He Who Wanders

Fiction by Simon Simonian

I missed the scorching wind of Andalusia — how it spills sunlight onto your face, toying with eyelashes, pressing dry sand against cheeks, tangling itself in your hair. I missed the scent of the valley, the ripening softness of Muscat fluff glistening in the afternoon breeze.

From up here, I can see the house where I grew up. I see white chapels nestled among grape orchards like scattered pawns on a chessboard. I see patches of asphalt on El Jardinito Road as it snakes from the old town through dappled rocks, fading behind the horizon, where the erratic headlights of beat-up trucks flicker and vanish.

One of the pit stops along El Jardinito — where truckers pull over to relieve themselves — marks the beginning of this wavy path. Flecked with spindly grass stalks and flaxen sand, the trail is barely noticeable. Why would anyone notice a mucky trail leading to God knows where? But I do.

This is how I got up here, to the top of this hill where I now stand, ready to end it all — years of vagrancy and fugue, exile and fear. This is where it’s all going to end. 

But for now, I enjoy the view of the valley unfolding below. I sip the air, letting it linger — what may be my final memories. 

He will show up soon. He always does. Like a shadow, he has followed me, always there, always behind me. And there he is!

His limping figure appears around the sharp bend off El Jardinito. He looks up and sees me, then stops, leaning on his cane as if assessing the final stretch of this climb. Catching his breath, he resumes walking — or rather, resumes his agonizing trudging.

Years of chasing me have taken their toll on his body. No wonder. How long has he pursued me? Ten years? Twenty? Thirty?

He is slow. Methodically slow. But for once, I will not run. I will wait. Right here, behind this rock. I will finally come face to face with him, and when I do so, this Swiss blade in my hand will pierce his neck bone. Yes, that’s what I will do.

This ends here — at the dead end of this sandy trail, atop the hill overlooking the valley with its white chapels and Muscat orchards. 

Funny. After all these years, I still don’t know the real name of my chaser. I have always called him what Master Borges called him — He Who Wanders. 

Listen, He Who Wanders. I will kill you.

* * *

Borges. The Borges. 

I idolized him when I was in college. Many did, but I was different. 

It was 1961. I was an average, lazy student at the Universidad Laboral de Córdoba, drifting from one semester to the next with barely passing grades. I had few friends, even fewer interests — a classic textbook case of a young man in the grip of an identity crisis. 

Besides chugging Anisado, my only passion was Latin American literature. Borges and Neruda were my saints. So, one can only imagine my excitement when I saw the pamphlet posted on the wall of the Literature Faculty Hall.

Spaces were limited. But who cared?

It was the man himself — Jorge Luis Borges — coming right here, to our school, to give a lecture followed by an open panel. Like a madman, I rushed to the auditorium hours before the event. I was the first in line. When the doors opened, I sprinted to the front row. 

The auditorium was soon packed with drooling chins of young self-proclaimed prodigies, all waiting for the arrival of the great one.

And there he was — the blind Lord of Literature — walking upright onto the stage with his cane tapping against the floor and his loyal assistant right by his side. 

A standing ovation. Borges nodded, gesturing for us to sit.

Then, he began. 

His lecture was dedicated to Spanish writers; I cannot recall if it was Cervantes or Lope de Vega. It truly made no difference. Somehow, I managed to sit through his entire lecture, which lasted over three hours, in a state of trance and remember nothing. His voice poured into the room like honey, slow and purposeful, each word a note plucked from Segovia’s guitar. His absent gaze was fixed on the ceiling, lost in some unseen nebula. 

Then came the time for the audience to ask questions.

Of course, I raised my hand. So did a hundred others. One of Borges’ assistants whispered something in his ear, which made him smile and nod. 

“It is always a privilege to answer questions from a young audience,” Borges said, his blind gaze pinned to the far corner of the hall. “But our time is not infinite, and neither is my old tongue. I can only handle two, maybe three questions. I will randomly point my hand and pick someone from the audience.”

I had never won anything in my life. No prizes. No lotteries. At poker or blackjack, I lost more than I won. I knew my pathetic limits, and I had long accepted them. 

Until that moment. When I saw Borges pointing his hand in my direction, that came as nothing short of a shock. 

“Me?”

“Yes, young man,” said his assistant. “Señor Borges has chosen you. Please step forward and introduce yourself, then you may ask your question.” 

I had no idea what to ask. Or maybe I did, but my thoughts had been drained and scattered with palpitation.

“My name is Fernández Agustín Navaro,” I mumbled.

Borges shifted his gray-hued pupils toward me, as if reacting to a sudden hum of a fruit fly.

“Fernández Agustín Navaro,” he repeated. “Navaro... Haven’t I met you before, young man?”

“No, Señor Borges. I never had the honor —”

“But you will,” he interrupted. “We will meet again, Señor Navaro. You and I will meet again. But for now, tell me your question.”

The rest of the day blurred. I don’t even remember what question I asked; it must have been something about him winning the Prix International. Not sure. Beside the point. Irrelevant. No, not important at all. 

The greatest writer in the history of mankind called me by name and then that bizarre thing he said – no, I was not daydreaming. He had said it. About us meeting again.  

Me — the very definition of mediocrity.

Him — the grandmaster of modern literature.

But when?

* * *

Nine years later. In 1970.

And there I was — a somewhat promising journalist at one of London’s more scandalous tabloids. Every week, my name appeared on the third page, wedged between celebrity gossip and scathing rumours. My paycheck was decent enough to afford a small studio flat near Manchester Square. After years of having been pent-up by directionless studies, I had finally become something more than average. Or at least, that’s what I liked to believe.

That morning — early October, arguably the best time of year in London — began like any other. Breakfast at Barrymore’s: two scrambled eggs, ham, toast, and a strong, black coffee. Just after eight, no rush. The air was crisp, and I was in the mood for a stroll to the office. 

My route was the same as it was every day: across the square, right on George Street, left on Thayer, another right onto Marylebone. Up the stairs to the newsroom. My morning thoughts were all preoccupied with the article I was working on, so I was slowly making my way through the square when something — no, someone — caught my eye. 

At first, I did not pay much attention to him, no more than I did to everyone who idled at the square. Hippy rascals with soiled hair strumming a guitar on every corner was a common theme those days, and London town was certainly no exception. 

So, here was another one of those misunderstood love proclaimers, sitting beyond the railings, hunched in a striped, threadbare jacket, a heavy cap tugged low over his brow. Tufts of woolen sock poked through holes in his filthy Converse. A common street rat, or so I told myself. And yet, the sight of him sent a ripple of unease up my spine.

I didn’t know what it was, but once I saw him, I felt the irresistible urge to instantly walk away and never see him again. 

The way he looked at me with those dark, hollow eyes piercing my flesh and bone with the intensity of a thousand needles. That gloomy frown that made me think of a line from Oscar Wilde: That fellow’s got to swing. There certainly was something otherworldly about that fellow. 

I picked up my pace. Then risked a glance back.

He was moving. Not just moving — following. 

He stepped out from behind the railings, right into traffic, unfazed by the screech of brakes and honking horns. 

George Street was desolate like in post-war bombed quarters. So quiet that I could hear my own footsteps echo against the cobbles. Or was it the drubbing of my aorta against the chest? 

Good heavens, he was catching up, mere ten yards away! 

He’s just a tramp. No, he’s not.

Another hippy. Just some unwashed layabout. 

Run, you idiot!

I ran. Fast. Too fast, legs struggling to keep up with the sheer primordial panic that had taken hold, that unexplainable sensation of looming doom arching above like a dark figure with a scythe. I didn’t know why, didn’t stop to question it. I just ran. 

I reached Thayer Street and doubled over, hands braced on my knees, gulping air. Scrambled eggs, toast, and dark roast coffee threatened to claw their way back up my esophagus. I could feel sweat from my palms on my knees forming two gigantic blotches above each kneecap.

I turned, searching. Nothing. 

Dull windows of Thayer Street were checking me out like a toddler witnessing its parent in a cowardly act. Whoever that man was that incensed uncontrollable panic, he had vanished.

Shame on you, Fernández Agustín. The words rattled in my skull as I made futile attempts to enthrall palpitation. 

Shame, shame. I muttered them under my breath. Then hummed, acting calm and self-composed. Then whistled that song by The Magic Lanterns. 

Shame, shame. I didn’t know the words, but I hummed and whistled anyway—anything to quiet the tremors still wracking my body in ebbs and flows. 

I ran up the stairs, three at a time, to the newsroom. Third floor. The familiar scent of ink and machine oil grounded me. Safe haven. Shame on you, Fernández Agustín Navaro. 

* * *

Even now, I question myself whether my descent into madness began that day, or had it been creeping in for years? Madness that surges in, then recedes in tidal waves - is that how it usually happens?  

All I know is that an hour later, I was sitting at my desk, laughing at my own moment of weakness.

Preposterous and rubbish, my thick Andalusian twang mocked me. The idea of getting myself properly checked out by a medical specialist did cross my mind. Doctor Patel in Camden Town — he’d give me a neat, comfortable diagnosis. Panic attacks, perhaps. Some form of anxiety disorder. He’d scribble out a prescription for light blue pills available at Wilton’s Pharmacy. He’d recommend those taken twice a day, preferably after a meal.

But fate had other plans.

The day’s unnerving script took another eerie turn when my editor stormed over, a bundle of printed pages clenched in his fist.

No, Navaro you are not going to see bloody Doctor Patel in Camden Town, who will make a half-baked judgment call on your insanity. Instead, Navaro, you are heading over to London Public Library! There, Navaro, you are covering Borges. 

Noticing my jaw gradually dropping, forming a peculiar angle, my editor smiled and tapped me on my back. “Surprise, surprise! Jorge Luis Borges is giving a last-minute talk at the library, in less than an hour! Get me something good, and tomorrow’s cover story is yours.”

In that instant, my morning fears evaporated. The thrill of seeing Master Borges – again! - was overwhelming. My mind didn’t even pause to recall the prophecy from nine years ago. Back there, in Córdoba. 

“Why are you still here, Navaro?” My editor barked me back into reality. “Get your odds and sods, and out the door! You’ve got less than an hour!”

Moments later, I was in a cab, scribbling frantic notes. Questions I might ask. El Informe de Brodie? His older works? Forget it. I knew very well what I would ask.

The cab jerked to a stop. I threw some notes at the driver and bolted up the marble steps of the library, where the Master was about to hold his new book presentation. The hallway buzzed with the restless murmur of gathered journalists. I pushed my way to the front, elbowing past lesser men, rushing to occupy the coveted front-row spot. 

Quick inventory check: wallet, j-sack, and the omnipresent Swiss knife. Seconds ticked leisurely on my wristwatch. Four minutes to go.

Forget this morning’s sickness. Forget bloody Dr. Patel and his pills. Collect yourself, Fernández Agustín!

* * *

“Navaro! That’s your last name, isn’t it?”

“Yes… yes Señor Borges… But how do you -”

“Nine years ago, in Córdoba. Do you not remember? I told you that we would meet again.”

I nodded instinctively, completely forgetting he couldn’t see me. Stupid. 

“Perhaps,” Borges continued, “it would be more prudent for us to speak privately after the presentation. I invite you for coffee. My assistant will give you the address. I shall see you precisely at six o’clock.”

His blind eyes remained fixed at the farthest corner of the hallway, gazing above the crowd of sharp-penciled critics and ardent disciples of his divine writing. Yet all attention had now turned to me, as evident by hundreds of camera flashes firing from every direction, capturing a moment I did not yet understand.

I thought of all the explaining that I would have to do tomorrow. All the pestering questions that I would have to endure. How does Borges know you? Are you friends? You grew up in Córdoba - are you his illegitimate son? 

Back then, I had no answers.

They came later.

* * *

Memory is a tricky creature. As I gaze over the valley, satiating my lungs with familiar scents, I find nothing concrete to grasp. Vague, elusive impressions of my childhood home. The orchards, the white chapels, the old town itself — incomprehensible flickers of sensation, lodged somewhere deep beneath my ribcage.

I close my eyes and let the sun dance through my eyelids, twirling around with tinted shards of mosaic light. I try to focus without looking. Alas, nothing comes to mind. I have been robbed of my memory. You!

I shift my gaze back to the trail. He is closing in. The climb is punishing, yet I see the resolve in his eyes, the way his fingers clutch that wobbly walking stick, the way he stops now and then to steady his breath, to measure the shrinking distance that remains between us. 

I am not going anywhere, old man. 

How much have you got there – five, maybe ten more minutes to reach me? Well, then. Come and get me. If you can. 

I can almost make out his expression beneath that heavy brow. It’s not a frown. It’s a grin that says: we shall see.

* * *

I once read an interview with Borges in The Morning Times. In it, he was depicted as profoundly humble and austere. His home was described as a meticulously ordered space, where everything had its place. Books lined the shelves — judging by the columnist’s admiration, there were many — arranged by both theme and title. Dictionaries and encyclopedias sat together on the same rack, positioned for effortless retrieval.

In another article, dated 1966, I learned that when Borges travelled — and his journeys were quite extensive — he always carried an entire rack of books along with him, some of which might not even be read. 

When I stepped into his hotel room, that very bookrack was the first thing that caught my eye. I stood perplexed at the multitude of titles, most unknown to me, when I heard the door swing wide open. And there he was, entering the room with the deliberate rhythm of his cane.

“Ahh, Señor Navaro, how very kind of you to visit this old man!”

I took a step forward, muttering something incoherent —something along the lines of the pleasure is but mine. He half-smiled and gestured for me to have a seat.

“I trust you will enjoy the taste of Colombian dark roast,” he said, directing his blindsight straight to my eyes.

Borges lowered himself into his seat, leaning back slightly, his cane still resting in his hand.

“Do you know the greatest advantage of being blind?” he asked, before immediately answering himself. “I have no need for light, which does wonders for my utility bills.”

He chuckled at his own joke, only to be interrupted by his assistant, who arrived carrying a tray of aromatic coffee, poured into two delicate porcelain cups. Funny how the mere thought of coffee can lift one’s spirits, long before the first sip.

As I was readying to go on a pre-scripted monologue of expressing my gratitude and honour, Borges cut straight to the point.

“I shall get right to it, Señor Navaro. Why you are here. How I remember you. I know you have many questions. I will attempt to answer some. Some, but not all. When you leave this hotel, there will still be some questions. Questions that only you can answer.”

He gently lifted his cup of coffee, his hand trembling ever so slightly, and took a sip — an act almost artistic in its precision.

Yes, I had questions. So many that my brain membranes buzzed in bewilderment and disbelief. Here I was, sitting in a dimly lit hotel room with one of the greatest literary minds of all time, who not only remembered me from nearly a decade ago, but also invited me here, as though expecting this very moment.

My thoughts tangled in a web of speculation, but Borges, perhaps sensing my turmoil, remained unhurried. He took another slow sip, then turned his blind gaze in my direction.

“Have you, by any chance, read The Book of Imaginary Beings?” he asked.

I had. Many times. I first read it in Spanish when it was newly published. Recently, I had stumbled upon an English edition in a dusty second-hand bookstore near Oxford Circus. I had read it over and over, never from beginning to end, but always flipping to a random page — just as Borges had intended it to be consumed by his readers.

“You see, Señor Navaro, that book was, and perhaps still is, a never-ending work in progress just as human imagination itself is also a boundless work in progress. What I compiled more than a decade ago, I later expanded and republished, adding more figments of the collective mind. But even then, it remains only a fragment — a single corridor in an infinite labyrinth.” 

He paused, wiping a stray coffee grind from his nose.

“You see,” he continued, “the book in a way writes itself. That labyrinth is an endless construct of myths, folklore, and dreams, where rooms and corridors are never the same. The book shifts and evolves, like the very labyrinth it seeks to represent. That is why every creature within its pages is strictly fictional, mirroring our collective fantasies, sometimes hallucinations. Am I not boring you?”

“Not at all. I understand, Señor Borges.”

He nodded.

“That book, as its title implies, is devoted to imaginary beings. But what no one knows is that I originally intended to include one more being in that book. An elusive being, one that mysteriously appears and disappears across different cultures and times, sometimes centuries apart. It goes by its Latin name: Quietus Est.

“Very little is known of Quietus Est, but what I’ve gathered was indeed astonishing. Physically, this being is indistinguishable from any ordinary human. You might say it is human, in every way that matters. But the more I studied it, the more unsettled I became. My obsession grew, and with it, an unshakable unease. At first, I thought it was mere excitement. But soon, excitement turned into something else. Something far darker.”

I hesitated before asking, “Fear, Señor Borges?”

He tilted his head slightly, then fixed his sightless eyes directly upon me as if, in that moment, he could see me with absolute clarity.

“Fear,” he echoed. “Fear of what I had uncovered. That Quietus Est is not a myth at all.” 

His hands trembled as he attempted another sip of coffee. Some of it spilled onto the saucer, pooling along the rim. He sighed, dabbing his mouth with a knitted handkerchief.

“Pardon me, young man. My composure fails me. But you — you have yet to try the coffee.”

Obliging him, I lifted my cup and took a sip. The warmth spread through my chest, the rich aroma of Colombian beans unraveling the rabid tension in my mind.

“Excuse me, Señor Borges,” I said, placing the cup down, “are you saying that Quietus Est was omitted from your book because it was real?”

“Partly,” he admitted. “The real fear came from realizing what its existence would mean for mankind. You see... it’s no secret that we are all aware of our mortality. We all die. But imagine a world where death is not an abstract concept. Imagine a world where death is something you see—not as a shadowy figure in a medieval painting, nor a grim reaper of folklore, but as a real, living entity — walking among us.

“Imagine if every man, woman, and child could see the exact time they had left in this world, ticking away on an invisible clock, a countdown displayed only to them. Imagine knowing, with perfect certainty, that the being standing next to you is there only to wind the clock forward, counting down the days, the hours, and the minutes. Stalking you, getting closer to you with every moment. Would we run? Would we hide? Would we bargain for more time? No, Señor Navaro. Running from death is worse than death itself.”

His breath grew heavy, his shoulders rising and falling. Then, as if catching himself, he straightened in his chair.

“But I shall talk no more. Allow me to give you my scribbles from years ago.” He gestured toward a mahogany desk at the side of the room. “There, in the drawer, you will find a folder. Inside, you will find my scribbles. These are unedited in their raw format, so please pardon the poor language and the awful handwriting. It was written in haste, long ago, before I completely lost my sight. Read it aloud, while my ripe old body attempts to catch a breath.”

I hesitated before stepping toward the desk. Something about this moment felt weighted, as if I were crossing an invisible threshold. I pulled open the drawer, as he instructed, and retrieved a folder with a yellowed sheet of paper inside. Its surface was lined with cursive strokes — Spanish, interwoven with Latin phrases. The ink was uneven, some words scratched out, others rewritten above in smaller script. 

He had written this himself, already half-blind. But why himself? Why had he not dictated it to an assistant? 

I turned to him. He simply nodded, as if seeing me.

I unfolded the paper and began to read.

Quietus Est

It is said that one cannot know the time or manner of their own demise. The imminence of death is felt only by those who are terminally ill — though even they remain unaware of the precise moment — or by those awaiting execution, condemned to the certainty of an appointed hour. It is this ignorance that compels us to exist.

In the age of the great Sumerian civilization, some four and a half thousand years before the birth of Christ, there are cryptic mentions of a mysterious being deity (the word deity was scratched out and replaced with demon of death embodied in human flesh and bones, which was again scratched out and replaced with a single word: entity). Its sole purpose was malevolent — to reveal to people the exact time of their death, hastening its arrival. To shield humankind from such unbearable knowledge, the gods granted a mercy: the inability to see it. But for those marked by the deity (entity), the weight of foreknowledge became a curse. The mere act of knowing sealed their fate, for they spent their final days in dread, powerless to alter the course of their demise.

Beyond these fragmented Sumerian records, whispers of the same entity surface elsewhere. Akkadian texts speak of a shadow that moves against the wind. Babylonian inscriptions liken it to Erra, walking in mortal form, cloaked in human guise.

Yet the trail does not end there. Thousands of kilometers away, in the tomb inscriptions of ancient Egypt, it appears once more. Paintings from the Third Dynasty depict a dark figure shifting the position of the sun over a sundial’s gnomon — an act believed to steal time from the living, purportedly attempting to steal life from the living.

The Book of the Dead, a collection of funerary texts preserved on clay tablets, speaks of those who can perceive the deity (entity), calling them the “luminous”.  The term “luminous” remains unclear — it could refer to those with heightened spiritual awareness or, vice versa, to those that are cursed - condemned by priests. Later Egyptian manuscripts briefly mention this being, but over time, its role is usurped by Anubis and, in rare cases, Horus. Yet, one detail remains constant: it is eternal. Sleepless. Always wandering.

Strangely, neither the Sumerians nor the Egyptians gave it a discrete name. But rare manuscripts from the Dark Ages refer to it as Quietus Est. It is said that Quietus Est stalks the “luminous” ones, subsuming their memories, while advancing the hands of the clock, stealing away what little time remains.

The very last reference was found in –

"Enough, Mr. Navaro," Borges interrupted. "I think you understand the idea. Now, on to the main question — the one you’ve had all along but were too polite to ask. Why are you here?" 

He leaned forward, and the dim light of the lamp carved a deep shadow across his elongated forehead.

"Quietus Est is an eternal wanderer. He is always with us. The timekeeper, watching from the edges of the stage, with a ticking watch strapped to his wrist. The greatest gift given to mankind is the inability to see him. When I lost my sight, I thought that blindness was a blessing in disguise. But the luminous ones do not require eyes to see him. What eyes cannot see, ears can hear. What ears cannot hear, the skin can feel. I hear him. I feel him.

"Mr. Navaro, you are here because you and I... we are the luminous ones."

Borges paused, took a deep breath, and asked me, his voice trembling. "Tell me, Mr. Navaro. You have seen him too, have you not?"

A cold shudder shot from the lower back up the spinal cord. Nausea formed a massive ball of air in my throat, and for a moment I struggled to breathe. Desperately trying to cease the thumping inside, I pushed the words out.

"Yes, Señor Borges. I have. Today."

* * *

How does one grow accustomed to the notion of being a mere passerby on this Earth? Ordinary humans never have to. We are spared that burden by a built-in protection layer — that safety cork, that silent barrier within our minds that prevents the realization of our own mortality from flooding down upon us. It is the seal that allows us to breathe without dread, to walk the streets without hearing the whisper of our own demise. It grants us that extraordinary, almost sacred carelessness.

Even the keenest scholars are not exempt. The mind resists, denying the immutable laws of life on a primal, emotional level. The indecipherable Tetragrammaton reveals itself in every step we take, in every sip of Colombian coffee, in every line of wisdom gathered from books. With each passing second, the sinister tick-tock reminds us, whispering the name of God in our ears.

And yet, we — heedless humans — turn away. We hum a tune, we feign ignorance, we deceive ourselves with the ancient mantra — Shame, shame. And that, as Señor Borges called it, is the true blessing.

For those who possess the name of the divine are doomed.

Knowledge is madness. Knowledge is inexistence. 

Knowledge of death is worse than death itself. 

I sat with Borges until the early hours, two luminous and doomed souls in a quiet hotel room. Our idle conversation was amplified by the rhythmic ticking of the clock.

As dawn crept in, I noticed Borges drifting into sleep. His left hand still rested on his cane, his closed eyelids flickering with the movements of unseen dreams.

Borges was dreaming. 

So must have I.

I got up, slipped on my jacket, and left, closing the door with careful silence.

As I was exiting the foyer of the hotel, I paused. Leaning against one of the columns, I surveyed the street. The bleak glow of streetlamps drew strange crossbeams across the pavement. Early October leaves whirled in closed circles, spinning like witches around an invisible fire.

I scanned my surroundings, hoping not to see him. 

He wasn’t there. But he was. 

* * *

Muscat orchards — distant echoes inside like guitar strings played in a deep alcove. The memory stirs, but nothing surfaces. I try shifting focus from one object to another, but my mind, a wandering nomad, is lost in endless labyrinths.

You have taken away my memories, haven’t you?

Wait, mortal. Wait five more minutes, and you will know the answer, a voice murmurs in my head. He is speaking to me now. Reading my thoughts, my struggles, my fears.

But I can read your struggles too, old man. This uphill climb is wearing you out. Your breath is labored, your pace is uneven. And yet, you look determined. For what is pain — what is exhaustion — when you are crossing the finish line?

Borges had warned me. “Do not come close to him. If he tries to catch up, run. But know this — he will follow you forever. In a way, he is your shadow.”

And so, I ran. And he wandered.

I evaded. He pursued.

He came too close on the second day after my long night in Borges’ hotel quarters. The fool in me still believed that escaping him was as simple as moving into a new flat. As easy as checking into a new hotel. So, the fool in me did just that.

It was a rundown hotel, minutes from my office. I decided to spend a few nights there just to think things through — a temporary hideout to press pause on life.

That evening — and I remember every minute — was our first true face-to-face encounter.

My hotel room, B6, was in the basement. As I descended the short flight of stairs and fumbled through the corridor, searching for my key, I felt his presence. The same sensation I had when I saw him for the first time in that square — the inexplicable, primal fear. 

Did I turn and run? I wanted to.

But my ignorant foolishness — still unwilling to admit to that lunacy — pressed forward. I reached my room, turned the key in the lock, and pushed the door.

As the door hinges groaned, I took my first step inside. A street-level window cast two thick streaks of yellow light onto the worn carpet. The air smelled of dust and spider webs. 

He was waiting for me, sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for me in the darkness of the room.

A blanket was draped over his head like a shroud around a statue. A rope was coiled in his hand. 

I froze, paralyzed like an insect in amber. An avalanche of sweat gushed from every pore of my body. 

He groaned as he rose from the bed. 

He took a step towards me.

With my back pressed against the door, I tried to grip the doorknob behind, but my palm was too slick with sweat to turn the knob. Open it. Open!

He seized my wrist. 

For the love of God, Fernández Agustín Navaro, open the door and run!

The hotel corridor stretched before me like a flickering silent film. 

"Your time is coming, Fernández Agustín Navaro," the whisper slithered into my ears.

B5, B2, B1. Run!

"Coming... coming..." the echoes reverberated across the narrow walls of the corridor. 

Staircase. Up! Exit! Run!

I ran. Outside, down the street, around the corner, down the street, without looking back. 

I ran until my legs gave in. Collapsing in some forgotten alley on the outskirts of town, I passed out amid the refuse and rubble until sunup.

My descent down the rungs of insanity had begun. 

In the days that followed, I abandoned my London flat and became a drifter. I had enough savings to move from town to town, country to country, doing temp jobs here and there, sometimes sleeping on streets, never staying in the same place for long. 

My chaser was always behind me. 

Sometimes I wouldn’t see him for months, but eventually he would catch on. It would be only a matter of time for him to resurface somewhere — on the opposite side of the street, in the next subway car, or peering madly through the shutters of a window across the street. 

My attempts to speak to Borges were futile. 

How had the blind master been living with this “luminous” curse? How had Borges evaded him all this time? I had questions for him — far more than I had anticipated. 

I wrote him letters — he never replied. I contacted the hotels where he stayed — inaccessible. I even phoned his residence in Buenos Aires — unavailable. 

So, I did the only thing left to me. I turned to his books.

The Book of Sand. 

Dr. Brodie’s Report. 

I scoured every word, looking for anything – hidden messages, cryptic meanings, anything that could be a clue as to how he had spent a lifetime eluding the wanderer.

I even delved into his earliest writings, dissecting every sentence, every phrase. But it was all in vain— a labyrinth without an exit.

Until —

* * *

1983. “Shakespeare’s Memory”. 

Borges' final book, as it turned out to be.

I was somewhere in Eastern Europe when I spotted it in the window of a small corner bookstore. I bought it without hesitation. From the moment I cracked open its cover, my meticulous study began. Letter by letter, page by page, I combed through every sentence, scrutinizing each punctuation mark, searching for meaning in the spaces between words.

And then, when I least expected it, the answer revealed itself — simple and evident as daylight. The answer was the story itself. It had never required decryption or elaborate analysis. All I had to do was read it.

I understood, at last, what Borges had intended for me. I had to confront Quietus Est, as he once had — but not before enduring the exile. Such was his final and only message to me embedded within the last publication of his life. 

In Shakespeare’s Memory, the protagonist inherits the memories of William Shakespeare. Slowly, those memories consume him, overtaking his own memories. He forgets modern streets, cars, and engines. Instead, he remembers faces from a distant past, names spoken in another tongue from the life of another man.

"In a way, he will be like a shadow of you," Borges had warned me that night. 

And now, my shadow was becoming me. Pursuing not only me, but also my memories. Stealing them from me, consuming them.  

That’s why I can only vaguely remember you — my childhood home, my past.

No more running. It ends here. 

There he is.

* * *

There he is. 

Out of breath, beaten, tired — bent by the weight of his own withered body. One last push, old man, and we will meet.

I crouch behind the rock, listening for his impending footsteps, heavy and forced. Listening to the sound of breath crackling in his chest. I know them by heart — his steps, his wheezing. They haunt me in my nightmares.

I count to five.

He knows where I am, but he is too tired to take that final step. Let me take it for you. I stand up straight. No more hiding. Now, he sees me.

I stare into his face, wrinkled like pages of an ancient scroll.

“Time’s up, Quietus Est,” I say and grab him by the throat. 

He doesn’t fight back, and my Swiss blade finds its place just below his Adam’s apple. I am going to finish him now.

Popping sounds bubble out of his flabby throat. What are you trying to say, old man? Let me hear your last words. I ease the pressure, allowing him to speak. But the sounds that come out are not words — it’s laughter. 

“You... you are confused,” he coughs between gasps. “You’ve got it all wrong. Let me help you understand.”

I let him sit up; one wrong move and he’s dead. He wipes the blood and phlegm from his chin, nodding in understanding.

“All my life I have followed you,” he begins slowly in a ragged voice. “It’s a miracle I have made it this far and lived this long. Ever since I left Córdoba, I’ve been a ticking time bomb. Diagnosed suicidal. Doctor after doctor, therapy, specialists, prescriptions, yoga — I have tried it all. Some helped for a while, and the disease subsided, but then it rolled back, more frenzied than before. It’s this disease that nests right here.” He points to his head. “It’s always been here, forcing me to find ways to end it. To end my life.”

He takes a deep breath, looking up at me. Go on, I gesture with the blade pointed at him.

“It started in London.” He continues, “I remember it clearly — sitting on a bench in the middle of that square, feeling the disease gnawing away at me. I closed my eyes, imagined you, and called for you. You appeared, right around the corner. I stood up, and I walked toward you. But you ran. I looked for you, found your home, but you weren’t there. Then I checked into a hotel. Room B6. You remember it, don’t you? I sat on the bed, rope in hand, a blanket over my head. I called for Death to come, to end me. To hang me with that rope or slash my throat. Death opened the door and stood above me in the darkness of the room. Oh, how I longed for the end! But it was not meant to be. Not then, not there. I had to live on. Since then, it’s been a cat-and-mouse game. I chased, but Death always slipped away. Until now.”

He pauses, rubbing his neck, then points down the valley. “See that house? I was born there. I remember every moment of my childhood — my parents, my toys, my friends, my school. I remember playing hide-and-seek with my cousins in the Muscat gardens, falling asleep to Sunday clergy in that white chapel. I remember Eastern rugs washed in the street and the scent of grapes. My name is Fernández Agustín Navaro. And you — you have no true name. They call you Quietus Est. The one who wanders.”

Filaments of scorching infernos have been ignited all over me. The fire razes hell inside eyelids, spreading over to all facial pores and trickling down the body.

“Lies! Imbecile lies!” I roar.

“Look at me,” he says, “I am an old man. And you? Still young and strong, as you will always be. You have not aged. Now think more. What do you remember of your childhood? Shakespearean memories of random sounds and smells — that’s all you have gained from me. Master Borges knew who you were. He cracked you. Then he tricked you. He made you think you were me. That was his way of evading you — by not revealing you the truth until his final breath, final book, final victory lap. You are the one who wanders. And now that I have told you who you really are, you must finally finish me.”

I have heard enough of his fibs. I throw my knife away. I shall not require any blades to end his life. I reach down, hands clenching around his frail neck, squeezing.

I hear his squeals as the grip tightens, feel the crackling of neck bones between my thumbs. He gasps for air, but even as he convulses, he smiles. 

He looks to be finally at peace. 

I sit on his chest, watching his last breath carried by the wind. It sweeps down the valley, past the gardens, the white chapel, and the house where he grew up.

The scorching wind of Andalusia pours sunlight onto his face, teasing his eyelashes, pounding his cheeks, swirling through his hair. He must have missed the scent of the valley and the ripening softness of Muscat fluff glistening in the afternoon breeze. 

I rewind my wristwatch and begin walking downhill along the wavy trail, my thumbs sore from the kill.

I take small sideways steps. Once I reach El Jardinito Road, I will catch the first bus. From there, I will travel west. Or north. The destination no longer matters.

Anywhere is where the roads take me. Me, the one who wanders. 

END