“Maybe your husband will be able to get ahold of another phone. There are several people in the hotel that—”
“This professional call,” interrupted the professor, “it’s more important than a person’s life?”
“Forgive me, but, from what I’ve heard, your son’s life does not depend on you calling him. He’ll live or he’ll die, phone call or no.”
On hearing this, the professor’s wife buried her face in the pillow, and her entire body collapsed into great, sobbing heaves.
The professor was unmoved. Staring at Joanes, he said, “You cannot imagine what I can achieve with a simple phone call.”
Joanes took a deep breath, looked at his hands, and dried his palms on his pants. He contemplated the tiled floor for a second and said, “In that case, I’m very pleased for you. All you have to do is get ahold of a phone, and all your problems will be solved. But it won’t be mine.”
He got back down on the floor, leaning his back against the wall, and sat glaring into a corner of the room.
The professor looked at him in disgust and turned his attention to his wife. He rubbed her back and whispered soothing words—quite unconvincingly—in her ear. After a while she drew her face away from the pillow and muttered something. The professor put his face right up against hers in order to make out what she was saying. Then he said, “Of course,” and his wife buried her head back in the pillow.
The professor got to his feet and addressed Joanes.
“My wife would like to be alone for a moment, if you would be so kind. Given that you cannot lend us the telephone, perhaps the least you could do is grant us this small request. We’d like to have a moment alone.”
Joanes grabbed his backpack and reluctantly got to his feet.
Some candles stuck in jars were the only form of lighting in the living room. The hotel owner had a prime position among the many people in the room—a massage chair right in front of the television. Neither, however, was working. He spent a while fiddling with the dial on the portable radio, hoping to find a station without interference, but he gave up and switched it off.
“Saves the battery,” he said.
The living room was packed. As well as the people sitting on chairs and sofas, there were dozens of others on the floor. Joanes was among them. They’d provided seat cushions to make them more comfortable, but the room was boiling, and the cushions seemed to make it even hotter. There were two babies in a little playpen. At least one of them needed a change of diaper. A huge, sourfaced woman, who was in charge of the hotel storeroom, appeared carrying bottles of water whose seals were broken and took away the empty ones. Several of the Mexican guests were nibbling on strips of jerky. Another had a guitar in his arms; he didn’t play a single note, just held it against himself tightly. Various conversations were going on at once, and Joanes only joined in when someone addressed him directly.
It was already completely dark out, and raining. Every now and then the conversations fell quiet, and then you could hear the wind. It didn’t seem to Joanes to be blowing especially hard. He’d felt stronger gales. This one wasn’t making him feel particularly vulnerable. It wasn’t really clear why they were all there, cooped up in that hotel. He had to close his eyes and do some breathing exercises to suppress the urge to go outside, get into the car, and disappear.
Another silence, longer than the previous ones, made him open his eyes. The professor was standing by the door, looking at the scene before him with a look of revulsion on his face. He made a sign to Joanes.
“May we speak a minute?”
Joanes got up and walked out, all eyes in the room on him.
He followed the professor to the lobby. They were alone. The space was being used as a storage area for all the chairs and tables that had been out in the yard earlier. The professor took two chairs and placed them next to
“This professional call,” interrupted the professor, “it’s more important than a person’s life?”
“Forgive me, but, from what I’ve heard, your son’s life does not depend on you calling him. He’ll live or he’ll die, phone call or no.”
On hearing this, the professor’s wife buried her face in the pillow, and her entire body collapsed into great, sobbing heaves.
The professor was unmoved. Staring at Joanes, he said, “You cannot imagine what I can achieve with a simple phone call.”
Joanes took a deep breath, looked at his hands, and dried his palms on his pants. He contemplated the tiled floor for a second and said, “In that case, I’m very pleased for you. All you have to do is get ahold of a phone, and all your problems will be solved. But it won’t be mine.”
He got back down on the floor, leaning his back against the wall, and sat glaring into a corner of the room.
The professor looked at him in disgust and turned his attention to his wife. He rubbed her back and whispered soothing words—quite unconvincingly—in her ear. After a while she drew her face away from the pillow and muttered something. The professor put his face right up against hers in order to make out what she was saying. Then he said, “Of course,” and his wife buried her head back in the pillow.
The professor got to his feet and addressed Joanes.
“My wife would like to be alone for a moment, if you would be so kind. Given that you cannot lend us the telephone, perhaps the least you could do is grant us this small request. We’d like to have a moment alone.”
Joanes grabbed his backpack and reluctantly got to his feet.
Some candles stuck in jars were the only form of lighting in the living room. The hotel owner had a prime position among the many people in the room—a massage chair right in front of the television. Neither, however, was working. He spent a while fiddling with the dial on the portable radio, hoping to find a station without interference, but he gave up and switched it off.
“Saves the battery,” he said.
The living room was packed. As well as the people sitting on chairs and sofas, there were dozens of others on the floor. Joanes was among them. They’d provided seat cushions to make them more comfortable, but the room was boiling, and the cushions seemed to make it even hotter. There were two babies in a little playpen. At least one of them needed a change of diaper. A huge, sourfaced woman, who was in charge of the hotel storeroom, appeared carrying bottles of water whose seals were broken and took away the empty ones. Several of the Mexican guests were nibbling on strips of jerky. Another had a guitar in his arms; he didn’t play a single note, just held it against himself tightly. Various conversations were going on at once, and Joanes only joined in when someone addressed him directly.
It was already completely dark out, and raining. Every now and then the conversations fell quiet, and then you could hear the wind. It didn’t seem to Joanes to be blowing especially hard. He’d felt stronger gales. This one wasn’t making him feel particularly vulnerable. It wasn’t really clear why they were all there, cooped up in that hotel. He had to close his eyes and do some breathing exercises to suppress the urge to go outside, get into the car, and disappear.
Another silence, longer than the previous ones, made him open his eyes. The professor was standing by the door, looking at the scene before him with a look of revulsion on his face. He made a sign to Joanes.
“May we speak a minute?”
Joanes got up and walked out, all eyes in the room on him.
He followed the professor to the lobby. They were alone. The space was being used as a storage area for all the chairs and tables that had been out in the yard earlier. The professor took two chairs and placed them next to
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