Mr. Gwyn (25 page)

More or less.

Okay. Then go on.

Nothing, I asked for it, I needed the money, and found myself in that mess.

And nothing occurred to you except to shoot him?

There was no other way out, believe me. Killing him was the only move that could end the game.

And you came up with a plan?

More or less. I tried to figure out if there was something in which I was stronger than him.

And you found it.

Yes. I had more imagination and the face of a coward.

You mean?

He would never have expected that I could do something
courageous, or violent. So I told him that I had the money, decide a place; he didn't even take the trouble to choose carefully, or to have someone accompany him. He arrived, I approached, and I shot him. It was the last thing he would have expected.

Shit.

That's how it happened.

Didn't it… I mean, didn't it upset you? To shoot, I mean.

I grew up in a world in which people shot. My father was an accountant, but when it was necessary he'd shoot.

Seriously?

It was a world like that. People killed each other, and did it normally.

In what sense
normally
?

That's another story that I don't owe you.

All right. Then finish mine.

What do you still want to know?

What you did, afterward. Did you run away, did you go to the police, what did you do?

I got in the car and for a couple of days I wandered around. The first day I had some appointments with clients, I kept them. Then enough, I wandered around and that's all. I didn't even call home.

You ran away.

No, I wandered around. But I didn't hide even for a moment. I didn't care if they caught me.

Why?

I still had the gun with me. I kept it in my jacket pocket. I thought sooner or later of killing myself.

Really?

That was the idea. It was a logical idea.

But then you didn't do it.

I thought I'd do it when I saw the police arriving. But they were very clever.

How?

They imagined something like that, and so they were very clever. They followed me for a while from a distance, then they chose their moment well. I was in a hotel and they came to get me there, at dawn, but in a nice way, politely. I was lucky, they were policemen who knew their job.

So you didn't shoot yourself.

As you see.

Maybe it would have been better if you'd shot yourself.

Who knows. But I would rather rule it out. It's always better to be alive.

Even in prison?

But the man didn't answer, because a black car, a few intersections farther on, stopped suddenly and went into reverse. Is it him? asked the man, and the girl nodded yes. She had turned pale. Over here, said the man, and they began to run toward the avenue, where more cars were passing and maybe there were also people. The girl bent down to take off her shoes and, holding them in her hand, began to run fast. The man's heart was pounding in his ears, he was trying to think, to come up with an idea. He was sure that the boy had seen them, but probably he was so angry that it would take him a while to orient himself in that web of narrow streets. Maybe they still had a few minutes, although it wasn't clear what they could do with them. Maybe reaching the avenue was already something, he
thought, and when they got there he turned to see if the black car had arrived first. A bus was approaching, with the arrow flashing. He turned and saw the bus stop twenty yards away. Here, quick, he shouted to the girl, and meanwhile he raised his arm so that the bus would see them. They reached the stop, and the time the bus took to brake and open its doors seemed an eternity. Get in, hurry, said the man. The girl got in without saying a word. The man instinctively reached a hand into his pocket for a ticket, because he was that type of man. But there wasn't time, because the doors closed. From behind the glass the girl shouted something and he thought she was asking why in the world he hadn't gotten on. He shook his head no. The bus left, and he saw the girl waving at him. It seemed to him that she did it gracefully, as she probably did everything.

Then he stood there, his heart pounding. He wasn't even thinking.

A minute, maybe, or a little more, and the black car stopped in front of him. The door opened and the boy got out, calm, slowly. He wasn't in underpants and a T-shirt, he was dressed. He walked around the car and approached the man. She's pregnant, asshole, he whispered softly, then he punched the man in the ribs, and the man crumpled to the ground. He huddled on the sidewalk, like an insect, and meanwhile he thought of jail and what he could do to avoid ending up there again. Don't do anything, he thought. The boy kicked him in the back, repeating in a low voice, Asshole. Then he took a cigarette and lighted it. The man, on the ground, was listening to his own heart. He felt the boy take a few steps, as if to move away. Then he heard him close by again.

Where did she go? the boy asked.

To the man it seemed that the news that the girl was pregnant changed things a little.

She took the bus, he answered.

The boy gave an ambiguous nod of the head. He took a furious drag on his cigarette.

Get up, he said.

The man thought he would never make it, but the boy repeated get up and he did it in a cruel, impatient voice. So the man planted his arms on the sidewalk and with immense effort stood up. He felt a pain in his chest that cracked him in two.

Get in the car, said the boy, in that same voice.

The man raised his head and for a moment wondered where were those few passersby he remembered walking hurriedly along the avenue. He got in the car and it occurred to him that he might not get out alive. But it was a stupid idea, probably.

The boy sat behind the wheel and the man, next to him, slumped against the seat back. Nothing happened for a while. Then the boy started the engine and slowly made a U-turn, setting off along the avenue. They drove as if they had no goal, and maybe they didn't. But finally the boy turned onto a street he recognized and after about fifty yards stopped in front of the hotel. He turned off the engine, pulled down the window, and lighted a cigarette. He was silent for a while.

I'm not even sure it's mine, he said at a certain point. The child, he added.

Why?

What do you mean, why? You saw what type of girl she is.

She's sweet.

She's crazy.

But in a lovely way, said the man, and then he began to cough, because of the thing that was cracked in his chest.

The boy let him cough, then asked if he had children.

More or less, the man answered.

I don't want a child who isn't mine, said the boy.

Then they said nothing until the boy said, Get out, and he said it as if he didn't care about anything anymore.

The man opened the door and said, I'm sorry.

Scram, said the boy. He didn't even wait until the man had really gotten out, he reached over to close the door and took off, tires screeching.

The man stood there, in front of the hotel. He looked around and was surprised to see a light that was still imbued with the dawn, because it seemed to him that hours had passed since he left with the girl. He didn't move, because the pain was piercing, but also because he had the vague sensation of having forgotten something. The towels came to mind. He imagined them on the ground, at the bus stop. He pictured them white and smooth, there on the ground, and for a moment he thought it was good that the boy had beaten him without causing him to bleed. He wouldn't have liked the white towels to be stained with blood. And now, instead, he could imagine them clean, and mysterious, in the curious gaze of the passersby.

Someone will pick them up and take them home, he thought.

3

The boy had lain down on the bed without even taking off his shoes, and had been tossing on top of the covers, falling asleep from time to time, but it wasn't a real sleep. Sitting on a chair, in a corner of the room, a woman observed him, trying to get rid of the annoying sensation that they weren't doing the right thing. She hadn't taken off her coat, because even the heating was terrible in that depressing hotel. Like the dirty carpet and the framed jigsaw puzzles on the walls. Only those idiot bosses of hers could have thought it was a good idea to take a thirteen-year-old boy there, after what he had endured that night. The stupidity of the police. All because they hadn't been able to track down a relative to take him to. They had found only an uncle, who, however, had no intention of budging from where he was, that is, a construction site in the North, an ass-hole. So now here she was playing nanny to the boy, in that shitty hotel, and in the morning something would be decided. But the boy tossed and turned, on top of the covers, and the woman couldn't stand that abandonment, and the sadness of everything. No boy
could deserve shit like that. She got up and went over to the bed. It's cold, she said, get under the covers. The boy shook his head no. He didn't even open his eyes. First they had talked a little, and she even managed to make him laugh. Suppose that I'm your grandmother, she had said. You're not that old, he had said. I look good for my age, the woman had said; she was fifty-six and in fact felt every one of her years. Then she had tried to get him to sleep, and now there she was, convinced that it was all wrong.

She went to the bathroom to wash her face, because it was important to stay awake. And she had an idiotic idea that, however, made her immediately feel better. She turned it over in her mind, and knew that it was full of holes, but she also liked it because it was crazy and delicate. She went back to the chair, still thinking, and since the boy continued to toss and turn on the bed, at a certain point she said Fuck, rose, picked up her bag, and turned on the lights. The boy opened his eyes and looked at her. Let's go, said the woman. Get your stuff, we're going. The boy put his feet down and looked around. Where? he asked. To a better place, said the woman.

They left the hotel and got into an old Honda, parked in back. It didn't have police markings and didn't seem in great shape. It was a beat-up squad car that at the precinct only she used. She was attached to it. She loaded the stuff in the trunk, told the boy to get in, and took the wheel. You stretch out and try to sleep, she said to the boy. Then she slowly left the parking lot, checking that there was no police car in the vicinity. She relaxed a little only when they turned onto the road that led out of the city. The boy hadn't asked questions, and seemed more interested in the radio installed on the dashboard than in the purpose of that journey into the night. Once
they were in the countryside there was really nothing to see out the windows, where everything was devoured by the darkness. While the woman drove silently the boy curled up on the seat and closed his eyes. Sleep, said the woman.

She drove for a good hour, trying to concentrate on the road, because she had never liked driving and was afraid of falling asleep. There was no traffic; at that hour of the night it was something if you came across a sleepless truck. But for the woman it was difficult anyway, because she wasn't used to that kind of thing, and all that darkness made her nervous. So she was glad when she saw the boy sit up and look around, while he stretched like an ordinary boy, one who hadn't been through what he had. It seemed to the woman that everything was going a little better.

Hello, kiddo, she said.

Where are we?

Almost there. Do you want some water?

No.

There should be some cans under the seat.

No, I'm okay.

You remember, right, who I am?

Yes.

Detective Pearson.

Yes.

You just have to relax and I'll take care of the rest. You trust me?

Where's my jacket?

Everything's in the trunk. I took everything.

Why didn't we stay there?

It was a terrible hotel. It wasn't a good idea to stay there.

I want to go home.

Malcolm—your name is Malcolm, right?

Yes.

Going home is also not a good idea, Malcolm, believe me.

I want to see my house.

You'll see it. But not tonight.

Why?

There's no need to talk about it now.

Why?

We can talk about something else.

Like?

Soccer, cars. Or you can ask me questions.

Who are you?

A detective, you know that.

A
lady
detective?

It's not forbidden, you know.

Yes, but… how did you think of it?

Oh, that. At a certain point I changed everything and the idea occurred to me. I wanted to start over again. I was with a policeman. There was an exam and I passed.