Captain of the Sleepers

Excerpted fromCaptain of the Sleepersby Mayra Montero. Copyright © 2002 by Mayra Montero. Translation copyright 2005 by Edith Grossman. Published in September 2005 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. All rights reserved. I'M in the last place on earth I'd like to be. Waiting for the last person in this life I thought I'd ever see again. It's almost six. I'm sipping beer at the bar of the Pink Fancy, a hotel on St. Croix where I arrived just a few minutes ago, carrying a small week end bag. When I arrived I was registered by a woman who didn't stop laughing. She was young and fairly heavy, and apparently she could not forget the joke that another employee-a man who was looking over some papers and laughing quietly too-had just told her. I asked about my reservation, and with a thin, high-pitched voice she answered in the kind of correct English that was unusual on this island. Then she handed me a brochure with a map of the city (she didn't give me time to explain that I could walk around Christiansted with my eyes closed), drew a circle around one of the restaurants, and recommended that I be sure to eat there. I agreed with a smile that I'm afraid she thought was mocking. She drew back, behaved like an offended butler, and told me drily that my room was on the second floor. Before I went up I asked her for Mr. Bunker's room number, John Timothy Bunker; I stressed each syllable and seemed to hear my father's voice: "J.T.," which he pronounced in English, not Spanish. That's what he always called the Captain of the Sleepers. I went upstairs and took a deep breath before I picked up the phone. How long had it been since I'd heard his voice? Fifty years, fifty-one in a few months. The last time I talked to him I was twelve years old, standing in the entrance to my father's small hotel. In the midst of all that sorrow it was where I took refuge, and the Captain tousled my hair as he passed by; he usually did that. He took a few steps, and then he stopped to see if I'd say anything to him. But I didn't open my mouth, I went on shuffling the cards I'd been playing with, so he decided to speak even though his voice sounded different. He said: "It's how you grow up, son." I didn't understand the meaning of that sentence until many years later. By then, I'd begun to wonder if what I saw was really what I saw. And I'd also begun to wonder if it was really worth killing the Captain, which was what I'd sworn to do no matter where I found him. The listless voice of a frail old man answered the phone. "This is Andres," I said. "I'm here." I didn't count on his beginning to sob. That was my first impression, and then I thought perhaps they weren't sobs. Maybe sitting up, picking up the phone, or simply speaking was a great effort for him. Especially speaking; he himself had told me that the cancer had reached his throat. He paused and murmured: "Thank you for coming." I didn't answer, and he went on to say that he'd arrived the day before from Maine and was exhausted, but we could meet in an hour at the bar. I assured him I'd be there. I had a hunch he was going to say something else, but I didn't give him the chance. I hung up; I was panting and had the feeling I'd been running for my life; yes, to save it, but for how long? I turned on the TV; hung up my clothes-a jacket, a pair of trousers, the shirts Gladys had been folding as she told me not to go to St. Croix-and opened a bottle of water. Then I lay down on the bed, and as soon as my head touched the pillow I decided I had to move quickly. IMontero, Mayra is the author of 'Captain of the Sleepers ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780312425432 and ISBN 0312425430.