Carlos y Javier - June 2016 Pt 1

Carlos received the call around 9pm.

Javier had taken his usual afternoon stroll around the town through the plazas and cafes in search of conversation and, as often as not, an argument.  Carlos had long ago given up on his friend returning at any set time and as often as not ate cenar alone. 

Javier’s arguments didn’t interest him in the way they once had.  Carlos wanted only a reasonably comfortable life and to know that his pension would find its way to his account once a month.  Occasionally, he slipped out to wander under the plane trees in search of Javier and any acquaintance he may have picked up – old or new.

The new ones were usually visitors – tourists.  The town was brimming with history, ancient and modern. Many of Hemingway’s scenes might have been set there.  Thankfully, for those whose living depended on tourism, there was never any shortage of people looking for evidence of the past.

The phone rang as Carlos was taking chilled pasta from the fridge.  It was the ward secretary from the hospital.  Carlos knew her.  He’d taught her mother.

Javier had collapsed in the plaza mayor, late in the afternoon. 

After an unusually slow and wet start, the temperature had begun climbing into the high thirties.  In some ways, Javier was very sensible.  He knew to use the shade of the plane trees or to find shelter under the canopy of a café.  All the camareros knew him.  They’d bring him a glass of water just to chew the fat and banter with him.  He was no fool.  But Carlos couldn’t help looking for reasons even before he ended the call.

Alcohol.  Javier would never turn down a drink.  And anything that looked like a challenge – particularly by someone he considered a young pretender – brought out his latent aggression.  He couldn’t back down.  Many times in the past, Carlos had been called by bars to come and collect his friend, or had answered the door to complete strangers to find them supporting a recumbent Javier completely dead to the world.

So Carlos took a cab to the hospital with a feeling of quiet resignation.  His driver, Alejandro, asked who he was visiting.  It seemed strange to give Javier’s name.  

Their eyes met in the mirror.  “Is he ok?” 

“I don’t know.” was all Carlos could offer. 

Still, he felt unsurprised to be making the trip.

When Carlos arrived on the ward, the shutters had been closed to keep out the heat.  Maria Luisa, who he’d spoken to on the phone, showed him to Javier’s bed.  He was in the far corner by a tall window.  An infusion was running into the back of his hand. “It’s just salt water” Maria Luisa told him.  “He’s dehydrated.”

Javier appeared to be sleeping.  Carlos pulled the curtain back slightly and sat on the visitor’s seat by the bed.  He felt himself welling-up.  He’d seen Javier in many states, but never vulnerable in this way.

He looked around the room at the other occupants.  Most were sleeping.  All were old.  Carlos couldn’t help but sense his own mortality.  Only one man sat up reading.  Carlos didn’t know him.

“Hey!”

Carlos looked round.  Javier was looking at him through one opened eye.  “Where have you been?  I’ve been in this place for hours.”

Carlos’ eyes filled with tears.  He felt stupid.