The Tesseract by Alex Garland Read Free Book Online

them.”
    “Really.”
    “Yes, sir. The less I lose, the more work gets done.”
    “Is that so?”
    “It is, sir. In fact, I believe that if the other overseers were to…”
    “In other words,” Don Pepe broke in, “just so that I can make this clear, you disapprove of the way I run my plantation.”
    The coldness of the tone immediately returned Fat-Boy to his senses. “Oh, no, sir!” he replied emphatically. “I would never do that! I was only…I was…”
    He hesitated, struggling to find the right words.
    “You were only what?”
    “It was that I…”
    “Please go on.”
    “I…”
    “Mmm?”
    “I…”
    “Mmm?”
    But Fat-Boy’s mouth was failing him. He was confused. He couldn’t comprehend how, in the space of a few minutes, he’d managed to find himself in such hazardous and unfamilar waters. So instead, made mute, he made a gesture. At different times, to different people, the kind of gesture that might mean friendliness, affection, an introduction into conspiracy, or emphasis during a debate. Or, in this instance, an appeal for help.
    His hand, sticky with sweat and juice from the sugar, reached out to rest on the mestizo’s leg. He withdrew it immediately, in recognition of the mark he had overstepped, butimmediately was too late. A print remained on the cream silk, proof of the act.
    Don Pepe’s white eyebrows shot up so fast and high that it looked as if they might shoot off the top of his head and fly away like seagulls.
    “Aaah.” He gasped incredulously.
    Fat-Boy’s face flushed, blackening with horror.
    “ Eeeh …That man will do it. He seems good with a machete.”
    “Sir, if I could buy you some new trousers. Several pairs, all silk, several colors and…”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. You couldn’t possibly afford it.”
    “I have savings that might be used for…”
    “You seem to be missing the point. It isn’t trousers, it’s principle. You can’t expect me to ignore principle. I know you understand that.”
    “I understand, but…”
    “Good. Now then…” Don Pepe beckoned to Panding with his riding crop. “You. Come here. I can’t spend all day over this.”
    Fat-Boy stared blankly at his fingers. “Sir, please, a moment. If I am cut now, I will die from bleeding. If you permit it, at least let them be cut off tonight. We can light a fire and heat an iron, and the wound can be properly sealed.”
    “You’re a physician?”
    “Sir, please!” Fat-Boy’s voice was breaking. “I would not recover if my hands were cut off here.”
    Don Pepe considered this for a few moments, tugging thoughtfully at the loose folds of skin under his chin.
    “Very well. I shall not be able to watch because I have an engagement tonight. Aaah, dignitaries from abroad. But tomorrow, I shall check on you. Oh, and if you try to escape, I’ll feed your family to your own dogs.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The mestizo nodded. Then he wheeled his horse, dug in his spurs, and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
    The next day, as promised, Don Pepe came to check up on Fat-Boy, who was convalescing in his hut, tended by his wife and Panding himself. The master took a brief look at the feverish bloodied figure, and shook his head. “Hands,” he said. “I said hands. Not hand.”
    Fat-Boy didn’t survive the second amputation. Panding blamed himself. Three days later, he ran amok on people rather than crops, and was cornered in the cane.
But not killed.
    Somewhere in the recesses of Jojo’s childhood memories was an old man for whom errands were run. Eggs or water, carried to a house that sat separate from the others, on the edge of the
baranguay
. A figure in its doorway, rarely out of the shadows, bent with age, vaguely frightening from a distance. Close up, quiet and reassuring. He ruffled your hair so weakly that it felt like a breeze, and he had soft dry skin that smelled of the split husks beneath coconut trees. And he was gone by the time Jojo was five or six.
    “So…why did Don Pepe