The life and death of Santiago Navarro
When Santiago was born, it was a miracle. The doctors thought he would die. But after months of intensive care, he ended up mostly fine, just not able to grow up like most children. He was often in and out of the hospital during his childhood. It didn’t help that they had to travel outside their small town to get any help, since the doctors there weren’t equipped to deal with his medical issues.
His mom told him that she cried a lot when he was younger. Sometimes she would try to make light of the situation and joke that she needed to drink lots of water so she didn’t lose any when she cried. She obviously knew that drinking water wasn’t going to really affect her tears, but it made Santi smile, so she continued with her light jokes for many years.
Everyone knew Santiago in his small hometown in Peru. It wasn’t because he was popular or anything–it was because everyone knew everyone. It was one of those towns. Everyone knew of his medical misfortunes as well. When he would get ill, half of the village would bring him home cooked meals. It was so much food it might as well make him throw up more than he already was. But everyone cared, and it made him feel appreciated.
By the time he was eight he still hadn’t muttered a single word. Doctors were worried, townsfolk tried to aid in any way they could, but nothing ever came from his mouth. He was also behind in other areas, whereas other kids were developing. Santiago never understood why all these things were so important to them.
The other kids in the village tried their best to invite Santi to activities that normal kids do. Playing football in the streets, riding dangerously fast down hills on their bikes, sneaking candy bars from the shop, making paper crafts, etc. But every time Santiago was far too winded or shy to get himself involved. Instead he would sit on the side, observe, and write. For his age he was an incredibly talented writer, way ahead of any other kid. It was all he would ever do. This would sculpt his life.
By the time he finished school, he knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to deliver mail for the people in his town.
He was already doing this as a part time job, but he loved it. It was the type of structure he felt comfortable with in his life. Besides, he had already memorized everybody's name, what street they lived on, what color their house was, and more. If anybody was qualified for this position, it was him.
Luckily for Santiago, the old man who was in charge of carrying around the mail was bound for retirement anyway. He gave it up easily, and Santiago was now in charge of the mail. All the old keys, records, documents, and dusty storage cabinets were his. He immediately began reorganizing the place to make it feel like home.
When he wasn’t out on delivery duty, he was locked up in his small house. His home was the top floor of a slowly decaying duplex that creaked loudly with each step. There was a family below him that luckily never made too much racket. With too much noise he would never be able to focus on his holy grail: Abajo de la sangre. This was a book he’d been working on for years. He researched every little detail for the book, as well as perfecting his commentary by writing multiple drafts over and over until he saw fit. This book consumed his life.
Soon enough, he became the writer of the local newspaper. Safe to say, he was never loath of things to do. He had assistants who helped him write and edit, as well as run the post office, so it wasn’t like he was without help. But his downfall was that he had to do everything himself. The final draft of the newspaper was edited by him, the mail was delivered everyday by him, the post office was opened and closed by him, the way in which things were sorted and placed was determined by him. He didn’t want there to be any room for error, so he did everything with meticulous detail. While he trusted the people below him, trust would never be enough to assure him that everything was running as it should. He needed to physically see the things happening in front of him to ensure there was order.
Santiago spent hours upon hours working from sunrise to the early hours of the next day. His work was an obsession far beyond his control, pulling him apart piece by piece as the years progressed.
It wasn’t rare for Santiago to have medical scares, but they started happening a lot more frequently by the time he was 25.
In his hometown there was a small medical center but it could hardly accommodate his health problems. Unfortunately, the nearest hospital was an hour away, and there wasn’t exactly easy transportation to get there. The old white building devoured by vines would have to suffice.
His town found itself in a state of large disrepair. Amidst the economic depression, World War II, the coup d’état, and much more, there was hardly enough money to go around, much less to spend on the town’s buildings. It wasn’t easy living life with joy when everything around you was quite literally crumbling.
The signs were obvious when Santiago was going through a health decline. The mail showed up late—even if only by a couple of minutes—the post office would run slower than usual, the paper would get published a day late, small things, but big to the people who knew him well. He did everything with such precision that even a little delay meant something wasn’t right. So naturally, his neighbors, employers, friends, and family tried to get him to take a break.
Soon enough Santiago found himself being, what he considered, “babied” by his fellow townsfolk. It drove him up the wall. Every day people were getting shoved out the door of his home while he fumed in frustration. It wasn’t like him to be angry, but all he wanted was to be alone. Even boiling over and slapping one of his friends wasn’t enough to get people to stay away.
People began to pray. They prayed for his health, his sanity, his life. They brought their prayers to his home, sent them in letters, recited them as a group in the old church building that smelled like rotting brick. It was fascinating how much they thought God could save him. Save him from what, though? He was fine.
Reflected in the mirror was a soul trapped in a life unsustainable for anybody. The floor spun in every direction until he could feel the cold stone against his face. There were dots of blood in his vision, too. Where it came from, he didn’t care.
The mail was still on time. The paper was still revised and published. The post office still opened at six AM and closed at five PM. Everything was orderly–everything but himself.
His twenties were starting to come to an end and so was his willingness to keep up. At this point it was impossible to do what he had been maintaining for so many years. It’s not like he wasn’t trying, but some days he was simply paralyzed with illness. Other days, nothing could get done because his hand decided it was no longer going to do its job. It would shake so uncontrollably it was impossible to write anything. The fact of the matter was that his neglect had caught up to him, and it was hitting unbelievably hard.
Once the work started getting handled entirely by Matias, Santiago’s assistant postmaster, the town knew things must be bad. Never before had they gone a whole week without Santiago delivering their mail.
People showed up to his home offering prayers, food, support, and more, but he really didn’t want any of it. He wanted to feel alive again.
Within a month, his wish seemed to be granted. Once again he could sit and write without his handwriting appearing as a squiggled line. He woke up at four in the morning to start his day as usual. The mail was delivered at the same time on the same route. Life was normal again.
One late night he stayed up writing, which wasn’t unusual at all. Besides, he had lost a month of time when he could have been writing for Abajo de la sangre, so he needed to catch up. The book was going well, so well in fact, he believed he could finish within the next two years. The idea of reading the finished copy made all his pain and suffering feel obsolete. All his life he had focused on that very goal—making the book of his dreams. A book of hardship and questions, rising and falling, loving and hating. A book to share what living his life felt like. Maybe then they would understand him. Even though he was loved by many, nobody ever understood. But finally there was hope that this could bridge a gap between him and the people he loved.
That hope made for a cruel way to die.
Camila, a long time friend of Santiago, had been meaning to talk to him as of late. She wanted to see if she could convince him to step down, go to the actual hospital rather than the one in town falling apart at the seams. Even though he got better, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t actually “getting better.”
So she set out for his house around 5:30 that morning to catch him before he left. It was pretty much impossible to talk to him after that point since he kept himself busy. Upon reaching the house she creaked up the stairs and noticed how there was little light coming from the windows. That was not necessarily unusual, as Santiago didn’t like bright lights, but it was strange considering how dark it was. She knocked at the old wooden door a couple times but no one replied. She worried that maybe she had missed him; he was already off to work. Though, in the back of her mind crept an unsettling feeling she couldn’t get rid of. So she decided to lockpick the door open.
The image to follow would keep her up for years to come. His body lay on the floor of his office with a broken cup shattered close by. The window had been left open which caused loose papers to scatter his floor. Any semblance of life was gone from his skin. Though compared to the circumstance, Santiago appeared relaxed. His tense and uptight posture was traded for a look of relief. His soul was now free.
The funeral had people spilling out the doors. No person in that town could ignore the death of their beloved mailman. It all happened without warning. When everything seemed to be getting better, it was instead met with the most devastating outcome imaginable. Even with the little money circulating through the townsfolk, they made a lovely tombstone for the occasion and had him dressed to the nines. And of course, they couldn’t leave him without his hat.
Now his mom could say that was the most she’d cried in a day.
