Everything Begins and Ends at the Kentucky Club (4 page)

10.

The funeral was at the cathedral where his uncle had attended mass for over fifty years. He had married his wife there, had baptized his children there, had marked and measured his life in that sacred building. It did not matter that neither Javier nor I were believers. How could we believe in a church that did not believe in us—either separately or together? Still, that church and its rituals were a part of us. Our bodies—if not our hearts—were familiar with the medieval chants. There was a strange and intimate comfort there.

His uncle’s sons sat in the front row next to Javier. They were formal, successful men who lived in other cities. There was something hard about them, but they were civil and respectful. “They’re like my aunt,” he said. “Even in love, they are loveless.” That made me smile.

There were not many people in attendance. Most of the mourners were not mourners at all, but friends of Javier’s. They embraced him and comforted him and it was obvious that he was deeply loved.

At the gravesite, Javier sobbed like a boy, unashamed of his tears.

I could feel my heart leaping towards him in the same way that a believer’s heart might leap towards the face of God.

11.

Javier and I settled into what might be called a routine. He would come to stay with me every Friday after work. We would go out, watch a movie, hold hands in the dark theater, go out to dinner, come home, make love. Our lives took on the soft and lovely rhythms of a life that was very nearly normal. On Saturdays, we would go to his uncle’s house and work on it. He’d inherited the place with no arguments from his male cousins—who neither needed the money nor wanted any of the remnants of their father’s life. We both liked working with our hands. We were both men in that kind of way.

On Sunday mornings, I would write. He would read. In the afternoons, we took turns reading our favorite passages from our favorite novels to each other. Javier would talk about the passages with a fierce intelligence that almost always made me smile. He began to understand what that smile meant, though at first he thought I was merely being condescending.

“What is that smile?”

“Nothing. I’m smiling. I’m listening to you and I’m smiling.”

“Because my insights aren’t intelligent? Because I’m amusing?” There was an edge in his voice.

“That’s not what my smile means.”

“Explain it.”

“No,” I said.

Somehow he accepted that. We tried to learn about each other without explaining ourselves too much. We became each other’s favorite books. We were obsessed with reading each other.

The winter left, though not without a fight. It seemed to want to stay, but finally gave in to the inevitable. Changes come with difficulty. Even for the seasons. In the spring, I became obsessed with the novel I was writing. Javier would read what I wrote. But there was a rule: no discussing the novel.

One Sunday evening in the middle of the hottest day of July, we were both reading a book. I was reading Bolaño and he was reading the short stories of J.G. Ballard. I was sitting at my reading chair and Javier was lying on the couch.

I put my book down.

“Will you move here, Javier?”

“Here?”

“With me.”

“You mean we don’t live together?”

“You live in Juárez. Move here.”

“I don’t have papers. You know that.”

“We can start the process. You already have a visa.”

“It’s to visit. Your country doesn’t want me to stay.”

“Don’t get wise. And what does it matter what this country wants?”

“Countries are bigger than men.”

“Fuck countries. I hate all of them. You are the only country I want.”

He didn’t say anything. But then a smile ran across his face. “You read the newspaper this morning, didn’t you, Carlos?”

“The killings are getting worse.”

“I’m safe.”

“Safe?”

“Safe enough.”

“Move here.”

He sat up and put his book down. “I can’t leave Juárez.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

“No, I don’t.”

“What would happen if everybody left?”

“Then the city would die.”

“That’s right, Carlos.”

“But what if you die?”

“I want you to stop reading newspapers.”

“I can’t do that, Javier.”

“Nothing will happen. We can live like this forever.”

“Then I’ll move to Juárez.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You belong here.”

“I belong with you.”

He smiled. “You’ve never said that before.”

“I can tell you every day of my life that I love you. I can. It would be true.”

“You don’t have to tell me what I already know.”

“Then I’ll move to Juárez.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“What if something happens to you?”

“What will happen?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“And you know what I’m talking about.”

We wound up yelling at each other. He had never yelled at me. And I had never yelled at him. The only way to end the conversation was by having sex. Afterwards, we lay there in bed and he whispered, “I can’t be anymore than I am, Carlos. This is who I am.”

I was not his only love and never would be. Perhaps he loved Juárez more than he loved me. But he was right about me. I was not a jealous man. He could love his Juárez. And he could love me too. That was the way it would be.

“We can live this way forever,” I said. It was more heaven than I deserved.

12.

The last Friday in August, I called Javier on his cell. “Are you driving?”

“No, I’m waiting for the Consul to finish his lunch meeting.”

“When are you off?”

“I won’t be off until around seven. It’s a late night. The Ambassador is in town. I have to drive him to Chihuahua on Sunday.”

“Okay. Then let’s meet at the Kentucky Club for a drink after work. My turn to stay at your place.”

I knew he was hesitating.

“Javier?”

“Yes, perfect,” he said.

Walking across the bridge, I noticed the emptiness. When I was young, the Santa Fe Bridge had been teeming with pedestrians. Avenida Juárez had been packed with vendors and people from El Paso who were more than ready to unwind after a long week. But those days were gone now. The bridge was nearly
deserted. I made my way past the soldiers with rifles slung across their backs, soldiers who more closely resembled highschool boys than men. When I walked through the front door of the Kentucky Club, Javier was sitting at the bar.

We touched each other with our eyes.

“Have you been here long?”

“I just got here.”

“I ordered a margarita for you.”

“I hate margaritas.”

“So do I. I thought we’d have one anyway.”

That made me laugh.

We took a seat at a table in the corner.

“No one comes here anymore,” I said.

We drank our margaritas. He was quiet but I was talkative. I told him stories about how I used to come here as a young man, about how, once, I had been propositioned by an older gringo who was too drunk to talk. “He could never have gotten it up to have sex.”

“You must have been very handsome.”

“I never gave it much thought.”

“Why?”

“Since when is being handsome a virtue?”

Javier studied me. Like he always studied me.

“You know,” I said. “I didn’t like thinking about what I looked like. I don’t think I liked having a body.”

“Why?”

“Someone hurt me. When I was a boy.”

Javier studied my face. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“Take me home,” I said.

13.

His place was small—a bedroom, a small living room, a kitchen, a bathroom. He had plants and books everywhere. There were photographs on the walls. And a picture of me in his bedroom. There was a kind of stark elegance to his apartment that reminded me of his smile.

We didn’t make love. We just held each other.

I woke in the middle of the night and undressed. Javier was in the next room reading one of my novels.

“Why are you doing that?” I said.

“I’m in love with the author. Did I tell you?”

We didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

We made love like boys who had just discovered the wonders of sex.

The next day, we had breakfast with the two women who lived next door. Magda and Sofia. They were schoolteachers and activists and they spoke with sadness about what was happening in their beloved Juárez. I found it strange and illogical and moving that these lovely people could be so faithful to a city that had not earned their love. But they were happy and loved working with children who had next to nothing. I promised to bring them some children’s books. “Will you read to them?”

“Yes,” I said.

They both smiled at me. “So you are Javier’s Carlos.”

“Yes. I am Javier’s Carlos.”

We spent the afternoon reading to each other. In the evening, he walked me to the bridge. I wanted to kiss him. But that was impossible. He hugged me. We might have been old friends.

He promised to call me when he got back from Chihuahua.

On Tuesday evening, he called.

On Wednesday, he texted me:
Te adoro.

I texted him back:
See you on Friday
.

He texted me back:
Take me to a movie.

On Friday, I waited for him. He never came.

14.

I kept calling his cell phone, but it had been turned off. I paced my apartment, trying to remember the last time I talked to him. I tried not to panic. I had the number to the embassy but it would be closed. It was no use to call them.

I walked across the street to the corner grocery store and bought a pack of cigarettes. The first one tasted like a pigeon had shit in my mouth. But I didn’t care. I smoked another. I poured myself a drink.

I didn’t sleep all night. I kept running different scenarios through my head. I was, after all, a writer. Maybe he was having an affair with another man. Unimaginative as that scenario was, I insisted upon it. Because it meant Javier was alive.

By six o’clock, I was knocking at Magda and Sofia’s door. By the look on their faces, I knew they weren’t surprised to see me.

“You look terrible,” Magda said as she pushed me toward the couch.

Sofia went into the kitchen and came out with a cup of coffee. She offered me a cigarette. I took it. I listened to my own lungs take in the smoke. “Tell me what happened to Javier?”

“We didn’t have your number. We didn’t know how to contact you.”

“What happened?”

“Thursday night—,” Sofia looked at Magda.

Magda nodded at her.

“They came.”

“Who?”

“Some men. They had rifles. Or maybe not rifles. Weapons. We heard them. It wasn’t dark yet. They were dragging Javier out into the street. They were rounding up all the men from the neighborhood. They must have been looking for someone in particular. So they took them all.”

Magda lit a cigarette. “She wanted to stop them, but I didn’t let her out of the house.”

I nodded and looked at Sofia. “You’re a lion. But they would have killed you.”

“Maybe they haven’t killed anyone.”

“You believe that?”

Magda looked down at the floor. “They were looking for someone else. It was all a mistake.”

“Do they let their mistakes live?”

15.

I drove to the U.S. Consulate. They were closed on weekends but there was always someone there. I managed to get the attention of one of the chauffeur’s who was sitting in a car inside the gate. “I’m a friend of Javier’s,” I yelled.

He walked to the gate. I introduced myself. He gave me his name. Manuel. He shook my hand. “Javier reads your books,” he said.

I nodded.

I told him what Magda and Sofia had told me.

He shook his head.

He let me in. I sat alone in a waiting room. Manuel walked back into the room and asked me for my cell phone number. He walked out of the room. A few minutes later, I got a call from a man named Neil who worked at the
consulate. “Manuel told me what happened to Javier. Can you tell me the story again?” So I told him. “Oh no,” he said. I could tell he had some respect if not some affection for Javier. He told me they would do what they could to find out what happened to Javier. I don’t think he was lying. But they would find out nothing.

The consulate never received any information regarding Javier’s disappearance. And if they did, they did not share it with me.