our history against the protectiveness any big brother would feel toward his sister. Still, I think there’s a part of the man that may be frightened of his sibling, and it’s that part which counseled me against what I am about to do.
That concern, though, didn’t extend to coming with me. He walked me down the stairs and handed me a business card with her address scrawled in pencil on the back. He muttered something about waking slumbering monsters before clapping me on the back again and shoving me into a waiting cab.
Now that I’m here, I don’t know how to proceed. I’m smart enough to know that the Bogart/Bacall thing doesn’t work in real life. Bogey didn’t have to deal with the screaming, the crying, the possible gunplay. But I’ve really got no choice. I’m certain that Reese knew about Esperanza when he approached me; he’s a careful researcher. What it comes down to is that Espy knows more about Venezuelan history than anyone alive, and she’s likely the only one who can help me make sense of Reese’s documents.
Espy’s office is in a new business park—so new that the landscaping hasn’t been completed. There are mounds of expectant dirt ready for shrubs and flowers, and stretches of flat earth prepared for sod. Romero said the university leased most of the office space before the developers even broke ground.
I pull open the glass door of the white faux-stone building that has the numbers 100–120 on a sign at the top of the second story. Inside, the place smells new, the commingling of factory chemicals and manufacturing odors that have yet to fade. The card in my pocket says 105. I follow the hall, glancing at the numbers above the doors, spotting the one I need too quickly. The door is open and I feel my heart start to beat faster as I approach an event that is as unpredictable as it is inevitable. Pausing just beyond the entrance, I chance a peek inside in some weak attempt to steel myself.
She’s at her desk, leaning over a book, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. I smile as I see her lips move along to whatever she’s reading. It’s likely Russian, which is the only language I can remember giving her trouble enough that she had to sound out the characters.
I give the door a light rap with my knuckle.
When she looks up, and after her mind makes sense of this image from years ago, the transformation is both instantaneous and terrible. A veil of pure anger darkens her skin and I hear a sharp intake of breath that is a strangled, almost guttural sound. I barely have time to move out of the way of the book as it sails by in a flurry of pages past my right ear. The size of the tome and the velocity at which it connects with the wall behind me leaves no doubt that she meant to injure. Failing that, she lets loose with a string of curses in her native tongue—all of which sting far worse than the book would have.
I bear the diatribe with the understanding that I deserve every bit of it and more, but hoping that the anger will peter out. I’m not much into self-flagellation, and if this trip yields nothing more than an opportunity for Esperanza to find some closure, then it will have been wasted.
As I take a step deeper into the room, Esperanza holds up a belaying hand.
“You’ve got to be out of your mind!” she says, forcing herself into English. Something occurs to her then. “Did my brother tell you where to find me?”
She brings her fist down on the desk and I jump back a little.
I’ve got nothing. I can lecture all day in front of college students—often while my mind is far away—and never have trouble articulating. Most times, though, I’m not scared to death.
“It’s good to see you.”
Even though it’s how I feel, surprisingly enough, it’s probably the worst response I could have selected from the menu. Her lips tighten and she leaves the chair, and I am certain that she means to do me the physical harm the book failed to accomplish. But
That concern, though, didn’t extend to coming with me. He walked me down the stairs and handed me a business card with her address scrawled in pencil on the back. He muttered something about waking slumbering monsters before clapping me on the back again and shoving me into a waiting cab.
Now that I’m here, I don’t know how to proceed. I’m smart enough to know that the Bogart/Bacall thing doesn’t work in real life. Bogey didn’t have to deal with the screaming, the crying, the possible gunplay. But I’ve really got no choice. I’m certain that Reese knew about Esperanza when he approached me; he’s a careful researcher. What it comes down to is that Espy knows more about Venezuelan history than anyone alive, and she’s likely the only one who can help me make sense of Reese’s documents.
Espy’s office is in a new business park—so new that the landscaping hasn’t been completed. There are mounds of expectant dirt ready for shrubs and flowers, and stretches of flat earth prepared for sod. Romero said the university leased most of the office space before the developers even broke ground.
I pull open the glass door of the white faux-stone building that has the numbers 100–120 on a sign at the top of the second story. Inside, the place smells new, the commingling of factory chemicals and manufacturing odors that have yet to fade. The card in my pocket says 105. I follow the hall, glancing at the numbers above the doors, spotting the one I need too quickly. The door is open and I feel my heart start to beat faster as I approach an event that is as unpredictable as it is inevitable. Pausing just beyond the entrance, I chance a peek inside in some weak attempt to steel myself.
She’s at her desk, leaning over a book, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. I smile as I see her lips move along to whatever she’s reading. It’s likely Russian, which is the only language I can remember giving her trouble enough that she had to sound out the characters.
I give the door a light rap with my knuckle.
When she looks up, and after her mind makes sense of this image from years ago, the transformation is both instantaneous and terrible. A veil of pure anger darkens her skin and I hear a sharp intake of breath that is a strangled, almost guttural sound. I barely have time to move out of the way of the book as it sails by in a flurry of pages past my right ear. The size of the tome and the velocity at which it connects with the wall behind me leaves no doubt that she meant to injure. Failing that, she lets loose with a string of curses in her native tongue—all of which sting far worse than the book would have.
I bear the diatribe with the understanding that I deserve every bit of it and more, but hoping that the anger will peter out. I’m not much into self-flagellation, and if this trip yields nothing more than an opportunity for Esperanza to find some closure, then it will have been wasted.
As I take a step deeper into the room, Esperanza holds up a belaying hand.
“You’ve got to be out of your mind!” she says, forcing herself into English. Something occurs to her then. “Did my brother tell you where to find me?”
She brings her fist down on the desk and I jump back a little.
I’ve got nothing. I can lecture all day in front of college students—often while my mind is far away—and never have trouble articulating. Most times, though, I’m not scared to death.
“It’s good to see you.”
Even though it’s how I feel, surprisingly enough, it’s probably the worst response I could have selected from the menu. Her lips tighten and she leaves the chair, and I am certain that she means to do me the physical harm the book failed to accomplish. But
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