The voices of the Senora’s relatives rumbled through the thin walls of the apartment. Outbursts of laughter. He could hear them cracking pistachio nuts and the children running in the halls. The men were playing cards and accusing each other of cheating. The women were helping in the kitchen and gossiping. Juanita lurked in the hallway with her patched eye. She was probably looking for him.
The poster said not to wish for happiness. But that was impossible. Lethe expected the Senora to take care of him. Now she was ignoring him. And yet, he didn’t want to go home either.
The children were screaming in the living room. Their little feet padded up and down the hall. Later the Senora would clean the hallway with her dust mop. She would go over the same spot where those children played. It would calm her to do this.
Yesterday he felt so comfortable and secure with his situation. Yesterday he wrote the first pages of a short story about his childhood. He described the ponds around his home, the Canadian geese covering the lawns. He recalled the ease and fluidity of that day. How he seemingly floated through it without a single irritation.
He came in from the balcony and sat down at his desk. Then, there was a knock on his door.
“Lethe, it’s me.”
“What do you want Donte? I’m busy in here.”
“The Senora wants you to come out for the meal. Her relatives want to meet you. You know, Lethe, the Spanish people, they’re social. They don’t understand it when somebody is hiding in their room.”
“I’m not hiding, Donte. I’m just not hungry.” Lethe slammed the door and cursed under his breath.
“Lethe?”
“What Donte?”
“Remember the night you tried to kill yourself?
“No, I don’t. Please remind me.”
“You felt much better once you came out of your room. Even though you didn’t want to, you were glad you did it.”
“I did it to appease you. I really didn’t feel much better.”
Lethe heard some more voices in the hallway. Two people were arguing with each other.
Somebody turned a key.
Two well-built men in their early forties stepped into Lethe’s room. They had full beards and autumnal, hand-knitted sweaters. Their large presence in the room dramatically altered the mood.
What happened to Donte? Lethe thought.
The two men were roused by each other’s speech. Lethe couldn’t make out what they were arguing about but it sounded serious. Finally, realizing they had stepped into the wrong room, one of them said,”This doesn’t look like the guest room.”
“No, it’s not. This is my room.” Lethe shot a look of confusion at the brothers.
“My brother here was telling me that Americans watch futbol. Is that true? Or are they mainly obsessed with baseball?”
“Some Americans like soccer. But they tend to be the ones who play soccer.” Lethe reached for an unlit cigarette on the dresser.
“We just had a bet about what sports Americans are least likely to watch. I said ’soccer’. My brother said ‘handball’.”
“I don’t think we even have handball in the US,” Lethe answered.
“By the way, I’m Roberto. We’re the Senora’s sons. You won’t see us very often but once in awhile we take the train with our families and come here for a big meal. You know how good mama’s chorizo is.”
“Yes,” Lethe replied. “Her food is delicious.”
