After the Hurricane(24)
“Hello, good afternoon, can I help you?” he says in Spanish, then repeats himself in English as Elena looks at him, struck dumb by how much, and little, time has meant on his face.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Elena replies in English. She remembers his own English was good, and what she wants to ask about is something legal, something she does not have the words for in Spanish. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, or my parents, but you helped us buy our house a bit over ten years ago, a place on Calle Tanca? I’m Rosalind and Santiago Vega’s daughter.” She omits her mother’s last name; it will do her no good here. She winces inside. She almost never says her father’s name anymore, it pains her to do so. But needs must.
Wilfredo’s eyes light up, and he looks like an elf.
“Of course, of course, your parents wanted a ruina, they got that one on Sol, and such a nice job they did, no one puts this kind of money into renovation like they did, wonderful! I sell so much to see it just stay like it is, but they make it really nice.”
“They did, yes.” Elena has no comment for what it is like now, the way it is falling to ruin all over again.
“Your father is here a lot, no? Living here now? Retirement?” Wilfredo asks, his eyes kind. It’s a small city, this, a town, really. Of course he knows her father lives here now. Elena is grateful for his discretion, how he doesn’t ask about her mother, the way it allows her to avoid explaining things.
“Yes, yes, he is. He loves it,” Elena says. She has no idea if this is true. Wilfredo nods, smiling still. “I actually had a question for you, which I don’t know if you would be able to answer, but I thought I might ask?”
Wilfredo nods again, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk, but Elena just hovers. Sitting will give her time to think.
“How would I go about finding information about, um, my parents’ house? That is, the history of the property, the records of who might have owned it in the past, the, the current deed, things like that?” She is clouding her purpose with other things, hoping her real interest will slip past him, but once the words are out of her mouth, she realizes she really does want to know more about the house. She has a vague sense of its history, from when her parents bought it, but even that information she has never verified. As a historian, lapsed though she now is, she realizes she should be ashamed of herself, to never investigate the house, its origins, its owners. And if it is to be hers, if it is already hers, shouldn’t she know more about it? Was it built on the back of slave labor, or some Spaniard’s olive oil money? What haunts the house, other than her own pain and her father’s past?
Wilfredo looks at her, his smile turning vague.
“Why?” he asks her, bluntly. She shrugs, affecting an innocent smile.
“I’m thinking about writing up the history of the place. Just for us. Everything here is a piece of San Juan’s history, right? I thought I should document it. Might be nice, for the future.”
Wilfredo looks at her suspiciously.
“Are you going to put it on Airbnb?” he asks, his eyes narrow.
“No, no, nothing like that,” Elena assures him. She almost feels like lifting her hands up, giving herself up like a bank robber. He smiles, relieved.
“Good. That thing is ruining the city. With the hurricane, people will leave, put their apartments up on that thing, and then what?” Elena nods. She has heard this before, in New York, and is amused, and sad, to know San Juan is having the same problem.
“Well, if you wanted to know about a place in this city, el Instituto de Cultura would be the place to start.”
“For the deed, too?” she asks, trying to sound innocent. He shakes his head.
“That, maybe public records? Deeds are different here than in the States. We are under French civil law, not English. So they aren’t recorded in the same way.” Elena nods. She vaguely remembers something about this from her graduate school thesis, the way the legal system here impacted trade laws.
“Are your parents thinking about buying again? Or you? I have some nice places on Sol.”
“Oh, well, I don’t think so, but if we do, you will be the first person we go to!” Elena says, smiling. The clock behind his desk tells her that she has missed Gloria’s open hours, and she can feel relief singing through her veins. Coward, idiot, coward. Still, she has learned something from him. That is useful, isn’t it? Who are you trying to convince? she mocks herself.
Her expression must show her disdain for herself, for Wilfredo is frowning at her now.
“You okay?”
Elena nods.
“Thank you so much for everything. Nice to see you again.”
“Say hello to your father,” he says, his eyes kind. He does not mention her mother, and Elena does not know if this is chauvinism, from the man with the tiny flower in his hair, or knowledge that Rosalind won’t be coming here any time soon. Elena nods, smiling, and walks out into the fading heat of the afternoon.
Taking out her phone, Elena looks up the Instituto de Cultura, which is close, and closed. Of course it is. It is 4:00 p.m. on a Friday. Elena doubts it is truly open more than an hour or two a day, and likely has different hours each day too. Efficiency is for mainlanders, and those who speak Germanic languages. Tomorrow, then, she will try again.
She walks home, past Gloria’s place, because she knows it will be shut, and it is. She had told herself she had to talk to Gloria today, had to. And then she didn’t. She thinks about her own pathology as if it is someone else’s, the pathetic way she can only muster the courage to walk by a woman who she has known for a long time, a woman who cares for her, cares for her father, when she is sure that woman isn’t there. She wishes this were all already over, that someone would come up to her on the street and tell her that her father is gone, or that her father is living happily in Morocco, or that her father never existed at all, so that she can know, and be done. She has been on the island for less than a full day, and it is already exhausting her, painting her with pain.