The American

Chapter Thirteen

I no longer have to knock on every door in Begur, but that doesn't make it any less harrowing. I feel like an impersonator as I load myself on Mario's vespa, full of an anger I do not have the right to own. Or maybe I do. Maybe this anger is mine to cultivate, to harness, because as much as I love Papa, I despise him just as vehemently for what he did to us. It is because of him that I cannot remember the sound of my mother's laughter. And how can I still love him, knowing this to be true?

I wonder if Mama has forgiven him, if all this time apart has painted him more fondly in her heart. Or do her emotions more closely resemble the disgust I feel tonight, inhibiting my body from bone to marrow?

Maria's house does not harbor the grandeur of a surreptitious lover, but it is nevertheless exquisite. Situated on the very top of a hill, everything is minuscule from this distance. We arrive along her curb as the daylight is fading into a familiar darkness, with its sinful insinuations. Mario parks the vespa by her gate—and then we are walking. Papa's letter is perched in my brother's hands, slipping every now and then as if in a restless pursuit to break free, to find its true owner at last.

He falters once at the door, as if reconsidering.

"Mario," I begin.

"You sure about this?"

I nod, but I can barely keep my own hands from trembling as I reach for the doorbell. Maybe eternity passes in the minute that follows, as we wait for someone to receive us not as intruders, but as examiners of nostalgia.

I wonder what I will say to Maria when I see her—but I don't have to. Not then. Because the door opens to reveal a stranger. He is calculated as he observes us, his gaze welcoming despite his austere demeanor, his forehead creases giving away his old age. I wonder if this is Maria's husband, if she, like Papa, amassed human casualties in her war against forgetting.

"Can I help you?" the man asks in Spanish, snapping me out of my reverie.

Mario is quicker on his feet than I am. He is already responding by the time I can process the words. "We are looking for Maria," he says in English.

"Maria?" the man repeats, sliding between the door and its frame. "I'm afraid Maria is in Pamplona for the week. She is quite fond of the yearly festivals at San Fermín."

This is it, Mario, I think. This is destiny telling us to fuck off. This is all the indication we need to know that we will never get our answers. But my brother is persistent. "Do you know when she will be home?" he asks calmly.

"She should return by the week's end," the man says. "Can I ask what this is for?"

Mario weakly lifts her letter in the air. "We wanted to drop thi—"

I cannot help but glare at my brother, who is perhaps the stupidest person in this planet. I reach for the letter before he can hand it over. "—but we'd like to do it in person so we're going to come back next week, right, Mario?" I say. I don't understand how he can be so willing to let it go. This is our only trace left of Papa, our only way to uncovering the truth.

Mario presses his lips together, his eyes deflecting between my glare and the letter. "I guess so," he says at last.

"Should I tell her your names, that you two stopped by?" the man persists.

Mario shakes his head. "No, thank you. We will come back."

The man nods. If he is curious, he doesn't let it show. He seems so trusting as he says "Alright, then. Bye now." I wonder if he knows of his wife's transgressions—if she is his wife—and if he would ever forgive her if he knew.

One day lovers and the next day strangers—that is my father's story. It is also his biggest source of remorse, the lifeline of his nostalgia. I think about what would have happened if they had never parted ways all those years ago. Would they have lived their lives convinced of their immortality? Would they have followed in the trajectory of most lives, only to grow old and bitter? Would they have ever fallen out of love?

We drive back home in silence. As the night unravels, I wonder what it was about Maria that captivated my father. What made him go against his better judgement to stay. Why they chose the lives that they did. But more than anything else, I wonder how two people so deeply in love can build their lives without one another.

As Mario pulls us along our street, I sigh. We didn't meet Maria tonight, but it has already taken so much out of me. I wonder what will be left of me when I finally do.

✵

Author's Note: o no, school started. :( The second day and labor economics is already driving me crazy. best of luck to me, aspiring economist :') also, I just...I am graduating next semester and am overwhelmed by it all. i can't believe four years passed so quickly. i am finishing up my fulbright application and considering post grad plans and everything feels so absolutely crazy!

i also want to thank everyone new who is reading :') welcome to the fam! i promise i will reply to every comment (my fav part of this whole experience) asap