Duties
I remember that on that afternoon, we had gone to the Pacific National Exposition, or PNE as they call it – the whole family, my wife, my son and my two daughters, even though all my children were fully grown. My son, the youngest was twenty-three.
The PNE is not a fair in the old sense. It is near the inlet full of cargo ships that bring goods from Asia and other places to Vancouver and subsequently the rest of North America and take what comes from here – mostly natural resources and export them to the rest of the world. To the east there is an oil refinery and all around there are cranes that work night and day to unload the ships. The Exposition is situated around a dingy amusement park staffed by people who look like they work there because they have unwisely used up all of their other options in life. All the rides are dirty and somewhat depressing to look at – the rain here stains everything prematurely. There is a ride with plastic boats that are shaped like logs; it has a peeling mural behind it depicting the logs splashing into a pond. The people in the mural have faces which have an incorrect but happy look to them. There is also a roller coaster and some bumper cars and a number of other rides which mostly operate around the idea that it is fun to be afraid. There are some animals and many stalls where the carnival people – yelling the same phrases over and over like broken down mechanical men – sell any number of things – games, corn on the cob, cotton candy, hot dogs and so forth. In this city, going to the PNE is considered a suitable family activity.
It was early summer and the weather was dry and sunny but not too hot. As we passed by the carnival stalls, my wife would ask for things: cotton candy, games, little trinkets and so forth. If I hesitated, she would say, half-joking that it was because I didn’t love her anymore. Then I would buy whatever she had asked for because I didn’t love her anymore. As our lives had become untruthful it was important that we maintain certain illusions, so that they could remain as we wanted them and not as the natural decay of time tried to make them.
The prices were very expensive there, but it was expected that you would pay them without compliant because you were having a good time.
I walked around with my family; we looked at the animals and played some games. No one wanted to go on the rides. One of the carnival men said something to me and without thinking I acknowledged him. If you have not previously decided in your mind to resist them, you have already lost at this point; there is something in their voices and their manner which is very hard to disagree with. He stared me down with his small, pebble-like eyes. At first I won a small plastic doll. He told me that for a few extra dollars I could win something bigger if my luck held out. I looked at my wife and without saying anything I could see that she was making the joke with her eyes. Because of the joke, I continued to play; each time I won, he would suggest again that I could win something bigger. At the end I won a large purple teddy-bear with a crooked nose. After it was over and he had all my money, he didn’t say anything further or even rest for a moment; he just went back to his routine, yelling at strangers as they went by.
My son carried the bear for my wife. He had an unhappy look on his face but he didn’t complain. Seagulls walked around on their floppy feet, congregating especially around the fifty gallon drums that were used for garbage. They fed off the left over pieces of hot dogs, french-fries, hamburgers and other things. They flapped about – fighting and calling or waiting intently for scraps if it had not been in their fortune to win in the outset. Seagulls do not chew, of course and I found it ceaselessly interesting to watch what they could swallow – fistfuls of french-fries or a half a hotdog. They can swallow things that are larger than their throat. They are filthy gluttons, and they do not seem to care or think much about what they eat. They have empty eyes and they will call out spontaneously with their mouths open as far as they can go. I do not know why they do this – to assert their dominance, or their wish for dominance – to tell other seagulls that they have won or maybe just to confirm that they exist? I do not know why, they are a very stupid animal.
We ate our lunches at a picnic table near all the other families. Our little meals were laid out in front of us; I have always found it fascinating how they serve food in this country. Everything has its special package: my chicken came in a tidy foil bag, a hotdog comes in a little paper carrier, the hamburger in a special wrapper and the french-fries in their own paper container. When I first came here, I was amazed by how precise it all seemed. I was very attracted to places that served food in this fashion – to how carefully considered and measured every aspect of a meal could be. It impressed me how scientific it all was. I thought that it must say something about a culture that would put so much time and research into a single hamburger. When you look at a perfectly made hamburger in its own box, you feel like you have something that has been engineered so that everything inessential has been pared away. I quickly learned what most here already knew, which was that it was just a method to make the cheapest ingredients seem palatable. It seemed precise because it had been done on a mass scale. Nevertheless, its neatness has always appealed to me. Of course they have all of this back home now.
After our meal, we went back to the car. My wife sat up front and the three children in the back seats. My son was not driving at the time; he had lost his license after he wrecked a Mustang that I bought him. I have been generous, but not always wise.
Later on I was watching television when the phone rang. I answered it and the voice on the other end asked for my son – he was living with us at the time. I called to my son but he didn’t respond. After a little while I went upstairs and I knocked on his door but he told me to tell his friend to call back.
“Milko,” I said, “why don’t you want to answer the phone? It is your friend, Milko.”
“Come back later, I’m busy,” He said.
“What could you be busy with in their Milko? What are you doing in there?” I said.
“Just tell him that I’ll call back,” He said.
“Milko, do not leave your friend waiting on the phone, it isn’t polite,” I said.
“I’m busy,” he said.
“There’s nothing in your room, what could you be busy with?” I said.
“I’ll call him back,” he said.
“I don’t know what kind of weird things you’re doing in there, but your friend is waiting for you.” I said. He opened the door but his back was turned to me.
“Give me the phone,” he said.
“Why are you turned away from me?” I asked.
“Just give me the phone,” he said.
“Turn towards me,” I said.
“Please just give me the phone,” he said.
“Why can’t you face me?” I said. He turned around and I saw that blood was running from his nose. It had covered his shirt and I could see some of it had gotten on the floor. He took the phone and ran into the bathroom. I went into his room and saw that his closet was full of bloodstained Kleenex. He came out of the bathroom; he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He got another shirt from his room.
He went downstairs and started to go out the door.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I have to meet my friend,” he said.
“But you don’t have a car,” I said.
“I’ll walk,” he said. I knew where his friend lived; it would take him at least an hour.
After he left, my wife made dinner.
“Our son is into bad things,” I said.
“He is young,” she said.
“He is not that young,” I said “and besides he is making bad choices and learning bad lessons.” She said
“There is more to figure out here, this is a more confusing place, it is not like when we were young.”
“Maybe it is this place. This place is bad, it tells you that you can be anything and gives you a sense of entitlement, but then it doesn’t expect anything of you except that you will waste what you have earned and go into debt. It doesn’t want to teach you how to work or how to support yourself, but it also doesn’t want to help you when you are in need. But this doesn’t change anything for our son. The worse it is here, the more careful he must be. He will ruin himself. He’s earning good money here, he is not paying rent, but he still asks to borrow money from me. I ask him:
‘Where is your money?’ He tells me that he has spent it.
‘How could you have spent it?’ I ask.
‘Things are expensive,’ he says.
‘Of course things are expensive,’ I say. ‘I of all people know how expensive things are. Do you think I don’t know how much things cost?’ Then he says
‘I’ll go ask my mother.’
‘Oh yeah? Well fuck you.’ I already lent him five hundred dollars but he doesn’t care. I told him that I knew what he was spending his money on,” I said.
“It’s not his fault alone,” she said.
“Why are you defending him?” I asked.
“Because he’s my son,” she said.
“He’s not my son?” I asked.
I went to watch television. I work hard during the week. I am a bricklayer. While I watched television I got drunk. There was nothing good on. It was summer, there were only reruns.
My son came back at around three in the morning; I had fallen asleep in my chair but the television was still on. I was still drunk.
“Did you have a good time?” I said. He said
“Good enough.”
“What, are you getting bored with the high life?” I said.
“What’s it to you?” he said.
“It looks like you’re the big man now,” I said. I could see that he was on drugs and that he was drunk too. He had a nervous, mocking demeanor.
“I’m old enough to take care of my own life,” he said.
“Yes, it certainly looks that way,” I said, “I can see that you are looking after your own life – twenty-two years old, living with your parents – no driver’s license, no car.” He said
“It looks like you had a pretty good time yourself. It’s comforting to know that there are certain things you can always count on in this world.”
“You are the big man – cool, clever, under control. You know what? Fuck you. You behave like a child, but you are not a child, but you are not a man either,” I said.
“If I work hard maybe I can be half the man you are – half the father you are,” he said with a sneer.
“Are you saying that you don’t think I’m a good father?” I said. He said
“Maybe you’re alright when you’re sober, but it’s hard for me to remember.” I picked up a vase from a little pedestal – my wife collects them – and threw it at him, but he ducked and it smashed the picture window behind him. He said
“What did you just do, you crazy fucking drunk?” I came towards him.
“Don’t get too close,” he said.
“So you are the big man, you are in charge. You can tell me what to do?” I said.
“Just stay back,” He said.
“You can tell me what to do?” I said. He took a swing at me. After that I grabbed him and threw him on the floor. He is nearly a foot taller than me, but I am strong after all these years and I can still take him down. After that, we were both rolling around on the floor.
“What are you doing you drunken lunatic?” he said.
“I am apologizing,” I said, “for being a bad father.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” He said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “for putting a roof over your head. I’m sorry for breaking my back to feed you and clothe you. I’m sorry for letting you live in my house without asking for rent after you were evicted from your apartment. I’m sorry for driving you to your friends’ houses and to the mall because your license was taken away. I’m sorry for trying to give you opportunities, when it was obvious you didn’t want any.”
“Fuck you,” he said and he pushed me over and kicked me in the stomach. I picked up another vase and smashed him across the head. He was staggering around on his hands and knees when my wife came in and shrieked.
“What are you doing?” she yelled, but I was still talking to my son.
“How can I be a good father?” I said. “How can I be a good father? If I give you money for drugs will I be a good father? Is that what you want?” He was still crawling around on the floor and I took my wallet out and started throwing bills at him.
“Is that enough?” I said, “Is that enough?” My wife was hysterical.
“What are you doing?” she said. “What have you done to my son? What have you done to the room?”
“I am apologizing,” I said, “for twenty-two years of being a bad father.”
“You’re a drunken maniac,” she said. “I’m calling the police.” I said
“No one will disrespect me in my house.” She called the police. My son went and sat in the kitchen.
“How can you do this to your own son, what’s wrong with you?” she said.
“He tried to hit me,” I said.
“You’re a monster,” she said. “Get out.”
“No one will tell me what to do in my house,” I yelled.
“I paid for more than half of this house,” she said.
“No one will tell me what to do in my house,” I said. “I haven’t spent the last thirty years killing myself to have anyone tell me what to do in my own house.”
“You brutal, foolish pig – get out, get out and wait for the police outside,” she said. I yelled for a few more minutes, but then I did as she said.
I was sitting on the front step when the police arrived. One of the officers told me to put my hands where he could see them. They walked over to me, shinning their flashlights in my face.
“Sir, did you do this?” one of them asked me, shinning his flashlight on the broken window. I nodded.
“Sir, you’re going to have to come with us,” he said. I started to get up.
“Don’t move” the other instructed. I sat down again. They put handcuffs on me. They were too tight. I was brought to the car and they made me sit in the backseat, with the handcuffs cutting off my circulation while they took statements from my wife and son.
The next day the judge said to me
“Mr. Cirko you have demonstrated that you do not posses the ability to control your anger or your alcoholism. You have proven that you are a danger to your wife and son and because they have asked for it, I am issuing a restraining order against you. You may not come closer than one hundred meters to your son, your wife, their residence or their places of work. Furthermore, I am sentencing you to a court ordered alcohol rehabilitation program. If you do not comply with these decisions, you will face jail time. Do you understand Mr. Cirko?” I told him that I did.
I went and got a room at a motel. It was on the corner of two busy streets. Near the crosswalk, they had a large illuminated sign and right below it a very old and faded placard that read “color TV” and another placard that read “satellite TV,” which was somewhat faded. On the ground were a hedge and a fiberglass dinghy with flowers growing in it. I do not know why there was a fiberglass dinghy. The motel had two stories. It was white stucco, with blue balconies. I had the corner suite on the second floor. The deck was covered in green in-door out-door carpeting.
Inside the room everything was beige. There was beige carpeting, beige paint on the wall, beige drapes and a beige bedspread. On the wall there was a print of a water color painting of a sailboat. The bedspread was polyester and had a rough feel so that it seemed that if you were to rub bare skin over its surface too quickly you would receive an abrasion. There was a chair, a table, a television and a kitchenette.
I sat in the chair and smoked a cigarette, ashing into the disposable aluminum ashtray that had been provided. I got up and fingered the drapes. For no reason, I burned a hole in one of them with my cigarette. Everything in the room seemed like it was flammable.
The room seemed like it had been created and furnished with absolutely the least amount of effort possible that would still allow for the patrons not to feel any discomfort. No one would ever feel too cold or want for a place to sit down.
It did not seem likely to me that anyone had ever come to that motel as a vacation destination; its purpose was to serve the failed, the road weary and the unfaithful. It was a place in between the other parts of your life.
I thought over the previous night and the last several months. I tried to make myself angry but I could not; it is often difficult to muster any powerful emotions when you are by yourself. Instead the events just unfolded in my mind; they were foolish.
Over the next couple of days I went to look for an apartment. It was easy to do. A young woman showed me a suite in a high-rise. She told me things like:
“It’s just had new fixtures put in,” and “It’s a very modern building,” and “We have a very high level of tenant satisfaction.” It was clean, with cream walls and new wood floors. Afterwards I went to get some furniture. The man at the furniture store showed me some sofas and chairs. He described their features. I bought a number of things and a sofa with a folding bed in case any of my children needed a place to sleep.
I took the next few days off from work to get my things together. I bought a television – I had enough money, there was no emergency in that area. I waited one day for the cable man to show up. I would stare at the ceiling and then look at the clock. Large portions of time vanished without notice; I would look back at the clock and fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes would have just disappeared. I lay on the couch smoking cigarettes.
The cable man was exceedingly fat and he had an unhealthy smell that filled the room. He had to move sideways in order to navigate his bulk through the door with his tool boxes. His forehead was covered in beads of sweat that he kept wiping away with a cloth that he kept in his pocket. He brought with him a small collapsible seat that he sat on while he worked. His breathing was labored and I could hear him exhaling violently while I sat on the couch smoking cigarettes. I could see that the smoke discomforted him, but somehow I took pleasure in the understanding that there was nothing he could do about it. Also, his size, his ridiculousness, his smell, his feebleness – the fact that he had to sit on a seat to work, in some way made me feel like he was not deserving of my respect. Somehow it was proper to make him uncomfortable.
“It’s a hot one today,” he said mopping his forehead. I stared at him coldly.
“You got cable just in time for the World Cup. I think there are some pretty good games coming up,” he said – his eyes looked at me plaintively.
“I don’t have much interest in soccer,” I said.
“It’s not really about soccer though – just something fun you can do with your friends. I think it’s nice, it brings the whole world together,” he said. I smiled tensely.
“Well that’s that, it should work now,” he said. He tested it and it did.
“Have a nice day Mr. Cirko,” he said as he angled his way out of my front door. I got a telephone and it worked too. There was nothing much to worry about; it was a very modern building and any problems with it were the responsibility of the property management company.
When I returned to work I had to go far out of the city. I had to take the road north that goes along the base of the mountains near the ocean. It was a rich man’s house on the waterfront. Although I didn’t know any rich men personally, they seemed to be everywhere. It seemed to be their time. I complained about the distance, but really I liked it. We took long breaks because the owner of the company did not like to travel the distance and we could sit and stare at the tranquil waters. The work was with stone, not bricks, so it went slowly. The boss had said
“It’s stone out their Ratko,” and I said
“I have never done that kind of stone before.” He said
“That’s all right, you can lean something new.” I said
“I don’t want to learn anything new. I know too many things already. Everything new that I learn creates more work. I have too much work as it is. I am old enough. I know what I am and what I can do; I’m not going to become something else.” He said
“I want you to go out there anyway, just do your best.”
“I will do my best, but I am not going to learn anything, just so you know,” I told him. So there was no pressure. One of the other workers did not like power tools. He said they made ugly cuts in the stone and that they created an ungodly racket. If he found someone using a grinder near him, he would unplug it and take it away, so it was very quiet. You could only hear the pounding of the hammers on the chisels.
It would often be damp and foggy in the mornings and it would usually burn off by lunch. Our proximity to the ocean caused our conversations often to be about fishing. The others would ask me questions because I had once been a fisherman. I didn’t do it any more. We had caught too many fish and now there weren’t very many left so it was no longer a good profession.
I left around eleven one day with the young man who helps me. We went to a nearby bar to watch a World Cup game that was being played by the Croat team. I did not go because I like soccer or because I believe these games bring the world together. I went because of nationalism or because I know that I do not belong to this country. We sat at a table with a green surface. I drank alcohol-free beer and the young man drank coffee. There were two games playing simultaneously. I only cared about my own game even though I knew that the outcome didn’t mean anything; it only showed that there were still distinctions between things and win or lose, it was something that my people could share together. The young man watched out of loyalty to me. He was glad not to be at work.
The young man was not like my son even though they were similar in age. He was quiet and just did his work. I told him about my situation.
“That’s unfortunate Ratko,” he said. Sometimes I would ask him
“What are you going to do this weekend?” and he would say
“Nothing Ratko, what is there to do? I am tired and I have to go shopping for groceries, wash my clothes; do everything I didn’t do during the week.” He doesn’t torture himself believing that life should be exciting. He doesn’t have anything to prove. Maybe it’s because he better understands what this place is; his parents come from here and grew up speaking English? But I don’t think that’s it.
Afterwards we went back to work.
The next week or so passed without comment.
One day I took the morning off from work. I told the young man
“Tomorrow we will go to work a little later there is something I have to do in the morning.” He did not complain, he just said
“Very good Ratko, there are some things I should do anyway.”
I had to get some things from my house and I had to go when I knew my wife and son were at work. Maybe I could have called them, they probably would have let me get some things, but I didn’t want to talk to them.
I still woke up at five in the morning – I had been doing it for too long to do otherwise, but I took my time. It was a beautiful day. I sat on my balcony and let the morning sun touch my face while I drank my coffee. It was Thursday I remember because I had my alcohol rehabilitation meetings Thursday nights and I had one that day. It had been more than two weeks since I’d had a drink. I felt more energetic, perhaps it was not so bad; drinking had become quite boring anyhow. My friends had become somewhat intolerable though.
Eventually the program requires that you accept God. I had an ambivalent relationship with God. It was not that I was against Him especially, more that we had agreed that we had very little use for each other. Given my feelings, it meant almost nothing that I should “accept God,” much less than it would mean to either a true Christian or an atheist. Although, I was happy to do so insofar as it pleased the court. I could see the mountains very clearly
The drive was very pleasant. I stopped along the way and bought two packs of cigarettes. Normally, I do not enjoy smoking – as they say, it is a filthy habit, but that morning I did. I was very happy driving with the window down, smoking and letting the mild breeze cross my face.
When I arrived one of my neighbors waved to me. I waved to him. I couldn’t tell if he was just pretending or if he really was ignorant that anything had been out of the ordinary lately. I wondered if he would betray me to my wife. If he didn’t think anything had happened, he wouldn’t have any reason to bring it up. Nothing could be more unremarkable than someone going into his own house. On the other hand, maybe he wouldn’t mention anything anyway.
The window had been replaced. I let myself in. Nobody was home. My wife had bought some new vases. I only had to get some tools from a box in the garage; my wife would never notice that anything had been taken. I got the tools, but I felt like taking a look around. I went upstairs to our bedroom; I looked in the bathroom; everything was clean and tidy. I went downstairs to the kitchen and sat at the kitchen table. Our house is on the side of a mountain. From the window you can see farms and past those, mountains in the United States. We used to live in a small apartment in the city – that’s where my children grew up, but we had moved out here a few years earlier. I noticed some papers on the table. I started to read them. Quickly, I realized that they were love letters. My wife had been having an affair with a man from her work named Jorge Alfaro. They were quite explicit and they made reference to many times that they had made love both at work and at his home. Suddenly, I felt very angry; it enraged me to imagine this Mexican’s hands all over my wife. Moreover, I felt as though I had been made to suffer unnecessarily because of my wife’s cowardice. With me out of the picture she had free run to do whatever she liked with this Jorge Alfaro. For all I knew, he was sleeping in my bed. If that was the case, then my entire family – or at least my son would have to be in on it. That did not seem very likely. I went upstairs and looked at my son’s room. It looked like he had moved his things out. Probably my wife felt comfortable to leave the letters lying around because she was the only one living there. She did not expect anyone else to be there. I think that I felt most outraged because I’d be made to play the fool for my wife’s infidelities. I stood in my son’s room and looked out his window to the street below. My neighbor was doing something in his garden. I waited until he went inside and then I went down to the kitchen. I took the letters and drove off. I made several photocopies of each one and then I went back to my house and placed them where I found them. Then I went back to my apartment and I hid the photocopies in a number of different places. I don’t know why exactly I did that since nobody could get in except me.
The next day I hired someone to find out what Jorge Alfaro looked like and where he lived.
On Friday, I went to work as usual and on Saturday I went downtown. I walked along one of the main streets, with all the people selling hot-dogs, clothing, electronics and on another street, sex shops, bars and places to get cheap things to eat. These were not places where you ever ceased to be a visitor; no one ever learned your name – the work force was always transitory, people trying to work their way up in the world from one bad job to the next. You could not make any history there.
I stayed in town all day. I went to the big park and I looked at the ocean, the trees, the bridge. It was very warm that day – the kind of day where you feel relaxed because you can be comfortable anywhere. It was the sort of day where you knew it would not even cool down at night, so that you felt that you could fall asleep somewhere and then wake up and return to your business – that you felt like nature was not your enemy. If every day was like that then we would not have to pay rent or worry much about clothing.
At dusk I walked through my old neighborhood; I walked past the restaurants, the groceries with their vinyl awnings and past the grimy pool-halls where wrinkled old men hung out without any women.
I saw my old apartment. It looked like there were some Chinese students living there. Without anyone to watch over me there was no hour that I had to be home.
The following week was very regular.
On Saturday I drove to my house. I knocked on the door and my wife answered.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello,” she said. She was surprised maybe, but her response was unemotional. She did not get angry and she made no mention of the order. I stared at her.
“Come in,” she said. “How have you been?”
“Fine,” I said, “and you?”
“Oh fine,” she said. We sat at the kitchen table.
“And Milko?” I asked.
“Milko moved out,” she said, “he got an apartment closer to where he’s working. I think it is good for him. I think he is taking life more seriously. He doesn’t want to cause problems for anyone; he wants to honor you.”
“Yes, yes I know, he is a good boy,” I said. “You must get lonely here all by yourself.” I reached out to caress her neck.
“I get by,” she said.
“But surely these summer nights can be colder than you think; don’t you ever wish you had someone to keep you warm?” I said. She laughed and I reached over to kiss her. I kissed her neck, her ear; I began to caress her body. I slipped my hand under her shirt and ever so delicately touched the flesh beneath. I began to rub her lightly between the thighs. She began to sigh. I carried her over to the couch.
“Oh no, but the neighbors will see,” she said. I lowered the blinds. The sun still came in through the window in the kitchen. The morning was beautiful. I will say this for the place, the winters are terrible, with their months of gray, but the summers are some of the most beautiful things on earth. Between kisses I removed my wife’s shirt. I undid the buttons of her pants. She took them off. I looked at her soft, round body; even after all those years, she was still quite a beautiful woman. I removed my clothes and made love to her: very delicately at first and then more passionately. It felt very fresh, as though we hadn’t been married for thirty years. I could feel her shiver with pleasure. Afterwards we stared tenderly into each other’s eyes. We held each other for a moment then we put our clothes back on.
“What have you been doing for the past few weeks?” I asked.
“Nothing much, just getting on with life,” she said. “What about you?”
“Not much, I moved into a new apartment. I haven’t had anything to drink for the last three weeks,” I said.
“That’s good, do you like your apartment?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s nice, it’s quiet,” I said.
“That’s good,” she said.
“What are you going to do with your life?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s just day by day,” she said.
“But you are not lonely?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“Have you found anyone new?” I asked.
“No, of course not, I’m still married to you. Have you?” she said.
“No, no,” I said. “But are you sure?”
“Yes, of course I’m sure,” she said.
“Our memories are not what they once were, we are getting older. Think hard, are you absolute sure, maybe you forgot something?” I said.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” she said.
“Why are you lying to me?” I said.
“What are you talking about?” she said.
“I know that you are lying to me. Why don’t you just tell me about it? How is he, is he good in bed?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Oh but I think you know exactly what I’m talking about,” I said. I took the copied letters out of my pocket. Her face went pale and she grabbed for them.
“Take them,” I said, “I have five more copies.”
“Where did you get them?” she screamed.
“Do you think you can make a fool of me?” I said.
“But where did you get them?” she screamed again.
“I know how your employers feel about people fooling around on the job. You will be finished and when I am through I will leave you with nothing. Hopefully Mr. Alfaro will be able to find a job that can support the two of you. That is considering he still wants you. I hope it’s true love,” I said. She began to cry as she saw everything that she had spent the last twenty years working towards vanish. She had started as a cleaning lady and worked her way up to a senior supervisor. What would she be left with? She didn’t have any real skills; she was getting older. Who wants to hire an aging woman who has been fired by her employer of twenty years? I got up and I left. She would be back at square one.
The next morning I went over to Jorge Alfaro’s house. He lived in another nearby suburb. I knocked on his door. He answered in a pair of sports shorts and a sleeveless tee shirt. It looked like he was about to go out.
“Hello,” he said, obviously confused.
“Mr. Alfaro?” I said.
“Yes, may I ask who I’m talking to?” he asked.
“My name is Ratko Cirko, Mr. Alfaro,” I said. He became visibly uneasy.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“You should not sleep with other men’s wives Mr. Alfaro,” I said.
“Maybe you should have been a better husband,” he said. He tried to close the door but I forced it open.
“I’ll call the police,” he said.
“I don’t care what you do,” I said. “It is very dangerous to go around sleeping with other men’s wives.”
“Are you threatening me?” he said.
“Yes Mr. Alfaro, I am threatening you,” I answered.
“It’s your wife’s choice who she chooses to be with, not the choice of some alcoholic tyrant like you. You can’t go around saying things like that, I’ll put you in jail,” he said.
“You can insult me if you like, but let me just tell you Mr. Alfaro that there are very few important things in this world – very few things that show that your life has stood for anything, but marriage is one of them. I’m not going to let someone like you suddenly ruin it all just because he thought it would be fun to get his rocks off at work. If I ever find that you have touched my wife again, I will hurt you, I will hurt you very badly,” I told him.
“If you think you can go around breaking the law like this without paying any consequences, you’re deranged,” he said.
“It is the law of this country,” I said, “but it is not my law. It can imprison me, but it cannot instruct me. I might end up in prison, but I will carry through with what I said. There are some things that are more important than my freedom,” I told him. Then I turned around and I left.
Afterwards life carried on more or less as it had in the time preceding the incidents of those two days. I do not know exactly what my wife or Mr. Alfaro did in those following weeks, but I did not go to jail – his threats were only words. It would have been difficult and time consuming for him to have followed through with what he said and it is easiest to do nothing and hope that the problem dies of its own accord.
As with most stories that do not take place in movies this one did not have a clear resolution. Instead time just took its course. I did not see my son for a year and a half but then I saw him again. Mr. Alfaro faded from the picture. Though we still live apart, my wife and I – I like my quiet apartment and the house, if only through time and habit, now belongs to her, we are back together again. But she has much to make up to me.