35. Huxley
35
HUXLEY
Living in Helena means I’m accustomed to the protracted nature of travel, but today’s journey feels particularly arduous. After enduring a layover in Washington, D.C., I’m now en route to Bogota.
Just as I’m about to board the plane, my phone vibrates with an incoming call that pins me to the spot. It’s D’Souza on the line, his low voice in contrast to the chaos of the airport. He confirms that Rodolfo is safe at the embassy, now under the watchful eye of the ambassador’s secretary.
I clutch the phone a bit tighter. It’s a relief, but until the boy is safe on US soil, my work isn’t done. I thank D’Souza and stress that avoiding any further complications is my top priority. As long as Rodolfo is secure, I can focus on the next steps without looking over my shoulder too much.
The flight itself is a paradox, passing both quickly and agonizingly slowly. My mind whirls through endless scenarios, trying to determine the most probable outcome. In an attempt to distract myself, I flip through a magazine, but the words blur into meaningless shapes. My real focus is on what awaits in Bogota .
Upon landing, the familiar Andean rain pours as if saying welcome back. I resist the urge to head directly to the embassy. Instead, I opt to assess the situation with a cautious eye, vigilant for any hint that the cartel or their proxies might be aware of my movements.
The hustle and bustle of the city streets churn around me. My SEAL comrades and I had started our operation right here in these teeming streets before we descended into the depths of a living nightmare.
As the taxi meanders through the rain-soaked terrain, everything appears unchanged—buses and cars zipping past, neon signs flickering above crowded sidewalks, murals and graffiti decorating the walls.
My arrival at the hotel is uneventful, and though I feel a pang of paranoia, there’s no sign I’m being followed. Still, a familiar pressure mounts on my shoulders, mimicking the ghostly sensation of a rucksack strapped to my back, heavy with gear. It’s an odd juxtaposition, my civilian clothes and the invisible burden of a sailor’s load.
Once in the safety of my hotel room, I change into a casual shirt, my ballistic vest underneath. I put on my loose jeans. Not my usual attire, but it’s necessary to blend in. The casual clothes feel like a thin disguise as I make my way to the embassy. The familiar grip of tension tightens around my chest.
At the embassy gates, the guards scan me. They question me about my gun and survival knife, but once they learn I’m invited by the CIA, they wave me in.
“Mr. Cometti,” a lady greets me. “I’m Alice, assistant to the ambassador.”
“Nice to meet you, Alice. Call me Huxley,” I say, barely aware of the pristine hallways and the murmur of conversations as I make my way to the back of the embassy. “Is Rodolfo okay?”
“Oh, he’s fine,” she assures me.
There, among the homely clatter of dishes and the smell of cocoa, sits Rodolfo. His figure, though small, stands out against the mundane backdrop. He’s dressed in nondescript clothes, sipping milk, and nibbling on bread. Seeing him in such a simple, human moment, so far removed from the peril we both know too well, makes my heart race, caught between relief and the lingering threads of uncertainty that refuse to dissipate.
“Huxley!” Rodolfo spots me immediately and dashes over, hands sticky, face streaked with the remnants of a milk mustache. He launches into my arms, leaving sugary fingerprints on my jacket.
I chuckle and hoist him up. “Hey, champ!” My heart balloons a size, and I’m completely wrapped around his tiny fingers. Knowing Savannah is with me all the way just amplifies the joy.
“Ready?” I ask.
He nods vigorously, his eyes sparkling with unbridled enthusiasm.
Alice glances over her glasses with a smirk. “Quiet isn’t in his vocabulary, is it?”
Rodolfo overhears and grins cheekily. “I’m quiet but deadly.” He imitates a gun by shaping his hand.
I scrunch up my face, puzzled. Who taught him that phrase, anyway?
I advise, “Rodolfo, maybe let’s steer clear of ‘deadly,’ okay? How about ‘quiet but fun’?”
He wrinkles his nose. “Not macho.”
I sigh, massaging my temples.
Alice hands me an envelope. “Here’s his passport and all the paperwork you’ll need. Plus, two first-class tickets back to Helena.”
“Thank you.” I manage a smile.
I can’t help but think the tickets might be D’Souza’s way of making a guilty payment, but hey, it’ll sure make traveling with this little whirlwind a bit easier.
With just a small backpack holding Rodolfo’s spare clothes and a few toys, we head to my hotel for a laid-back rest of the day. Over lunch, we dive into some lively rounds of Overwatch. Throughout the game, Rodolfo tests out a jumble of new English phrases he’s picked up from who knows where. His eclectic choice of words turns him into a bit of a mystery box, but it only adds to the charm of our afternoon, making it unexpectedly delightful.
“So, we are going to America tonight?” he curiously asks while I pack our things.
“Yes.”
For a few moments, he stares at his own lap.
My gut is filled with unease. “What is it, Rodolfo? You don’t want to go?”
“So, Abuela is really gone?” He sighs, referring to Marta.
His statement shakes me. Didn’t anyone tell him Marta is dead?
“Yes, Rodolfo, she died,” I tell him straight, worried that ‘gone’ might mean something else to him. “The bad guys got her.”
I preserve the space between us, gauging his reaction without being overbearing.
“So it is true.” He stops to ponder once again. “Tía abuela told me.”
“Did you mean your grandmother’s sister?” I take a guess.
He nods. “She told me, but I did not believe. Abuela went to the market, but she did not come back. I thought maybe she just went somewhere else.”
So he doesn’t know that Marta went to see Valentina’s remains. I will keep it that way until he’s old enough to face the truth.
I shift myself closer, feeling the timing is right for physical contact with him. I take his hand and pull him close. “I’m sorry, pal. I really am.”
“Is it the same bad guys that took Mama?”
“Yeah.” I stroke his back.
“Now I understand,” he says, shifting his gaze to the window. “Abuela said I will live with her, um… temporalmente , not forever.”
“Temporarily?”
“Yes. Yes. She knew the bad guys were coming.”
“I’m sure she’s proud of you. You’re strong,” I praise him. “That means you can ask me anything or tell me how you really feel, okay? And if you need to cry, that’s okay too.”
“I cried yesterday, but I still did not believe. Now, I know it’s true.” He leans against my chest, tentatively at first, but then he lets go completely. He stays silent for a while, attempting something. Then, with determination, he says, “No, I cannot cry.”
“You can. You are allowed to.”
“No, I mean, I cried enough. Now that I’m with you, I don’t need to cry. I have no tears.” With that, he offers me a small smile.
I study his expression. He seems genuinely okay. It could be his resilience shining through, but I can’t afford to be complacent. Grief is a beast that can hide deep in your soul. I’ll be keeping an eye on him, and I’m sure Savannah will be right beside me, ready to assist. “All right, buddy. But if you want to talk to me, I’m here for you. You won’t be alone. Do you trust me?”
“I trust you, Huxley.” He dips his head and his nod is emphatic this time. “So, in America, I will stay with you?”
“Yes. In a city called Helena.” I pull up a map and point to the little dot representing our new home.
“You have dog?”
“I don’t, but she does. Two of them.” I show him a photo of Savannah, and his eyes light up.
“She… she looks like Mama.”
His innocent observation hits me in the chest. “I know.”
“So, she will be my mother?” His eyes flare with hope as if a big surprise has just been revealed.
“Her name is Savannah. She’s my girlfriend. She’s not going to replace your biological mother, but she will be like another mother to you.”
“What’s byo… byolocical?” He fumbles the word.
“Biological. It means the mother who gave birth to you. That’s Valentina.”
“I see.” He studies Sav’s picture as if not believing she’s real. “Oh, she is so pretty.”
“Tell me about it. And you know what? She’s even prettier in person.”
“I am lucky,” he murmurs.
“I’m lucky to have her, too. And I’m lucky to have you.”
His smile is deep this time, exuding appreciation and excitement. “What is her name again?”
“Savannah. Her dad calls her Saltamontes .”
“Ah! Saltamontes! ” Rodolfo grins, clearly thrilled to hear a familiar Spanish word.
“She and her father speak Spanish, so you’ll feel right at home. ”
“Thank God for that,” he quips, adopting an American accent as if it was said by an actor in a movie.
I rub his hair friskily, wondering what Sav and I are really in for. “She will love you a lot. And you’ll listen to her, okay? Just like you listen to me.”
“I don’t listen to you,” he challenges me with gusto.
“Well, you will.”
Rodolfo escapes my glare, his attention back to Sav’s photo. He nods seriously. “Is she scary like you?”
“Am I scary?”
“You have gun.”
“Well, that’s just for keeping us safe. I don’t carry it around the house or anything.”
“Do I call you ‘Papa?’” Rodolfo asks, his eyes curious.
That word hits me harder than expected, and I find myself speechless.
And for once, Rodolfo’s bubbliness comes to the rescue. He confidently says, “Um, actually, I will think on it.”
I chuckle, grateful for his light-heartedness. “Yeah, you think about it, buddy. You can keep calling me Huxley, that’s cool.”
“How about Saltamontes ?” he suggests.
“Let’s not call her that. It’s special between her and her dad.”
Rodolfo thinks for a moment, then brightens. “What about Mama Saltamontes ?”
I can’t help but laugh. “I bet she’d love that.”
Rodolfo’s curiosity shifts. “Is America like in movies?”
“You watch a lot of American movies, huh?”
He shrugs.
I narrow my gaze, almost interrogating him. “Well, didn’t your English teacher talk about what America is like? ”
He shakes his head. “Only showed me postcard with big statue.”
“The Statue of Liberty?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“I’ll take you to see it someday. America is like what you see in movies, but it’s different too.”
“That is strange…” he says, deep in thought.
“You’ll see it soon enough,” I say, turning on the television.
He watches me flicking between channels. “Do you understand that?” the boy smugly says, commenting on the Spanish programs.
“I’m looking for CNN,” I say. “It’s in English.”
The channel eludes me, and Rodolfo giggles at my futile attempts. “Should we eat?” he asks.
“You’ve just eaten!”
“But I’m still hungry!”
I eye his slender frame. He does look like he could eat a bit more, but I’m wary of any unwanted gastronomic adventures. “How about some snacks then?”
“Ice creams? Popcorns?” His eyes brim with exaggerated hope. I reach for the phone, and that gets him excited. “Oh, oh! Are you ordering room food?”
“Room service. Yes,” I reply.
“Like in Home Alone ?”
I’m shaken with laughter. “Yeah, but we’re just ordering small portions.” I seem to dash his excitement as I peruse the ‘small bites’ menu. Thank God it’s in English. “And you’re sharing with me.”
He pouts, his lips twisting into a comical frown. “That is not fun. In movie, the boy orders everything!”
I can’t help but laugh. “Trust me, buddy, it’s just as fun. Especially when you don’t have to clean up!”