Cruz

ISBN-13: 9781641295291

Media Type: Paperback

Publisher: Soho Crime

Publication Date: 11-14-2023

Pages: 312

Product Dimensions: 8.20h x 5.50w x 0.90d

Nicolás Ferraro was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 1986. While studying to become a graphic designer at the University of Buenos Aires, Ferraro earned a living by playing poker; now he works as the coordinator at the Center for Crime Fiction at Argentina’s National Library. He discovered noir literature thanks to the video game Max Payne, and crime fiction immediately became as central to his existence as hamburgers and the NBA. Ferraro’s debut novel, Dogo, was published in Argentina in 2016, and was a finalist for the Extremo Negro Award. Cruz, his first novel to be translated into English, has been published in Argentina, Mexico, Spain, and was a finalist for the Dashiell Hammett Award. His writing is frequently anthologized and he is currently at work on his fourth novel.

Read an Excerpt

1.
 
The last name is a hereditary disease.
     Dad’s brown eyes and black hair weren’t his only gifts to us.
     He passed down his demons, too.
     It took me a long time to realize that the most important things you inherit can’t be packed away in a box.
     Or in a coffin.
     I had a friend whose father blew his own brains out with a sawed-off. The blood splashed halfway across the wall. It went from red to burgundy, and finally black. My friend didn’t know what to do about it. It took him a month to decide to clean the wall. He washed off what he could. The buckshot had buried bits of brain and bone in the pocked cement. My friend scrubbed and scrubbed. He scraped. The brick made it hard for him to know where his dad began and ended. He finally knocked the wall down and put up a new one. Even so, he still goes with his bucket and rag every week to clean it. And he scrubs and scrubs until it’s his fingers that bleed on the bricks.
     I didn’t know what to do with the stuff my old man left me, either. I didn’t know how to get rid of it.
     Most of it was packed up in boxes for almost fifteen years, piled up in a room in the house that used to be his. A house I’ve been living in since last summer. Since the first day I moved in, I go to bed every night telling myself that I have to throw his shit out. The answer’s always the same: one of these days.
     I take out a box filled with my family’s rotting remains and set it down next to the other five that are waiting on the sidewalk. A grey dog comes over and sniffs at it. He barks, wanting something from me. Not all skeletons are made of bones. That’s what I’d tell him if he could understand. He lifts his leg, pisses on the boxes, and trots off wagging his tail.
     The last rays of sunlight glow on the dust that floats in the living room and sticks to my sweaty skin. I pull my shirt up from my waist and wipe my face. I let out a long breath, looking at all the work still ahead of me.
     In my old man’s room, a lamp with more fly shit than wattage shines on boxes stacked together like Tetris blocks. The smell hits me in the face as I enter. I shove a box away from the wall with my leg. A few bugs scatter before burrowing deeper into the pile. I stack two boxes and carry them out together. My fingers sink into the cardboard, soggy from the humidity. I manage to set them down with the rest before they come apart completely in my hands.
     I should have just burned everything.
     On the table is a glass of ice water that turned into warm broth half an hour ago. I pour it on a fern, though it’s more in need of a miracle than a watering. I get myself another glass of water and stick my head under the tap before going back to the living room.
     It’s like there’s a mirror between the open doors of the two bedrooms. In mine, boxes that have been collecting dust since I arrived from Buenos Aires, that I’ll unpack one of these days. I always think I won’t be here much longer, that someone’s going to take away the For Sale sign in front of the house.
     I drain the glass and get back to work. I take another four boxes out, but the room looks as full as ever. A few doors down, Christmas lights come on and illuminate the front of the house like a shopping mall. In the distance, two more houses blink on and splash color on a girl in a dress and a backpack passing by on her bike. The reflectors in the road shine with the headlights of the Regatta pulling into the garage in front of the house to the left. A guy with a mustache gets out and waves to his neighbor on the other side, who’s out watering his garden. He’s got all kinds of plants. Red ones. Yellow ones. Purple ones. I should ask him if he has any ideas for my fern. Or just haul it out and leave it with all the other garbage, the cherry on top. They chat for a minute and say goodbye with a smile. The one with the mustache walks by me and waves. He doesn’t even say anything about the weather. No “It’s a hot one today” or “We sure could do with some rain.” I don’t even know what his name is.
     I’m still surprised by how much is left in the bedroom. Next to the door, there’s one solitary box. The last one of the day, I tell myself. This one’s heavier than the others. A rotten smell comes out of the hole in the middle and puffs in my face with each step. The box crumbles like a sand castle. I leave it with the others. Three steps later, my foot lands in dog shit. I rub my eyebrows. I fill my lungs. I empty them. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Fuck whoever it is. Three times. It might be my brother. I take off my sneakers and leave them at the door. By the time I make it to the phone, the answering machine has come on: Viviana, my sister-in-law. I pick up.
     “Do you know where your brother is?” is her third question.
     “I don’t know any more than you do.”
     “Yesterday he called and said he might swing by your place before he came home. He wanted to see you.”
     “No idea. I haven’t talked to Seba in a couple days.”
     Silence.
     “Your niece is asking if we’re going to see you before Christmas Eve.”
     “Tell him to come, Mom.” I can hear Violeta’s high-pitched voice in the background.
     “Come over and we’ll order some food.”
     Why? We’re just going to stare at each other, playing a chess game of silences to cover up the questions we’re afraid to ask ourselves. Violeta keeps talking.
     “Hang on, Lelé,” my sister-in-law says. “Okay . . . I’m going to give the phone to this little nag . . .”
     “I don’t have time. I’m in the middle of something I want to finish.”
     “What are you doing?”
     “Taking out the trash.”
     Viviana snorts. “Did you open up the back bedroom?” she says. “You’re supposed to rest during Christmas vacation, hon. And Seba freed you up from the bar for a couple of days so you could go to Buenos Aires, not sit home and play archaeologist.”
     More silence. I switch the phone to the other ear. The answering machine has six new messages, even though I was here when they were recorded. They all say pretty much the same thing.
     “She called me the other day,” Viviana says. “She’s worried. She says she calls you and you don’t pick up. I told her to come for the holidays because if we leave it up to you . . .”
     “Let me take care of my own business.”
     A bug crawls up my arm and I flick it off. Out the window I see two kids looking at the boxes. One is dragging a cart and eyes my sneakers.
     “Tomás . . .” says Viviana.
     “What?”
     “Stop dicking around and call Alina.”
     “If I hear from Seba I’ll let you know,” I say before she can launch into her sermon and I lose my sneakers.
     When I get outside, my shoes are still there. The kids are hovering over the boxes. A few photos slip out between the wires of the cart and fall on the red dirt. They’re only going to get a few coins for that whole pile of paper.
     It’s the first time in years my old man’s memories have been worth anything.
     They see me. One of them taps the other on the shoulder and they stop rummaging.
     “Take everything,” I say, but they’re already hurrying off.
     I pick up a photo without looking at it and use it to scrape the shit off my shoe, then throw it back. The wind picks it up and makes it flutter. A couple of grey clouds take bites out of the moon in a pink sky. Night comes early.
     I sit on one of the lawn chairs around the living room table. The blinking number six is my only light. It’s the closest thing I’ll have to Christmas lights this year, and the closest thing to company.
     I’ll call Alina one of these days.
     I look for a beer. In the fridge is a container of mustard, a shriveled head of lettuce, and a rock that used to be bread. I get another glass of water and drink half of it without taking a breath. The fern hasn’t perked up. I go over and give it some more water. The garbage truck comes by and picks up the boxes. I feel better.
     A shower washes away the sweat and bad mood. For a little while, anyway. Half an hour later, I’m lying in bed sweating like a pig again. I try to watch a movie, but my eyes keep drifting over to the back bedroom and the pile of boxes. I can’t even get into Back to the Future. I start to nod off. Marty’s mom wants to get a look at his package. Boxes. I blink. George McFly finds his balls and beats up the bully. More boxes. I blink. The Doc meets himself. What ever happened to that guy? It must be pretty fucked up to meet yourself. I can’t see the boxes anymore.
     I open my eyes again. A snake is slithering over Salma Hayek’s tits in a rundown whorehouse. Two fifteen on the clock. The same red six blinks on the answering machine. Where’s Seba? What did he want to tell me?
     I close my eyes. I can’t get back to sleep. I turn my back to the door and face my own boxes. What am I going to do with these?
     I wish I had to wash a stain off the wall.
     The red number six keeps flashing at me. It might never become a seven if I don’t do something. I reach out and pick up the cordless phone. I dial the area code for Buenos Aires. The dial tone buzzes. 4957 . . . I take a breath. The sheets stick to my skin. I hang up and exhale.
     I don’t even know what the hell to do with a few boxes, much less with her and her questions.
     One of these days . . . One of these days is another way of saying never.
     I stare at a map of water stains on the ceiling. A piece of plaster is hanging from a spiderweb. A mosquito whines in my ear. A car parks outside. I don’t recognize the sound of the motor. It’s not my brother’s truck. And it isn’t my sister-in-law’s Mondeo, either. It could be a local taxi. A flash of blue light paints the ceiling and tells me it isn’t. There’s a knock at the door. When I open up, a grey-haired cop takes a step back to let me see the Misiones Police crest on his car. His partner is leaning on the hood with his right hand on his gun.
     “Tomás Cruz,” says the cop at my door. His nametag says Barrios.
     “Whatever that old piece of shit did, I don’t care. This time, lock him up and give him life.”
     “Relax, kid,” he says, giving me a smile. “It’s not your old man this time.”