7‘José, José, José.’ It wasn’t Mendoza calling me this time. It was my mother on the phone, calling me after midnight, crying and struggling to say my name.
‘José, José.’
She caught her breath and tried to put together the words to tell her news. ‘My father’s just died,’ she said.
She went on crying. She sobbed and wailed. ‘Come at once. You have to be here,’ she told me.
* * *
When I took the ten-minute boat ride from Boracay to the airport on the other island, the young Kuwaitis were on the boat too. This time I wasn’t the man who stood on the bow. I was one of the people leaving the island, even if I thought I would be back after no more than a week of unpaid leave.
The Kuwaitis were as cheerful as ever, singing and laughing and playing tricks on each other. They were just as
