Every time he came home, the place was cool, almost cold, and dark because he made sure that when he left, the blinds were closed and the curtains drawn.
As soon as he was inside, he would cross the small hallway in two steps and go into the living room-dining room area where he hung up his coat and his tired mackintosh on the door peg of the toilet that was under the stairs. He always took off the holster with his heavy .45 automatic and hung it on the second peg. He was fond of that old firearm; it was the only thing he had kept from his days in the Army.
He would then fling his tie onto the sofa in the living room and go into the kitchenette, which was just a space with a stove, a sink, the fridge, and a few cabinets, divided from the living-dining room by a small breakfast bar. He would open the fridge’s door, which diluted the darkness with its soft, yellow light, and would take a beer from the shelf on the door.
His meals were simple and usually involved no preparation. Although he liked to cook, and was very good at it, fatigue, lack of time, and the fact that he always ate alone, had reduced the content of most of his meals to some dry, hard Spanish sausage and bread, or cans of sardines, or frozen meals. Except for the ever-present beer, his refrigerator was mostly empty. Today, when he opened it, the only other thing in it was a lettuce, brown and completely wilted, which sat like a prisoner in solitary confinement in the plastic drawer labeled “vegetables.”
When Lombardo woke after his nap, he realized that he had slept much more than he had intended. The red numerals on the digital clock said 16:50. He got up, washed his face, and went downstairs to get something to drink. The salty sardines had made him unusually thirsty.
The beer can sighed softly as he opened it and his easy-boy chair whooshed as his thin frame sunk into its soft cushions. From the wooden folding table next to his chair he took the clicker and turned on the television.
The afternoon newscast was starting. In the international news, there were terrorist attacks here and there, a plane crash, and the usual bevy of politicians traveling about visiting each other. In the local news there were car accidents, the mayor and governor inaugurating a new public building of some kind, and people protesting the high prices of water and gas. A union leader called for the boycott of the new market into which all of the vendors from the old market had been forced to move after the old one was torn down. The weather girl, looking like a streetwalker, said it was going to be a cold night in spite of the fact that it was only late September, and the newscast ended with the usual advertisements disguised as news that announced the latest films opening in local theaters, the concert that the gay singer was going to give for “charity and love of the most underprivileged.” But, there was no mention of the young man’s death.
He clicked over to the other local channels but not one of them was reporting the young man’s demise. It was useless to try the national channels. They only reported national news or happenings in Mexico City. The murder had been very effectively suppressed indeed. It seemed that to everyone but Lombardo the murder was quite inconsequential.
A whish and a plop came from the hallway—the afternoon’s newspaper had dropped through the mail slot in the door.
He turned off the television, got up, brushed his teeth, and peed. He went to the door, picked up the newspaper, and turned on the hallway light. The newspaper rustled loudly as if protesting the brusqueness with which he turned the pages scanning for any mention of the homicide.
There, on the last page, in the section reserved for the drunken brawls, car accidents, burglaries, and arrests that had not gotten into the morning edition or had been deemed too unimportant for it, there was a story tucked into the bottom, right corner.
As soon as he was inside, he would cross the small hallway in two steps and go into the living room-dining room area where he hung up his coat and his tired mackintosh on the door peg of the toilet that was under the stairs. He always took off the holster with his heavy .45 automatic and hung it on the second peg. He was fond of that old firearm; it was the only thing he had kept from his days in the Army.
He would then fling his tie onto the sofa in the living room and go into the kitchenette, which was just a space with a stove, a sink, the fridge, and a few cabinets, divided from the living-dining room by a small breakfast bar. He would open the fridge’s door, which diluted the darkness with its soft, yellow light, and would take a beer from the shelf on the door.
His meals were simple and usually involved no preparation. Although he liked to cook, and was very good at it, fatigue, lack of time, and the fact that he always ate alone, had reduced the content of most of his meals to some dry, hard Spanish sausage and bread, or cans of sardines, or frozen meals. Except for the ever-present beer, his refrigerator was mostly empty. Today, when he opened it, the only other thing in it was a lettuce, brown and completely wilted, which sat like a prisoner in solitary confinement in the plastic drawer labeled “vegetables.”
When Lombardo woke after his nap, he realized that he had slept much more than he had intended. The red numerals on the digital clock said 16:50. He got up, washed his face, and went downstairs to get something to drink. The salty sardines had made him unusually thirsty.
The beer can sighed softly as he opened it and his easy-boy chair whooshed as his thin frame sunk into its soft cushions. From the wooden folding table next to his chair he took the clicker and turned on the television.
The afternoon newscast was starting. In the international news, there were terrorist attacks here and there, a plane crash, and the usual bevy of politicians traveling about visiting each other. In the local news there were car accidents, the mayor and governor inaugurating a new public building of some kind, and people protesting the high prices of water and gas. A union leader called for the boycott of the new market into which all of the vendors from the old market had been forced to move after the old one was torn down. The weather girl, looking like a streetwalker, said it was going to be a cold night in spite of the fact that it was only late September, and the newscast ended with the usual advertisements disguised as news that announced the latest films opening in local theaters, the concert that the gay singer was going to give for “charity and love of the most underprivileged.” But, there was no mention of the young man’s death.
He clicked over to the other local channels but not one of them was reporting the young man’s demise. It was useless to try the national channels. They only reported national news or happenings in Mexico City. The murder had been very effectively suppressed indeed. It seemed that to everyone but Lombardo the murder was quite inconsequential.
A whish and a plop came from the hallway—the afternoon’s newspaper had dropped through the mail slot in the door.
He turned off the television, got up, brushed his teeth, and peed. He went to the door, picked up the newspaper, and turned on the hallway light. The newspaper rustled loudly as if protesting the brusqueness with which he turned the pages scanning for any mention of the homicide.
There, on the last page, in the section reserved for the drunken brawls, car accidents, burglaries, and arrests that had not gotten into the morning edition or had been deemed too unimportant for it, there was a story tucked into the bottom, right corner.
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