Chapter 8: The Expositos

RABIYA

It was Friday, the first day after the principal’s murder, when I became desperate to initiate a talk with my classmate, Travis. Yes, Travis Exposito. The coldest, the strangest, the most mysterious, and the only guy of few words I’ve ever known in and out of the University. Technically, I didn’t know him. And in actual fact, no one from within this five hundred hectares wide Hamlet Creek University had the opportunity to heist at least a handful of information about him. He’s just uncanny. Very enigmatical in a way that messing with him was like ambushing a ship full of deadly pirates equipped with extreme arsenals, and sticking to your belief that you would still be able to take them all down just because that’s what the magical wisp had told you in your dreams. 

We were classmates since freshmen years, but it appeared to me—and surely to everybody as well—that the longer we breathed the same air as him, the lesser we knew who he truly was. He’d been in this place for so long, perhaps longer than my hair, but there was only as much as three things people could find out about him. As for me, I knew two. One, he was the son of the metro’s famous lawyer slash detective, Detective Neil Exposito; and two, he was non-existential in the digital world. He didn’t own any social media account, and he didn’t have a phone either. Even G****e wasn’t familiar of him, too.

Rumours said that he had to stay anonymous because the brother of Eric Judas, the serial killer who killed an entire neighbourhood in Saraha town on 2002, was planning to eliminate him as an exchange to the lifetime imprisonment his brother had to face after being proven guilty by the late Detective Exposito himself. Since he couldn’t take his revenge to the detective because he died of plane crush last 2010, he’s redeploying the bombs onto Travis’ head. But in one way or another, Travis didn’t feel intimidated at all. 

I heaved a weighty sigh as I wiggled on my seat to shoo away the awkwardness I felt after sensing tens of eyes looking to me and to my ordered drink. I looked up to the ceiling of the fancy canopy above me, and thought of how in the world did this iced tea cost roughly ten dollars when I could buy this at only fifty cents in the Hamlet Creek’s beverage vending machine. I should have somehow anticipated that waiting for Travis Exposito would require me an infinity of patience and a pocketful of money. I was here already even before sundown, and now all that’s left on the sky was a moon sliced in half, and a gazillion of stars accompanying me as I waited for Travis who’s mostly not going to show up. Great! 

We agreed to meet here—at a French restaurant that I couldn’t even begin to pronounce the name—to talk about something. To straighten this out, we were not dating. And if we were, though hopefully not, I’d never choose this place to be our dating spot. It’s just—we could never blend in with other customers. 

I beamed fixedly on the surface of the glass of my iced tea. It was sweating. I followed how its moist slowly turned into grains of water sliding down onto the white table made of porcelain, damping the brown paper towel laid at the bottom of the glass. I leaned forward, giving my head the authority to soar above it. I clapped eyes on the ice cubes sinking down; it reminded me of Titanic. What a wonderful movie that was. 

Not long after my analysis of the anatomy of my boring iced tea, three waiters in black and white uniform came with platters of food I didn’t order. I quickly jumped out of my seat and panicked. “Woah, woah, wait! I guess you’re going on the wrong table.” 

“No, Madame. These are for table 16, and you are on table 16,” said the tallest waiter; the one standing next to me while holding a platter on each of his hand. 

I looked at him, confused and brooded at the same time. “I don’t think I ordered any of that,” I replied. 

The waiter looked to the two other waiters behind him, and gave them the eyes that asked for help. But before they could even begin to team up in explaining to me what’s going on, a chef capered towards us sending impenetrable shock waves to the ground. He was four times bigger than me.  His neck was  brimming with  bad cholesterol and fats, and his belly wobbled like a newly made gelatine. When he stood one ruler below me, he cleared his throat and said, “It’s under Mr. Beauchêne’s name, Madame. He phoned us and said we should serve the food on table 16 at exactly eight. He also told us to inform you that he might not make it here on time.” He signalled his three waiters to settle the foods down on the table. He stepped back, and before leaving, he added, “Ne vous inquiétez pas, Madame. Mr. Beauchêne will arrive soon.” He left. 

Questions spiralled over my head. Who is this guy the chef was talking about? Why does it sounds like he’s French? I uncovered the platters, and the fresh air of the urban night was suddenly filled with spices and sauces. They lingered in my nose, pulling me closer to the table and hypnotized me to smell each of the menu unconsciously.  

I lifted the white table napkin folded into a swan off my plate. I hate this place. They provide their customers with fancy pieces of cloth, yet they fail to at least include their table setting with a spoon. Is this how expensive restaurants work? If that’s it, then you’re only two stars for me.

 

I sniffed the soup. I got nothing but only the foul odor of onions and roasted tomatoes. Is this really edible? I tasted it. Since there was no spoons of any size included in the cutlery, I used my fork as my testing material. I dipped it down the white bowl, and let the lava-looking liquid drenched the tines of my fork. Before running a tongue over it, I stared at it for a while. It didn’t look like something that could satisfy my appetite. If only I knew that their dishes would disappoint me big time, then maybe I should have gone to the food court plaza. Their barbecues and grills there were close to perfection. 

I quenched my thirst with my bland drink. Somewhere between my second and fifth gulp, I heard a voice.

 

“Je suis désolé de vous avoir fait attendre.” 

I almost spat the liquids out. “Tr—Travis?” I asked, though obviously, it was really him.  “Why—why are you—” I lost my voice the moment I scanned him all the way from head down. 

He was in a suit. A fitted black tuxedo embellished with silver glitters all over it, and a blue undershirt fancified with a black bow tie. He had eyeglasses on, too, and a fake mustache attached between his nose and upper lips. His hair was completely different from what we saw of him during classes, and that supported my theory that perhaps all of this were just part of his undercover mission. I may have had exaggerated my thoughts, but knowing he had histories of stuff like this in his family, I could also be right. 

“You are Mr. Beauchêne?” I said with no sound. 

He took off his glasses and hanged it on the neck of his suit. He placed his gloved hands on top of the table with palms facing the ground. “As long as you’re keeping that to yourself, I’ll be paying all the bills,” he said, his voice was in its lowest octave. Surprisingly, he sounded better when he spoke like this rather than when he did with his normal voice. 

“But—” I clicked my tongue, struggling to find the best words that would suit to my question. I scrupulously looked at both of our sides if there was anyone nearby who could possibly hear us. When it’s all cleared and there was none, I spoke brusquely; “What are you hiding from? Why—why that look?” I asked, both lips protruded as if using it to point his style.

 

He brushed his fake mustache. “The best way to hide from the public eye, is to pretend that you are a public figure. Fake celebrity names. Fake backgrounds. Fake jobs. Fake identities. Fake accents. Fake everything.” 

“I know that. But that’s not what I mean,” I said, smiling, so people who could see us would not suspect anything. I didn’t know why I was doing this, but whatever the reason was, I enjoyed doing it. It felt like we were two FBI agents pretending not to be FBI agents to follow someone and monitor his tracks. I lighted my face up like a neon sign, and abandoned my body to the merriment. Without any contexts, I bursted into loud laughter. Was I overdoing it? If yes, then better. 

“What’s funny?” he asked. 

“I am.” I laughed. “Helping.” I laughed again. “You.” I laughed once more. And then like the siren of the speeding fire truck, my laughter faded in the air. “What’s the deal? Why are you faking?” I jagged the table napkin off the table and used it to wipe the brimming tears of mirth in my eyes. 

“You are not an Exposito. You will never understand why.”

“Okay.” That’s all I said. 

I filled my plate with various foods from the various menus served on our table. Although I was not familiar with any of these, I didn’t bother scrutinising the taste and the smell anymore. Also, asking Travis—I mean Mr. Beauchêne about these French recipes didn’t come across my mind because at this certain point of our fraudulent conversation, feeding my growling stomach was what mattered the most.

 

“Why are you not eating?” I asked after two forks of pasta. 

“Because they don’t have nuggets in the menu,” Travis answered. 

“You like nuggets?”

“Yes. And I like you to tell me what am I here for, too.” 

Right. I was too caught up with all of these fancy French themes that I had forgotten the main point of our agenda why we are here. I’m supposed to ask him some things, and we’re supposed to talk about the murder case of Principal Magada, but look what we are doing right now. I’m busy feasting over the foods while he’s intrigued by faking himself to fool everyone around. 

I laid down the cutlery and wiped my mouth. I also sipped a little from my iced tea. “Right. About that...” I pulled out a face that looked like a stomach cramp. “Can we talk about what happened yesterday?”

 

Travis sighed. He plucked his eyeglasses from his tuxedo and wore it on. “Okay.” His eyes became sharp, and its glimmers suddenly succumbed into oblivion. The serious darkness visible on his long face. It was terrifying. “I want to talk about that, too. Just—not here.”

I thought, If we’re not going to talk about things here, then what are we doing here exactly? Eating? And if we’re not going to talk about things here, where should we do it? In a Korean Restaurant this time?

I picked one glazed ham from the platter and shot it straight into my mouth. I cleaned my fingers through the napkin. “If not here, where?” I asked with a mouthful. 

Mr. Beauchêne placed himself vertical, and pushed the chair away from the table using his left hand. He slid sideward, and when he’s out of his chair, he hooked something from underneath the back of his tuxedo. It was a sanguine rose, with three leaves sprouting in different parts of the stem. There was also a pink ribbon with prints of red hearts artistically tied under the flower itself. “Happy Anniversary, Mon amour,” he said by surprise. 

I flinched. I was about to yell at him when suddenly, he winked. Upon seeing that clap of his eyelids, I realized maybe this was part of his play-pretend. 

My mouth was forced to zip itself, that no matter how much I wanted to open it and speak, it just wouldn’t split in half. So I just curved them into a smile. It wasn’t that genuine, but it was believable enough to comprehend what it was. 

Travis leaned towards me, as if trying to initiate a kiss on the cheek. I tried to dodge, but right when I was about to trigger a nerve, he said, “Act natural. The man in your right is Mrs. Magada’s husband. The one next to him is a police.” 

I felt his dry lips caressing my right cheek. It stayed there for a while, perhaps longer than how long a kiss on the cheek should last. The foundation I put on cracked like the soil after a long drought in summer. But I deprived my focus from that. He was only doing it to buy us more time to talk.

 “Listen. I will wait for you in the parking lot. Find the white car, the one with golden strips above the plate number. I’ll be there inside. Pretend to pay the bills.” He smacked a again. “See you in ten.”

 

When he was done, he stood straight to give me another smile. “Je t'aime, Adeline,” he greeted once more, and began walking away. I followed him with my eyes, and he walked past the two men next to our table. Had he done  it intentionally to give me the opportunity to take a look at the men he believed the husband and the police? I think, yes. 

I took a look of the two. The one in the east was white; beard were all over his face, and several tattoos were diverging on his arms. He must be the husband. The other man facing him was a clean-faced bloke. He was wearing a deep sea denim jacket, and an inner shirt of black. How could Travis tell that this fellow was a police?

The man in denim jacket stood up. He shook hands with the bearded guy, and it’s when I saw something underneath the jacket; inserted between his pants and his tucked in shirt, there was a gun and a walkie-talkie. Confirmed. He was really a cop. 

I raised my hand to call the attention of the waiter. While waiting for him to come over and hand me the bill, I wondered; Mr. Beauchêne’s level of observation is outstanding. He was indeed the son of Detective Exposito. No doubts with that.