dinner. He apologized for his behavior over the last few days. She forgave him without giving him a hard time.
First thing the following Monday morning, Joanes received a call from Robot Systems. Someone from HR let him know that the company had undergone some restructuring and that the post that he was going to fill no longer existed. The employee apologized profusely, wished him luck, and hung up.
Joanes was speechless. It took him a good several moments to hang up the telephone.
When at last he was able to think clearly again, he blamed the professor. It was clear as day—the professor had called the company to advise them against employing him. The professor was a well-known, prestigious figure whose opinion was respected, there was no doubt about it. He had clearly played down his links to Robot Systems during their meeting on Saturday. The restructuring story was, of course, a load of bull.
What he couldn’t see so clearly was why the professor would do such a thing, what he’d seen in Joanes—or what he hadn’t seen—in the little time they’d spent together that would lead him to give a negative report of Joanes.
But he couldn’t prove anything. He couldn’t even know for sure that it had really happened as he was imagining it.
And yet he knew. The cause-and-effect relationship was crystal clear to him.
The idea of paying a visit to the professor and putting him on the spot occurred to him, but it dissolved as rapidly as it had appeared. In the same way that he knew the professor was guilty, he also knew that he would deny any and all charges flatly, feigning offense.
He spent a few days taking the news in before sharing it with his family and girlfriend. He stuck to the version about the company restructuring. They were understanding and shared his disappointment, but they also assured him that there was no need to worry. He’d find something similar, if not better, in no time. He had his whole life ahead of him.
The road leading to Los Tigres wasn’t as busy. It was a narrow road, riddled with bumps and potholes that looked to have been repaired countless times with tar. More homemade signs hung from the branches of trees: GOD’S GIFT TAVERN; RELIABLE ELECTRICAL PLUMBER; MECHANICAL REPAIRS BY THE GRACE OF OUR LORD JESUS …
Los Tigres was a dump made up of low-rise houses that somehow managed to look old and at the same time only half built. The fronts of the houses were painted in gaudy colors—ochre, yellow, and lime green—but they were dirty and the paint was flaking off. Only the main road was properly paved. On first sight, its residents didn’t seem to have taken any measures against the hurricane. There was an almost festive mood in the air. The streets were busy, and groups of people stood drinking outside bars.
Joanes stopped to ask for the English Residence. He was told he should go all the way to the end of town and from there keep going another third of a mile; he’d then come across a turn-off on the right. Taking that road, he’d eventually arrive at the English Residence.
Minutes later they were heading along a dirt track that led them to a two-story building painted a mustard color. It was entirely lacking in architectural adornment and in no way distinguishable from the other houses in the town, apart from the fact that it was bigger. It, too, appeared only half built. The roof was no more than a flat surface covering the upper floor. Metal rods poked out of it, presumably the building’s supports. Joanes imagined they’d stay uncut like that, just in case the owners decided to add another story. The bunches of rods, several yards high, bending under their own weight and rusting, lent the English Residence a disheveled, even lunatic appearance.
The buzzy mood in the town extended to the hotel, too. The front yard—an unpaved area of earth in front of the house—was a hive of people and vehicles. A kid directing traffic pointed to where they should leave the
First thing the following Monday morning, Joanes received a call from Robot Systems. Someone from HR let him know that the company had undergone some restructuring and that the post that he was going to fill no longer existed. The employee apologized profusely, wished him luck, and hung up.
Joanes was speechless. It took him a good several moments to hang up the telephone.
When at last he was able to think clearly again, he blamed the professor. It was clear as day—the professor had called the company to advise them against employing him. The professor was a well-known, prestigious figure whose opinion was respected, there was no doubt about it. He had clearly played down his links to Robot Systems during their meeting on Saturday. The restructuring story was, of course, a load of bull.
What he couldn’t see so clearly was why the professor would do such a thing, what he’d seen in Joanes—or what he hadn’t seen—in the little time they’d spent together that would lead him to give a negative report of Joanes.
But he couldn’t prove anything. He couldn’t even know for sure that it had really happened as he was imagining it.
And yet he knew. The cause-and-effect relationship was crystal clear to him.
The idea of paying a visit to the professor and putting him on the spot occurred to him, but it dissolved as rapidly as it had appeared. In the same way that he knew the professor was guilty, he also knew that he would deny any and all charges flatly, feigning offense.
He spent a few days taking the news in before sharing it with his family and girlfriend. He stuck to the version about the company restructuring. They were understanding and shared his disappointment, but they also assured him that there was no need to worry. He’d find something similar, if not better, in no time. He had his whole life ahead of him.
The road leading to Los Tigres wasn’t as busy. It was a narrow road, riddled with bumps and potholes that looked to have been repaired countless times with tar. More homemade signs hung from the branches of trees: GOD’S GIFT TAVERN; RELIABLE ELECTRICAL PLUMBER; MECHANICAL REPAIRS BY THE GRACE OF OUR LORD JESUS …
Los Tigres was a dump made up of low-rise houses that somehow managed to look old and at the same time only half built. The fronts of the houses were painted in gaudy colors—ochre, yellow, and lime green—but they were dirty and the paint was flaking off. Only the main road was properly paved. On first sight, its residents didn’t seem to have taken any measures against the hurricane. There was an almost festive mood in the air. The streets were busy, and groups of people stood drinking outside bars.
Joanes stopped to ask for the English Residence. He was told he should go all the way to the end of town and from there keep going another third of a mile; he’d then come across a turn-off on the right. Taking that road, he’d eventually arrive at the English Residence.
Minutes later they were heading along a dirt track that led them to a two-story building painted a mustard color. It was entirely lacking in architectural adornment and in no way distinguishable from the other houses in the town, apart from the fact that it was bigger. It, too, appeared only half built. The roof was no more than a flat surface covering the upper floor. Metal rods poked out of it, presumably the building’s supports. Joanes imagined they’d stay uncut like that, just in case the owners decided to add another story. The bunches of rods, several yards high, bending under their own weight and rusting, lent the English Residence a disheveled, even lunatic appearance.
The buzzy mood in the town extended to the hotel, too. The front yard—an unpaved area of earth in front of the house—was a hive of people and vehicles. A kid directing traffic pointed to where they should leave the
Similar Books
