Yellow Notice - 1. Chapter 1: Found

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June 19, 2016: Present Day

It’s his seemingly unassuming face that gives him away; his face and the way he’s holding the newspaper a bit too intently. Nobody pays this much attention to Diario de Sevilla; not foreigners, and especially not Sevillanos themselves. That’s what wakes me up from a six-month-long period of reckless hibernation. I freeze like a deer caught in headlights. With two heavy grocery bags viciously cutting into the palms of my hands, I take in the man’s appearance. Perhaps I’m overreacting, I tell myself. Perhaps he’s just an innocent tourist. I scrutinize his clothes: brown corduroy jacket, white button up shirt underneath, black ray bans, and black denim pants. Seemingly casual, yet something about it is off. And then his ray ban clad eyes suddenly focus in on me, and his hands, still holding the newspaper, drop down just about an inch. It’s a gesture so subtle, most people would miss it. However, to me, it’s as obvious and clear as the invisible noose around my neck—the noose that tightened the second this man spotted me.

With a ball of terror in my stomach I quickly cut the corner of Calle Rodrigo and swerve into a tiny old bookshop that looks like its teetering on the verge of caving in. I enter it breathlessly, and quickly move between the old cramped wooden bookshelves towards the back, adjusting my ball cap to cover my panicked eyes, trying to slow down my rapid heartbeat. I have become too complacent. The second I stopped being vigilant, the second I stopped proactively covering my tracks, he knew. Like a trained Bloodhound, he could smell it from miles away. No matter the continents and oceans that divided us apart, he—like an unwanted twin—could sense me, read me, shadow me. If I was smarter, I would have realized much sooner: escape was not an option.

And now it’s too late. I stand there helplessly trying to calm down. I can already imagine the gloating look on his face when he sees me after all this time. It will be a stormy mixture of fury and satisfaction, tied in with an all-American shiny perfect white tooth smile that will indicate wordlessly, “There’s no escape now.”

I pick up a used copy of The Snows of Kilimanjaro and pretend to thumb through it. I need to focus on something for a minute because it feels like the adrenaline in my body might push me to explode and blow me up into a tiny million little pieces. What a way to die, scattered all over a characteristically aromatic old secondhand Spanish bookstore. I stare at Hemingway’s famous words, but everything is blurry. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, force myself to focus on my shaky hands and bid them to stop. I’ve come too far. I cannot let it end this way.

He used to say I was a master at adaptation, that I could improvise my way in and out of any situation. He knew me very well, and my constant transformations entertained him. And although it wasn’t a trait I was proud of at the time, it sure came in handy on the run. Because you see, you can alter your hair and change your clothes, but the average person is still very much recognizable to those who look close enough, to those who know you well. And that just wouldn’t do it for me. Not when I had the Deputy Director of Interpol chasing after me. No, I had to chameleon my way through the world if I stood a chance at survival, which I knew from the very beginning I didn’t. Yet, hope is a romantic fool’s greatest weapon, and I was a fool starting from day one. So without any chance of winning this race, I set out for it anyway. Threw myself into the wind, and like the saying went, hoped that a net would appear.

So I came up with my very own version of Running Away For Dummies. Here it is: change your accent, change your personal history, change your voice, change your likes and dislikes, change your dreams and goals, and the way you walk, so that even those you’ve met, and perhaps unintentionally befriended, wouldn’t be able to point to you and say “Hey, that’s him, that’s the missing boy from TV.” So that, after a while, not even you would be able to tell the difference between reality and fiction. It felt like a splintering of the soul, and sometimes, deep into the night, I would sit wordlessly and wonder: Who am I? What’s my name?

Sure, in the long run, altering your very being was a rather implausible plan. It was exhausting trying to keep up with all the lies in every new place I moved to, but there was simply no other way. His reach was too wide for me to be able to relax, even on the other side of the world. So I kept up with my strategy fairly strictly. That is, until I met Luis. And then, very slowly, I forgot my vigilance. I got lazy. That’s what love does to you, you become happy, content, and lazy. A fake sense of security sets in all around you. You’re going to be alright. Nothing can harm you, you’re in love.

It’s hard to keep a false act going around someone like Luis. The earnest smile disarms you, the gentle eyes draw you in, and before you know it you’re telling him your dreams and hopes, and your accent is gone, and it’s just you laid bare for him to see. I should have pulled back, I should have moved on after a couple months, like I always did. I should have kept him as a beautiful memory, and left him in the safety of my absence, but I wasn’t strong enough. I wanted to believe in the fairy tale we had created together. The beautiful innocent kisses stolen at the laundromat at 1am, his gentle hand on the small of my back while we crossed the street, the tender raspy voice as he murmured a Spanish song to put me to sleep while I lay in bed sweaty and shaking from a bout of food poisoning. No, I couldn’t just move on when my heart blinded all my other senses, until all I felt was unmeasurable, euphoric happiness. It spread through my soul like fire and set me ablaze in gentle ignorance.

And now it looked like it was time to pay a steep price for my careless mistake. I want to give up. I want to walk out and throw myself under the nearest passing car or bus or train. I want to yell and end it all, the running, the stress, the pain of constant change. But, I’m no longer just one person, so suicide is not an option. I think about all the mistakes I’ve made. And the ways in which I have failed to fight in the past. And how nobody had ever fought for me. Well, now I will fight for Luis. I will fight like hell. Down to my last breath.

With my heartbeat resembling a more normal pace, and with a newfound motivation to persevere, I peek out of the bookstore window and search for the foreigner. The coast seems clear, the man with the paper is nowhere to be seen. I pull down the grey hoodie over my hat and make my way out of the store as quickly as I can without seeming suspicious. I hurry to our single room apartment, dodging the leisurely-strolling people in my way. The tourists and locals are moving even slower than usual, as if to spite me. A group of people block my way as they snap pictures of each other in front of Cathedral de Sevilla. I sweep the street, looking for an opening, somewhere I could cut through, but everywhere is blocked with people and horse drawn carriages—a beloved tourist attraction. The Cathedral that used to be my sanctuary has now become my trap. I continue scanning for an opening, and that’s when our eyes meet. Just one second, and I know it’s game over. My heart drops to my stomach as I start to beat through the crowd, unconcerned with the spectacle I’m making. I push through several outraged women, and run, terrified that the men is right behind me. I dash past the blooming orange trees and pick a tiny side street to slip away from the general crowd. During my frantic sprint I almost collide with a man on a vespa. The angry man yells obscenities in my direction as I continue my getaway. Suddenly I hear a noise behind me, but when I look back, I am alone.

I continue running for what feels like an eternity. I reach the building where I’ve spent the last, and happiest six-months of my life, and a spark of hope runs through my heart, maybe I lost him, maybe there’s still time to escape. I hurry upstairs to gather my essentials and try to persuade Luis to come with me. The stairs seem to take forever, and I fall down and graze my knee in the process. I quickly pick back up, there’s no time for pain right now.

When I walk inside Luis is nowhere to be found, so I grab my carry on and my backpack, and pack my life once more. As usual, nothing but essentials. I’ve learned to survive on the most basic things. When you’re on the run you quickly realize that most things aren’t worth their weight. I grab what I perceive to be Luis’ essentials as well, praying that he will walk through the door sometime soon.

I glance around at the tiny apartment that has given me hundreds of breathtaking moments, and I feel sentimental. I want to stay here, to remain in this small, safe and cozy cocoon forever. With its old-fashioned pull-chain toilet, and squeaking floors, and dripping sink. The run-down balcony with the romantic city view and wooden flower baskets where Luis kissed me for the first time. I never knew it was possible to feel so much from a kiss so gentle. I anxiously glance at the clock when all of a sudden I hear the door knob turning and I think, “This is it, he’s found me.” But I’m flooded with relief a second later when my prayers are answered and it’s Luis’ face that I see on the other side of the door.

“Oh thank God,” I murmur to myself. “We have to go,” I croak out, trying to keep my voice even. How else can I phrase it? How do you tell someone that they have to pick up their life and join you on an endless and dangerous run, but that you don’t have the time to explain why? How do you nicely fit that into one quick, clean sentence?

But before I can even find another approach, I notice that something about Luis is off. Something isn’t right. He looks at me seriously, his brooding dreamy soft brown eyes turned slightly rigid.

“What is this?” He asks, in his charming Spanish accent. His accent is how I fell in love with him. When I first got to Seville I had found a small job at a local museum. As a fugitive your career options become severely limited. My job consisted of standing in one room, for hours, and making sure nobody would touch or photograph the current exhibit. Although not very fulfilling, any small income was better than none. And keeping busy was how I kept myself from going crazy. I always kept busy, even in my old life when I didn’t need to have a job to survive. Even when he didn’t want me to do anything, I still kept busy. Being busy is how you know you’re still alive. When you run out of things to do, that’s when you know you’re dead. That has always been my philosophy.

One day, as I was standing on my shift, watching bored kids being dragged around by their tiny little arms and overzealous parents pretending to care about art, I heard his rich voice from the next room over. So passionate, so full of life and conviction, and so warm. He was talking to a British man, explaining the meaning of a Diego Rivera paining. The pain behind it. Although his English wasn’t perfect, he was savvy with his words. He would grasp at ideas and convey them in such a way that you felt them, without having to hear the precise terms. And then at the end he laughed, a low baritone throaty laugh. And I smiled for the first time in four years, because I had never heard anyone sound so happy, over just a simple conversation. I never heard a laugh so joyous, that it sent sparks in my chest area.

I look at him now, his face pained and confused, and I feel horrible about what I’ve brought him to. About what I’m going to have to reveal to him. About dragging him as far into this as I have. The shame floods me.

“What does this mean?” He asks again, holding up a newspaper. This morning’s news with my face plastered all over it. “El Misterio del Desaparecido Estadounidense” (The Mystery of the Missing American). I gulp, I guess there couldn’t be a more perfect time for him to discover this.

I gather my strength, now is not the time for tears and sob story explanations. “There’s no time to explain. We have to leave…now.” But he remains motionless.

It’s strange, Luis has a much more intimidating body than Harrison. He is built, strong, tall and muscular. His hands are large. He is a man’s man. But, I’m not scared of him, never have been. Even when he’s a hundred percent mad, like right now, I am not scared of him. I marvel at that thought. I spent years being terrified of Harrison. Years of walking on eggshells, never knowing when he’d get in one of his moods and erupt like a volcano. But Luis’ anger is different. It’s not a violent anger.

He stands in front of me rigid. His square jaw taut.

“Do you trust me?” I ask, knowing how unfair such a question under these circumstances.

“Of course I trust you,” he says without a second of hesitation, and with hurt in his voice. He never ceases to amaze me. Here he is, confronted by a situation anyone would feel confounded by, yet he doesn’t have to think twice. He trusts me, unwaveringly.

“Then do this for me now, and I’ll answer any questions you might have later. But we need to leave here, immediately. We are in danger.”

“But, I don’t understand, this makes no sense,” he says confused.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I say on the verge of tears, “I didn’t mean to get you involved in any of this. But Luis, we cannot stay here! We have to move, now.”

“Move, where?” He asks completely puzzled.

“I don’t know, we’ll figure it out, but right now we need to get as far away from this apartment as possible. Someone is after me, and he knows I’m here.”

“So what? I’m here as well. You’re safe with me,” he replies, his voice softer now.

“You don’t understand and I don’t have the time to explain. Neither one of us is safe. Let’s just get out and I’ll explain everything as soon as I can. Please,” I beg. He stands there, the newspaper hanging from his fingertips, his expression worried and tense, and he looks at me for what feels like the longest time.

“Do I need to bring anything with me?” He asks quietly after a while.

“There’s no time, I already packed your essentials” I say sadly. I grab his hand, apologetically. “Let’s go.” He searches my eyes, as if to find hidden answers, then nods his head. We head out, down the stairs and through the back alley, and as I start walking I realize I have no idea where I’m going. I have run out of places to hide. But I can’t let Luis know how lost I am, I can’t give him time to question my strategy. I must look like someone with a plan, otherwise he might stall, and there’s no time, so I continue walking, my head down, my eyes darting around, making sure we aren’t being followed.

I grab Luis by the hand when I see a bus stop.

“We’re taking the bus?” He asks quizzically.

“Yes,” I reply sharply, refusing to explain further. I have no explanation to give.

I bite my lip bidding the bus to hurry as we continue standing, totally exposed.

“Where to?” He asks.

“To wherever it’s going,” I answer half-heartedly as I feel my pulse quicken. We are beyond hopeless.

All of a sudden he gently grabs my face in his hands, snapping all my focus toward him.

“Just level with me for a second, I want to help, okay? If you tell me where we need to go, I can help, I know more about the city than you,” he says reassuringly, his soft round eyes melting their way into my soul. I feel so much warmth toward him that I clasp my arms around his neck and grab on tight as I hug him and finally let the tears flow.

He rubs my back and kisses my hair and murmurs reassurances into my ear. Even when he has every reason to doubt me, he chooses to stay. Finally, I get myself together. There is no time for sentiments. We have to escape, and we have to do it fast.

I wrack my brain and go through everything I know about Interpol missing persons rescue procedures, and I realize that we are already most likely screwed. Public cameras, sightings, wiretaps, fingerprints. But a part of me has to try to escape the inescapable, if only for Luis.

I think hard and reply, “We need a temporary place to stay. Somewhere out of the city, and somewhere that is not connected and can’t be traced back to you,” I reply.

“Who would trace it back to me?” He asks confused.

“Just think Luis, do you know of anywhere like that?” I ask, impatiently.

“I have a cousin,” he starts but I cut him off.

“No, that’s family, that can be traced back to you with a simple family background check. Think of somewhere where even your relatives couldn’t find you.” He looks at me curiously and strains for thought.

“Okay…this is something we have to do right? There’s no other choice?” He asks cautiously.

“I wouldn’t put you through this if there was another choice,” I reply honestly.

“There’s an old acquaintance…” he says a bit apprehensively, “but, I don’t know if it’s a good idea.” But before he has the time to change his mind I grasp at the idea like a drowning man grasping onto a flimsy floating branch in desperation. “How far?”

“About five hours by bus,” he replies.

“Perfect,” I say enthusiastically. It’s our only chance.

The bus arrives soon after and we grab a seat all the way in the back. I take a quick sweep of the passengers to make sure we aren’t being followed. Nobody looks suspicious. The driver closes the doors and the bus moves away from our neighborhood block. I take one last look at the quaint apartment buildings, at the people strolling about, the vivid orange trees in full bloom, and I feel a deep sense of sadness settle in my chest, knowing that this will be the last time I’m here. Knowing that I probably failed to enjoy and took for granted the last peaceful morning I would ever spend with Luis.

As if on cue he takes my hand in his, and his gaze searches my eyes once again.

“Whatever it is, you know you can tell me,” he says gently.

“I know. I’ll tell you everything when we get to where we’re going, I promise,” I reply, hoping to postpone that moment for as long as I can. Because how can I explain what happened to me without losing Luis forever. How do I tell the man I love about the horrible crime I’m guilty of, when I know he’ll never look at me the same way again.

I kiss his hand and grip it tight, then look out the window fearing that I might start crying again.

I sit back, my stomach in knots, and watch the city zoom by through the window, and I am flooded by memories. Memories of icy cold blue eyes, memories of extreme, dizzying happiness, followed by a crashing sense of terror. Memories of the old me, starting out as a happy, curious boy, and ending as a walking shadow, barely even human. I remember the confusion, the pain, and the fear.

And now as I sit on the bus, I feel real tangible fear, coursing through my veins like electricity. There is no escape from the demons I’m running from. There’s no grace, no forgiveness, no moving on. For me, there is only eternal pain, because he found me. Four years on the run, and still, he found me.