The Cracks in the Labyrinth

Chapter 11 (Part 1)

Some things never changed.

Regardless of where you found yourself in Caracas, the city always bristled with activity during the day. Adam knew this but failed to realize that since the nights belonged to the ghouls on motorcycles carrying handguns, people sought to do as much as possible before dusk. It doesn't help that it's almost Christmas either. This made the traffic so heavy cars appeared to be parked on the highway.

"Come on!" Adam checked his watch, startled to see he'd been waiting for over an hour to get a cab.

I better walk to the hospital nearby. There I'll find a taxi driver eager to make enough cash for a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes. Two blocks later, he regretted this decision. Whatever you do, please don't bother Lili, he reminded himself.

She had said nothing about calling her only in case of an emergency, but that was Adam's intent. And even though walking under the merciless three o'clock sun was torture, it didn't qualify as an emergency.

"How much to the Medicine Faculty?" Adam asked a taxi driver who was reading the newspaper behind the wheel of his car.

"Ain't nobody gonna take you there today."

"No?"

"No."

Adam stood motionless, waiting for an explanation that never came. Enthralled by a woman in a bikini on the paper, the taxi driver seemed to have forgotten about him.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why won't anybody take me there?"

"It's the same every time."

"I'm not following."

The taxi driver put his newspaper down.

"The President is speaking at a rally. Many streets are closed off. It's an election year. You know how it is. People go crazy."

Dammit. Adam weighed his options. He didn't dare get on a bus after what happened last time, and a motorbike taxi—Too risky. He sighed. This left but one choice.

"Oh, no."

A din of noise, voices and shouts, the subway station bore little resemblance to the place Adam had in his mind. It smelled like piss, and neither the electric escalators nor most of the ticket machines worked. At least the hallways are well lit. The line to the only ticket window open was endless and messy, but nothing compared to the chaos on the platform below. People pushed each other toward the yellow security line, desperate to get a spot near where the doorways would be.

All it takes is for someone to lose their balance and bang! Adam thought, smashed between a pregnant woman and an older man. Next station: Morgue. He gazed to his left. On the dirty column, there was a red exit sign. That was all he wanted. To go back up, leave this underworld behind for good.

"And do what? Sit with your arms crossed at Magda's?"

"You talking to me?" The older man asked.

"No," said Adam. "Sorry."

As long as he kept himself busy, Adam felt in control. I will ask Rafael why he sent me that damn file. This answer meant finding out if his siblings were safe or blacklisted. Then, I'll get my computer back, delete any evidence, finish the job, get paid.

There was fierce resolve in his eyes.

"Maiquetia. Plane. Salvation."

The numbers in his American bank account were almost where he needed them to be. A bit more and he'd be able to send his brother and sister to Miami; once there, they'd live at his cousin Francisco's apartment for at least six months.

Fran, like Adam called him, had made it clear: either he wired him enough money to keep his fridge full and his landlord happy for half a year, or there'd be no deal. Adam knew the amount of lettuce (as they referred to US currency) his cousin had asked was obscene. Still, emigration had been a profitable business ever since God banished humanity from Paradise.

Fuck blood ties when there's a penny on the line, right?

While Fran might be overcharging him, Adam didn't care. He refused to send Bianca and Dario up north just to have them struggle again.

I'm sure by the time Fran's pockets are empty, B will have a job and a place of their own.

Fighting his way through the crowd, Adam thought of mass and remembered those Sunday afternoons he used to loathe.

When his parents were still alive, back when Mérida was as big as his world got, Adam hated the last day of the week. There was nothing good on the four TV stations available, the hours dragged by, especially if it rained, and he'd have preferred eating a bullet than going to church and hugging a bunch of strangers when the priest said 'Peace be with you.'

I detest touching strangers.

Sure. Sometimes on Sundays, he would eat a coconut burfi, or if his grandma was in a good mood, she'd make quesillo. (When that happened, Adam took the smallest bites possible of his dessert to prolong his delight). And now and then, the grownups would let him join the conversation, which made them feel important, even if they laughed at him when he said something amusing.

And still... I hated those days. Dull and predictable, every Sunday doomed to be the same forever. I was so wrong. That life existed only in his memory now. His parents were ashes, their old house belonged to someone else, and the one thing he liked, the conversations that came with the afternoon coffee, would never happen again.

Things always look like they will stay the same until they don't. Family members die, memories fade, and friends become strangers. So maybe, just maybe... The train arrived, and the surrounding people tried to shove him back. This chaos shall pass too.

To be continued...