by Tim Baker
He wanted to stand up, to go to his room and strip off his tormenting clothes and shower; he wanted to run the jet across his face, to gulp down its waters, to put an end to the terrible tightness in his throat which was already beginning to lock into sequences of choking spasms, but he couldn’t move. His eyes stared at the decanter of water on the table, and he willed his hands to go towards it and fill his glass and raise it to his lips, but his hands, his entire body would not obey.
Paralysis.
Of a kind he had never known before; a kind he could never imagine: his mind feverish; his body dormant. And the sight of that water, together with his appalling internal aridity and external flooding, began to send him into a manic dread unlike anything he had ever experienced. Tears welled in his eyes, then were sucked backwards by his corporeal heat, evaporating through his tear ducts, proof of the internal combustion that was consuming all his moisture. His trousers and shirt began to steam as his sweat now vaporized, condensing into salt which stung his boiling flesh. He felt his bowels beginning to roast, his lungs humming with heat.
A ringing in his ears which had started while he was eating dessert was now so loud that he thought it had to be caused by something external – a fire alarm, or perhaps an ambulance arriving to save him.
He stood up, only he was still sitting in his chair, the carafe of water in front of him but wholly out of reach. He looked all around the room and saw Pablo Grande staring at him with eyes in the back of his head. He shrieked, and the only sound that came out of his mouth was the sound inside his ears.
He rushed across the room, and then realized he had no feet; no body – he was alone, just a shriek inside a cavern called death. Faces jeered at him, innumerable and familiar, their words obliterated by the horrible internal scream; hundreds of his victims pointing at the earth. He could see what they were pointing to: it was his own body, lying on the ground, his chest heaving so furiously with the effort to breathe that his ribcage exploded, latticing his sternum like two bloody rows of tombstones.
The vice-rector’s transposed consciousness watched, aghast, from the other side of the room as Pablo Grande knelt down beside his dead body and placed a crow’s feather inside his ear, and then he felt it rustling its way to the source of the blasting heat that was consuming him: his brain on fire.
*
The vice-rector woke from the appalling nightmare with a start, sitting up so suddenly that he rapped his head hard on the low ceiling. It took him only a second to realize he wasn’t dead; that it had all been some terrible hallucination. But it took him longer, almost a complete minute, to fully understand.
He tapped the coffin’s lid, then pushed and pounded and scratched against it, tearing his fingernails as he tried to claw through the wood, his terrible shriek now filling what was left of his universe: his piercing scream incinerating the last vestiges of oxygen.
*
Pablo Grande knelt over the newly turned earth of the vice-rector’s grave, handing the marigolds to Vicente to place in the small cradle he had dug in the soil. The young boy paused a moment, his head tilted in reflection.
‘What is it?’ Pablo Grande asked.
The boy shrugged, going back to his flowers. ‘I thought I heard something, but it was probably just the wind …’ Above them, on the graveyard wall, a crow turned its head, then cawed.
23
Nomen Nescio #352 (Jane Doe #352)
The desert is silent at first. Then there is the distant mechanical menace of an approaching convoy. Headlights slash the night, rushing towards a strange, luminous glow behind the hills.
A cluster of farmyard pickups, expensive sedans, SUVs and truck cabins sits outside a fenced ranch house, which emits a hovering light through papered-over windows.
There is the sound of a scream from inside, followed by a burst of exclamations and a smattering of applause. A door opens and two men walk out and start to piss over the balcony, their faces covered in shadow. One of them laughs.
II
The Mirage of the Dunes
DAY 2
Victim 874 Nomen Nescio #352 (Jane Doe #352)
24
Nomen Nescio #352 (Jane Doe #352)
A garbage truck squats beside a wire perimeter fence as two municipal workers hook up an overflowing dumpster. One of them triggers the button and the bin rises with a jolt of protest before being mastered by machinery, dutifully mounting up to the lip, then bowing, its contents rolling into the truck with a hollow clatter. A naked body falls through space, free for a single instant before being buried again by refuse.
One of the workers cries out, and quickly hits the stop button just as the hydraulic blade is moving in to compress the trash.
He climbs up and peers into the hopper, then quickly jumps down, running away. His partner watches him heading down a road towards a phone box. He turns back to the truck, crosses himself, then looks inside. He falls backwards in shock, tumbling as he hits the ground, then scrambling back to his feet.
He leans against the wire perimeter fence for support, rocking there for a moment, then throws up.
25
Ventura
The bell clips the night, its coppery call soothing her after the torment of the last three hours. Ventura had left the house right after the phone call, driving out to the airport, but the only flights that evening were to Ciudad Juárez, Santa Teresa and Mexico City. Arriving late at night in the first two destinations would be even more dangerous than staying in Ciudad Real, and flying back to the capital was unthinkable – at least at this stage. She had given up too much to return so soon with nothing but a broken relationship, an empty bank account and an abandoned story.
So she drove back to the old town and was just pulling up outside the Hotel Los Arcos when she noticed a man standing in the shadows beside the door, staring at her with an unnerving alertness. She pulled away fast, watching in the rearview mirror as the man raced out onto the street, as though trying to read her license plates.
She kept driving, wondering if she should risk another hotel, and without realizing it, started taking the way home. She slowed at the crossroads three blocks from her house. The lights were on in her bedroom. She couldn’t remember if she had left them on or not. There was a car parked outside. It might have belonged to one of the neighbors but she didn’t recognize the blue Ford pickup.
Maybe it was them.
Anger and fear warred inside her as she thought of Carlos and what he had done to her. She turned left, leaving her home for the second time that night, the streets dark and unsettled.
She toyed with the idea of crossing the border. She had her passport and Border Crossing Card inside her luggage. But what if they had narcos looking for her at the crossing? They had plenty of people on the other side too. She headed back towards the center, and that’s when she thought about Mayor.
She’s about to ring the bell again when there is the scrape and stutter of old-fashioned bolts sliding free and Felipe Mayor is standing before her, resplendent in a thick bathrobe with navy and sky-blue vertical stripes. He takes a suitcase in either hand and leads her across the courtyard.
She starts to follow, then stops and goes back to close the exterior gate behind her, slotting home the bolts with the uneasy feeling that she is locking out a definite threat, but possibly trapping herself with an unknown one.
The lights in the downstairs entrance and living rooms are all on, but still there are shadows sitting in corners, obstinate as mules. It’s all hardwood ceiling beams, whitewashed walls and polished terracotta tiles; furniture hewn from trees by men a century dead. There is no doubt: it is a grandee’s home, and the former ambassador has the natural confidence to fill it. He goes over to a bar. ‘Drink?’
Ventura shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry if I woke you.’
‘I’m like Balzac. I write mainly at night. Anyway, at this stage of my life, I hardly sleep at all.’ He pours the amber liquid into a balloon glass, sniffing it appreciativel
y, then sits down in a leather armchair – more a throne – its massive silhouette outlined with cruel brass heads hammered into submission. He slides a cigar out of a box. ‘Fidel sends me these himself,’ he says. Even his rich voice sounds a little lost in the room.
‘You’re all alone?’ she asks, sitting on the edge of a sofa.
‘I keep a staff of eight. But there’s no need to wake them. Unlike me, they actually work in the day.’ He glances at her bags, like a jeweler looking at a poor widow’s engagement ring, already assessing what he can get away with. ‘When they awake, I will have them prepare a room. In the meantime …’
‘It’s just for tonight. I didn’t want to be alone.’
‘I’m glad you called. I don’t want to be alone either.’ He exhales a gush of cigar smoke, as though trying to mask his eyes behind the gray cloud. ‘Surely it’s better to share such moments than to endure them on one’s own?’ He puts his glass and cigar down and walks towards her. She stands up, but he’s already there, taking her hands in his, drawing her towards him, into his scent of Aramis, smoke and cognac. She pulls away before he can kiss her. ‘I made a mistake,’ she says. ‘I thought I could trust you.’
‘That is no mistake. But you must enunciate your intentions.’ He picks up his cigar, holding it speculatively. ‘Normally a call such as yours in the middle of the night denotes a certain act. Do you wish to sleep with me or not?’ She shakes her head. A slow-burn smile spreads across his face. ‘One day we will argue which one of us regrets that decision more. Fine. You are under my protection. Anyone under my protection is safe. Bueno. Are you hungry?’
The question surprises her because she hasn’t realized until now that she is. ‘Just something simple.’
‘That, unfortunately, is all I’m capable of.’ He leads her into a kitchen that looks like it came out of a museum. Mayor chops purple onions and strips of beef and tosses them into a pan of hot olive oil, stepping out of the way as they froth and spit. He’s already asked Ventura to peel the cloves of garlic, and now he quarters them, removing the green shoots in the interior, and tosses them in as well, with a fistful of red and green chilies. He lowers the heat. He plucks some basil and coriander from pots that line an interior window sill, breaking the leaves with his fingers and dropping them in. Rock salt. Ground pepper. Then he adds beans. Ventura starts to set the table in the kitchen. ‘The dining room.’ He indicates a darkened room. ‘I never eat in the kitchen.’
Ventura hits a light switch. A ceiling lamp made from a wagon wheel illuminates a large oak table, with sixteen rigid chairs. She sets places in front of the chair at the head of the table and the one to its right, finding plates on a side counter.
Back in the kitchen, Mayor is turning the concoction with a wooden spoon. He hands two wine glasses to her, then takes the pan in one hand, an opened bottle of Argentine Malbec in the other, and leads the way into the dining room. He half fills both glasses over Ventura’s protests, then goes over to the light dial and turns the intensity down low.
Mayor lights a single table candle so that the plates are lit with a soft, wavering glow. ‘Unlike Hemingway, I’m not a fan of clean, well-lighted places,’ he says, spooning a large portion onto Ventura’s plate. ‘I lived in Paris. Half the pleasure of dining there is the glitter of eyes in candlelight.’ He toasts her, the crystal glasses reverberating in the silent house.
Ventura is taken aback by the soothing heft of the wine and the intense spiciness of the food. It’s not that it makes her feel better; it makes her feel alive. ‘Tell me your story,’ he says.
She hesitates. There is a stillness in his gaze that is calming; that suggests surrender – not of her body but of her thoughts, for she is sitting all alone in the middle of the night next to a master of words. She starts to speak.
26
Fuentes
Fuentes stands in a doorway, staring across the room at a large bed. Gomez is asleep in it with a woman. Fuentes lightly taps on the open door.
Marina opens her eyes. She gazes at Fuentes for a long, surprised moment, her eyelids fluttering first in panic, then annoyance. She turns over and shakes Gomez. ‘Your boss is here.’
‘Partner,’ Fuentes says.
Marina gives a short, sarcastic laugh. She shakes Gomez again, Fuentes catching a glimpse of her breasts as the sheet falls from her shoulders. ‘Your fucking partner is here.’
Gomez rolls over, opens his eyes, focuses on Fuentes and swears. He gets out of bed, naked, and staggers across the room, past Fuentes, disappearing through a door in the hallway. ‘Make yourself at home – fuck!’ Gomez is pissing noisily. ‘How’d you get in?’
Fuentes turns back to Gomez’s bedroom. Marina is pulling on a pair of briefs. Their eyes meet. She indicates the door. Fuentes closes it, turning back to the bathroom. ‘Through the kitchen window.’
Gomez comes out, a towel wrapped around his waist. He goes up close to Fuentes, his breath sleep-soiled. ‘What the fuck are you doing in my house, man?’
Fuentes indicates the front yard with a thumb over his shoulder. ‘There is a gringo and a senior PJF officer sitting in a car outside.’
Gomez walks towards the kitchen scratching his chest. ‘What the hell do they want?’
‘You haven’t heard?’
‘It’s too early in the morning for your games.’
Fuentes takes his time, lighting up a cigarette. ‘Remember that partner of yours? Paredes?’
Gomez nods impatiently, pouring himself a glass of juice.
‘They picked him up in El Lobo.’
Gomez glances through the window, pulling back when he spots the car across the road. ‘What for?’
Fuentes watches his face carefully. ‘As if you can’t guess.’
‘How much?’
Fuentes studies him. ‘Forty-two kilos.’
Anger wars with disbelief in his eyes. Disbelief wins. ‘No fucking way.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘He was my partner for two years! A hundred grams here or there? Shit happens. But smuggling twenty years to life into El Lobo? He’s not that crazy.’
Fuentes believes that people are never born crazy, it’s circumstance that makes them that way. These days, circumstances are creating a population of lunatics. ‘Maybe he was gambling. Maybe he owed money to people you should never owe money to.’ Maybe he was desperate.
It’s not so much that doubt has arrived on Gomez’s face; it’s more that the defiant disbelief has left it. He glances at the car outside again. ‘Why are they interested in me?’
‘Your former partner’s just turned out to be a corrupt fuck-up. They think you must be one too.’
Gomez swears, kicks a chair. ‘Hypocrites!’
‘Get dressed. We’ll go out the way I came in. I’ve got the car out back.’
Gomez goes back into the bedroom. Hot, charged whispers come from the couple on the other side of the closed door.
Fuentes listens for a moment, then goes into the bathroom and flicks open the bathroom cabinet, checking the contents. He closes its door and moves into the large living room, taking in the expensive sound system, the professional racing bike leaning against the weight-lifting equipment. There’s a corner full of hi-tech gadgets, some still in their original packaging. A bar stocked with expensive liquor – French cognac, single malt whiskey; the best añejo tequila. On the shelves of a bookcase are sporting and hunting trophies; girlie magazines totter like a makeshift coffee table by a leather sofa. It is a totally testosterone environment, filled with toys that Gomez could never afford; not unless …
He’s as crooked as Paredes.
By the telephone is a framed picture of Marina. He takes out the snapshot he found in Paredes’ place and compares it against Marina’s photo. There is no doubt: it is exactly the same woman except now she is a brunette again. Fashion choice – or disguise?
The bedroom door opens. Gomez looks almost presentable. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’ The door is slam
med behind him. Marina’s still pissed. Gomez heads for the front door – on morning autopilot – but Fuentes stops him, leading him through the kitchen. He climbs out the window, dropping to the lawn in a crouch position, looking all around to make sure no one is watching. They are obscured from the street by the neighbor’s house. Gomez lands next to him, loose change falling from his trouser pockets. He curses and drops to his knees, picking coins up.
Fuentes glares at him. ‘Forget it.’ He strides away, disappearing over a back fence. Gomez looks up for a second, then goes back to the ground, hastily picking up the last of the coins before rushing after Fuentes.
Fuentes walks through a backyard, past children half concealed behind washing hanging out to dry. He gets in his car, slides in behind the wheel and reaches over, popping the lock for Gomez just as he comes running up. Gomez looks over his shoulder nervously, then gets in.
‘Now we know what it feels like.’
‘Like what feels like?’
Fuentes switches on the police radio, static filling the car. He turns the radio down, glancing over his shoulder as he starts reversing down a lane. ‘Being a criminal.’
