The Lemon Thief's Ex-Wife's Third Cousin

Chapter Eighteen

"When you and I met for the first time," I said, "you asked me something very interesting. You asked me, how do people know when they understand each other?"

"I think they can tell more easily when they don't." Nando answered.

"That's exactly what you told me then," I said. "Word for word."

"Seems like an obvious answer," he shrugged. "Listen, you and I, no matter what you say, you and I have never met before. Never. I don't know you and I never knew you. I don't know what you're after or what you want. Maybe you are working for the system somehow? Or some newspaper, perhaps?"

"I do run a newspaper," I told him, "but that has nothing to do with this. In fact, you work for my paper. I am your employer, and your friend. That's my 'angle', as you put it."

"Now you're making even less sense," he shook his head. "But I'm curious, I have to admit. Exactly what does this me do for your newspaper? Is he your paper boy? Does he ride around on a bicycle making deliveries?" He chuckled at his attempt at humor. I did not.

"You are a writer," I told him, "and a translator. You speak many languages." Here I paused, for it didn't seem like the time to bring up the imaginary ones. He might already suspect me of being a possible lunatic, and that tidbit certainly wouldn't help matters much.

"I do speak English," he said, "and some Spanish, here and there. I should speak more, I know, considering my heritage and all, but growing up around here, you tend to lose it, you use it mostly for swearing or talking about food. But you said I was a writer. What do I write?"

"All sorts of stuff," I said, again hedging my answer. I did not need to go into the fictitious nature of our "news" stories, nor provide too much detail. "You're a journalist. You write about things that happen."

"But you are telling me about things that do not happen, things that never happened and can never happen. A person can only be one person. He can only live one life, but you are telling my that my life is not the one I remember, and that I am not the person I know myself to be. You have made up another version of myself, for some reason I cannot figure out. All I know is that this alibi you came up with somehow had some reality to it. There are records of my being at this place, this casino, and my fingerprints are there, and videos and photographs of me, and my signature, yes, I have seen the photocopies and it is my own, or at least very like it. Perhaps this is all some elaborate trick. I don't know. A man in my position cannot be too careful, especially with these recent charges, which I'm sure you understand are potentially quite serious. And so, you see, you are putting me in an awkward position. You say you are my friend and yet, I feel I must ask you to leave."

Saying this, he stood up and made it quite plain by his gestures and expressions that he expected me to do the same. I could not see an alternative. I could offer more proofs, more stories, more anecdotes of the real Hernan, but these could have no other effect than the ones I'd already produced. And deep inside I already knew it was a hopeless situation. This man was not Hernan Kaitel. I did not know who he was, and I was feeling the very same instinct that he was, that this whole thing was a curious trick set in motion by someone for some mysterious reason. It was with a sense of great sadness that I finally rose to my feet, and walked slowly to the door. There was one thing missing, I felt, one crucial piece of information, and I couldn't come up with what it might be. I hesitated, and dawdled, and dragged and I could feel him becoming more and more impatient as we made our way toward his door. It wasn't until I was barely out that I thought of it, and turned around just in time to catch him just before he locked me out.

"What is all this about lemons?" I blurted out, and he stopped with the door half-shut, and smiled.

"My monicker, you mean?"

"They said something about lemons at that hole in the ground on Misteranibal Street. And then at Tony's Pizza, like it's some sort of totem."

"I am sometimes known as The Lemon Thief," he said. "It is not a long story, but not a very interesting one either, though perhaps you will write about it some day in your newspaper. I stole a lemon from a vegetable cart when I was twelve years old." Here he paused and sighed with the memory.

"My mother made me take it back and apologize," he continued. "It was embarrassing. My friend Ricky was there with me when it happened. He saw the whole thing, beginning to end. He never lets me forget it. I had to promise my mother I'd be a good boy and never do anything like that again. Every time he sees me, Ricky still asks me if I've been a good boy. That's it. That's all there is to it."

So saying, he finished closing the door, and left me standing alone in the hallway. I thought he was right. It was not an interesting story, but I couldn't help but wonder if my own Hernan had done the same thing at the same age, and what had happened if he had.