Bruno is enjoying himself. He has never been in a car like this one and his seat gives him a perfect view down the girl’s impressive cleavage. She slaps his face when he tries to touch her. She then spends the rest of the journey pressed against the trim panel of the passenger door, trying to get away from his hands and his pungent odour. He gives up and attempts to play with the myriad gadgets and screens on the car’s dashboard, which earns him an equal rebuff from Miguel. He wishes he had his brother with him, then he would show these two some respect.
“There, there it is!” Bruno points at a skeletal ruin silhouetted above them against the lightning-torn sky. Miguel peers through the car’s windscreen and uses the image to navigate his way through the last of the barrio streets, empty of life up here. Several dogs scatter from something large and dark they were gnawing in an alleyway. Miguel sees the steep, narrow road that will take them up to the mission church, and decides that he will drive the Ford Machos “Matador” Special Edition no farther. He parks at the bottom of the hill and switches off the engine.
“Good job, city man, yes?” Bruno grins with yellow teeth and holds out his dirty palm. Miguel smiles at him and they all get out of the car. Miguel fiddles with the keycard until he arms the car’s defence system. A blue light glows softly on the dashboard.
“Good job, you pay me now, yes?” Bruno is insistent, urging. Miguel smiles again and presses a single crisp note into the boy’s hand. Bruno looks at the note with disgust and spits on the ground.
“You promised me more, city man. We had a deal. You pay up, or I fetch my brother.”
Miguel leans forward and gives Bruno a fierce push, sending the boy sprawling into the dirt. The note flutters away and Bruno chases after it on all fours, grabbing it before it disappears into the trash piled in the gutters. He stands and screams an obscenity at Miguel and Maria. Miguel picks up a crushed can and throws it at the boy, who runs away, cursing them in vivid language. Maria laughs, and Miguel smiles. He was worried that the evening was not going as planned, but now she seems genuinely impressed with him. He really showed that barrio kid who was boss man, didn’t he?
The old mission church stands out above them, an unfleshed corpse of a building, a relic of a colonial past. Miguel takes Maria’s hand and together they walk up the narrow street. In the gaps between the ruins they can see the inky expanse of the valley they have left, the city caught between the rainforest and this hard, dangerous place. Nuevo Caracas is a crystal ship afloat in a black sea. It seems so far away at this moment.
As they near the old mission, they can see fairy lights and candles flicker in the shell of the church, teased by the storm wind. Sheet lightning periodically turns night to day.
Miguel begins to feel nervous. What if this is just a myth? They have risked their lives—and his father’s car!—to come here. Maria is hungry and impatient, and he has chosen to take her to the ultimate restaurant, which may or not exist, to eat an exotic—and quite possibly poisonous—mutant fish! Miguel, you are mucho loco!
Miguel guides Maria over the rubble-strewn courtyard. Big wooden gates lie forlorn to each side. Maria steps delicately and deliberately over the ground in her spike heels, allowing Miguel to steer her toward the softly illuminated plastic sheeting strung across the front of the mission. Maria stops and shrugs off Miguel’s touch.
“There’s nothing here!” she says petulantly. “This is no restaurant, it’s just some barrio shack. Why have you brought me here, Miguel?”
“Come,” says the brujo, stepping from the darkness, a slight figure in tapestry robes. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Miguel and Maria freeze for a moment. The brujo is an old bearded man, not threatening in the least. Why should they be afraid of him? He smiles and beckons to them.
They follow the brujo without question. He sweeps aside the plastic sheeting and ushers them into his restaurant.
The interior is dark and smoky. Shadows chase shadows away from the glow of candles and lightning flashes. The restaurant is empty of customers. A dwarf waiter moves toward them with a glass pitcher of red wine.
The brujo shows them to their table—a packing crate covered by a cloth and marked with the logo of the Venezuelan Air Force, and two plastic picnic chairs. Maria graciously allows the brujo to pull the chair out for her before she gathers her dress around her and sits down. The brujo smiles toothlessly. The dwarf fills up their glasses with wine.
“You will, of course, be ordering our special,” says the brujo, wringing his hands. It is a statement, not a question.
“Is it available?” asks Miguel coolly, raising an eyebrow.
“Of course!” says the brujo. “Otherwise, you would not be here.”
The brujo and the dwarf disappear. Maria sips at her wine and looks around the restaurant, trying to see if they are really alone. Dark shapes flit around the periphery of her vision, but she sees no one. It is so hot in here, moisture rolling down the rippling plastic sheeting. A light sheen of sweat covers Maria’s neck and shoulders, glistening in the candlelight.
Miguel’s attention is fixed on Maria. He plays with the stem of his wine glass and tries to think of cool things he can say to her. Before he has a chance to deliver a stunning fusillade of compliments, the brujo returns, accompanied by the dwarf carrying a huge covered silver platter.
“Your mutopargo,” says the brujo, and unveils the platter with a flourish.
The fish is still alive, shuffling ineffectively on the platter, surrounded by fruit and vegetables and Venezuelan cachapa, maize pancakes, and caraotas beans. It is a two-headed specimen, the most common mutation, and the two heads flip nervously in different directions, saucer eyes attempting to take in all threats. Multiple fins drum a beat on the metal dish. The dwarf places the platter carefully on the packing crates, then retreats with the brujo, bowing graciously.
Miguel and Maria and the mutopargo stare at each other for a long time in silence. The dwarf returns and gives them both sharp knives and forks.
“It’s so beautiful,” says Maria. “It’s such a shame to kill it.”
“Some people say it is already dead,” says Miguel, testing the edge of the knife with his thumb. “It will have been out of the water for many days. It is just electricity making the fins and the head move.”
Maria wants to believe him but the mutopargo looks at her mournfully, both heads swivelling toward her, as if appealing for feminine mercy.
“But it is supposed to be so good to eat,” says Miguel, and makes a deep incision into the fish’s flank. The fish shrieks and shudders. Miguel recoils and drops his knife. Maria licks her lips and picks up her own knife. She makes a bold, more positive incision deep into the fish’s side, cutting a swath of white flesh. The mutopargo stops moving. Miguel watches, awestruck, as Maria slowly cuts the flesh on her plate and forks a piece into her mouth. She closes her eyes, chews and swallows.
“It is fantastic,” she says. “It is the most fantastic thing I have ever tasted. Here, try some.”
She cuts a swath for him and he accepts it from her. He rolls his eyes as he tastes it for the first time.
“Excellent,” he says. “More. More.”
He takes over and carves and feeds her, and in between takes pieces for himself. The brujo watches from the shadows, satisfied. He catches Miguel’s eye and winks, then taps his palm pointedly. What have you brought me in trade?
Miguel freezes. How could he have been so forgetful? He reaches into his pocket and takes out two things—his creditocard and the keycard to his father’s Ford Machos “Matador” Special Edition. The brujo accepts no cash. The Ford Machos “Matador” Special Edition.... His father’s Ford Machos “Matador” Special Edition.... Is there no alternative? He looks across at the girl he has brought here. Surely not...?
Maria Del Fuego looks even more beautiful with her eyes closed in the ecstasy of exquisite taste. When she does open her eyes to see why Miguel has not fed her another morsel, he sees a look in her eyes
which was not there before, a look that says, Good work, Miguel. You’ve won. I want you.
He smiles and forks another mouthful of food into her mouth. In the end, the decision is not so hard, after all.
~ * ~
Carlos will kill him, of course, but it is a small price to pay for such a wonderful evening, and maybe when he tells Carlos of his fantastic adventure and how he made love to the beautiful Maria Del Fuego back at their apartment, his brother will forgive him. They are heading home through the barrio at speed, and he turns down the air conditioning as it is getting cold in the car. He is, after all, wearing just his best silk boxer shorts, with his creditocard tucked safely in the tiny condom pocket, just behind the condom. He smiles at the thought of the brujo dressed in Carlos’s clothes, an old man in the guise of a superhip Nuevo Caracas kid. Maria giggles at his nakedness but her laugh has a saucy edge, tinged by red wine and sexual tension. Miguel fights the impending erection as best he can. That would be so uncool.
~ * ~
Word travels fast in this urban jungle. These people have no need of internet or phone. The Ford Machos “Matador” Special Edition was tracked as it entered the barrio and allowed to pass through an elaborate series of gates and predetermined routes invisible to the eye of city dwellers. As Miguel climbed to the restaurant of the brujo, these gates and routes were closed behind him, and makeshift roadblocks sprung into place. On their way back down, Miguel and Maria are blissfully unaware that they are driving straight into a precisely prepared trap.
~ * ~
As they descend, Miguel begins to realise that they are not travelling the same route they took on the way in. The car slows to a crawl through streets that become tighter and narrower until he can barely maneuver the muscular vehicle. Belatedly, he knows he has taken one wrong turn too many. An old Cadillac, rusted and choked with foliage, blocks the road ahead. He looks into his rearview TV screen, preparing to reverse, and sees a party of figures appear out of the gloom. They are holding things in their hands, long things, sharp things. A sudden lightning flash illuminates them menacingly. Miguel utters a curse and guns the engine in a threatening manner, wheel-spinning and edging backwards, startling Maria who lets out a cry. The figures break ranks and Miguel prepares to get the hell out of there, but a dark shadow blocks the way. The bastards have towed a couple of wrecks in behind him, blocking his exit. He swears and thumps the steering wheel in frustration.
Maria has been watching the dim glow of the rearview screen. She stuffs a fist into her mouth and whimpers.
“What are we going to do, Miguel? What do they want?”
The Ford Machos “Matador” Special Edition will strike easily through either barricade but Miguel is worried about the paintwork on his father’s brand new car. Emboldened by his encounter with Bruno the barrio boy and his successful negotiation of barter terms with the brujo, he decides to try to reason with them. Maria clutches her face as he gets out of the car.
Their faces are terrifying in the half-light. Ninety percent of barrio dwellers are Indian or mestizo, half-breeds. Their faces are painted in colourful chaos patterns. He suddenly remembers he is practically naked.
There are seven or eight of them. Behind them is a tractor attached by chains to the wrecks that were dragged to block Miguel’s escape.
Miguel tries his best confident smile.
“Could you gentlemen please move your cars, and tell me the fastest way back to the city?”
The mob maintains a stony silence, then one nudges and whispers something to another, and they all fall around laughing and cackling. Miguel joins in, slightly relieved, but completely in the dark as to the joke.
“Bad night to be lost in the barrio, caudillo,” says one of the men. “Storm coming. Barrio real bad place to be caught in a storm. All sorts of scum float to the surface.”
Miguel laughs a nervous laugh. The barrio dweller calls him caudillo—it means strong man, or big man. It is, of course, meant sarcastically. Miguel realises he has made a terrible mistake. He starts to back away. The mob moves forward.
“Pretty lady in car.”
“Pretty dress.”
“Know how to treat a lady, caudillo?”
“That why you wear no clothes? You been playing fiesta with the lady, caudillo?”
“We show you how to play fiesta with pretty lady.”
Miguel dashes for the sanctuary of the car. He decides to break out of here and to hell with the paintwork. These are not barrio kids, these men are evil bandidos who will beat him and rape him and leave him for dead. He places a hand on the door of his car, and his world explodes in blue fire.
Maria has slipped over into the driver’s seat and armed the defences. The car’s bodywork is now electrified and near-fatal to the touch of an intruder. The force of the shock has sent Miguel reeling into a nearby wall where he slams with bone-crunching force. He shakes stars from his eyes in time to see the barrio gang attempt a similar feat, undeterred by his own fate. They are propelled away from the car with all the sudden force of colliding magnets. Maria revs the engine and wheel-spins out of the confines of the alleyway, careening off the sides of the cars blocking the route and taking most of the paint off the Ford Machos ‘Matador’ Special Edition’s right flank.
Miguel staggers after her, his bare feet slipping, and stubbing his toes in the trash-strewn alley. The barrio gang moan and wail in the alley behind him, the effects of the shock much greater on them with their metal weapons and studded clothes. If he is lucky, he can get away from them while they are still stunned.
Maria turns the car at an angle at the end of the road, preparing to make her escape into the wider street beyond. Miguel assumes she is waiting for him. He is wrong. The driver’s side window slides down a few inches.
“It’s been a lovely evening, Miguel,” she says, blowing him a kiss. And she is gone, in a roar of over-powered American engine.
Miguel sinks to his knees in the middle of the alley. He has no car and no girl. He is lost and has no way of getting home. Maybe if he just waits here long enough, the barrio gang will recover and come and put him out of his misery. After all, what other choices does he have? How far is he going to get in a pair of boxer shorts?
“Hey, clown man, city man. Where’s your lady, hey?”
Miguel winces. Bruno clambers from a nearby trash pile, dripping rubbish, his grin a yellow slash splitting his dirty face. He has his brother with him. He swaggers towards Miguel with the confidence of someone three times his age. It’s easy to know when you’ve got the upper hand, even when you’re ten years old.
“Want to know the way home, city man?”
“I have nothing to give you,” Miguel says dejectedly. He is no longer even frightened of Bruno’s blade. “I have nothing left.”
Bruno closes one eye and peers at Miguel.
“Those are very nice shorts,” Bruno says.
~ * ~
Well, thinks Miguel, as he stands on the brow of the hill with his city glistening like a teasing, out-of-reach jewel below him, at least things cannot get much worse. No car, no girl, no clothes. He may be naked but at least he knows his way back to Nuevo Caracas. If Bruno was telling the truth. He didn’t like the way the boy had laughed as he ran away waving Miguel’s silk boxer shorts in the air like an enemy flag captured in battle.
The storm, when it breaks, is like a cool relief, rain washing his body and the streets, the sky venting its anger on Miguel’s behalf, as if the rich of the city are wealthy enough to bribe nature, and the barrio must pay the price. Monday morning and some very awkward explanations are a lifetime away.
For Miguel, it is going to be a long and interesting walk home.
<
~ * ~
DEATH. SHIT. LOVE. TRANSFIGURATION
BY BRIAN W. ALDISS
HERE’S HOW THE STORY BEGINS:
“God, it’s crazed hot in here,” Gyron said. “I’ll toss some more wood on the fire.” The gloom of it, the sti
nk. The wayfaring hut was little bigger than an old wardrobe.
The flames blazed up, tinged with ice. Crackles of frost spurted into the room. About the beams overhead, ghosts of temperature played. The raven cried, “It’s war! It’s war!”
The other bodies drew slackly close, to stand with their backs to the freeze. Six of them, garbed in felt and leather, booted, shoulders padded with musk ox pelt. They burnt no lamps; it was dark enough. Their eyes were blinkered with plastic clamps. Their mouths were fleshed over with dermoflesh. They had not eaten for forty’nine hours, brother or sister, and were fattening on starvation. Gyron fed them by clyster occasionally on the long journey.
They smelt of smouldering horsehair.
New Worlds Page 13
