The Last Road

THE LAST ROAD

“I wonder where is this road heading?” I was thinking that day.

Going through the Barcelo Avenue… the road from Veron to Bavaro, day after day to buy in that old hardware store was getting into my nerves. Six months of 21 days on a row, 8 am to 5 pm… with only a few days off was shutting down one by one my brain cells. First, I forgot my old friends’ faces. Little by little, I was erasing –like wet black & white newspaper– voices, eyes, thoughts and moments. Day after day, the repetitive wall + wall + wall + ceiling … process, isolated in the middle of the tropical savanna, inside a huge hole carved into the dark-green forest. Nine hours surrounded by silent black figures dancing with the land… sad and mad (they are just kids…), began to erase my sons’ faces. First casualty was my ex-wife.

“I cannot remember how to draw a line. When was the last time I wrote a love letter? A letter. Period. It could be truth –finally-  that  when you are loosing it… you… won’t know it. Hope I won’t be hearing voices, please! Or am I?”

“You! The other voice! Shut the fuck up!”


2


“GOOD NIGHT Maria, is there something new here? I think I saw all the movies already. Don’t tell me that I would have to rent those again!

“Man, I am paying to see, again, the same movies…”

Years before the frantic construction of hotels stopped, Bavaro was a little -you could say- certain kind of… uh, town? With thousands of workers: black ghosts only five minutes before eight o’clock every morning. Human aunts next. All was construction, construction, construction. Foundations, beams, columns and concrete trucks. Payroll, scams, new riches, tall and, of course, black V8s pick ups. After five pm… all disappear. It was time to rum, bachata and unnourished women/men. If not… time to eat, again, grilled chicken, rent a movie (Rocky III, The Sound of Music or Vampires vs. Zombies in Australia…) or patrol –again- the same empty roads. A circle: Bavaro to El Cortesito to Los Corales to Bavaro….

Nineteen days to leave.

The first night I saw that road…paved! Heading east, I promise to myself the…“this Sunday I’ll check it out”… routine. But I DON’T have Sundays! With Santo Domingo 120 miles west and only four days for trying to forget Bavaro, no one is going to consider wasting time doing tourism around. Beach? What beach? Those are for tourists. Besides, I worked for months in a hotel –beach front- and never, ever, get into the water. For me, it was like a long emerald & cream wallpaper. Where are those old days when we were young and debtless?

Twenty days for leaving.

“There’s this road again. What is it what it wants for me?”

“Engineer…. The contractor called you AGAIN. And now is pissed up more than ever. He said that certain walls are missing. He also said that this shit is going to slow!”

“Sorry boss...”


3


“WHAT IF I TAKE the damn road tomorrow?” -I talked to myself- “It looks that it could be an easy task. Some curves and then a long straight heading…who knows where. Yes, tomorrow is the day. I’ll do it!”

But the other day was particularly heavy loaded. More walls and arguing than ever. After six o’clock, all roads belong to the night.

“I’ll do it anyway.”

Forty five minutes later….it was dark. No stars in the sky or full moonlighting (that’s only for tourists….). Just a mix of dark grays, blacks, noises and far away, little points of bluish lights.

Then I took the road.

They said that that road measures only five miles. In the dark, maybe a little more. In the tropics, wild vegetation both sides of roads are like going into some kind of green mist. From inside a car, an old Japanese sedan with no radio…going at 35 MPH over a narrow road just blurred everything… in daylight. Imagine doing this at night.

I told you. Bavaro was bit by bit erasing my memories…

Curve after curve, alone in the night, was one of this stupid moments –embarrassing indeed- that all human being do once in a while… and live to tell the story. IF… you survive.

The night wasn’t THAT dark, I have to admit it. Some glow could be seen from the long line of hotels over the coast. So, this, plus my short car lights (and those were the high lights…) showed me in front a long dark line. Also two lines, one-story high perhaps, on both sides and, a light dark gray above.  Some quarter of a mile in front… the road disappears.

What I could see in front of the car was a black wall moving backwards with me.



THEN I SAW the old Haitian man standing on the right side of the road. Looking at me. Emotionless.

Thirty five miles per hour is, certainly, not such a speeding pace. You have plenty of time to enjoy the ride. Even in that night -no problem- I stopped to ask the Haitian for directions:

“Hope this Haitian understands me. I finally ended speaking a little Creole, but only some construction words.”

“Good night maestro. Do you know where is this road heading? Do you understand me? Monsieur…?”

“Oui.” Was his only answer.

“Could you be more specific, monsieur? I’m just taking a short trip to see where this road ended. I suppose a beautiful beach should be the other side.”

“No.” Again the answer.

“All right, thank you… merci…”

I was turning up to grab the wheel when he said:

“Don’t go further.”

“Why monsieur?”

“This is the last road.”

“Last road…” -I shrugged- “Last road to where?”

“Last road.”

“Really? Okay, thank you monsieur anyway.”

I put the car on first gear, accelerated and continued through the long black straight. Now it looks like a curtain of black fog bended at the bottom that my car lights couldn’t penetrate. Nothing else.

I took a look to my watch: 10:17 pm.

“What a hell…? Oh, no!”

“It was the tr


Robert Dietsch