Chapter I, Awki

My name is John Crester. My Dad, a Peruvian orphan, hired a private detective firm to find his biological father in Peru, South America.

The call from the detective came in late at night.

I was awake, afraid of a nightmare I often had.

In the nightmare there are no monsters, no killers, no witches, nothing really scary; there is only a vast, empty, dark space, and me. I'm alone and terrified.

I don't want to be alone.

That night I walked out of my bedroom and into Dad's office, sat on the plush Persian carpet, leaned my head on the soft Napa leather sofa, and watched Dad work.

He didn't notice me, he never does.

He was busy, looking for something in the drawers of his gold-encrusted, custom-made, ebony desk, when his cell rang.

“Henry Crester,” he answered, and frowned. He does not like to be interrupted when working. He’s always working.

“You found my father?” he asked. His shoulders loosened, muscles in his neck relaxed, the angry frown dissipated.

“Great, that’s just great...”

“Well... Bring him here...”

“To Lincoln, Nebraska, of course...”

“If he doesn't speak English, then have your detective come with him...”

“I don't care what it costs. Get it done!”

He terminated the call, puts his cell down and, finally, noticed me. “What are you doing up?”

“I can't sleep, Daddy. Is your dad coming?” I changed the topic. I don't want to take a chance he’ll send me back to my room.

“Yes.”

“Does he speak Spanish or does he only speak Quechua?” Quechua is the language of the Incas and is still spoken in the Andes by their descendants.

“I didn't think to ask,” he replied.

He picked up his cell and dialed out again. “The old man, Pops, my dad. Does he speak Spanish?”

“I see... Thanks,” he said, terminated the call and put his cell down again.

“Is your dad my grandpa too?”

“Yes.”

I was very happy. Most of my eleven-year-old friends have two grandpas. Now I would too.

“Does he speak Spanish?”

“Both, Spanish and Quechua,” replied Dad.

Cool. Dad is fluent in Russian, Japanese, Chinese and Spanish. I'm fluent in Spanish. Both of us are native English speakers but neither one speaks a word of Quechua.

“Time to go to bed son.”

Dang. “Daddy, I'm not tired. Can I stay here? Please?”

Dad looked down and scratched his head, as he does when thinking. “You can stay, but be quiet. I have work to do.”

“Yes, Daddy. I'll be quiet, very quiet.”

I looked at the painting of my mother that hangs behind Dad's desk.

Why does Dad keep this painting?

I looked at my mother's eyes in the painting, she looked past me, as if I didn't exist.

Mom divorced Dad shortly after I was born. She met and married a Saudi Oil tycoon who did not want me as part of his house. I was left with Dad when my mother and her new husband moved to Saudi Arabia.

Did she love me? Was she as distant as she is in that painting? I do not remember much of her anymore.

To me, she is a woman in a painting staring with an empty look into a vast, dark, empty space.

“Pops is getting to Omaha tomorrow night.”

“Daddy, what?”

“I just got an e-mail. The detective and Pops are arriving at the Omaha airport tomorrow night.”

“Pops? who’s Pops?”

“Grandpa Crester, to me, is Dad. My Peruvian father, Pops.”

“Okay. Pops it is,” I replied.

“Pops to me, 'Abuelo' to you.” Abuelo is Spanish for grandfather.

“Okay, Daddy.” I was tired, stretched on top the Persian carpet and looked at my Ferrari Go-Kart. I have so many toys, I have so many things. Dad will buy me anything I want. I have everything, I thought, smiled, and closed my eyes.

I heard Dad working on the computer and fought sleepiness to open my eyes again and saw the painting of Mom looking past me.

I would like a good-night kiss, I thought and closed my eyes again.

I have nothing, I have absolutely nothing. I can't stay awake any longer.

I woke up late in the day. I was on top of the Napa Leather sofa, tightly tucked in the Vicuña wool blanket.

Dad must’ve lifted me from the carpet, tucked me in the blanket, and given me a good night kiss.

I wish Dad had woken me up. Oh, well... It doesn't matter. It's great to be eleven-years old and not have a nanny. I never liked nannies. I hope my Peruvian Grandpa isn't like a nanny. I hope he is like Grandpa Crester.

Dad came back late in the afternoon. He was in a rush, he’s always in a rush.

“Get changed Son, hurry up. I don't want to be late picking up Pops at the airport.”

“What's wrong with what I'm wearing? Change into what?”

“Into your Gucci suit.”

“Daaad.”

“Now!”

Dad never misses a chance to display his wealth. He changed into his top-of-the-line Gucci suit and Barker Black Ostrich Cap Toe shoes.

I wanted to stay in my jeans but no way Dad was going to allow me to go to the airport in jeans.

“Which Benz? The black or the white?” asked Dad.

“The black, it's my favorite.”

“Okay Son, get in.”

We arrived at the airport just in time and watched the passengers get off the airplane.

I spotted Awki right away. The first-class passengers coming off the plane were business executives dressed in business suits. Awki wore a clean, but old, white shirt. His brown pants were just as clean, as old, and as used as the shirt. He had sandals, and the soles looked like tire treads. Later that day I would learn that the sandals, called Ojotas, are made from discarded tires, and are common among the poor people of Peru.

He was old, but I could not tell how old. His skin was golden brown, his eyes black, his hair gray and dotted with speckles of silver. He was thin but sinewy, lean and muscular.

Oh, no. Dad is not going to like his dad wearing old clothes. He is going to blow his top.

I was right. Dad walked angrily towards the detective. “I pay you, your detectives and your firm a fortune. Couldn't you buy some new clothes for my father?” he yelled.

Everyone in the airport looked at him, at least that’s how it felt.

“I tried, I tried, but the old man would not go into the store,” replied the detective nervously.

“Moron! Are you trying to tell me that in your own country you can't handle an old man who doesn't speak English?” yelled Dad again.

“He’s something else,” said the detective, looking down and avoiding Dad's angry stare.

“Something else? He's just an old man, don't give me excuses!”

“He’s something else, you will see. He’s something else,” repeated the detective sheepishly.

I don't like it when Dad gets angry. It scares me. In public, it embarrasses me.

“Please, Dad, stop,” I asked, looking at the floor and about to cry.

He turned his head around and looked at me. “Not talking to you!”

“Alchi...”

The word was but a whisper... and yet it blocked out all noise.

I lifted my eyes and saw Awki kneeling in front of me.

“Alchi,” he said, in a low, calm voice, barely a whisper. “Nieto,” he said, and tousled my hair.

“Abuelo,” I replied, still embarrassed, confused, and scared.

“Awki,” he said, and explained that while Abuelo is Spanish for Grandfather, Awki is the Quechua word.

“Alchi, you descend from the powerful Incas that ruled South America. Through your veins runs the blood of great warriors,” he said in Spanish.

I descended from the powerful Inca warriors that had ruled South America? My embarrassment, confusion, and fear were gone and replaced by pride.

“Awki,” I replied.

He smiled, and in that moment I knew I would get along with the old man.

Dad's yelling had attracted the attention of many of the passengers coming off the plane, the drama had become the center of attention.

Awki stood up and approached Dad, who still looked angry.

“Hijo,” Awki said, and he lovingly placed his open hand on Dad's cheek. Dad recoiled as if he had been touched by fire.

I saw tears roll down my grandfather's cheek as he bent down to pick up his bag.

I saw the disapproving looks of the people in the airport and was deeply ashamed of my father.

On the way back from the airport, Dad drove erratically, as he often does when angry or embarrassed.

“Dad, slow down,” I begged, to no avail.

He lost control of the car. “Damn! Hold on!” he yelled. The car skidded off the road, down a ditch, through a couple of small trees, and came to rest at the bottom of a ditch, wedged between some rocks, the tires deeply buried in the mud.

Dad turned around. “Is everyone okay?”

“I'm okay,” I replied.

Awki laughed and said something in Quechua.

“Spanish, Pops, Spanish. I don't understand Quechua!” yelled Dad.

Awki laughed again and said something else in Quechua. I don't know what he said then, but now that I know Awki, I bet it was something along the lines of 'Better learn Son. Better learn.’

Dad did not reply. He got out of the car and slammed the door behind him, angry once more.

We were lucky, very lucky. It could have turned out badly, it was a miracle none of us got hurt.

Awki and I got out of the car.

It's going to take a long time to get this car out of the ditch.

Awki looked at the car, scratched his head and whistled.

“Don't worry, Awki,” I said. “Dad is calling for a new car to be brought here. We won't have to wait long.”

“What about this car?”

“Awki, it will take a long time to get this car out of the mud. Don’t worry about it, Dad will have a new one here in no time.”

Awki looked around, thought for a few moments, and looked at Dad. “I am not leaving until that car is pulled out of the ditch.”

“Pops, that car is stuck in the mud. It will take hours to get it out. I have work to do. I can't sit here all night,” protested Dad.

Awki did not reply. He turned around and nimbly zigzagged up the rocky slope to the top of the ditch. He sat on a rock at the edge of the ledge and looked at the sky. It looked to me as if he was going to stay, regardless of what Dad wanted.

Dad looked up the ditch and then at me “Look at him! What does he think he's doing?” he grumbled.

“Daddy, calm down.”

“Calm down? I have a business to run. I can't sit here all night!”

“But Dad...”

“But nothing. I'm going to talk some sense into him,” said Dad, and then he turned, stepped onto the wet ditch wall, slipped, and fell flat on his face.

I knew better than to laugh.

Dad is not one to give up. He got up and started up the ditch.

“Damn!” he yelled every time he slipped and fell.

Five times by my count.

By the time Dad reached the top of the ditch, he was clearly unhappy. I could not hear what Dad said, but saw he was agitated.

I could see them up on the ledge, Awki immovable as a rock, Dad jumping and gesticulating like a madman.

Neither the yelling, nor the jumping, nor the cursing, did Dad any good. Awki kept on gazing at the stars and completely ignored his son.

I started up the wall of the ditch and slipped and fell more than Dad had. I was surprised at how difficult it was to get up that ditch wall. Awki had not slipped once. He had made it look so easy as he zigzagged up the ditch wall, like a deer running up a hill.

By the time I got to the top of the ditch, Dad had calmed down a little.

“Daddy, when is the new car getting here?”

“I canceled the new car and called for a tow truck instead. Pops says he won't ride in a car except that one,” said Dad, pointing at the car at the bottom of the ditch.

“Why does he care?”

“I don't know. Maybe he's senile. Look at him! Nothing better to do than to look at the sky.”

I walked over to where Awki was. “What are you doing Awki?”

“I am befriending the stars.”

“Befriending the stars?”

“Back in my village, I am friends with all the southern stars. When I am out fishing at night I talk to them, they talk back to me. They guide me in the darkest nights, they are my friends. I don't know these northern stars. This northern sky is a very lonely sky. So very few stars.”

“Pops, the sky is not lonely. Your village is far away from large cities,” said Dad, typing an e-mail on his cellular.

“Here, the lights from large cities dim the stars. The stars you are looking at now are probably Polaris, Alkaid, Mizar or Alioth. They are big and bright, not dimmed by city lights,” said Dad, finishing one e-mail and starting another.

“You know the stars?” asked Awki.

“Yes.”

“You know the stars from books?”

Dad frowned as he does when irritated. “Yes, Pops. From books, how else would I learn about the stars?”

“Have you ever looked at them? Really looked at them?”

“No.”

“Then you know of the stars but you don't know the stars,” said Awki looking away from the sky and looking at Dad.

Dad stopped typing and looked at the sky.

“Have you taught the stars to your son?”

Dad did not answer. He put his cell into his pocket and sat by my side.

It took several hours to get the car out of the ditch and all that time I was with Dad, befriending the stars. It was the first time Dad and I had spent so much time together.

It was a night I will forever remember.