The Wanderers (4 page)

“
I may have a brother,” he told Moses one day on the jail’s patio. “Out there, somewhere.

Moses reflected on his words for a few moments. “A brother is a brother,” he finally answered. “Don’t even think twice about it, and look for him when you get out of here. Look for your brother.”

Cripple had nodded without lifting his gaze. “I think that’s what I’ll do.”

The two of them were silent for a good while. Cripple gave himself to the sweet daydream of thinking where he would start his search: his mother’s old neighbors, the old neighborhood, and the old friends who were lost in the bends of life. He was outlining the draft of a plan, and it produced a warm feeling inside him. He smiled, unknowingly, with small, absent eyes. Moses on the other hand, was thinking about how much he would have liked to have a family, even if it were only a sibling, a cousin. Someone.

A few weeks later, freed from his sentence and sitting on a step on San Juan Street at about 3:30 in the morning, Moses found Jesus at the bottom of a cheap bottle of wine. In fact, it was strange because after that night, Moses didn’t ever feel the need to take drugs. He released himself from the
jones
; he stood up clean, feeling clearheaded and well. He told himself that he had finally made peace with the Boss.

When it was Cripple’s turn to get out of jail, Moses was waiting for him. The ex-convict immediately detected the change: something about Moses’ tidy appearance and smile brought him promises for the future. Moses helped Cripple get back on the social train: an apartment, a job, and responsibilities. He found him a job as a salesman at a well-known fabric store, and he kept him off the streets. It was there, shrouded by the dark night and evolving like dull ghosts, where that type of people moved.

As Cripple adapted to his new existence, Moses began to think about the search for his lost brother. He begged to God for Cripple’s brother to exist, for Moses to be able to find him, and for him to be a good example for his companion, someone that would make sure that Cripple would not make another descent on the rapids of life’s sewers. It took him several months, but he finally found out that Mrs.Vaello, Cripple’s mother had actually given birth to two sons: Alejandro and Josue Vaello, better known as
“Cripple”.

Moses learned that Mama Vaello had had Alejandro when she still was not of age. He turned out to be a chubby and healthy baby with beautiful, round blue eyes. She was a drug addict, in addition to being a human ruin, so her parents had entrusted the child to their Argentinean side of the family, who were quickly captivated by Alejandro. The couple, who could not have children, took him with them and cut all ties. Mama Vaello didn’t miss him until many years later, when she was pregnant again. The father wasn’t a bad guy, at least not in the beginning, but the arrival of the baby’s had invoked an unsavory change in him: he turned intransigent, foul-tempered, and selfish. Whenever he approached the child – which didn’t happen often—every alarm went off. Something in the way he looked at him was frankly wrong. She felt it in her skin, in her pores, and on a cold January morning, she left.

When Mama Vaello looked at Josue, dressed in those precious little white suits the Church would give her, her heart persistently went back to his brother, but Argentina was as unreachable for her as the Martian satellite Deimos, so she contented herself with taking care of her son as well as she knew how. His genetic legacy was not as good as his brother’s, and Josue was born with a meniscus deficiency. His right femur was also shorter than the left and, consequently, Josue had always limped.

Once Moses discovered all of that, he spoke to Cripple.

“
You were right... you do have a brother,” he told him one night during dinner.

Cripple lifted his head and studied his friend’s face. He was holding the spoon with which he was devouring a bowl of garlic soup.

“
You’ve been... investigating?”

Moses nodded.

“
Have you seen him?”

“
No. They took him to Argentina, before you were born.”

“
What’s his name?”

“
Alejandro. But maybe his new parents changed it. Your mother never gave him his biological father’s last name. She was a minor back then, and had problems with drugs, economic troubles... I don’t think she knew who his father was either, so he was Vaello, like you.”

Cripple absently moved the pieces of bread around his bowl of soup.
“Argentina...” he repeated, thoughtfully.

“
I was looking on the Internet, but I didn’t find anything. Vaello’s a common name. I... I couldn’t find anything else,” he whispered. He had made a great effort, inquired; asking many people, searching the official registers in the province, but now he felt that he actually had very little conclusive information to offer his friend. He was feeling such a physical sense of frustration that he noticed his hands tingling. Finally, feeling that he should add something more, he ended with some words of apology.

“
It’s funny...” said Cripple after a while, this time without lifting his gaze, while slowly sipping his soup.

“
What’s that?”

“
You were looking for my brother, but this whole time, I had already found him.”

“
What?” asked Moses, without really understanding.

“
You helped me in jail, and you helped me outside of jail. You helped me find employment. You gave me a new life. You spent every weekend with me for months so I wouldn’t feel the temptation to back to the streets. Do you think I haven’t noticed? And now I find out that you’ve spent I don’t know how long trying to find a brother for me...”

Moses, quietly listened, enveloped in a myriad of sensations.

“
You know... ? I say who needs him. You’re my brother now, man. My family.”

There was a short silence while Moses assimilated everything his friend had told him. Cripple, on the other hand, concentrated on eating the soup, with his head almost in his bowl.

“
Well, well,” said Moses finally. “Let’s not suck each other’s dicks.”

They laughed heartily for a good while, and then they laughed even more. Sitting in the small kitchen, vaguely illuminated by a drab, yellow neon ceiling light, they both experienced an inner joy that was completely unknown to each of them: it was the invisible and intoxicating warmth of feeling part of a family.

The day the Hell closed its doors and ceased to let any more guests in, Moses was making deals at the flea market. He found and sold stuff, mostly things people did not want any more: knick-knacks and small electronic devices found in the trash that he later fixed, but also magazines, decorative objects, furniture and, really, anything that could spark someone’s interest enough to be bought. He had a very good deal with a trucker kid who worked for the Operative Services of Mijas’ Town Hall, and when there were interesting things to pick up, he would call him. It was outrageous what people threw out in upper class suburbs such as Calahonda, Elviria or Cabopino; from working computers and related devices, to refrigerators in perfect condition, and even top of the line furniture sets.

“
What some throw away, others pine for,” said Moses when the pieces were good.

On that bright Sunday in September, the day had been complicated from the start. The local police cars, the municipal police and the Spanish Civil Guard ceaselessly went from one place to another, sirens blaring, ambulances and fire trucks also screamed past. It had been a while since the two couples in charge of security had been summoned elsewhere.

“
What’s the matter today?” asked the African man who attended the adjoining stand.

“
No idea...” Moses had answered with his eyes half-closed, like he always did when he was thinking about something.

“
Everybody crazy today, friend?”

“
The world’s always crazy,” Moses had said, continuing to arrange the boxes of merchandise.

“
This morning I hear problem, you know?” continued the African man.

“
What problem?” Moses went on placing the boxes, without looking at him.

“
In Madrid, in Madrid there be big problem. A person, many persons, make attack to... building where people die, you know?”

“
Hospital? A Hospital?”

“
No no, no hospital, when you die, you go from hospital to that place...”

“
A... mortuary? A morgue?”

“
Yes my friend, a morgue... that place. They really attacked it. I saw it on TV early today, yes... unbelievable!” His gaze was distant, as if he was remembering the images he had seen on the television. Finally, he shook his head and said a few words in Portuguese, to himself: “
A ruina de uma naçao.
”

Moses briefly thought about what the African had just told him.
“And why the hell would someone want to attack a morgue?”

“
I don’t know, yes? But veeeery, very violent, friend, very strong that attack police, everything, everything... and then it cut off, yes? The TV was cut off all of a sudden... and then a woman appear that talked from some other place and then you couldn’t see how they attacked. I think, that very strange, because television always put most violent images, and most hard, yes? And that now today no police here? Today? This very strange, very strange...”

Moses felt a spark of concern. He looked around. To tell the truth, were there not few people there? He studied the faces of the people who walked from stand to stand, picking something up; looking at it with certain interest and putting it back down. There was a teenage couple joking about some sort of a bright red heart-shaped plush toy. The sun filtered through the trees and brought out beautiful sparkles in her hair. They were smiling, and their eyes were lit with the glow of first love. That image convinced him that nothing was going on, that it was Sunday, that the day was still long and beautiful, that life was wonderful, and that everything was finally good.

Some hours later, Moses was headed home in his old Renault van. Sales had not gone well, even worse than he had expected, but it would be enough to last the week. He could also drop by the Arcade and see if Paco, the manager, would pay him an afternoon or two; it all depended on the movie listings. With that, he should have enough to last him until next Sunday.

He parked and went up to the little attic where he lived with Cripple. He found him there, glued to the small red fourteen-inch television set they had found some months ago.

“
Afternoon... I’m here,” he said, letting himself fall onto a seat.

Cripple turned around, as if just noticing his presence.

“
Hello, Mo... man you don’t know what’s happening.”

Those words awakened a deep feeling of alarm in Moses. It hit him fast, like a bullet, accompanied by a siren that wailed like a devil. Deep down, he had felt it the whole morning; he felt it in his entrails, at the base of his neck. It was a sixth sense that he had forged throughout his life, and it was a sixth sense he trusted. And God, how it
screamed
on that placid Sunday. It screamed that something was so wrong that he had better get some clean underwear and jump straight off the damn planet. He held tightly onto the seat’s arms and considered running away. He did not want to hear it. He did not want to hear it from Cripple’s mouth. He did not want anything to change.

Cripple stared at him with his eyes wide open. Moses could not recall having ever had seen that expression on his face.
Jesus
, he thought,
he looks like an unshaved version of Munch’s
The Scream. He cowered in his chair, like one expecting a bomb to fall on him.
Here it comes. He’s going to say it...

“
There are dead people coming back to life.”

Boom.

Chapter 7

Submerged in the complete silence of the small third floor office, Antonio Rodriguez listened. His temples pulsated, he felt the rapid beats. His heart, and breath were still accelerated. He was crouched behind an office desk, feeling the rough old carpet with his hand. He held the remnants of an old iron desk lamp. He had been using it to hit people. Hospital patients.

Everything had gone silent a couple of hours ago. The screams and noises could not be heard anymore. Nevertheless, his fist was still closed so tightly on the desk lamp that his knuckles were white. His mind was divided between the tasks of listening for more noises and reviewing the past hours. The images repeated themselves in his head like resounding blows. He tried to push them away, but it was useless.

He shook his head, shudder intensely, and looked at his naked wrist. What time could it be? He felt like an eternity had passed since it all had started, however, that same morning had begun with his normal routine of breakfast
—coffee and a prosciutto roll. Barely two hours later he had beaten to death a group of immigrants who were... were... already dead. They were
dead,
but they had ripped a piece of flesh from his assistant’s neck, and after that, had hurled themselves at him as well. Antonio had taken a desk lamp from the table and given his first attacker a resounding blow. A dense black blood clot flew from the heavy impact, but his assailant did not react in any way, just continued advancing with a horrible grimace on his face. Antonio hit again and again, with unmeasured violence. He remembered himself screaming while doing so, although through the white fog of the panic that clouded the scene in his head, he thought about the terrible cranial lesions his blows could be causing. His aggressor, however, had not given up, and advanced with both arms raised. Finally, Antonio had heard a sonorous crack. The assailant’s head fell to one side, his cheek brushing against his own shoulder, and the watery eyes fixed on it. Antonio ceased the rain of blows. That was not possible. He had dislocated his head. He should have fallen straight on the floor. Instant death. But was he not dead before, as well? He looked around. They were all dead. He saw it in the furious and dulled look in their absent eyes, and in spite of this, they were still moving forward.