People don't change. They just grow old. How many wives had high hopes for their husbands to change, to overcome their weaknesses, inclinations to drink, cheat and gamble? How many adults were surprised by their childhood friends met accidentally after twenty or thirty years who hadn't changed a bit? They had a few wrinkles here and there, possibly they gained a few pounds. But the last thing you could tell about them was the fact that they were completely different human beings.
Melquiades was the same lanky teenage boy with a nose in his books, with shyness towards women, with an inability to put theory into practice. He had a perfect plan for annihilating the ruler of N., a well-prepared schedule, a detailed and systematic agenda to follow. And yet, he was the same man who knew how to kill a man as much as a toddler knew how to design a nuclear weapon from chopsticks. He didn't have the faintest idea.
He was also alone. There was no little Gemma to motivate him, there were no stimuli to make him stressed enough to start the lengthy process of killing his only relative hectically. There was only him and his mind alone.
One final night before the departure he carefully looked at his notes. Then he burned all the papers and destroyed all evidence of him ever residing in Gemma's apartment. He burned all the notes left by Gemma's co-workers. He cleaned every dirt which might indicate the presence of mice. He covered Gemma's wall pictures with thick layers of white paint. He left the apartment spotless.
And then, equipped with nothing but a set of clean clothes he left the flat forever.
