Winded Read online

  I’m mildly absorbed by the insane woman five rows up that I’m startled when a voice says, “Excuse me.”

  A young woman, perhaps Jen’s age, gestures at the window seat past me and smiles. Her smooth black hair ends in a short braid which flips up underneath truly enormous hoop earrings that frame her soft-featured face. Her bronze skin glows with the healthy radiance of youth.

  “Of course.” I stand and squeeze into the aisle behind her. She murmurs thank yous and apologies as her arm brushes my stomach.

  When we’re both settled again, she glances at me and smiles. Taking my cue, I say, “Looks like it’ll be a full plane.” It’s an inane comment, but small talk has to start somewhere, and I don’t have much to go on with this woman yet.

  “Yes, a long flight too. I’m connecting from Calgary.” She sighs then adds, “But then I’ll be home with my family, so it’s worth it.” She looks at me again and a small crease furrows her brow. “Have we met before? You look very familiar.”

  It’s doubtful. I have a very good memory for faces and places and this woman is pretty enough for her features to stick.

  “I would have remembered you,” I say with a grin. I hold out my hand. “My name is Merlo.” I’ve decided to stick with my name as “Merlo Nuanez” for this trip, as a tribute to Braulio. It’s how he always knew me.

  I don’t expect the reaction I get from the woman. Her eyes widen to their fullest extent and it takes a moment before she extends a tentative hand to grasp mine.

  Just then I hear “Excuse me,” from my left and I turn. Waiting to slot into the seat between us is an enormous man, built like a bull with the shoulders to match. I sigh inwardly and am grateful for the aisle seat to lean into.

  My conversation with the woman is cut short by the man’s arrival, so I’m left on my own to contemplate the meaning of her reaction. Upon reflection, I decide the name Merlo must mean something to her, a favorite uncle who died tragically, perhaps. I put her reaction from my mind, along with the vanquished hope that this flight could have passed much more pleasantly with her conversation.

  I spend most of the flight in one of my trances and forget about the woman and her reaction until we disembark. In the terminal, I crane my neck to look for her but she has disappeared. I sigh and resolve to find a taxi and hotel room.

  ***

  The little Catholic church is packed. Vaulted ceilings soar to the sky, painted a brilliant white and edged with gold paint. The red-carpeted aisle brims full of Fernandez family members, while carved wooden saints in ornate wall sconces gaze down serenely at the multitudes. I position myself at the back and wait for the funeral mass to begin. There are so many people that no one takes a second glance at me.

  Braulio had three sons and four daughters with his wife Juliana, and each of those had their own children, not including the families of Braulio’s siblings, likely here also. In front of me, two women greet each other with kisses on the cheek and their men hug briefly. What must it feel like to be part of a family so large and connected? I certainly wouldn’t have this many at my funeral if I ever died. The only family I ever cared about was my mother, and it’s been many centuries since I laid her to rest in the cold earth, along with my wives and lovers. And children—well, that never worked out.

  A small boy skips in front of me, unaware of the solemnity required at a funeral. I smile, sure that Braulio would have too. I’m happy for Braulio. A little envious, but mostly happy, that he created this life for himself. That he took life by the scruff and made it his.

  Mass is long but familiar. I’ve been to plenty in my time, although hearing the service in Spanish instead of Latin is a new twist. I follow the responses automatically while my mind wanders through Braulio’s life. After the final blessing, the priest paces down the aisle, trailed by the deacon and other ministers. I follow the chattering crowd processing three blocks to Braulio’s old home, now the abode of his eldest son. I wasn’t invited, strictly speaking, although if Braulio had told anyone about me I would have been. But I’m hungry and curious to see the place Braulio called home for many years. I know it only by description.

  The house stands behind a sturdy metal fence, too tall to scale easily, as do many in crime-ridden San Jose. The green-tiled roof is sharp against freshly-painted white walls inset with arched windows. It’s a modest but quietly prosperous-looking house. The gate is open and a steady stream of Fernandez family members file through. I slip in unnoticed and enter the tiled lobby which is blissfully cool after the blazing sun outside. The living room is already crowded, so I squeeze between a large potted rubber tree and an even larger older lady to enter the dining room. It’s filled with far too many chairs and an enormous mahogany table that is laid out with a splendid assortment of sweets, and my stomach rumbles assertively. I swipe a cookie and gaze at a collage on the nearest wall. It’s of Braulio’s family, and I recognize him in many of the photos.

  An older man enters the room, perhaps mid-fifties, stout but with Braulio’s nose and mouth.

  “Excuse me,” he says to me in Spanish. “Are you Merlo Nuanez?”

  I’m taken aback. How does he know my name?

  “Yes,” I answer cautiously. “I wanted to pay my respects to Braulio’s family. I knew him.”

  “Thank you, señor. I’m sure my father would have been pleased that you are here. He left a sealed package with instructions to give it to a man matching your description, with your name.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  “It’s in the study. Follow me.”

  The study is lit by a bank of windows looking out on a small graveled courtyard. Inside are stacks of papers and books piled on bookshelves and the nearby tiled floor. It’s an organized chaos—each sheaf of papers is rubber band-bound with a handwritten label, and the stacks are neatly arranged.

  “Father hadn’t lived here for a few years, but he insisted on keeping his study intact for his occasional visits. I’ll have to clear it out now, I suppose.” Braulio’s son points at the desk, on which sits a plastic grocery bag tied with string. An envelope tucked in the string is inscribed in shaky letters with, “Merlo Nuanez.”

  “I’ll leave you to have a look. Please, come back and eat when you are done.”

  The man leaves and I sit at the desk to tear open the surprisingly bulky envelope. When I lift the flap, a few lauvan of Braulio’s terracotta color sneak out. I pour the contents of the envelope into my hand with interest. It’s a watch, Braulio’s watch that he owned for decades. Its heavy gold face ticks quietly in my palm, surrounded by reddish-brown threads. My throat closes briefly. A tag attached to the watch strap reads, “For Merlo, the man to whom time means everything and nothing.”

  I fasten the watch on my wrist, where my brown lauvan entwine carefully with the fragile lauvan surrounding the watch. There’s also a letter, written in English.

  Dear Merlo,

  If you are reading this, I’m sorry my weak mortal body couldn’t keep up with you. I tried. We had a good run. I’m counting on you to remember me, so my legacy will live forever.

  Keep this book safe. It is the culmination of my research and the tireless workings of my immense intellect. I’m confident you’ll need it one day, because now we both know that the spirit world is real. Did I remember to say I told you so?

  You’ll be fine, anciano. You’re a survivor. Remember to trust, and for god’s sake, find yourself a woman. A good one, another Josephine. Someone needs to keep you in line.

  Your friend,

  Braulio

  I’m chuckling with moist eyes by the end of Braulio’s letter. It’s his voice, speaking to me from beyond the grave. I’m curious about the contents of the bag, now. What has Braulio left me?

  The plastic bag slithers off to uncover a bound notebook. Its brown leather cover and spine reveal nothing about its contents.

  A title graces the first page, carefully inscribed in Braulio’s recognizable hand. The lettering is strong and sure, unlike the w
avering script of the letter. Braulio must have written the notebook some years ago.

  Of the Elementals, Pertaining to Their Characteristics, Function, and Connection to the Physical World.

  Braulio is right, again. This could be very useful. I flip through the pages for a sense of the contents. I have to brush away Braulio’s old lauvan to see the pages. This book is everything Braulio worked on and believed in deeply, and so it collected his lauvan as precious objects are inclined to do. Inside are paragraphs, notes, sketches, maps, all organized by element. I read a random line.

  The Iroquois believe that there are separate deities to rule each of the cardinal directions (e.g. Da-jo-ji, spirit of the west wind). This belief corresponds well with the ancient Greek Anemoi. Therefore, in addition to evidence presented earlier, we can conclude that multiple elemental spirits are instrumental in the control of the element of air.

  This is brilliant. I know what I’ll be reading on the plane home.

  I shiver with a deep crawling sensation that starts at my shoulders and rolls up and down my back. At the same time, my lauvan twitch in synchrony. Odd. Braulio’s study has no air conditioning and through the open window flows a punishingly warm, humid breeze. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the lauvan-barrier I half-heartedly constructed upon stepping off the airplane into the hot, soupy air. I’ve been too long in northern climes to enjoy the heat on first flush, despite my teasing of Jen.

  It could be Braulio’s spirit come to haunt me. I smile at that. It’s unlikely. I’m certainly the last person to know if there is an afterlife and what form it might take, but I can guarantee that Braulio would have better things to do than follow me around. Reunite with Juliana, his wife of fifty years. Or float down to the beach and watch bikini-clad women sunbathing. Either possibility would be much more likely than haunting me.

  Perhaps the heat is getting to me. I bend over the table, intending to slide the notebook into its plastic shopping bag. The sound of a clearing throat stops me short. I thought I was alone. My head swivels to inspect the new arrival.

  A young man hovers in the doorframe, clearly wanting to enter but fearful of intruding. His straight black hair sweeps over a high, broad forehead above lively brown eyes. I would guess his age to be around twenty-five but his round cheeks and short nose attempt to disguise him as much younger. I don’t know him but I do recognize Braulio’s strong jawline, prone to stubbornness. This must be one of Braulio’s offshoots.

  “Señor Nuanez?” The young man says quickly in Spanish when he has my attention. “I thought you might like a drink. It’s very hot today.” He brandishes the beer bottle in his right hand at me while keeping a tight grip on another in his left. His dark green lauvan are twitchy, as if he’s nervous. I can’t think why. He knows nothing about me and has no reason for fear. But now that I look closer, it’s not fear but excitement and apprehension that drive his jumpy lauvan. I wonder what he’s expecting.

  “Thank you. That was kind of you.” I take the offered bottle—blissfully cool, condensing in running droplets of water down the sides—and take a swig, leaving an opening for the man to speak.

  “My cousin Manuela says you’re from Canada,” he says in perfect English, his accent strong but entirely understandable. “She was on the plane with you.” He sticks out his hand with boyish enthusiasm. “My name is Alejandro Fernandez. I’m Braulio’s grandson.”

  I take his hand, trying not to grin at the vigor of the handshake, and answer in English.

  “Nice to meet you, Alejandro. Can I say your English is very impressive?”

  “As is your Spanish, for someone from Canada.”

  “Touché. I spent a lot of years in Central America.”

  “I studied in America. My grandfather picked his two favorites, Manuela and me, and paid for our university educations.”

  “That sounds like him—never shy about expressing his opinions.”

  “You knew my grandfather well,” Alejandro says. His lauvan grow still and tense. He’s getting to the real reason he brought me my beer. “He told Manuela and me stories, incredible stories, of his youth and travels. He spoke especially about you.”

  I don’t answer, or give him anything in my face or bearing that he can latch onto as confirmation or denial of his words. I simply gaze at him evenly while the beer cools my palm. It was always my impression that Braulio never spoke of me to his family. What does Alejandro think he knows?

  “For a long time, we thought you were one of crazy old grandfather’s stories, like his research into spirits that grandmother couldn’t stand.” Juliana’s staunch Catholicism clashed with Braulio’s liberal spiritual leanings, and I remember Braulio telling me she never asked about his research trips, and he didn’t offer to tell. Alejandro continued, “But the more time we spent with grandfather in our late teens, helping him before he moved to his care home, the more he told us, and showed us. His research was persuasive, especially the way grandfather told it. But what really convinced me, convinced us, were the pictures.”

  My face is still but my mind whirls. What pictures could he possibly be talking about?

  “Grandfather loved photography, right from his youth.” I can’t disagree. He bought a camera as soon as he could afford it. Nineteen forty-seven, I believe it was. He took pictures of anything that would stay still for long enough. I made it clear to him that I was off-limits. It’s been my policy ever since photography began—avoiding being painted or sketched is fairly simple, and few artists are talented enough that a likeness between images would be remarked upon. But photographs—the images are too clear, too obvious. I don’t need evidence of my existence throughout the ages. If ever found, it could lead to some awkward questions.

  For example, this conversation with Alejandro.

  “Grandfather kept all the photos he ever took. You should see the boxes and boxes of them—it gives my father a headache trying to decide what to do with them all. But there are a few he kept separate, and he showed Manuela and me. They’re all of you.” From his back pocket, Alejandro pulls out a thin envelope, yellowed with age. He passes it to me. Braulio’s sharp penmanship is on the front. There’s only one word.

  Anciano.

  Dammit, Braulio. What have you done? And why are you not here now to help me solve this mess you created?

  My lauvan tremble with uncertainty but outwardly I am calm. I flip open the back flap of the envelope and slide out the photographs. There are only four, after all. The topmost one is unremarkable in composition. It’s a street scene, only a few blocks from where we now stand. I’m shading my eyes with my hand but the angle of the shot allows the features of my face to stand out clear and unmistakable. Behind me is a partially constructed building which I noticed today is now a department store. I recognize the scene—I visited Braulio five years ago and took him out for lunch at his favorite grill. He wasn’t in a wheelchair yet, but he needed as much support walking as I could give him.

  The second photo is quite different. The subject is me again, but this time I’m talking with a thin Japanese man holding what appear to be tickets. I’m wearing wide-legged pants and a tight shirt. Behind us rises a large sign, emblazoned with the words “Expo ‘70” in English and Japanese. I remember that trip—Braulio wanted to study the Shinto animism of the Japanese and I accompanied him as I often did. I greatly improved my lauvan-cable map for Japan while I was there.

  The next photo gives me a pang. I’m on the steps of a tiny white church, dressed in a double-breasted suit with vest. I’m beaming, happy in a way I rarely see in the mirror these days. Linked through my left arm in a boat-necked dress with a tightly cinched waist is Josephine. Her glow shines through the grainy black and white as clearly as it did on the day of our wedding. We gaze at each other, our interest in the world outside our own sphere of joy plainly minimal.

  I spend a moment on that photo, but I can’t look for long. It stirs up too many feelings I don’t want to have right now—not in front of Alejandro,
who is intently gauging my reactions to the photos. I flip quickly to the next and last photo. It’s a very old picture, taken on a beach with palm trees hanging over the sand. I’m in close-fitting swim shorts from the forties with my arms around two giggling girls, both in high-waisted halter-top bikinis. Even through the black-and-white image my tan is almost dark enough to match the bronzed skin of the girls. I’m laughing, my mouth open and teeth white against my dark skin. One of the girls looks up at me and the other holds her arm out to the camera as if in invitation.

  I calmly slide the photos back into their envelope and hold it. I meet Alejandro’s eyes. They are expectant and beyond curious. I suppose it’s time to say something.

  “So? What do you think you know?”

  Alejandro frowns.

  “Grandfather told us everything. How you have lived for hundreds and hundreds of years, never aging. How you can see things no one else can.”

  I don’t know what Braulio was playing at, but I now have an unintended initiate. Hooray. I rub my eyes.

  “Who else knows? You and your cousin, the one from the plane, I presume. Anyone else?”

  “No, no one else. Grandfather told us how important it was to keep it a secret.”

  “And Braulio thought you two could be trusted.” I sigh. “I hope he was right. I don’t have much of a choice, now.”

  “You can. We would never tell, ever.” Alejandro leans forward in his eagerness for emphasis.

  “And where is our other confidante? Manuela, you said? Why isn’t she here for the big reveal?”

  Alejandro looks discomfited.

  “She was never very comfortable with the idea of you, and meeting you on the plane, in reality—she’d rather stay a distant secret-keeper. I’m sorry.”

  “No need. It’s an entirely expected reaction. Trust me, she isn’t the first.”