The Yellow House

The Yellow House Juan Pablo Bustamante (bio) Papá sometimes thought he lived across the street. He'd smile, looking out the window at the two-story house opposite ours. It was an old colonial building, constructed by the Spaniards before Cartagena de Indias gained independence. It seemed as if nobody had owned it since then. Tiles were missing from the clay roof, and the front door was boarded up with wooden planks. Cracks that resembled faces spread across the facade. In my twenty years of life, I'd never met our neighbor, whom my papá believed he was from time to time. Like on that Friday when he said, "I'm expected over there." "No, you're not," I replied as I carried a tray containing two cups of hot chocolate mixed with melted cheese. It was his favorite drink. He'd discovered it on a road trip to Bogotá when he was my age, he once told me. "Gracias for your hospitality," he said, "but my family must be worried by now. I'm heading back to the yellow house, back home." "That house is not yellow. Besides, you're already home." "Where's my wife, then?" "Taking a break from these nonsensical discussions. She should come—" "So you're one of those." "One of what?" Papá glared at me as he removed his bifocals and slipped them into his breast pocket. I asked him to calm down. He then cracked his knuckles despite his arthritis, and I encouraged him to have a sip of his favorite drink, which I'd prepared with extra campesino cheese. "At least smell this fine cocoa," I added. But he charged toward me, smacked the tray out of my hands, and kicked me in the calf. Hot chocolate splattered across my chest. "Papá, maldita sea!" The scald hurt, but no more than the shock of Papá hitting me for the first time. Well, it was the second, but Mamá had said I should forgive him for the other incident. On that occasion, I was planning to drop out of business school. Despite my stage fright, I wanted to become a professional musician after achieving some notoriety through a YouTube video, which went viral with more than a million views. I'd performed an original song, "Remember Those Who Forget You." It was just me and my guitar. The lyrics reflected on the loss of a special someone who turns into a different [End Page 99] person. I'd written it after a breakup in which an ex-girlfriend asked for her love letters back. The sudden fame made me see myself as the music industry's next big thing. But as I uploaded additional tracks over the following months, the viewership counter returned to double digits. I still believed I had it in me, though. So I strode into my parents' bedroom with the resolve to tell Papá that my days as a business student were over. But he was in the bathroom. "Are you talking to me?" he asked. I pressed an ear against the door. Both the shower and the sink were running. Footfalls splashed in a puddle. "Hey, pendejo!" he said. "You talking to me?" "Everything okay in there, Travis?" But Papá failed to catch the Taxi Driver reference. A moment later, I said, "Mamá, are you home?" I knocked and received no answer. "Are you with him?" I turned the doorknob. It was locked. "Oh, so you think I'll blab about the yellow house because you pulled a gun on me?" he asked. "You know who I am, pendejo? You're about to find out!" A crash scared the mierda out of me. I took a step back and kicked in the door. Steam billowed from the bathroom. Papá stared at his own shattered reflection in the foggy mirror, his arms crossed. A mustard-colored towel was wrapped around his waist. He watched me as I searched for an intruder hiding behind the shower curtain. "Danger has passed, Júnior." "Who were you talking to?" I grabbed his right hand, which was covered in blood and shaving cream. "It's okay. He's gone. The yellow house...