THE MAN IN THE TREE
The man the tree is wondering how the simple act of replying to a classified ad seeking a bilingual lawyer in the United States has resulted in where he now finds himself. If only he hadn’t picked up the paper but ripped it apart and tossed it into the trash. It surprised him that he remembered that moment, but some memories of the life he once knew were returning to him. He remembers the day he read the letter to his daughter telling her that he had been accepted, and the look of excitement on her face. She suggested they celebrate the good news by having lunch on the muelle where he could watch the surfers ride the waves breaking along the rocks. Even though he needed to put their affairs in order for the move, his daughter pleaded with him, “Please, Popi, the sun is shining, and the weather is perfect for a picnic.”
He remembers that it was a warm afternoon without a cloud in the sky, and they enjoyed fried shrimp tortas and lemonade and laughed while shooing away the pesky gulls.
But now he’s looking at himself hanging on a branch with a wire wrapped around his neck. It sickens him that yellow jackets and flies are feeding on his once handsome face.
“I don’t suppose you remember what happened to you, hey amigo?” says a grave voice. “You got a name?”
“Yes, of course I do,” he replies, confused that he’s hearing a voice. Surprised that he’s not alone, the man in the tree looks up to find an old Mexican cowboy camouflaged in the leaves squatting on a large branch.
The old cowboy patiently nods, waiting for him to spit out his name.
Finally, the man in the tree sighs, “I … I don’t remember,”
“It will come. You must have really riled up those pendejos who hung you here to rot, because no one who has spent their last moments on earth in this tree was one of meek spirit.”
“I was a lawyer, that I know. How did you get here?”
The old cowboy smiles proudly. “I am here because a door opened. My name is Juan Nepomuceno Cortina, a cavalry rider for General Mariano Aritisto. I fought bravely against the invasion in the battles of Resca de Palma and Palo Alto.”
“Am I dead?”
“Oh, very much so,” replies Juan Cortina. “You must have guessed it by now, don’t you think? What I know is that you are the most recent of many hombres the Texans have strung up in this remarkable tree. The last bastard was pissed-off that after fighting for independence from Spain, he was still considered an enemy by the Texans. In the throws of a mescal nightmare, he went loco and broke into a white man’s cabin. That fool murdered the lot of ‘em and they strung him up. His final words were a plea to ‘Remember the Alamo!’ True, he was a war hero, but he was also a drunken, murdering bastard who spent many years up here before turning to dust.”
“I can’t be dead,” cries the man in the tree. “This is a bad dream, that is all. There is so much left for me to do.”
“Trust me, you no longer walk the earth with a beating heart.”
“My god, I’ve left everything in such a mess.”
“I am sorry for you,” replies Juan Cortina sympathetically. “It looks like you put everything on the line and lost. At least, that seems to be the case.”
“My daughter, I cannot even remember my last words to her. Did I tell her that I loved her more than life itself?”
“Probably not. Who knows when one’s final moment of life is at hand? I believe you to be the victim of depraved, desperate men. I pray it will not be long before you recall the events leading up to your death and those responsible for it.”
“My beautiful daughter is so young and innocent. What will happen to her? Who will tell her of my demise?”
Juan Cortina begins to fade into the leaves, but he tells the man in the tree before disappearing completely, “I will call in for some help, but more importantly, you must remember who you are. Only then can I be of any assistance.”
The sun rose and set many times after Juan Cortina departed; time is meaningless to the dead — day after day, night after night, sail by as quickly as water flows to the ocean. Then one day, he heard glorious music in the distance and prayed that his time in limbo or purgatory was coming to an end and that angels would soon be taking him to heaven. If his heart were beating, it would be leaping with excitement when he saw a glowing silver chariot coming his way on a cloud to whisk him away to the Promised Land. Unfortunately for the man in the tree, angels do not appear, and his time in this world is not yet over. His hopes are dashed when emerging from the cloud, which turned out only to be dust, is a 1965 Pontiac Gran Prix sporting a chrome bumper and grill that stops near the tree.
The driver cuts the engine and brings to an end the sounds of a steel guitar that was sending sweet notes through the woods. A tall, muscular man emerges from the car with a bright flash from his badge, announcing that this man is a policeman. The tall man cinches down his white cowboy hat and looks around suspiciously as if anyone in this remote part of the world would be watching him. After a moment, a stream of smoke pours out of the car’s interior, when the driver, a squat, stocky man with thinning hair, steps into the bright sun, puffing away on a cigarette.
“Looks like our buddy is doin’ okay,” says the tall policeman scrunching up his nose while staring at the man in the tree.
The driver shakes his head and complains, “That son of a bitch still looks like he’s got some fight left in ‘em.”
“Not in this world, Larry,” laughs the tall man. He cups his hand over his mouth and yells, “Hey Pancho! Thought you’d like to know you’re gonna be gettin’ some company soon. Don’t want you to feel lonely up there!”
I have heard this voice before, thinks the man in the tree, and recalls the grunting sounds his killer made as he straddled his chest in the back seat of a car, cursing me while he punched and beat me senselessly until I lost consciousness.
The leaves of the tree begin rattling, and the branches start creaking and groaning as the afternoon wind picks up—or maybe it’s the man in the tree, seething with fury as he finally remembers the horrific events leading up to his death.
To Larry, it appears that the tree has come to life and scares him. “Come on, Pete! Stop yellin’ at him,” he pleads.
“Christ almighty, Larry, you lettin’ that scarecrow fuck with what little imagination you got?” Pete gives the man in the tree a fierce glare and sniggers, “There ain’t no life up there, Larry, just a heap of trash rotting in a tree.”
This offensive cruelty nearly jolts the man in the tree off his perch, but the provocation has indeed ended any further confusion about who he is and who was responsible for ending his life.
“My name is César Gaspard, and I vow to avenge my death and the sorrow you have heaped upon me and my daughter. I pray that God will set me free from this nightmare, but not before you suffer a wretched and agonizing death!”