Category: Short Stories

Raffi’s Love

 

Raffi was used to the bazaar, its environment and the characters inhabiting it, some who were helpful and some who were dangerous. He’d sat in the family shop selling wares daily since a child, except on Eid, Shura and the other festivals. He’d gone firstly with his father and later after his father died, he followed his Uncle Hussein.
There came an evening at home over a family dinner, when Uncle Hussein told him that he may not be able to follow Raffi to the bazaar if certain things worked out. He did not explain but Raffi knew that his cousin, Uncle Hussein’s oldest boy, was employed by an American company. There was a possibility that he would have his visa approved to visit the United States. Raffi decided that he was old enough to run the business himself instead of depending on his elderly uncle and began running the business likewise. Time passed slowly until Uncle Hussein told Raffi one day that he would be away for six months, visiting his son in New York. He left shortly after.
There was a certain girl in the bazaar. She was very intelligent in Raffi’s opinion because she liked quoting Rumi and other poets he’d read about. He would have said that she was beautiful – she was most definitely that as well – but the bazaar had many stalls with pretty girls. He’d found time – he’d made time – to speak with her. She liked him, he could tell, because she didn’t waste time talking with any of the other fellows who worked in the bazaar. There were many young guys – selling carpets, jewelry, spices, vegetables and fruits, meat – all either helping their family or working as apprentices with dreams on one day owning their own shop who possessed the typical charm and flowery languages that older boys had taught them and which they tried on girls. The girls were not stupid either. They teased the fellows they liked, were cold to those they didn’t and had an opinion on everyone who plied their trade in the bazaar.
This girl, whom Raffi had fallen for, was different – to him at least – because she did not speak of how big a home she wanted or the number of children she planned to have. Instead, she spoke of degrees and PhDs, foreign universities and travel. Raffi often listened to her, mesmerized. He could see how such a life would bring unimagined possibilities. But he believed that he had one limitation, having walked away from school at age twelve. Now at sixteen, he’d always felt that the knowledge and street-savvy he’d picked up working in the bazaar that kept him out of trouble and allowed him to turn a profit and bring it home safely, was enough to make him a successful man eventually. He could see how one day, he’d own a string of shops in the bazaar, hire people to work for him and have traders come from all over Egypt bringing things for him to sell on their behalf. He’d never felt inadequate or diminished by his choices and his station in life, until he met her. As he listened to her, he was torn – between the life he led and the good things he could reasonably be expected to achieve, and a world far beyond his familiar surroundings. The world she spoke of sounded exotic, exciting and honestly, more than a little intimidating too. But she would be a part of this world and that made him consider it.

He wondered if he could go back to school and pick up from where he’d left off. He dug up the courage to visit and speak with an old teacher. He actually attended a class to get a feel for attending classes again. He would need for several years to spend half his time in school and the other half in the bazaar. It would be tough. Then an acquaintance made a chance remark -whether Raffi took the challenge or not, where would the girl be in a few years?

She came and told him, seeing as he seemed to be sincere in his feelings for her, that she was willing to hold back her studies, to slow down, to allow Raffi to catch up with her. So they could travel together into their imagined future.
It seemed a welcome compromise but it didn’t pan out that way. Her parent’s saw things differently. They were wealthy traders, and they saw her qualifying in a profession that would give her the opportunity to move overseas and leave the family business completely. They did not agree to her seeing a trader boy who’d dropped out of school and who would only slow her down in life at worst and at best, keep her tied up to his family business.
Raffi’s family had their own objections. They preferred he marry a girl who stayed home and looked after him and their future children. How would she be a good wife and mother if she was outside with other men for work, travelling and dealing in foreign matters?
Raffi and his girl met in a street stall and sat dejectedly with their respective drinks amid the tumult of the nearby bazaar on a Friday afternoon. They thought, Do we have only one choice or the other? Give up my dreams or give up your family? Run away together? And live in poverty, without the means to higher education? Or walk away from each other?
Uncle Hussein came back from the States and hearing of Raffi’s romance, visited him. Raffi emptied his heart to his Uncle. His Uncle took him walking in the desert and quoted Rumi:
“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”
What does that mean? asked Raffi. But he considered the words carefully.
He went and met the girl and told her not to give up on her dreams. He told her to walk her path and he would walk his, and they’d meet if they are meant to.
When he repeated the quote by Rumi, she understood. He asked her to continue with her studies and that he would try to catch up if he could. He went to school the next day.

 

Photo by Omid Armin from Unsplash.com

Under a Sky filled with Stars

Written for an exercise in Neil Gaiman’s Masterclass.
“This being our first session together, can you tell me a little about your background?”
“I’m from here but originally, my family was from farming country in the east. Let me volunteer that I’m from a long line of hunters.”
“Really? Well actually, I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that.”
“Yeah, just look at me. A born hunter. As were my parents and their parents before them. Constantly hunting and  moving. Over the years, that’s how the family ended up here in W- State. Each generation eventually finds and settles in its own territory but this is a fine place to end up in.”
“Agreed. Lovely place.”
“Oh yeah. These constant mountains around us and the ever-shifting weather. What a combination. Especially if you are the type that hungers for the outdoors. Nothing like sleeping under a sky filled with stars, rising the next day to go hunting for a meal. Imagine having that kind of freedom generation after generation.”
“I can only imagine what you’re describing. That is some life.”
“You should try it. You’re local right? There’s no law against hunting.”
“Hunting just isn’t in my blood. But it certainly appears that you have a really adventurous life. Such unfettered freedom. So why did  you come to see me today ?”
“Things are fine, generally. But I’ve had something gnawing inside me for years. Its affected my health. My diet’s been uneven over the years.”
“Please go on.”
“You see things are not as pretty as I mentioned.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a hunter but the truth is, that’s only been a mantle I put on when I needed to. I can do it naturally. In truth, I’m a vegetarian. Been so for years. I don’t blame your look of surprise Doctor. Let me explain how it came  to this. As I said, we’ve only known a life as hunters. Sure, over the years, some of my – shall we say -species have migrated into the suburbs, gradually learning to live in locations with greater and more varied populations.”
“There was a lot of your family from out of state too,  I believe.”
“Still are. When the valleys get overcrowded with farms and farm animals, things are good for a while. Then farmers get angry and come at us with guns and traps. We move elsewhere, up into the mountains, to newer fields. Eventually, even the mountains get a little too crowded and competition is always bad. We’ve learnt to move with the times. You don’t see many of my kind here in town but  there are cities on this continent that are popular habitats for my kind.”
“Did your diet change because of the movement to the city?”
“No. Not at all. A lot of these fellows nowadays -take 90% in any city -go vegetarian partially because its fashionable and the other 10% is because of  what they say are ‘humanitarian’ reasons. They avoid meat because it’s no longer fashionable. I got no beef with that. I’m fine with the directions that migration has taken us. I get that overpopulation and climate change impacts all of us, every single species on the planet. If that means less of us prefer to hang out under the stars at night and hunting day by day, even less of my species finds hunting attractive, that’s fine by me. My own problem started long ago, long before these city fashionistas and their diets and their first pinpricks of conscience. It started  when I was just out of my teens, ambitious and hungry, full of hope for the future.”
“What happened?”
“In return for a species-transcending act of unnatural compassion on my part, I was betrayed. I became an outcast among my family and friends.”
“I thought wolves were fine with a life of solitude.”
“Yes we are, but we still find mates and settle down eventually. We have our own dens.  I say we, but of course, I never did any of those normal wolf things.”
“Why?”
“Like I said, I became an outcast due to a particular incident in my youth. I’m not sure if you’d heard this but where I come from -“
“How long ago are we speaking about ?”
“This was nearly forty years ago. Where I come from, my story is legendary in a negative way. It’s become a folktale, a cultural warning. I’d gone hunting in the mountains and found a trail of piglets followed closely by human shoeprints. I figured it could be a farmer tracking his escaped animals.”
“You followed them.”
“Of course. The easiest and most natural thing in the world for a wolf to do.”
“What happened?”
“After some time, I heard distinct squeals. I moved as silently as I could and came upon a clearing in the forest, where I saw the farmer brandishing a crudely fashioned stake, poking and prodding at three pigs, who were trapped in a makeshift wicker cage.  They could not have been more than piglets but they looked well fed and had rosy cheeks. Now they were frightened and dirty. He’d caught up with his escaped animals.”
“What did you do?”
“I was overcome by a strange compulsion.”
“You attacked the human?”
“Not at first. I don’t kill for sport. Or social justice. But the man was prodding and poking a little too deliberately, and I could see that the stake-end was reaching its mark with every wild cry and a few spots of blood appearing on the bodies of the pigs.  I felt a strange, new compulsion to me then and gave in to it. I attacked him from behind.”
“Out of compassion, as you said? This was the species-transcending act.”
“Yes. Yes, that was it.”
“Did you attack the human since he was threatening to kill your meal?”
“That’s how I explained it later to my family and acquaintances – unsuccessfully I admit – when I was asked to justify my actions. At the time, it felt the right thing to do. It felt right to me to stop the pain the man was inflicting on the little pigs.”
“What happened to the man?”
“I killed him as soon as I embedded my teeth into his neck.”
“Then?”
“I freed the pigs.”
Silence.
“They asked for help. I’d killed the human., their farmer. They asked me to free them and help them get safely off the mountain.”
“And you freed them? Why?”
“I don’t know. That felt like the right thing to do as well. We left the bloody farmer’s corpse. I led them down the mountain. When we came out into a meadow, they asked me to help them further.”
“Help them how?”
“Shelter. They needed shelter as they’d run off their farm. They did not want to go back. So the pigs gathered grass and leaves and I tried constructing a rudimentary shelter for them. To test it, I blew on the structure and the flimsy house fell in a single breath. Then we tried another, shadier location, where they found twigs and dried branches. Again, when I blew on the structure I’d constructed from different angles, it too collapsed. Finally, we came to an abandoned outhouse next to a burnt shed that local farmers had once used when they took their sheep into the fields and stayed overnight when the weather was poor. I managed to move some pieces of timber and broken bricks around. Another rudimentary shelter but this one was solid. This time, when I blew on it repeatedly. I leaned against it and threw a few bricks as well but the structure stood firm. Job done. That was it. The pigs went into their new home and I turned to go when out of nowhere, shots were fired, narrowly missing me. A handful of armed men came out of the trail leading from the mountain. I went in the opposite direction, losing myself in tall weeds and grass. But I didn’t go far. Worried for the pigs, I stayed close enough to see that they were safe. When the man leading the gunmen approached the outhouse I’d just helped turn into a home, the three little pigs ran out.
I heard them stop in front of a bearded, big bellied man who appeared to be the leader of the group.
“Mr. Y- is dead. We found his body in a clearing on the mountain. How did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill him!”
“We didn’t do it. That wolf did it. The one that you just scared off! Didn’t you notice the bite marks on Mr. Y-‘s  neck?”
And so, the story spread that I’d killed the farmer and allowed the pigs to escape. The tale,  told and retold many times, eventually came to the knowledge of my folks, in a form that was far removed from the truth as I’d experienced it. It became accepted wisdom that I, a wolf, had let off three little, succulent pigs after killing their owner, aiding their escape and after building them a nice house.”
“Why do you think the pigs did what they did? You’d saved them and had even helped build them proper shelters. Although, arguably, they did tell part of the truth, it was not the whole story. Did you feel betrayed?”
“Very much so, initially. In fact, I felt wronged for some time afterwards. But eventually, it struck me that they probably had no other choice. By making me the villain, they would escape punishment for being responsible (even if only partly) for their farmer’s death. To be accused of killing a human being is one of the greatest horrors to befall a creature, certainly for a creature that historically is not used to carrying such a burden, unlike say wolves or other predators. I can understand that perfectly, although accepting it with equanimity is another matter.”
“You saved three little pigs and let them get away. You didn’t kill them. “
“No, I didn’t.”
“And you built them a house to boot.”
Nod.
“That is the burden you’ve been carrying. Its affected your relationships and your diet. It’s challenged who you are as a wolf. Your identity.”
Another nod.
“Do you think about this sometime when you’re under the night sky?”
“I certainly do. I wonder if I’d made a different decision along the way. I even think how things would’ve turned out, imagining that I was eating roasted piglets under the night sky.”
“Does that help?”
“No, I’ve given up on meat. I can’t see myself as society’s accepted image of a wolf.”
“Even though the pigs set you up?”
“Yes. That seems trivial. I’ve become a different animal because of my experiences. But I’m not sure if I see myself as wanting to go back to being the cliched wolf that I’m supposed to be.”
“Does that make you feel better instead?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes, instead I feel inadequate. That something is seriously wrong with me. I stopped eating meat shortly after. Imagine how that played in the family and community? My parents thought I needed to see a shrink, that I must be having some serious mental-health issues. The community? I was the butt of jokes and a warning to other young wolves on the dangers of becoming too modern and soft. A wolf that did not behave as a wolf was supposed to. I kept to myself and went away as often as I could.”
“Did you speak to anyone about how you felt?”
“I spoke with a few girls who firstly, did not appreciate a wolf who shared his problems. When they discovered I was a vegetarian – usually by the first date meal – they’d have made up their mind about me. One girl told me she was going no further with me because she couldn’t imagine how we’d raise healthy cubs when one parent was vegetarian. That she couldn’t be expected to carry the burden of hunting and raising the young at the same time.”
“How about friends?”
“I got nothing beyond stock macho advice from them. ‘Its probably only a phase.’ ‘Come with us. We’ll hunt something. A good meat meal will do the trick.’ Eventually, as it dawned  on them that I wasn’t going through a phase, they  had less time for me or to listen to my problems. I left the place, came over here. I still love the mountains and being out there alone but the suburbs here allow me to blend in. And I’ve been carrying this sense of inadequacy within me ever since.”
“Did you ever come across the pigs again?”
“Those same pigs? No.”
“What do you hope to accomplish now, since this old experience is still there at the back of your mind?”
“Is there any way I can be exonerated?”
“Exonerated?”
“Of the mistakes I was supposed to have made? That might help me.”
“That your act of species transcending compassion should have been lauded if the true story was told.”
“Yes. Absolutely that! That if the truth was made known – that I actually helped them, in a moment of compassion to escape their tormentor. That I led them to safety, built a shelter for these defenseless piglets before leaving – I should have been given a medal for what I’d done. Animal rights organizations should commend me. I should be invited to give talks on doing the civilized thing long before such acts were accepted in most societies. They’re still not accepted in all places. Helping fellow animals instead of reverting to instinctive responses should be recognized as a great act on my part.”
Pause. A smile.
“I’m telling you what I want. It shouldn’t matter what I want. What do you think, as a professional?”
“I think that’s an interesting thing to want. And it’s not wrong for you to desire it, even if its difficult to attain.”
“In my opinion, that’s actually quite a reasonable desire on my part. But speaking with you about it has certainly helped. But, exoneration? You’re right. That’s not in my hands.”
“Perhaps not.”
“But worthy of a medal, you might say.”
“Definitely.”
“Well, I’m glad you feel better speaking about the whole thing. Come back again whenever you want to Mr. Wolf and we’ll discuss further on exoneration.”
Photo from Unsplash.com by Taylor Leopold

Spotless


I was ahead of her and came to the door of the apartment and waited. Mrs. Fuentes hurried and caught up with me. She’d been looking to her right and left, catching glimpses of the thin blue line of the ocean on one side and the jam-packed touristy hotels and restaurants, in between each wide unit. I had the door unlocked and let her in. I was confident. As always, I’d checked and double checked everything. Being sure of things gives you a lot of confidence. I liked that feeling. She drew her breath as I was shutting the door behind me. She turned to look at me and I followed her gaze back to the quarter-circle wall of the apartment that was made of glass entirely, the bottom half dark blue and glinting in the afternoon sun and the top half, light blue and populated by puffy white clouds that sailed from right to left. It was quite a view.

“How much would this apartment have cost, do you know?”

“Half a million dollars.”

I knew, because I’d checked up on it. It was a decent price but this was in the late eighties I’m talking about.

“Wow,” She said as she walked forward and took the couple of steps down to the living area. She was observing the furniture – modern and stylish sofa and chairs, with light brown legs and white tops that looked like wool. A low coffee table in between had the same brown. Mrs. Fuentes ran her hand on the back of the chair, her expression showing her surprise at how soft it felt. She stood there, in the sunlit center of the living area, surrounded by the furniture, gazing at the view. I let her take it in, not wanting to hurry her, as I’d done the same the first time I came into this apartment.

I glanced at the Favre Leuba on my wrist. We had time. I needed a cigarette but resisted the urge.  She was tense, I could tell from the way she stood, arching her back and clasping and unclasping her free hand. The other still held her handbag. She turned around and saw me watching her.

“How much time do we have?”

“Easily a couple of hours. But I suggest we leave by 4.”

She looked around the living room and noticed, against the wall of the door we’d just come in, a clock face that had small wooden arms radiating out at varying lengths, as if it was a tiny sun. 

“Ok. Show me around.”

I waved my hand like a real estate agent. Or a magician. “You’ve seen the living room. Come this way.”

She came reluctantly, and I could understand why. It was just too nice a living room to leave. We walked down a narrow corridor to the right of the entrance, heading towards the bedrooms. She was following me but stopped every few steps to observe things carefully. She was looking at the few paintings and decorative items placed in lit recesses in the wall. I turned at the end of the corridor and walked into the master bedroom, hearing the clicking of her heels behind me. She came in tentatively, careful not to touch or disturb anything, appearing exactly like a potential buyer viewing property. I knew she wasn’t, so I didn’t bother with introductions and let her take a look for herself. That had been the agreement.

We’d arrived at the posh master bedroom. Queen sized bed with white linens faced another glass wall. This one had a see-through curtain draped across and the dark blue of the Pacific Ocean was visible through it. In large ceramic pots placed on the floor on either side of the bed, verdant palm leaves of the darkest hue hung lazily. Mrs. Fuentes walked across the room, taking in everything carefully and stopped before the large, dark brown doors of the wardrobe.

She looked at me. I nodded for her to carry on. She tried the handle and it slid smoothly to one side. Men’s clothes were neatly hung from the racks, with rows of polished shoes and loafers beneath. There were compartments for socks and ties, all of which were neatly rolled up and put away. Mrs. Fuentes stood looking at the wardrobe for several moments. When she turned to me again, there was a shadow of concern in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Bathroom?” she asked.

I pointed her in the direction and followed. The bathroom was brightly lit, with tiles of deep purple and white. I wouldn’t have chosen that color scheme myself but it worked nicely. She opened the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror, which had lights around its square edges, like those in makeup rooms of actors. The cabinet contained toothpaste, toothbrushes, razors, mouthwash, floss, small containers of over-the-counter medication. I noticed, as I watched Mrs. Fuentes carefully run her eyes on the items in the cabinet, that everything inside was immaculately arranged. Every bottle was facing forward with its label. Toothpastes were all standing in their holders with bristles forward. Was that what she was looking at? 

She shut the cabinet.

“Kitchen?”

The kitchen was modest after the spectacular living room and classy bedroom. Mrs. Fuentes stood on tiptoe, opening up the overhead cabinets and taking a look at their contents. Cups and saucers, ordinary glasses and wine glasses. Cutlery. The printed table runner on the small white dining table with two high chairs. Items in the fridge. She looked at everything methodically and as she went on, the concern I’d seen earlier grew in her countenance. She was uneasy about something. When she was done with the kitchen, she asked,

“We still have time, don’t we? Any photographs?”

I shook my head. I’d been inside and had searched the place very carefully. There were paintings and books but nothing personal. She walked out of the kitchen. We’d circled back to the living room, still warmly inviting in the sun. She took a chair facing the sea. I couldn’t blame her. It was the very best spot in a living room full of best spots. 

“How do we know it’s his place?”

“I know. I’ve followed him here several times from his place of work.”

“My husband?”

“Your ex-husband, yes. Mr. Fuentes.”

“He’s living alone?”

“Yes. So far, I’ve not seen him bring any friend over. And as you saw, there’s only his clothes in the cupboards.”

“Yes, you’re right. There is no woman living here. No perfume, hairbrush. I didn’t see any female clothes either.”

But she didn’t seem satisfied with her own statement. She sat silently looking out to sea. I remained standing, and turned to get a sea view myself. Then, being mindful, I looked at my wristwatch and double checked the sun-like wall clock. We were still good on time.

“I don’t think it’s him.”

“Mrs. Fuentes. You gave me your husband’s photo and contact information. I managed to trace him to this place and have been updating you for the last few weeks. As I have reported – he teaches in town, comes back here every evening. He lives here.”

She nodded, accepting my statement while appearing unconvinced, looking down at the floor, as if she’d only noticed that the deep carpet was also white and cloudy.

‘Yes. Your description of him seems right. He doesn’t look the same in the photos you sent although, as you said, it’s possible he’s deliberately changed his appearance. But after seeing this apartment, I have serious doubts if he lives here.”

“Why? Because he keeps no photos of himself? Remember that he left your home state to avoid paying alimony. What he wants is to maintain his low profile. He’s still doing that.”

She looked at me sideways. With the sun fully on her face, her flowing hair catching the light, in her sleeveless top and bellbottomed jeans and heels, she looked quite attractive. I must have hesitated a moment, because she said,

“I wish I could have a cigarette.”

“Not here. We can have one downstairs. Did he smoke?”

“Joe? He did not.”

I decided to sit down.

“Why do you doubt that he’s living here? Is the place too fancy by his tastes?”

She sat back, drawing her breath and casually glancing around, just to reconfirm.

“Yeah, I’d say this is too classy for him, but I also didn’t think he had money stashed away to afford a place like this. No. But it’s not the luxury which makes me doubt he’s the man living here.”

She sat up and leaned forward. The sun made her look like the central figure in a painting.

“What strikes me is how everything here, every single object, is so neatly arranged. I’d say perfectly kept.”

I think I understood what she was saying but didn’t reply immediately. I was still watching her.

“Joe was not a tidy man. Not at all. He’d put cups away without aligning their handles. He’d run out of toothpaste and use a pair of scissors to cut open the tube so he could extract the last vestiges of paste to brush his teeth. As for his clothes, there would be no order to their arrangement in the cupboard. You saw the wardrobe in there. Lightest coloured shirts on the left, darkest on the right. Every single pair of socks was neatly rolled up and stored in its place. Did you see the table runner in the kitchen? Perfectly aligned.”

She shook her head at the end, having made up her mind.

“It’s not him.”

“Maybe he’s got himself a maid. Maybe Joe decided to become tidier since he got this nice place for himself.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve known him for well over fifteen years. Are you saying for fifteen years, he pretended to be untidy and not care about how things in the house were kept? Pretended to be untidy for that long? That’s not possible. This place is spotless. I don’t think that man I was married to is capable of this.”

I remained silent. I’ve had clients show up and think that I’d got the wrong person before. I had always been proven right because a lot of work goes into confirming that my suspects was the right one. A lot of professional work. I never bring a client to where her missing husband is until I’d made absolutely certain we got our man. I could think of only one way to resolve this. The confident part of me felt I had a point to prove.

“He’ll be here in a few minutes. We can wait and make sure it’s him.”

She looked at the wall clock – the sun face – and got up. I settled in more comfortably. She walked a couple of steps and stopped when she realized I wasn’t getting up. I smiled at her.

“Wouldn’t it be better for us to wait downstairs and see him as he enters the building?” she said, adding, “and I can have that cigarette you promised me.”

“The car park is too far away from the entrance to this block. You won’t be sure it’s him.”

“ll know my ex-husband when I see him, even across a car park.”

“You won’t Mrs. Fuentes. I told you. He’s changed a lot of things about himself. His appearance. The type of clothes he wears. At least externally, you’d never really be sure it’s him.”

“Looks like I can’t be sure it’s him from here either. Even after walking through his apartment.”

It sounded to me that she said it to mean that I’d probably got the wrong man, the wrong runaway husband.  

“We can wait here. The weather is nice and you won’t get a better view than from this spot.”

“It’s breaking and entering. Even if it’s his apartment.”

She took a couple more steps and reached the door. She was anxious to get out. Perfectly normal for a law-abiding citizen. Even if the citizen was a woman who has been tracking down a husband who has been avoiding his alimony payments for several years while owning an exclusive piece of property on the Californian coast that she could rightfully confront him about. She can take him to court and get whatever amount she wants from him. Backdated. This apartment would make up the mind of any judge back in the State of Florida. But the thing is, she didn’t believe I had the right man.  

“Mrs. Fuentes, listen to me. If it’s not your husband and I made a mistake, I’ll take full responsibility. I’ll explain to the man who comes in. If he decides to take any action, I’ll face the law. However, if it’s your husband – and I’m telling you that I’m dead sure it is – imagine the value of the shock you’ll be delivering him after all he’s gotten away with.”

She listened to my words. I believe she actually was thinking of all that he’d gotten away with during their marriage. The main events. Something changed. She relaxed. She came back down the steps and lowered herself onto a seat, with the ocean behind her.  She sat facing the door.

“How long do we have to wait?”

“He’ll be back in less than half an hour. I know his routine. Been watching him long enough.”

“Are you armed?”

“Why?”

“Would he get violent?”

“He’s your ex-husband. Would he get violent, you tell me?”

“I mean if he’s not my husband. What if you got it wrong and a stranger comes in and we’re in his apartment? He could call the police. And press charges.”

I patted my waist which was covered by the edge of my sport jacket. “Don’t worry about it.”

I turned slightly towards the door so I was able to see both Mrs. Fuentes and the entrance to the apartment from where I sat. A few moments of silence ensued during which I thought about this case. What were the things I’d checked to confirm that this was her ex-husband, Joe Fuentes? I’d started with his most recent photos and his resume. I knew his education and the kinds of jobs he’d held before. I’d sent out feelers to people I knew around Tampa, where they were from. I got in touch with friends in law-enforcement in nearby districts and states. There were a few leads now and then but it took nearly six months after I’d been hired to get several credible leads in California. There’d been calls and eventually, a few tentative visits. Several dead ends. Actually, most of it went nowhere. But that’s the nature of the job. Many names got crossed off the list. Plenty of wrong ex-husbands out there. What was it in this case? At least a dozen leads that went nowhere. Or turned out to be the wrong guy. Husbands changing their appearance and keeping low profiles to avoid court orders from their home states wasn’t a new thing for me, so I just kept sifting through the leads. Six months. Then came this lead in California. There was a bite. Another Fuentes lead in California led to a college. I found the place, made a few reconnaissance visits and followed him. Back to this apartment. The man used a different name of course but several key things fit which told me the college lecturer was worth following up on. Appearance in the current location matched his disappearance in Tampa. His profession was a another clue. A teaching profession but at a college instead of a university. His height and general build matched. He was a southpaw. Kept a low profile and didn’t socialize with the staff. If you changed the colour of his hair, removed his goatee and glasses, that would be Joe Fuentes, formerly a professor at a university in Tampa Florida, who’d fled the state after being ordered by court to pay a sizable alimony to his wife of fifteen years. Here he was holed up in a fantastic beach apartment which she’d never known about. 

But coming back to Mrs. Fuentes. What had her concerned was the apartment being spotless down to the alignment of the contents in the bathroom cabinet. I’d not noticed that. How could I have known to look for that? 

I lifted a finger to my lips when I heard footsteps outside. Mrs. Fuentes stiffened again. Her eyes darted between the door and me. She was trusting me on this, that was the message I got from her eyes. There was a jangling of keys. A click and a double click, release of the locking mechanism and the door opened.  A man walked in, shut the door and turned, deposited his jacket on a clothes hanger and took a first step down to the living room, all done habitually without looking around. When he stepped on the carpet, he looked up and stopped dead. He saw us.

He was tall and a straight-backed man in his fifties, in a long-sleeved shirt and tie. He wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. His flowing hair was slicked back. A goatee gave him an academic air, as did the leather satchel that was still hanging off one shoulder. This was the man I’d been tracking for weeks and watched as he came and went from this same apartment. Mrs. Fuentes’s ex-husband.  

“Who are you people?” he asked, looking at both of us. I turned to Mrs. Fuentes, waiting for her confirmation. She was looking at the man with trepidation. Her nostrils flared, eyes grew wider and unexpectedly, rolled up. She fainted. I was stunned. Turning to the man who’d just come in, I asked,  “Joe Fuentes?” feeling unsure of myself for the first time.

 

 

photo from Unsplash.com by  Grant Lemons