He came to collect me at the coffeehouse where I said I’d be waiting, tooting the horn from a block away. My happiness to see him was so great that I ran out without paying for the coffees I’d had while I waited.
“You got big! You’re of no use now, but it’s wonderful to see you again.”
He hugged me tightly, and I breathed in the unmistakable smell of alcohol and cheap cologne that I’d kept safe for so long in my store of fond memories.
“I found out you’ve been going hungry the past few years, so I brought you a cheese sandwich. I prepared it myself.”
I could still recognize the food sold along the highway. On confirming that S was as deceitful as ever and the bread was as dry as I remembered, I recovered some of the territory lost.
To celebrate our reunion, he opened the glove box: the flask of liquor was there, just like old times.
He offered me a sip, which I accepted with thanks. The whisky burned my throat, but it was good. It was when I placed the flask back in the glove box that I saw the revolver. I’d never held one in my hands, so I grasped it carefully.
“Poof!” yelled S.
Don’t be a moron, you don’t joke around with a loaded weapon. I would have liked to yell that at him, but even though several years had passed, I still felt something like respect for S.
“Why do you have that here?”
“To kill myself.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You leave it there; I want to be the one to decide when my time comes.”
He explained that business wasn’t good. The sonsofbitches of the big chains, those fuckers, were eating up small and midsized businesses. And as soon as they were done smacking their lips after polishing off hardware stores, perfumeries, pharmacies, and clothing stores, nobody would have any need for traveling salesmen.
That’s why he had decided to buy a truckload of revolvers. Because he bought the whole load, the gun-store owner—an ex-policeman—had given him a good price. All the traveling salesmen would pull the trigger in unison the day the last business closed.
“Does D have one too?’
“We all do.”
I could have told him he was nuts. That all of them were absolutely nuts. But instead I said:
“I understand.”
For the next few days we continued southward, staying in hotels that were so uncomfortable we might as well have slept out in the open.
With scarcity on all fronts urging us on (or, rather, thanks to it), we managed to perform a bad rendition of our old operation. I sat quietly in the car, and S explained to the perfumery owners that the silhouette they could make out in the distance was that of his quadriplegic niece, who was now his responsibility.
“Do you remember the Turk?” he said to me as we passed by his store.
“The man with the three-day sales.”
“That’s the one.”
“What happened to him?”
“He hired a secretary who only allowed one-hour visits. You think it’s possible to fill a fucking freight wagon that quickly?”
“No.”
“That’s why we stopped selling to the Turkish fag.”
The week came to an end, so I said goodbye to S with another hug. From the station, I watched him walk away until he became a blurred speck, like an image that you keep inside your head but can’t quite bring into focus.