In the hotel hallway, an old lover started to knock on my room’s door while my boyfriend writhed in bed, suffering from what may have been my mother’s deliberate attempt at poison. The soft but echoing tap overlapped with the former’s voice.

            “Laura. You there?”

            “Juan,” I said quietly, “Please. You must go.” I had pressed my face against the door, ear squeezed against it to speak as soft as I could. We were on the third of five floors, and in an awful spot where guests could gather. How my parents managed to get ahold of Juan in such a short time was beyond me.

            “Not without my confession first.”

            I groaned.

            And while he spoke, I rewound the day.

           Perhaps I can explain the situation. About a week or two ago, Rafael handed me my phone which buzzed with an alert from my mother. It was time for my weekly call when I once again explained to her and my father how I had not died, been murdered, or beaten. This was the fate they expected of all people like us living in an American city.

            “It’s fine, truly fine.” These four words held a spell-like status. Despite their protestations, this enchantment would calm and convince them of my safety, and I fell back on them often. Always though—since I had let this information slip—they wanted to know more about Rafael.

            “It’s absurd really,” dad would say.

            “Ridiculous,” mother added. “How can our daughter live with a man and keep the man a secret? It’s too American to leave your family out of it.”

            After months of this exchange, I gave up, and answered that we would be passing through their area of Mexico. Both parents, for all their early insistence, responded by playing it cool.

            “Alright,” my mother said. “Wish there was more notice.”

            “If this is what we got,” dad added, “I’ll try to clear some time.”

            They could pretend to grumble, but through the charade I expected their excitement.

            Rafael, dark brown skin and heritage from the country, had never visited, and he was to experience a town as only a runaway resident could best show him.

           Half remembered cantinas, restaurants, coffee shops, and stores that were familiar as nostalgic desires were our first stops. Wonderous and colorful memories from my childhood matched well with his new impressions. This enthusiasm almost made one wish they could stay. He smiled at each place, finding something new and different to complement and compare to a sadder situation back in the United States.

            Then, from the moment we entered my childhood home, disappointment crept in.

            After a loud greeting passed between Rafael and my parents, each of them separated to complete an important task or another. I asked him to help my father outside while I followed my mother into the kitchen, where the toss of a bouillon cube into the pot of beans sent a perfect smell throughout the house. I waited for her first words, anticipating the following: handsome, smart, well-mannered.

           Never put so much faith on expectations! She grabbed my shoulders and placed me to the side and reminded me opinions were real.  

            “Oh Laura,” she said. “I don’t like him.”

            “What? Why?”

            “He broods. Not like that old boyfriend of yours. He was full of life. This one; he doesn’t even speak Spanish.”

            “He grew up on the other side. What’d you expect?”

            “Eh, it’s something else too.”

            Dad, who I thought would save the day, was no help. When the parents had seemingly switched turns—mother with Rafael, father with me—he too pulled me close and outside to speak his mind.

            “Oh, miss. I don’t like him.”

            “What? You too! What could possibly be wrong?”

            “It’s something your mom and I both felt. It’s…”

            He hesitated because he looked back into the house, as if he thought Rafael waited to interrupt. When his suspicions were not confirmed, he relaxed, though he spoke in a whisper.

            “He reminds us of Porfirio Díaz.”

            “Porfirio Díaz? The old president of Mexico? The old president from over a century ago?”

            “You are young enough that he’s history. Your mom and I are old enough to remember him as a story.”

            “Yes, but how does he resemble a man from a hundred years ago? I’ve seen photos of Díaz. Rafael has no moustache, is fit, and has his hair. What could the resemblance be?”

            “It’s an intangible thing. Your mother and I whispered it, and we agreed.”

            “So what? I leave him because he resembles a historical dictator?”

            “It’s what we decided is best. You cannot trust a man like that.”

            “After months of wanting to meet him! After you’ve seen his photo! Why not tell me then?”

            “Now you see why your mother and I wanted to do this earlier. We could have discussed this then. And what about Juan?’

            “Juan? You two…It’s been years. Even if I did want to see him.”

            “Think on it. Too long with a man of Díaz’s spirit and you’ll be hurt.”

            I felt a heat I knew from childhood, a dreadful warmth I wanted to long escape. He stepped away to return to the house, a large and false smile on his face as he saw Rafael. I watched both of them laugh, their joke undetectable, their sight in the screen window not.

#

            Socializing never ends fast enough when the entire purpose is pulled from beneath you, when the hopes of a promised premise do not last long enough to matter.

            Cruelty came when I finally had Rafael alone for a minute. We were on the inside looking out, and both parents walked together to the yard—a loveable image ruined because of my interpretation of them as conspirators. To Rafael though, it represented a possibility, what he hoped we might become.

            He ran his right hand along my back—a sensation I hardly registered.

            “You know, your parents are actually very nice.”

            I looked up. If he moved his face towards mine, he might have noticed the wrong effect his words brought. And honestly, I was studying him, trying to understand what my parents saw. As it was, he kept looking out, and I did not yet want to puncture the image he built.  

            That was a mistake.

#

            “Why didn’t you two stay here?” dad asked from his corner seat. He never sat at the head of the table. Too distant and uncomfortable. Who wants that attention?

            “We didn’t want to bother you too much,” Rafael said. “Besides, my work picked up a lot of the tab, so there was no trouble.”

            “It was an offer.” Dad shrugged his shoulders. “It’s your choice.”

            Much of the dinner fell into a silence that had not been there before, like the façade they put on to please their daughter’s reincarnated dictator was slipping. Mother refilled Rafael’s plate twice, stopping short of her more usual and friendly three or four refills.

           I managed to eat without her noticing my plate. That inattention made me understand their feelings about him were more consuming then first realized. Dad proved my point, bringing the dinner into a new realm—the political.

            “Rafael,” he said. His hands were together, the question comprised of carefully chosen words. “How do you feel about the land?”

            “The land? You mean its protection? Environmental or…”

            “I suppose that’s part of it. Its usage and its holdings too. For instance, would you support the U.S. holding land here if it meant protecting and saving the environment.”

            “There’s a few problems there I see. Of all the environmental problems in the world, would one plot of land really save or change what happens? I don’t think so. Then there’s another question. Why should the U.S. have a say? No, like many in my generation, I believe the U.S. does not need to exert power like that. Colonialism of the sort should be dead in these times.”

            “Yes. A good answer. Most Americans though think that until they travel. Then they turn their eye. I should say what I saw once. Maybe Laura told you, but I used to fish out in the ocean. Each day I went out and I came back. For a man who hates the ocean I did alright, fish each day to sell and fish each day to cook. One early morning though, I get up and paddle out. It’s warm, unreasonably so. There, probably several miles out, is a group of boats and men trying to put out a fire on the water. Later I learn it was a gas leak. Gas floats to the top and can ignite. A fellow man on the shore speaks to me, a sentence he stole from an old leader: ‘Nothing happens in Mexico until it does.’”

            “The company or man? American?”

            “I don’t know. All I noticed were the flames.”

            This grilling and exchange proved short, and I stayed out of it. When Rafael later stood to use the restroom, any thought that he passed this test did not last.

            “Did you hear that?” dad asked.

            “It’s a shame,” mother replied. “But it’s what we expected.”

            They both looked at me, as if what they saw was written, read and explained. However, I put down a glass of water and answered as I had all night.

            “I don’t see it.”

            “What?” dad snapped, nearly standing from his seat. “How could…” Mother stopped him with a touch, her hand reaching and holding onto his. She assumed his answer in a more calm and generous manner.

            “You heard him. It’s not so different from Porfirio Díaz. Not at all. No mention of the revolution or Earth itself. The need for alternative methods of ownership. None of these things at all.”

            “It was a basic question. You can’t expect a whole political philosophy from it.”

            “You can. Whole worlds are built on a single sentence.”

            The lecture fell apart at Rafael’s reappearance.

I was curious if they would bring the matter to him directly, and how he might respond. Though, for the sake of my relationship, both apprehensions were more interesting if they remained unspoken.

#

            As the night started to announce its opening, it was time to leave and drive to the hotel. Rafael kept his polite and goofy look. Unaware of their suspicions, he said his goodbyes and shook their hands before walking ahead, saying he would give me a few minutes to speak to them alone.

            I hugged each of them but the miraculous change of character I hoped for did not come to fruition.

            “Horrible, horrible man,” my mother said. “His dinner was ruined.”

            “End it soon,” my dad said. “Remember what I said. We could help.”

            “Please don’t.”

            “We cannot do nothing. Help is on its way.” The final comment he directed toward my mother, who nodded in another secretive agreement.

            “Help? What are you talking about?”

            “Porfirio Diaz is the reason behind the turmoil of our family’s last hundred years. It was always yesterday to them, remember that; and remember, he’s the last thing we need in the present.”

            “Alright, then. But, you know, I like Rafael.”

#

            By the time Rafael and I found the main road, the streets we roared by were encased in darkness. The structures for streetlights were either nonexistent or failed to work. Ruins of this technology amounted to heaps of trash sometimes interfering with the road. Due to the attention required to move on safely, I could afford to ruminate on the night without interruption.

            Porfirio Díaz, the contentious military man of Mexico, who seized office for the benefit of the few over the many, died over a hundred years ago. What was there about his presence now that could inspire such horror? Surely, the problems of today are different, more complex. They require bold action and a collection response. The blames are worldwide too—individuals, groups, businesses, corporations, governments, and ourselves. Perhaps Porfirio was someone in their control, a historical figure that haunted reality. Or, maybe I was wrong, and too self-involved to think about history’s life and reverberations as more influential than I gave them credit for.

            Of course, there was also an obvious question. What would a reincarnated dictator do? Would he warrant their fears? Would he…

            “Laura.” The name snuck me back to reality. When I emerged from the daydream dip, I saw we had stopped. Our car lights were illuminating a small cradle of light around us.

            “What’s wrong?” I asked.

            “You may need to drive. Something is hitting my stomach. Probably just Montezuma’s revenge, no?” A bead of sweat along his forehead dampened the humor for me. To a foreigner, there is always fear that the food is where a people’s vengeance is struck, and I knew this was not untrue.

            For once, the revenge might have had more than suspicion and history behind it. Effort and devotion to a cause.

           His dinner was ruined. My mother’s comment took a new meaning. I wanted to call then and there. Lack of service and two questions stopped me. First, I could not be sure. Would my mother really go to such lengths? Cutting him off was one thing, to poison him another. And secondly, how would this conversation look to Rafael if I was wrong?

           I exited the car, the air surprisingly cool. Rafael’s shirt clung to him, his body sticky as I helped him into the passenger’s seat. Seeing him like that, I directed all attention to the road.

#

            When I put Rafael to bed, he hushed any plans about going to a hospital. That was about all he could decide because he fell asleep immediately after.

            This was the precise moment when the doorbell rang and the knocking started, when Juan thought to offer his declaration. The phone was in my hand—mother’s number typed out—as it happened. I stopped to look. Juan, through the peephole, stood there in his brown suit and colorful tie. His hair was combed and his beard neat. He looked handsome, I’m afraid to admit.

            That is how I arrived here, a sick boyfriend in the room and an old one at the door, collecting my own thoughts until the last of Juan’s tiniest mumblings died completely.

            “Are you done now?” I pushed again my ear against the door, wanting to ensure he heard me. “It’s time to leave. I am here with my boyfriend, and happy at that.”

            “But it should be done soon, no?”

            “What do you…wait, what do you mean by that?”

            “Like I said, that you would make the right decision.”

            “No. About things being done. What is that all about?”

            “Didn’t you hear me, Laura? I am not here to take you; I knew there was no hope. I’m here because of my profession. It seems the dictator in there has your parents scared. I am here to end it.”

            “End it?”

           In that moment I promised myself to become a better listener, that what appears a heartfelt confession might contain something more heartless than you imagine.

            “I know what you’re thinking, Laura. You want to protect him and you’re also wondering how I became this. When you left me, I reexamined what I could do and came up with what I couldn’t do. I couldn’t teach; I did not have the patience. I couldn’t go back to school; I did not have the money.”

            “Please, there’s nothing that can persuade me this is okay,” I said. “So, how can I get out of this?”

            “He should be weak. They told me you needed to open the door. You can walk away or hang out outside while you wait.”

            “No, I mean get out of your agreement. I’m asking you to let the target go.”

            “There is a code, Laura. Word gets out and I may be done.”

            “I would never say a thing.”

            “Somehow secrets always escape. They take a life of their own and manage to find a voice.”

            “This time it would be silent.”

            “I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.” He paused. “No, not anyone else.” He sighed and backed away from the door. I almost had to read his lips to understand his next lines. “I must say, your parents were adamant about their fears. Whatever they saw, I hope it’s nothing.”

            Footsteps clicked until they didn’t. The end of Rafael’s world did not happen. When I went back to him, I thought to climb into bed and sleep next to him, however, the sweat and jerking of his body made it difficult and I soon left to sleep on the couch. Blame it on this separation because that night I had a strange dream.

#

           I woke to Rafael emerging from the shower, clean and devoid of any worry about last night. Instead, I was the one feeling the heat. He laughed as he started to speak:

            “What a weird disease. A single night of pain and it’s all fine now and…are you alright?”

            “What? Oh. Yes. Strange dreams.”

            “I understand. In my sleep I kept hearing you speak out, talking about the death of some dictator.”

            “Yes. What an eerie thing to think about.”

            “It was.” The phone on the table was ringing, my mother’s name flashing across the screen. I picked it up, unable to greet her before her voice rushed in.

            “What a waste! He’ll ruin lives.”

            As she continued her criticisms, I watched Rafael down the hall dress for the day, and everything was more ambiguous than before. While she ranted, I recalled the dream.

            On a brilliant day, I emerged barefoot on a dirt road in a white-topped tobacco dress. Clouds of dust circled the air and I remember worrying if the white would discolor. Instead, the suspended storms never touched me, and I moved like a ghost to see the cause.

           On the horse, in a stark uniform decorated with medals like Napoleon himself, was my young man. Rafael, in military dress, had his hair short and a moustache styled, and for the first time, I could see Porfirio Díaz.

– Anthony Gomez III

Author’s Note: Memory has always been a funny thing to me. Not because it can be wrong or becomes less trustworthy over time, but because it often feels alive. Other peoples’ memories become our own. Sometimes, when they do, we don’t always know what to make of it. And sometimes, it affects and changes what we see.