isn’t that
a relief
?’ ”

“Ximena, stop. I mean it.”

“Easy for you to say. You guys fool around and everything’s cool. We girls mess around a little bit, and we’re screwed. It’s depressing. And unfair.”

“Maybe, but I’m not fucking Doctor Ruth, okay? Read my lips: T.M.I.”

“How old are you? Nine? ‘
Mo-om
, Ximena said the word
va-gi-na
in front of me!’ ”

“Fuck you, chimp.”

“No
,
Homero! Fuck
you
!”

• • •

“Homero?”

“Not here, dude.”

“It’s that noise again. Did you hear it?”

“It’s those ladybugs and flies. They’re coming for you, chimp.”

“Shut up, Homero. I’m serious.”

“Forget it, smarty pimples. Not talking to you unless you apologize.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Good luck finding someone to listen to your shit here. Not talking to a young lady from Virreyes who behaves like a truck driver from Neza.”

“Hey, you said
fuck you
first!”

“Remember what Mom and Dad said at the airport?”

“What part? They said, ‘Look out for each other. You guys will be on your own until we can join you.’ They said, ‘Don’t get in trouble. We have enough of that already.’ ”

“And they said, ‘Homero, you’re in charge.’ ”

“They never said that!”

“Of course they did! They
always
do. And even if they
didn’t, it was
implicit
. I’m
older
, chimp. I’m the fucking boss around here. So,
apologize
or else.”

“Seriously, dude. You’re such a douche.”

• • •

“That noise is totally freaking me out, Homero. Can’t believe you don’t hear it.”

“Apparently it’s douche-proof, ’cause I can’t hear a damn thing.”

• • •

“Fine. I’m sorry, okay? Can we keep talking now?”

“Not so fast, smarty freckles. First you need to say, ‘I’m sorry, Homero, my irresistibly hot, and wise as hell, older brother. I was a bad and stupid girl. I hereby admit you’ll be in charge for as long as we’re stuck here.’ ”

“Give me a break, seriously. My head’s throbbing like crazy.”

“My head feels watermelon-huge too.”

“I told you. Popping pills you find in the bathroom cabinet of someone you barely know is probably not the brightest of ideas. But you said that it’d be a riot. So much for your being in charge, dude.”

“I’m pretty sure we’d have a headache anyways, even if we’d only be doing fucking
Pop-Tarts
. It’s not the pills, Ximena. It’s that we’re stuck in
limbo
.”

• • •

“Did you hear that? Don’t tell me you didn’t.”

“You’re getting on my nerves, chimp. What if I didn’t hear a fucking thing?”

“No wonder.”

“No wonder what?”

“No wonder you’re still single, dude. You’re unbearable.”

“You sound like Grandpa.”

“Excuse me?”

“Every time I saw him, he’d put his arm around my shoulder like we were buddies, and ask the same fucking thing over and over: ‘Have you got yourself a girlfriend yet, Hom? How come I’ve never met a girlfriend of yours?’ ”

• • •

“Homero?”

“Ugh. What?”

“Do you like dudes?”

“Note to self: stop treating your fifteen-year-old sister as if she had a brain.”

• • •

“So? Do you like girls then? Yes or no.”

“I used to, till I had to share a shitty apartment in New York with one. Didn’t I tell you about her? She wouldn’t shut up,
caw caw caw caw caw
like a fucking parrot all day. And she
heard noises
. Totally cuckoo. Born-again faggot ever since, dude.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha. You’re so hilarious I’m peeing in my undies.”

“Just keepin’ it real, Sis.”

• • •

“You don’t want to talk about yourself? Fine. I’ve got a question for you, though.”

“Here we go again. Wake me up when you’re at least twenty, please.”

“Do you think it’s possible to like guys but like, dislike having sex with them?”

“Absolutely, chimp. That fleshy thingy dangling in between dudes’ legs? Gross.”

“Every time I try to talk about something serious with you, you make fun of me.”

“Let’s pretend we didn’t have this conversation
at all
, chimp. You’re too young to worry about that dude shit yet.”

“Thanks for the advice,
Da
d
! God, that was so fucking sissy now I’m
positive
you
love
dudes. Big time. Like, dudes with
huge
cocks, man.”

• • •

“Can we keep talking about wings?”

“Really? That’s so two hours ago.”

“Come on, Homero. I’m getting claustrophobic in here. I need a break.”

“Where did we leave off?”

“You were saying you wish you had steel wings.”

“Just wings, all right? Real wings, any way you like.”

“Fly-away wings.”

“Exactly! See-ya-Mexico-and-all-your-shit
wings. I’m-leaving-for-real wings.”

“Homesick wings. I-miss-my-friends-and-my-life wings. I-hate-this-lousy-apartment wings. I-hate-New-York-so-much-it’s-painful wings. I-so-wanted-to-live-here-one-day wings.”

“Careful-what-you-wish-for wings.”

“I-wanna-go-home wings.”

“Good-luck-with-that wings.”

“Shut-up wings. We’re-going-back wings.”

“We’re-so-not wings. If-they-don’t-hear-about-Grandpa-soon-we’re-so-sticking-around-here wings.”

“Is-there-something-you-know-that-I-don’t wings?”

“Swear to God there isn’t.
Wings
.”

“God’s so fucking last month.
Wings
. What do you know?”

“Nothing. I’m serious. And enough with the
f word,
chimp. You sound cheap.”

“And you don’t?”

“I sound
badass
.
You
sound cheap. Guys don’t like girls who talk like that.”

“What makes you think I want guys to like me?”

• • •

“Tell me, Homero. Whatever it is, I want to know.”

“I’m serious, chimp. I don’t know anything. It’s just a bad feeling, okay? But you’ll laugh if I tell you about it.”

“No, I won’t, Homero. I promise. Seriously.”

“I’m having visions
about Grandpa. That’s all.”

“What kind of visions?”

“It’s like, I see him at the end of a street, in a sea of people. He’s traipsing around as if he doesn’t know which way to go. I feel so relieved when I see him cause I think, ‘Oh, that was
it
! He was just
lost
!’ I grow all excited because
I’ve found him
, you know? I’m going to rescue him, to bring him home. I tap him on the shoulder, but when he turns . . .”

“What?”

“His whole face, Ximena.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“He’s got no eyes. No ears. No tongue.”

“Homero, it’s not real. It’s just a
vision
. I’m sure Grandpa is okay.”

“No, he’s not.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“’Cause I feel it.”

“Don’t say that. He’ll be fine, you’ll see. They’ll get him back, and he’ll be
fucking fantastic
. And we’ll go home. Believe me. Let’s both believe it, so that it
will
happen, okay?”

• • •

“I wish I could be like you, chimp.”

“Why’s that?”

“I wish I still believed in shit.”

“You can be really mean when you want to, Homero. Seriously.”

“I’m not messing with you. I totally mean it.”

• • •

“It’s there again, Homero!”

“It’s just your brain turning into a french fry, chimp. No more pills for you, lady.”

“Seriously, Homero. I’ve been hearing that fucking noise in the kitchen since we arrived, and you keep saying it’s all in my head. You’re scaring the shit out of me. You’re–”

• • •

“It’s okay, Ximena. I was just being a dick. Seriously.”

“Are you serious? Tell me you are, please.”

“I am. I’m sorry, okay? Stop crying.”

“Do you think it could be mice?”

“Or rats. They say there are more rats than people in New York.”

“Thanks for sharing that, man. Now I won’t be able to sleep here
ever again
.”

“Or maybe it’s just the walls, the floor, creaking, crumbling, you know? This fucking building’s like, a thousand years old.”

“No, it’s not that. Sounds like something alive.”

• • •

“I need to go out, Homero. I need some air.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Shopping. Out for a walk.”

“Can you grab something to eat on the way back?”

“Why don’t you come with me? Let’s have dinner out. We need to get out of here. We can go shopping together. It’ll be fun!”

“Shopping with you? I’d rather stay here and be eaten by rats.”

“Come on. Let’s go. You’ve hardly gone out since we got here.”

“Thanks, though, but I don’t feel like going out. It depresses me.”

“What are you talking about? We’re in fucking Manhattan, man!”

“We could be in fucking Mars and it still would.”

• • •

“Brought you Chipotle. The other places I checked out looked gross.”

“Thanks, chimp.”

“I met our neighbor from the apartment next door, she came in at the same time.”

“Fascinating.”

“She’s like, two hundred years old, but nice and petite and like, elegant? She said she lives alone. She said it’s rats.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“The scratching noises that we’ve been hearing. She actually brought it up. She said she hears them too because our kitchen and hers share the same wall. She said she was pretty sure the rats were on
our
side. She said they’ve tried everything, but that they always come back.”

“I guess we’ll be eating Chipotle for a while then.”

“She suggested that we get some special traps, and something else; something
supercreepy
.”

“What did she say?”

“She said we need to get a good
snap trap
and use blue cheese as bait. She said, ‘Those little guys love the good stuff.’ She said the trap would catch the rat by its head and hopefully kill it instantly. Then, she advised, ‘Release it from the trap and stab it in the belly with a meat fork, but do it
good
, two or three times if you can, my dear, as if you were going mad all over it, and then leave the little guy there, with the meat fork in its belly and everything. Don’t move it, don’t clean any of the mess. It won’t look pretty, my dear, let me tell you. It’ll start
smelling funny after a couple days, and you’ll want to get rid of it, but you’ll have to hang in there, you’ve got to
leave it there
,’ she said. You should’ve seen her face, Homero, all calm and sweet and yet talking like she was in fucking
Kill Bill
or something. I couldn’t believe my ears, I was getting sick, I couldn’t move. I wasn’t even sure the whole fucking thing was real, if it wasn’t my fried brain getting all worked up.”